The Scarlet Letter II
copyright by Ruth Lampert August 2008
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" “going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or interject, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, and an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettuccini alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. And maybe, it’s true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
House Calls
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
“What’s a House Call, Mommy?”
No kid, a “house call” isn’t when you call your brother from your bedroom on your cell phone to his bedroom on his cell phone. And no, smartie, it isn’t a greeting one dwelling makes to another.
When you overheard Grandma say to Grandpa, “I wish we still had house calls,” she was talking about something that existed in the old days (not necessarily “good,” but definitely “gone”) before there were things like cell phones and computers and HMO’s.
I myself am old enough to remember House Calls, so let me explain how they worked. When you were sick, you called the doctor, and spoke to him (rarely was it a “her) or his nurse (almost always a “her.) He said things like “How high is your temperature?” “Put ice on it” and the classic “take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”
If you were still sick the next day, he drove to your house before he went to the office. Yes, that’s right, he drove right up to your house himself, carrying a reassuring black bag (no, not a backpack) full of magical potions and pills as well as a stethoscope and thermometer. Lots of times just the sight of him and his black bag was enough to start the patient back on the road to health. Usually he was a little portly, a little bald, with a kindly smile If you were a child, he seemed elderly. No matter how old you were, he seemed wise.
Sometimes people called in the middle of the night, and the doctor might be a little cross and say “Why did you wait so long to call me?”
before recommending you take two aspirins and call him in the morning. l. If you were really in bad shape, he’d come over, in spite of his wife’s grumbling that he let his patients take advantage of him.
Call 911? That hadn’t been invented yet. Yes, of course we had police and firemen, and ambulances to rush people to the hospital after accidents and heart attacks, but I have no idea who you had to call or what you had to do to get one. Perhaps you could make that your project and report back to us. .
I also remember the days before antihistamines. My periodic attacks of hives were presumed to be the result of an allergy, but to what no one knew (somehow “strawberries” were high on the list of usual suspects.) The only thing that brought a measure of relief was Calamine lotion, liberally applied. *
I even remember the dawn of “wonder drugs.” I have written elsewhere about my camp experience with kosher food and strep throat and I recall that when I was sent back home with the mother of all sore throats, Doc Kraut dashed over immediately from his office above the corner drug store, (which also supplied marvelous ice cream drinks at the soda counter, but that’s another story, which will probably eventually appear on this blog.). Doc was more jovial than usual as he said, “You’re lucky you came down with this now instead of last year. Now we have medicine, called Sulpha that cures it. You’ll be up and about in no time.”
And I was. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed an allergy to sulfa, and then to the even more wonderful wonder drug Penicillin. These reactions could have finished me off; fortunately in each case huge dose of antihistamines cured the cure that was worse than the disease. But I digress.
Returning to the theme of House Calls:
They were still an accepted part of life the night my Dad died in his sleep. I remember my mother on the phone, not to 911, but to Doc Kraut. The next thing I knew he was huffing and puffing up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. He looked very stricken himself; he and my Dad had been buddies for lots of years.
He came out of the bedroom where my Dad was still stretched out on the bed and said in a shaky voice, “There’s nothing I can do... He’s gone.” I don’t know if I if I actually cried out “But you have to do something, or he’ll die!” or if I just thought it to myself. And I don’t know if under the same circumstances today a call to 911 would be life-saving. It’s pretty certain that the high blood pressure he had had for years would be treated. And who knew about cholesterol back then? So you see, it cuts both ways.
But back to olden, though not quite so golden, times: we were living in Tucson when Brian, then about 11 years old, was bitten by a spider, and had a severe reaction. The local doctor came over right away and took care of him – and of me, the anxious mom. Now you’ll probably think I’m making this next part up, but I swear it’s true: Two days later I got a call from the doc, saying “You know, I’m not easy in my mind yet about our young man. I’m going to be making a house call this evening right down your street, so I’ll drop by and see him just to ease my mind.”
I don’t know if he charged for that visit or not. Probably not – after all, he was in the neighborhood and it only took a couple of minutes to “ease his mind.” (His mind!)
The way we paid the doctor was different then too. . You’ve probably heard your folks talk about “HMO’s” and “Health Benefits” and maybe even “Medicare” – all that stuff hasn’t really been around for so very long, not per my time table. …
During times when there wasn’t much money, which, in my particular case seems to have been times beyond number, I sent the doctor $10.00 a month toward our balance. It was like a little annuity for him (I’ll explain “annuity” another time, honey). Month after month, year after year, that $10.00 came in regular as clock work, because as soon it came close to being paid off, someone else in the family got sick. From his point of view, I guess getting a whole lot of ten dollars every month, plus the money the rich patients paid in fall, added up o.k. (This was in the city – I don’t think he ever got paid in potatoes or chickens the way country doctors did. Or so I have heard.)
We old timers have lots of stories like this to tell. We tell them because, for one thing, that’s what old timers do.
Hey, you knew when you logged on this wasn’t MyFace.com. .
*Author’s note: Out of curiosity I just checked Google to see if Calamine lotion is still available – it is, but guess what; sometimes there is a severe allergic reaction...
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
“What’s a House Call, Mommy?”
No kid, a “house call” isn’t when you call your brother from your bedroom on your cell phone to his bedroom on his cell phone. And no, smartie, it isn’t a greeting one dwelling makes to another.
When you overheard Grandma say to Grandpa, “I wish we still had house calls,” she was talking about something that existed in the old days (not necessarily “good,” but definitely “gone”) before there were things like cell phones and computers and HMO’s.
I myself am old enough to remember House Calls, so let me explain how they worked. When you were sick, you called the doctor, and spoke to him (rarely was it a “her) or his nurse (almost always a “her.) He said things like “How high is your temperature?” “Put ice on it” and the classic “take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”
If you were still sick the next day, he drove to your house before he went to the office. Yes, that’s right, he drove right up to your house himself, carrying a reassuring black bag (no, not a backpack) full of magical potions and pills as well as a stethoscope and thermometer. Lots of times just the sight of him and his black bag was enough to start the patient back on the road to health. Usually he was a little portly, a little bald, with a kindly smile If you were a child, he seemed elderly. No matter how old you were, he seemed wise.
Sometimes people called in the middle of the night, and the doctor might be a little cross and say “Why did you wait so long to call me?”
before recommending you take two aspirins and call him in the morning. l. If you were really in bad shape, he’d come over, in spite of his wife’s grumbling that he let his patients take advantage of him.
Call 911? That hadn’t been invented yet. Yes, of course we had police and firemen, and ambulances to rush people to the hospital after accidents and heart attacks, but I have no idea who you had to call or what you had to do to get one. Perhaps you could make that your project and report back to us. .
I also remember the days before antihistamines. My periodic attacks of hives were presumed to be the result of an allergy, but to what no one knew (somehow “strawberries” were high on the list of usual suspects.) The only thing that brought a measure of relief was Calamine lotion, liberally applied. *
I even remember the dawn of “wonder drugs.” I have written elsewhere about my camp experience with kosher food and strep throat and I recall that when I was sent back home with the mother of all sore throats, Doc Kraut dashed over immediately from his office above the corner drug store, (which also supplied marvelous ice cream drinks at the soda counter, but that’s another story, which will probably eventually appear on this blog.). Doc was more jovial than usual as he said, “You’re lucky you came down with this now instead of last year. Now we have medicine, called Sulpha that cures it. You’ll be up and about in no time.”
And I was. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed an allergy to sulfa, and then to the even more wonderful wonder drug Penicillin. These reactions could have finished me off; fortunately in each case huge dose of antihistamines cured the cure that was worse than the disease. But I digress.
Returning to the theme of House Calls:
They were still an accepted part of life the night my Dad died in his sleep. I remember my mother on the phone, not to 911, but to Doc Kraut. The next thing I knew he was huffing and puffing up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. He looked very stricken himself; he and my Dad had been buddies for lots of years.
He came out of the bedroom where my Dad was still stretched out on the bed and said in a shaky voice, “There’s nothing I can do... He’s gone.” I don’t know if I if I actually cried out “But you have to do something, or he’ll die!” or if I just thought it to myself. And I don’t know if under the same circumstances today a call to 911 would be life-saving. It’s pretty certain that the high blood pressure he had had for years would be treated. And who knew about cholesterol back then? So you see, it cuts both ways.
But back to olden, though not quite so golden, times: we were living in Tucson when Brian, then about 11 years old, was bitten by a spider, and had a severe reaction. The local doctor came over right away and took care of him – and of me, the anxious mom. Now you’ll probably think I’m making this next part up, but I swear it’s true: Two days later I got a call from the doc, saying “You know, I’m not easy in my mind yet about our young man. I’m going to be making a house call this evening right down your street, so I’ll drop by and see him just to ease my mind.”
I don’t know if he charged for that visit or not. Probably not – after all, he was in the neighborhood and it only took a couple of minutes to “ease his mind.” (His mind!)
The way we paid the doctor was different then too. . You’ve probably heard your folks talk about “HMO’s” and “Health Benefits” and maybe even “Medicare” – all that stuff hasn’t really been around for so very long, not per my time table. …
During times when there wasn’t much money, which, in my particular case seems to have been times beyond number, I sent the doctor $10.00 a month toward our balance. It was like a little annuity for him (I’ll explain “annuity” another time, honey). Month after month, year after year, that $10.00 came in regular as clock work, because as soon it came close to being paid off, someone else in the family got sick. From his point of view, I guess getting a whole lot of ten dollars every month, plus the money the rich patients paid in fall, added up o.k. (This was in the city – I don’t think he ever got paid in potatoes or chickens the way country doctors did. Or so I have heard.)
We old timers have lots of stories like this to tell. We tell them because, for one thing, that’s what old timers do.
Hey, you knew when you logged on this wasn’t MyFace.com. .
*Author’s note: Out of curiosity I just checked Google to see if Calamine lotion is still available – it is, but guess what; sometimes there is a severe allergic reaction...
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Corn Flake Cure – a Tribute for Father’s Day
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fibe “Heart Healthy” there will always be a special place in my heart for plain old corn flakes, the grain of tender memory.
I was about eight years old when I came down with whooping cough. That nasty childhood disease has now largely vasished. .I have forgotten most of my experience with it except for how exhausting and incessant that hacking cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in smy recuperation
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was wrapped in that delicious euphoria that comes with feeling better. Not yet completely well – still weak enough to be pampered. Mother, Bob, and Cine were out somewhere, and Daddy stayed home with me.
Just the two of us! How rare a treat. No need to share his special presence, his scent of shaving lotion and cigars, his gentle jokes. The apartment was warm and cozy. We listened to the radio - I don’t remember what was on, all the really good shows, like Jack Benny, Rudee Valley, and Major Bowes Amateur Hour came on in the evening – and after awhile he said
“Snack time! Doctor Daddy’s orders for the patient!”.
I still had no appetite , but it sounded like fun anyway. Declaring that this was a special occasion calling for the dining room, he brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigertor so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk back then, just the regular milk-man-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream risisng to the top as things of quality and richness do ) He assembeld it all on the table with a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.
There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals then. Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood Wheaties. The Breakfast of Champoins, to be for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (We hadn’t yet evolved to gender neutrality) The various bran varieties clearly were intended for old folks who seemed to need some help with certain vaguely hinted at bodily functions that had to do with something called “regularity.” Puffed Rice wasn’t bad in a pinch, but my cereal of choice was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.
I took one spoonful, just to please him. It was delicious! No ad, no singing commercial, could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as I finished my bowl before he was halfway through his, and asked for seconds.
“You bet, but slow down a little, your stomach is empty and if you get sick, Mother will really holler at us!” A joke, because we both knew that he was the principal healer in the parental dyad. (Although as I think back,
I realize it was Mother who was there while he was at work through my long days of whooping and hacking.)
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” to sprawl on the couch, and lazily listen to whatever was on the radio.
I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a beloeved parent. The sound of his gentle snoring woke me briefly. I went back to sleep, waking again to see him looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes that I burst into delighted laughter.
The key turned in the front door lock. There was more laughter as Mother, Cine and Bob burst in, bringing cold Chicago winteriness in with grocery bags from the A&P. bringing cold Chicago winteriness with them. . .
They all exclaimed about good my color was, how chipper I seemed, how well I had done in Daddy’s care. He smiled a falsely modest smile, and said, “Nothing at all, she was just ready to make the turn around I happened to be here. I can’t take the credit. It was mostly the Corn Flakes that did it.”
“I think you’re good for her,” Mother said.
Indeed, he was.
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fibe “Heart Healthy” there will always be a special place in my heart for plain old corn flakes, the grain of tender memory.
I was about eight years old when I came down with whooping cough. That nasty childhood disease has now largely vasished. .I have forgotten most of my experience with it except for how exhausting and incessant that hacking cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in smy recuperation
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was wrapped in that delicious euphoria that comes with feeling better. Not yet completely well – still weak enough to be pampered. Mother, Bob, and Cine were out somewhere, and Daddy stayed home with me.
Just the two of us! How rare a treat. No need to share his special presence, his scent of shaving lotion and cigars, his gentle jokes. The apartment was warm and cozy. We listened to the radio - I don’t remember what was on, all the really good shows, like Jack Benny, Rudee Valley, and Major Bowes Amateur Hour came on in the evening – and after awhile he said
“Snack time! Doctor Daddy’s orders for the patient!”.
I still had no appetite , but it sounded like fun anyway. Declaring that this was a special occasion calling for the dining room, he brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigertor so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk back then, just the regular milk-man-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream risisng to the top as things of quality and richness do ) He assembeld it all on the table with a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.
There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals then. Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood Wheaties. The Breakfast of Champoins, to be for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (We hadn’t yet evolved to gender neutrality) The various bran varieties clearly were intended for old folks who seemed to need some help with certain vaguely hinted at bodily functions that had to do with something called “regularity.” Puffed Rice wasn’t bad in a pinch, but my cereal of choice was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.
I took one spoonful, just to please him. It was delicious! No ad, no singing commercial, could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as I finished my bowl before he was halfway through his, and asked for seconds.
“You bet, but slow down a little, your stomach is empty and if you get sick, Mother will really holler at us!” A joke, because we both knew that he was the principal healer in the parental dyad. (Although as I think back,
I realize it was Mother who was there while he was at work through my long days of whooping and hacking.)
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” to sprawl on the couch, and lazily listen to whatever was on the radio.
I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a beloeved parent. The sound of his gentle snoring woke me briefly. I went back to sleep, waking again to see him looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes that I burst into delighted laughter.
The key turned in the front door lock. There was more laughter as Mother, Cine and Bob burst in, bringing cold Chicago winteriness in with grocery bags from the A&P. bringing cold Chicago winteriness with them. . .
They all exclaimed about good my color was, how chipper I seemed, how well I had done in Daddy’s care. He smiled a falsely modest smile, and said, “Nothing at all, she was just ready to make the turn around I happened to be here. I can’t take the credit. It was mostly the Corn Flakes that did it.”
“I think you’re good for her,” Mother said.
Indeed, he was.
Friday, June 6, 2008
First in Flex Time
Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)
Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.
Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)
Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.
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