Stay Interesting

by Jonathan Goldsmith

  The lines were good. I repeated them to myself, committing them to memory.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. We chose between us, and I got to go first.

  I walked in the room. The first thing I saw was a cross nailed to the wall above the bed. Oh good, I thought. Edie Matthews is a religious girl.

  “Let’s go, baby,” she said. “I’m busy. I got people.”

  Edie was pretty enough. She was wearing a long T-shirt that covered her thighs and had long red hair and long red fingernails to match. She was skinny, underfed, but beautiful to me. I tried to talk with her, ask her a few questions and get to know her.

  She complained about her bladder. She had internal problems, she said, and needed an operation. Her womb was tilted or something. It sounded serious. She’d need money for it and, well, my five dollars was supporting the cause. She then reached her hand into a giant tub of Vaseline, lifted up her legs, and rubbed it in the general area of concern.

  I took off my clothes and she removed her T-shirt and lay back. I sat on the bed, which was covered in damp T-shirts, and delivered the magic lines Tony Mambo Tony had fed me.

  “Edie, honey, I’m new at this game,” I said. “You’ve got to show me the ropes.”

  “No problem, baby,” she said. “Get on top of me.”

  I did just that. With her scrawny naked body in front of me, I collapsed into her embrace. She reached down, grabbed my twice-protected little thing, and placed me inside her.

  I started moving around, pretending I knew what I was doing, rocking my head back. Yeah, this was it, I thought. But it didn’t feel special at all. Something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter?” Edie said.

  “I can’t feel anything,” I said.

  “You’ve got that thing on,” she said, instantly identifying the source of the problem. “You don’t need no rubber with me. I’m clean.”

  Visions of the Princeton varsity team, all seven guys before me, flashed into view. Either way, I was desperate for my first experience to be special, and despite all better judgment and thoughts of Ray’s and One-Eyed Betty’s warnings, I removed my condoms and entered what felt like a primordial soup. I felt powerful. I had done it. I had achieved something special. Edie Matthews, bless her, had made me a man.

  Or so I thought. Even minutes later, driving back upstate in the now quiet and lacking-in-bravado car, feeling like the captain of our basketball team for what I had done, something didn’t feel right. Yes, I had lost my virginity and conquered that rite of passage. But was the test of manhood the actual act of sex, a carnal experience that carried little meaning, or the intimacy and specialness that can come along with it? It would take me years to discover that such an act, something so physical, was infinitely more real when paired with something emotional. In the end, I concluded that Edie was an illusion. She wasn’t my gateway to manhood. She wasn’t really my gateway to anything.

  If Being You Isn’t Working, Be Someone Else

  I was always short—not just in stature. (In fact, there was at least one time when I was too tall.) No, I was always short on cash. For spending money, I worked a variety of jobs. I had a paper route. I stocked a liquor store upstate. I even worked at a Christmas tree farm not too far from Sing Sing, and perhaps on the same power grid. Whenever they would execute somebody, the lights on our Christmas trees would grow dim. The moment had come to find a better way to spend my time.

  It was the late 1950s, and I ventured deep into the Catskills, accepting a position at Gibber’s, a hotel, and quickly earning the title of the world’s worst busboy. I was so inept, they would only let me wait on the unimportant guests and the Gibber’s family—who lacked in manners what I lacked in proficiency as a server. The kitchen was a mess, the owners were cheap, and they never fed us enough. I was always hungry, and cleaning off all the uneaten brisket, gefilte fish, and herring created a painful rumbling in my stomach. If I saw an untouched piece, I’d grab it before dumping it into the trash, give a fake sneeze, and inhale it.

  Scraps weren’t enough, however. I was a growing young man, fresh out of high school. Always hungry, I came up with a ruse. At some point in the night, I’d go to the chef and ask to take out a plate for Mr. Schwartz. The chef would hand me the plate, but instead of going into the dining room to deliver the meal to a seated guest, I went down the hall and into the card room. Here, in the corner, was a giant boxy old television set. I’d place Mr. Schwartz’s dinner in the back, hiding it in the empty space next to the television’s tubes. Mr. Schwartz never had a chance to eat his dinner. But I did. I was Mr. Schwartz.

  One day, there was a big baseball game on. I scrambled through the kitchen and approached the chef.

  “Special order for Mr. Schwartz,” I said, then returned to pick up a gorgeous plate of duck the chef had prepared and hid the delicacy in my hiding spot.

  That day, the Yankees were playing, and a number of guests had retreated to the card room to watch the game. The reception on the television wasn’t working; the screen was dusted over in black-and-white static. The handyman was called to fix it. He went around the back to jigger the tubes and discovered Mr. Schwartz’s succulent duck with the crispy skin that I had secreted away.

  Mr. Schwartz and I were fired on the spot.

  I was better off anyway. Those bosses were cheap, and there was no sense in wasting time working for bosses who didn’t treat their staff well.

  Flexibility Isn’t Just for Gymnasts

  Banished from Gibber’s, I was now a free agent on the busboy circuit. Acting on a tip from inside the kitchen, I drove over to Ted Hilton’s Hideaway, a resort in Moodus, Connecticut. It was a magnificent resort, known then as a place where wealthy, flirtatious older women came to get attention from the camp’s young, virulent, hustling staff. Again, I worked in the kitchen. I was the salad man, a position that, despite the moniker “man,” was indeed lower on the career ladder than busboy. My first day on the job, I stuffed two thousand prunes with peanut butter.

  I didn’t last long. I was caught leaving the cabin of one of the resort’s guests. This wasn’t a punishable infraction. In fact, it was to be expected, almost part of the job. But this particular guest was also the mistress of the resort owner.

  I was fired on the spot. Again.

  Back to the Catskills. This time, I was accepted for work at Laurel in the Pines, a major resort in Monticello. Hired as a busboy, I reported for duty immediately in the kitchen and was given my orders to clean up the dining room. This place was massive. I scrambled around, getting lost in the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, you know where the dining room is?” I asked one of the staff, an older gentleman. He turned out to be the head maître d’, a fussy old bag who wondered how a busboy could get lost in the kitchen and fail to locate the dining room.

  Again, fired on the spot.

  I was running out of resorts. Up near Lake George, in the Adirondacks, I found Sven and Margaret Monk’s motel. Here I was hired as a waiter, an upgrade from busboy, and was making decent tips. I brought Mr. Schwartz with me—he seemed to trail me wherever I went—so I was getting fed. Best of all, I had a side hustle that netted me a little extra.

  The Saratoga racetrack was close. Every day, some buddies and I would place bets on horses for the guests and drive down to register their orders at the track. Most of the time, regardless of what the guests asked us to bet, we’d place their money on the favorites. When their horses lost, we could report the grim news, while having a good chance of walking away with some winnings ourselves. It was the perfect plot. The only way we could lose is if the chalk horses failed and a long shot won. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Until it did. Three times. In one day. With a limited bank, I was out of the bookmaking business. At least I still had my waiting job.

  It was during lunch one day when a woman strutted in wearing furs. She looked like a gran
d old dame, with her chauffeur in full livery. She sat down at a table.

  “Waiter, waiter, this is too much ice,” she said, pointing at her water glass.

  “Oh, waiter, is this butter?” she went on, after I had replaced her butter with butter.

  “Waiter, this is too salted.”

  “Waiter, this is rather bland.”

  Never happy. Just like my mother.

  Finally, her coffee came out, and I placed the mug in front of her.

  “Waiter, waiter,” she said, pointing to the cup. “Is this milk or is this cream?”

  “I don’t know, toots,” I said, jamming my finger into the cup and then licking it.

  “Cream,” I declared with a grin.

  Fired on the spot.

  I left the next morning, embracing the open road and the adventures that lay ahead. Heading back north, I passed through Ausable Chasm, a picturesque natural gorge in the Adirondacks, and saw a construction site. I got out, inquired about work, and, much to my surprise, was hired immediately. I was a laborer, and I helped the others who were building a bridge across the gorge. The heat was unbearable, hanging onto a jackhammer shook my brain loose, and the sound of the dynamite blasts rattled my body.

  Within hours, I deserved some R and R. Next to the site was a house with a swimming pool. From the back fence, I threw a handful of stones into the water. I then went around to the front of the house and knocked on the front door.

  A woman answered.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and then went into the most elaborate lie about how the dynamite blasts had accidentally launched a few stones into her pool. I graciously volunteered to retrieve them, happily stripped to my skivvies, and dove in to get them out, deliberately taking the time to meticulously collect every last stone.

  I didn’t last long on my construction job, but for once my departure wasn’t performance related. I was living in a motel and wound up flirting with the receptionist. Two days later, her boyfriend appeared. With a shotgun. He asked me to leave town, an invitation I quickly accepted.

  I was back on the road again. But I had my trout rod with me, and I would stop, camp out, and fish. The lost jobs didn’t concern me. I had my adventures, my reels and rods. What I lacked in ambition, I easily made up for in contentment.

  But I was hungry.

  Eventually, I packed it all up and went to college.

  Don’t Be Overconfident If You’re Going to Underdeliver

  I attended junior college at Boston University—I didn’t have the grades to get into the main school—where I majored in gin rummy and minored in dog handicapping at Wonderland Dog Track. I was lost without a hero like my father to follow. During my first semester, I found him. Or should I say her. Her name was Texas Yellow Rose, and she was one of the greatest racing dogs I’d ever seen. Texas Yellow Rose was never the favorite at the Wonderland track in Revere. But she frequently came from behind, closed tremendously, and won. The dog was miraculous. She was moving up in class; she was on her way, and I was with her. I went to the track and after entrance fees had enough for one two-dollar daily-double ticket. I placed my hopes on her, so convinced she would win. The race was thrilling. I went hoarse screaming. Texas Yellow Rose, my champion, came back from behind the pack just like always when she was closing toward the finish line.

  She lost by a photo finish. I nearly had a heart attack. I would have won seven hundred dollars on the two-dollar bet. I went home empty-handed and hungry.

  I felt like that dog, always trying to come from behind but never being great enough. I seldom went to class. Instead, I glued myself to the windowsill of my dorm with a few hundred other students, angling for the view across the street.

  She must have known we were watching. She’d undress herself, leaving the blinds open just so and driving us all raving mad. She was a voyeur’s dream, kept by a high-ranking military man who must have been on a mission that fall, and every night she’d put on a show. We all fantasized about her and came up with all kinds of schemes to win her heart or at least get her number. There was more than a hundred bucks in the pot for the first guy lucky enough to bed her.

  By chance one day I saw her in a Laundromat around the corner. I ducked in, pretended to need instruction on one of the machines, and made small talk with her. She was more beautiful up close, and I was enthralled, seeing in my mind’s eye all those nights I’d watched her undress in the window. I immediately got this spasm in my back that always occurred when I was acutely aroused.

  “You look familiar,” I said, knowing full well that I’d seen every part of her body and made her the focal point of every fantasy I’d had since arriving at school. When she told me she lived nearby, I acted surprised and suggested we have a glass of wine together later that night.

  “I like red,” she said.

  I arrived at her building a few hours later, entered an apartment I already knew, and looked back at my dorm to see a raucous crowd spilling over one another at the windowsill and pointing in my direction. I had made the ultimate collegiate fantasy come true. I had entered the lair of our sexy exhibitionist neighbor. I was so proud of myself. Glancing around the apartment, I looked for pictures of her high-ranking boyfriend, a sergeant or perhaps even a colonel, who could surely cripple me in his grip. It felt dangerous to be in that space, sharing a glass of red with his vixen. The adrenaline was intoxicating.

  Soon enough, we were in the throes of ecstasy and were squirming around on the bed. I guided her into view so that all my friends across the street could witness my masterful conquest, sure I’d become a rich hero, winning more than a hundred dollars in the pot. But more important, I’d be a legend at BU junior college. I struggled to get her pants off, the cuffs sticking on her high heels. I went on to kiss her body, exhilarated to learn that I could make a grown woman moan. I was her master. I owned her. We moved with breathless abandonment. She was hot. She was wet. I climbed on top of her.

  Her lips were next to my ear, her panting breath tickling me. I couldn’t believe myself. I couldn’t wait to brag to everyone.

  Ecstatic over my accomplishment, I showed her some of my very best moves. The secret ones. The ones I reserved for so very few. I wasn’t a stud. I was a superstud.

  “Honey, baby,” she whispered, so close to my ear.

  “Yes?” I said, continuing my moves as if I’d committed the Kama Sutra to memory.

  “Put it in,” she said.

  Oh my God. Put it in? I thought that I was in. I don’t know where I was.

  Finally, she helped me find the spot. I put it in. Then the show was all over. I was premature. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I left my playmate there on the bed shortly after, unsatisfied and alone.

  Back at the dorm, I gave everyone the requisite high fives. I was the hero, and a rich one at that.

  “She was a great fuck,” I said, standing tall and exaggerating every part of the story over a few beers. But I knew the truth. If I was going to improve my performance, I’d have to practice. And maybe even get some help.

  Put All Your Baggage to Good Use

  Somehow, I walked away with an associate of arts degree, but just barely. I hadn’t bothered to send out any résumés. In truth, I didn’t imagine my life would go on very long. Why waste my precious limited time on a career?

  My father was worried about me. Through a random encounter with a new acquaintance, whose details I promised not to divulge, my father developed a connection to Dr. Fredric Wertham, the famed psychiatrist. He’d studied in all the leading schools, even worked with Sigmund Freud, and was esteemed by the medical and educational community. In the 1950s, Wertham authored the popular and controversial book Seduction of the Innocent, making a case that violent comic books were instilling children with sociopathic thoughts in their developmental period and creating a new generation of criminals. Dr. Wertham was a national figure, vigorously loathed by th
e comic book industry and maligned by smut merchants. He still handled a few patients. Among his list of new challenges: me.

  His office was dark and quiet, and I sat in front of his desk, inspecting him. He had a lantern face, dark-framed glasses, and a corduroy sport jacket. He scribbled on a pad, an unlit cigarette always dangling from his lips. I was on the couch, he sat behind me. I wondered if he was listening to me at all. From time to time he would clear his throat.

  “Ahem,” he’d say, writing another note and fingering his cigarette.

  Then I told him about Phelps and our circle jerks with Fritzy in the barn before evening prayers.

  “Ahem,” he’d say, not even looking up at me.

  I was really doubting that he was even paying attention, when he perked up in his chair. The great doctor had made a determination.

  “Your stepfather is a stinker,” he said. “Your mother, I feel sorry for her.”

  Okay. Thanks, Doc.

  Then I told him about my last shrink, twelve years before, the schlub Cohn, to whom I’d declared that a pigeon’s feathers had reminded me of my mother’s vagina. Wertham’s usual expressionless demeanor was broken by a very large smile, which turned into a guffaw of such consequence that the unlit cigarette was expelled from his mouth.

  “I want you to come back next week,” Wertham said with a devious twinkle in his eye. “There is somebody I want you to meet.”

  I returned the following week, and waiting in Wertham’s office was a man named Philip something or other. He looked most unusual. He was tall and lean, wore a beret and Coke-bottle eyeglasses, and smoked a cigarette from a holder. He had a deep voice like a jazz singer. He invited me to attend a rehearsal at the Living Theatre.

  I didn’t want to be an actor. I had no interest. My mother had been interested in gardening and design. My father dabbled in watercolor. But acting? For me? No.