by Ron Bahar
I proudly escorted Dalia through Lincoln’s important landmarks: the Capitol Building, the university’s Memorial Stadium, Pioneers Park, the Runza Hut, Holmes Lake, and Lincoln Southeast High School. I had intended only a drive-by of my alma mater, but Dalia insisted that we stop. “It’s closed, Dalia,” I promised. “Thanksgiving’s a national holiday and no one will be here.”
“I don’t care. I just want to walk around a bit. This is going to be fun.”
We made small talk while strolling the perimeter of school, from High Street to 40th, from Van Dorn to 37th. It was predictably cold and windy, and Dalia reached for my hand along the way. “I’ve never been this cold in my life. Warm me up, please,” she implored.
I would very much like to warm you up, I thought. I took her hand like a gentleman and undressed her with my eyes only. As we passed the parking entrance, I heard a friendly double honk. I looked up and saw Frank Dupuis pulling up in his 1977 Pontiac Sunbird. He rolled down the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t the young Dr. Bahar.”
“Hi, Mr. Dupuis,” I answered happily. “What are you doing here on Thanksgiving?”
“I should ask you the same question . . . I’m just grading some papers. You know how I hate getting behind.” He turned to Dalia and tried (unsuccessfully) to disguise a double take. “Ron, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Oh, uh, sorry . . . Mr. Dupuis, this is Dalia Klein. Dalia is visiting from Israel . . . Dalia, this is my all-time favorite teacher, Mr. Frank Dupuis.”
“Nice to meet you, Dalia.”
“Very pleasant,” she answered, only slightly lost in translation.
They exchanged “pleasantries” until I interrupted, “So how’s the new crop of students this fall?”
“Eh, they’ll never match up to you,” he answered jokingly.
“I’m sure not . . . hey, what are you doing Saturday night?”
“I guess I’ll be eating leftovers with Sheila and Fern. Why?”
“Well, remember Benjie Kushner? I think he was in your bio class a couple of years ago. Anyway, his band’s playing at PO Pears this Saturday. I think I remember that you like watching live music . . . you should come. Might be fun seeing a former student on stage.”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know if I could get Sheila to come, but I might just fly solo. Could be entertaining.” He looked at Dalia before returning his gaze to me. “Nice seeing you, Ron. Good to know you’re back in the saddle again.” He rolled up the window, and I watched him drive toward the staff parking lot. My eyes then wandered to student parking, where I saw “my” spot, now empty.
Before returning home, I drove Dalia up and down that same stretch of US Route 77 where Amy, the Duster, and I became so well acquainted. The moment was surreal: two worlds, two directions. We barely spoke. Instead, Dalia leaned against me and we looked out into the horizon. She smelled as good as she looked, and I must admit it felt “very pleasant” having her hand on my thigh. Somehow, though, I was still alone.
CHAPTER 35
“I have a picture, pinned to my wall, An image of you and of
me and we’re laughing and loving it all”
—THE THOMPSON TWINS’ “HOLD ME NOW,” FROM THE
ALBUM INTO THE GAP, RELEASED NOVEMBER 11TH, 1983.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER THREE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
My mom outdid herself; who knew Thanksgiving turkey went so well with falafel and hummus? Dalia certainly felt at home with my family, and she had quickly grown on my sisters. Though Zillie and Iris were not the most trusting individuals, they were able to compartmentalize Dalia’s motives and take this charismatic girl at face value. By Friday morning, Dalia, my sisters, and my mother went downtown together to do more shopping at The Hitching Post and Wooden Nickel, Lincoln’s best attempt at cutting edge fashion. Also, as electronics were nearly unaffordable in Israel, Dalia made a high-fidelity pilgrimage to Target to purchase a Walkman.
While Dalia explored the prairie, I made my own pilgrimage to The Garage. Though I had invited myself, the boys were gracious and sentimental upon my return—arriving with two large Godfather’s pizzas helped (consider it a turkey chaser for young adult males). Thankfully, Talent Scout Rex was absent, but he would be attending the show the following evening.
I stayed all four hours of the practice session. The music was, as usual, empowering, and it caused me to circle in a continuous loop my night with Jessica.
I love physiology, knowing how the body works . . . like singing . . . the way the brain plays with the diaphragm, the lungs, and the vocal cords to make music. I love understanding why, if I get nervous, or sad, or angry, or excited, my brain makes my body do all kinds of crazy shit. I love that there’s part of that crazy shit that I can’t control, but there’s also part of that crazy shit that I can control. It’s a goddamn miracle.
I came home to Dalia’s fashion show of the day’s shopping spree. She oozed sexy as she ambled an imaginary cat-walk through my living room wearing Esprit, Ralph Lauren, Levi’s, and her own namesake, Calvin Klein. Honestly, she would have looked good wearing a Hefty Bag. “I could get used to this . . . how do I look?” she asked, rhetorically.
“Really, really good.”
Zillie and Iris watched from the doorway. Both smiled but kept their arms crossed. They knew me.
Sabbath featured a dinner challah specially ordered from Omaha’s The Bagel Bin, Nebraska’s only kosher bakery. Per family tradition, on the Friday of Thanksgiving Weekend, after blessings over the wine and bread, my father scanned the room to ask us what we were thankful for.
He spoke first. “I’m delighted to have my family together for Thanksgiving, and to share this lovely American tradition with our lovely guest from Israel.” Dalia smiled without blushing. My eyes rolled without being noticed.
Dalia volunteered to speak next. “I’m also thankful for spending this weekend with your family, and especially to get to know Ronnie a little better.” Adorable? Perhaps. Awkward? Definitely.
Zillie: “Tom Cruise.”
Iris: “Eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.”
My mother, a notorious lightweight, had already nervously indulged herself with a second glass of Manischewitz, and, as expected, she proclaimed:
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Lo achshav. Ani choshevet sheh ani ketzat shikorah.”
Literal Translation: “Not now. I think I’m a little drunk.”
Intended Translation: “Listen, Ronnie. I know you think we’re overbearing and maybe a little nuts. However, we are your parents, and we’ve been around the block a few times. You need to have faith in us that we just understand the world better than you do. Yes, we made you live in Nebraska with unrealistic expectations about your love life and, yes, we suppressed your voice, both literally and figuratively. If we could go back in time, chances are we’d do things a little differently, but unfortunately we don’t have that option. It’s a rough world out there, and there’s no playbook on how to move an Israeli family to the Midwest while preserving both faith and culture. You know we love Amy . . .
Intended Translation: . . . but you need to let go of her, and Dalia seems like the best way to help you . . .We just want to protect you. So, yeah, I had a couple of drinks to calm my nerves, because if this plan doesn’t work out, I’m going to go apeshit. PS. I love you.”
My father smiled and turned to me. “Okay, Ronnie, it’s your turn.”
I paused then spoke. “I’m . . . I’m thankful for whatever happens next.”
AFTER dinner, Dalia and I walked the half-mile to Christine’s house on Pioneers Boulevard. The crisp air failed to clear my head. Chris was having a party, but she made it clear that this time Amy would not be attending. It was just as well; I longed to see Amy, but until that time, I couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable encounter.
Funny how, when college freshman meet high school friends during Thanksgiving weekend for the first time
in three short months, one would think they’d been simultaneously paroled from prison following eighteen years of good behavior. After an enormous and mutually heartfelt hug with Christine, she looked at Dalia, who had been standing behind me.
“Well, hello! Who are you?” asked Christine. She was direct as usual.
“I am Dalia. You arrre Chreeese, no?”
“No? Oh, yes, I am Chris. Come in. Here, let me take your coats.” As she did so, she stared at me, out of Dalia’s view, with a furrowed brow. “Ron, I’ve got like ten coats piled up here now. Come help me throw them on my bed.” She glanced at Dalia, this time with a quick head to toe survey. “Hold on, Dalia, we’ll be right back.” I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
We entered Christine’s bedroom and she slammed the door. “What the fuck is going on, Ron? And who’s the Goddess of Love out there?”
“Nothing’s going on. She’s a houseguest.”
“Houseguest, my ass. Who is she?”
Again, the stare; lying would be futile. I had to return to Dalia soon, so I offered Christine the Readers’ Digest version. She was able to fill in the gaps.
Dumbfounded, she finally answered. “I thought we had an agreement.”
“We do. Don’t worry.”
Chris and I returned to the family room, where, not so shockingly, my former classmates had already congregated around Dalia to pepper her with questions. “Tell me about the army.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?
“Do you ride camels to school?”
“Is everyone really Jewish there?”
“Guys, guys . . . slow down, she just got here!” I announced.
“No, eeet’s okay, Ronnie . . . I like eeet.” said Dalia.
“She calls you ‘Ronnie’?” asked Mark, laughing. “That’s fucking adorable!”
Dalia and I stayed at the party for several hours. I regressed to my role as the wallflower in a real-time social experiment featuring Dalia, the fantastically hot girl, engulfing the attention of ogling guys and jealous girls. I later realized that, regardless of geography and religion, every school or town has a Dalia, a Tommy, a Ron, and an Amy.
CHAPTER 36
“Don't wait for answers
Just take your chances”
—BILLY JOEL’S “DON’T ASK ME WHY,” FROM THE ALBUM
GLASS HOUSES, RELEASED JULY 24TH, 1980.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER NINETEEN ON US BILLBOARD’S
HOT 100 SONGS.
After the party, Dalia and I walked home. This time I volunteered my hand first; she was, in reality, a great date who always remained clear in her intentions. She may have been manipulative, but she wasn’t devious. I envied her straightforwardness very much. “Your friends are sweet, Ronnie. I love it here,” she said as we strolled. She was speaking again in Hebrew and could express herself more clearly. “I mean, I would never live here, but I love it.”
“Why would you never live here? Remember earlier today you said you could get used to this?” I asked, not so much to challenge her—I had my own issues with Nebraska—but instead to pick her brain.
“I was talking about buying clothes, not moving to Nebraska, silly. I’m an Israeli, and that’s where my soul is. This thing that we have—and I think we do have a thing—is fun, and I meant it when I said I want to get to know you better . . . better than the childhood playmates we used to be . . . but I think you and I just see the world differently.”
“Yes, I agree,” I answered, smiling. “And I didn’t mean I wanted you to move here. I just wanted to know why you never would.”
“I think I know what you mean. Let me explain what I mean . . . I’m mostly a free spirit, but I won’t compromise about certain things, like leaving home for good. You, on the other hand, are mostly repressed, but you’ll compromise about almost anything, like doing what your heart tells you to do.” She put her hand on my chest. Whatever was inside was still beating. She was indeed candid, but, like most Israelis, she had perfected the art of being presumptuous. She only knew part of my story.
Once home, we snuggled on the couch platonically—if there is such a thing—and watched the end of Letterman before calling it a night. “Ronnie, you’re a very complicated boy,” she said finally. “If you want me, you know where to find me, but I might be far away when you finally make up your mind.” She kissed me gently on the lips and went to bed.
Once again I spent half the night engaged in a staring contest with the moon. Goddammit, I thought. In any other world, Amy would be the kind of girl my mother would dream about, and Dalia would be the kind of girl my mother would warn me about.
DESPITE a collective and desperate plea from my sisters and me to spare us from morning services at the synagogue, my parents forced us to attend. Amidst the expected withering scrutiny of the roughly sixty congregants in attendance, however, my date remained remarkably unaffected.
Old Mrs. Goldberg, who sat directly behind us, simply couldn’t endure waiting for services to conclude to snatch a moment of face time with Dalia. During the Torah Service, I felt her tap my shoulder. “Ron, who is this lovely lady?” she asked in what I assumed was the loudest whisper in recorded history.
“Estelle Goldberg, meet Dalia Klein. Dalia, meet Mrs. Goldberg,” I answered quietly.
“Hello,” said Dalia, speaking softly but smiling widely. She and I then turned to face the altar again.
A conversation between Mrs. Goldberg and her husband Max ensued. As it turns out, it was actually Max who had the loudest whisper in recorded history.
“She has looks to die for, this one,” declared Estelle.
“Oy, what I would do with that ‘shayne maidel’ if I were sixty years younger,” answered Max. Somehow using the Yiddish term for “beautiful girl” made his declaration even more painful to my ears.
Estelle continued, “Shut up, you dirty old man.”
“What? It’s true!”
“I said, shut up!”
By the time Max (and Estelle) finally did shut up, Zillie and Iris were shaking with silent laughter. I cringed before closing my eyes in a fruitless attempt to make the Goldbergs go away through telepathy. Though neither Dalia’s English nor her Yiddish was perfect, she understood enough to squeeze my arm, grin, and continue looking forward. After services, Dalia and I were forced to endure a veritable receiving line of templegoers, and we were eventually approached by Benjie’s parents, Marcia and Sheldon. “’Bout time we got some new blood around here,” quipped Sheldon.
“Shel, be nice,” implored Marcia.
“Benjie told me you had a little lady in town, Ron.” He turned to Dalia. “Sheldon Kushner,” he announced, introducing himself. “Damn glad to meet you.”
Dalia looked at him curiously. After a moment, she skipped the salutation, and instead smiled and said, “I love your funny jacket.”
Sheldon was indeed in rare form, sporting a red polyester blazer with a white “N” embroidered on the chest pocket to represent his beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers. It was his custom to wear this gem on important football game days. That afternoon the team would play the Oklahoma Sooners in Norman, Oklahoma, and a Cornhusker win would propel them to a berth in the Orange Bowl to compete for the national championship. It had not even occurred to me that his appearance was anything out of the ordinary.
He looked down at his jacket and seemed to realize how its appearance could be considered odd when viewed for the first time. “Oh, this thing? Well, thank you,” he answered proudly. He paused as she continued to stare. “But it’s not funny; it’s tradition. Don’t just judge a book by its cover.”
“I don’t understand,” she responded.
“It’s a metaphor. You know, just a figure of speech.”
“I don’t understand,” she repeated.
No, she really didn’t understand.
Sheldon relented, and though he changed the subject, he continued the banter with Dalia for several minutes before turning his attention to me. I braced myself for
the latest in his long line of irreverent comments. “Well, I think Dalia’s a keeper, but, then again, that’s what I thought about the last one,” he chuckled. He was lucky he was one of my favorite people on Earth.
“Sheldon!” yelled Marcia.
“Oh, I’m just teasin’.”
Thankfully, he changed the subject. “Dalia, are you coming to my son Benjie’s show tonight?”
“Yes, I am. Ronnie told me he de best.”
“Yes he is if I may say so myself . . . you know, Ron has an excellent voice too.”
“Yes I hearrr him once. Dis is beautiful.”
“He’s even sung with Benjie’s band before.”
Dalia then looked at me. “I love to hearrr dis one day.”
THAT afternoon, Dalia and I joined Sundar and on-again-off-again-now-long-distance Anne to watch the Nebraska game at the Rajendran’s house. During the course of the twentieth century, college football had woven itself into the fabric and melting pot of American life, so that a Christian, a Hindu, a Jew, and his exotic companion could sit down in front of a twenty-five-inch color TV and snack on samosas and CocaCola while gripped by twenty-two men of all races chasing inflated pigskin. By the second quarter, Dalia had completely immersed herself in Husker Nation. Though she still didn’t understand me, or any of the rules of football, perhaps she began to understand the red blazer. No blind faith, just hope. After a thrilling, game-ending defensive stand, Nebraska had defeated Oklahoma, 28-21. All was right in the world. Almost.
Immediately after the game, the visitors’ sideline could be seen erupting with joy. The team, their coaches, and nearly all traveling VIPs bounced aimlessly in a spontaneous display of excitement. Only one young couple could be seen in an oddly motionless, prolonged embrace, and the cameraman zoomed in to capture the moment. When the two finally separated, faces were revealed; there stood Kimmy and Scott Campbell, whose wedding a full year prior marked my first real attempt at rocking and rolling in front of an audience.