Another call Friday afternoon from Phil, asking me to a movie and lite supper, (against my better judgment) elicited an affirmative reply. With that ‘o.k.’ doors to the torture chamber opened. Phil turned out to be the man I slightly remembered who played golf with me and my husband in an inter-club tourney. He appeared before me a little shorter (like all of us). His now bulging belly was encased in a brown and white striped shirt that pulled and popped as it tried to hide his added girth. Any moment I expected a button to pop off in my face.
Denny and I used to laugh at a comic strip in which one of the characters always had a button flying off with the words ‘nov shmooz ka pop’ in the bubble over his head. Jumping far ahead in my tale of misery, after Phil left and I looked at Denny’s picture by my beside, I told him ‘nov shmooz ka pop’ and burst out crying.
Being a small man, Phil looked lost behind the steering wheel of his very large Caddy. While I fought for my independence when Myer used to insist on opening the car door for me, somehow I resented Phil not doing it. I guess it wasn’t the door–-it was him.
Unfortunately, at the delly I met a member of our Board of Governors who answered Phil’s question by telling him, as a single resident, I CAN have golf guests as often as I like, contrary to what I had said. Oy! Phil was in heaven. As we ate, I imagined every swallow of his matzoh ball soup loosening a button. Service was bad which kept us from making the movie I wanted to see. It didn’t matter because what I wanted to see was not important. Phil liked comedies, pie-in-the face comedies, while I abhor them.
We returned to my house and he took out his Walkman with two tapes so I could listen to his combo play dinner music at a club and one of ‘The Blues Brothers’ in which his son had a part and played in the band.
There was no escaping either. But–I tried to pay him back by showing him my ‘Permanently Yours’, story. He gave it the most cursory glance, shunted it aside, and inserted a tape in the VCR, expecting me to watch the entire horrible movie. With the ear phones pounding very rinky-tink-tink music and simultaneously hearing Phil jabber, I wanted to scream. Each time I asked him to put the movie on fast forward, get to his son’s part, he seemed insulted. When I lowered the sound, he was hurt yet my short story was of no interest to him.
For five hours and twenty-five minutes, less perhaps the few minutes I squeezed in a word, Phil talked about his wife, divorce proceedings, his brothers, children, cheese business, deceased wife, family problems, his father, his school, union rackets, health (his, of course), his golf and the many clubs at which he plays, his generosity, business success and losses, his travels, on and on ad infinitum. Once he actually asked me what I want from a man. I got as far as warmth, someone to share the things I like, and suddenly he was off again telling me what HE wants. It was his ego trip and my misery.
We had arrived home about 8:30 and it took until 11:10 for me to get the opening to say, ‘I’m tired and ready for bed.’ Believe me, I have not exaggerated this miserable evening. No words I can conjure up can relay my boredom, my loathing and constant wish for him to leave. I pray he will call me before another date HE had set in advance so I can cancel it.
There is absolutely NO chance for us to gel! Telling him ‘NO’ is not only not tough to do-but is absolutely necessary! So long, Phil !
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