JEANNIE

                              

                                             

   I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a sticky hot

weeknight. June, 1979. South Jersey. Being from New England, I

thought it was the hottest spot in the world. At 22, there were a

lot of things I thought I knew but didn't. I had just graduated

college in June and was waiting to start law school. I worked as a

short order cook, a job I held since my senior year in high school

when I started as a dishwasher and busboy. As jobs go, it was

better than average. It paid something like $3.50 an hour which,

considering that I never sprung for a meal and got to flirt with the

waitresses, was a pretty damn good deal. But then again, I never

cared about money. Having a good time drinking and chasing

girls was my priority, which looking back now after 40 years or so

seems entirely worth it. You can live off of your money you saved

or the memories of how you wasted it when you were young. I’ll

take the latter any day.

    It was around 8 that night and I was finishing up. Scrub the

grill, put fresh grease in the fry-o-later, wipe everything down, change my shirt, punch the time clock, say good night to Howard,

the security man, and out the back door. Funny, his job was to

make sure employees did not steal anything. But they all did. He

knew it, they knew he knew it and his bosses knew it. I guess

pretending to solve a problem is often more important than

actually doing something about it. Working in the kitchen, I ate

what I stole so I never worried about Howard.    

    Getting around back then meant my dad’s 1972 Bonneville    

station wagon.  I was never big on cars, probably because I could not afford a nice one. As long as I got around. So I drove down Route 38

towards Philadelphia and on the spur of the moment decided to

stop at a local bar, Ed Coach’s, in Maple Shade. I had been therea few times before on Friday nights. Back in the day, way before

the internet and social media, if you wanted to get laid, you went

to a bar. More to the point, you went to what were then called

“cheater’s bars.” And that meant married and divorced women

looking for fun, preferably with men who did not remind them of

their ex husbands. And South Jersey was loaded with them. The

Mallard Inn, Charles Lounge, Cinelli’s, just to name a few.

I had been to Ed Coach’s two or three times. Usually after

we first got drunk at a cheap hole in the wall. It was very

educational. Jukebox had songs like Spanish Eyes by Al Martino

and Mack The Knife by Bobby Darin. Cigarette smoke filled the

air. You could almost chew on it.  Crowd was mostly over 40. Even a neophyte like me could tell who was looking for it and who wasn’t. They gave you that stare, sort of the way you would look at a piece of meat in a supermarket, which come to think of it was exactly what they were doing. As soon as you made eye contact they would look the other way in an embarrassed way. This went on like a game of cat

and mouse until one of us got up the courage to ask for a dance or

just strike up a conversation. The drinking speeded up the

process. You slow danced and made small talk, kissed and then

kissed passionately. From what I remember, most of them had an

ex-husband way behind in child support or kids at home with the

babysitter. Kind of sad when you think about it. And the men at

the bar looked at me like they wanted to hang me from the ceiling

as if I was some sort of interloper feeding at their trough. A

collection of middle aged beer bellied car salesman who spent too

much time at happy hour before they called it a night. But I didn’t

care. And why should I? I was young, reckless, and proud of it.

Nothing ever came of these chance encounters except harmless

making out and lying to women, which I really developed a skill for but more on that later. For me, going on a formal date with

someone 10 years older was simply not in the cards. I just didn't

have the money. Most women of that social strata expect to be

wined and dined on a level way above their station in life (and

mine) if they are going to hop in bed with you. Taking them to

Jack In The Box and then parking in the woods with a bottle of

Boone's Farm cherry wine wasn't going to get me across the finish

line or even in the game for that matter. I guess for me, it was the

equivalent of dipping my toe into a fantasy world without having

to get my clothes wet. Or something like that. But enough

already.  I pulled into the parking lot, hopped out of my dad’s car all

decked out in my Converse All Stars, t-shirt and bell bottomed

blue jeans, expecting nothing more than a $1.99 cheesesteak and a

few 35 cent Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap.  The place had a horseshoe type bar with dining booths surrounding it, a juke box, and an area facing the open end where waitresses sauntered back and forth from the kitchen and which served as a make shift dance floor. The bartender was none other than Ed Coach

himself. Mid 50’s, large gut, with that ’70’s wavy parted hairstyle that, even back then, looked out of place on a middle

aged man. Picture an overweight Robert Mitchum without the suaveness.  My most vivid memory of him was one night when I was

standing by the juke box while watching a couple of NFL playoff games. He picked up the phone and said something to the effect of “this is Eddie Coach. Put me down for a dime on San Diego.” Like all of the haunts of the era, the place was dimly lit. God forbid someone see the wrinkles cutting across a woman's forehead or the crow's feet growing out of the sides of their eyes. I may not

have learned much when I was young but there is one think I

picked up on quickly and never forgot: getting old is a woman’s

biggest enemy. Always amazed me the lengths they would go to

cover up the naked truth. Given the choice of eating or buying

make-up, most would starve to death.

    I sat at the bar, ordered, and watched the Phillies on an old

TV set that was perched on a wooden platform in a corner of the

wall facing the bar. I was minding my own business but could not

help noticing a party of about 10-15 people at the open end of the

bar. Must have been some kind of office party that went into

overtime as they all appeared to be loosened up. They were portly

business types, maybe insurance brokers or real estate agents.

Polyester suits and ties. The women in business dresses and high

heels, what we used to call “fuck me pumps.” There was an old saying: “give a woman the right pair of shoes and she could

conquer the world.” I don’t know about the world there was no

doubt they could turn me into mush.

    I gave them a glance and it hit me very quickly. One of the

men, actually the loudest one, and the center of attention, was

none other than John Joyce, a political wind bag and big wig lawyer in town. He was a county commissioner or something like

that. Always in the newspaper. Usually associated with a

scandal or some untoward political shenanigans like zoning

variances or granting of a liquor license to a campaign contributor.

After all, this was South Jersey which is also part of New Jersey

which is also probably the most corrupt state in the country. So

recognizing a local politico who probably had his hand in the

collection basket was sort of like watching it rain outside. I took

note with a smirk but was more interested in the baseball game.

More loud laughter. I glanced over again. The waitress was

serving another round. They were all getting sauced. Then it

happened. I saw her looking at me. No doubt about it. She was

about fifteen feet away. She was sipping what looked like a gin

and tonic. I could see the lemon slice on the top of her glass. She

was oblivious to what was going on around her. Had a look like

she wished she were somewhere else. She glanced at me with a

sort of innocent curiosity. Hard to describe her, but imagine

Susan Sarandon circa 1980 with a few drinks in her.  Now remember. I never considered myself handsome although my mother told me I was going to be a heartbreaker.  But that was in 1965. Up to this point in my life, my experience with women was confined to the normal: girls my own age. And there were a lot of them. Yeah, I made out with some older ones at the bar on a Friday night. And I lost my virginity to a black stripper at a South Jersey strip bar/hotel when I was 17. But those experiences were like stealing a car and going out on a joy ride for ten minutes. It ended very fast and you didn’t make a career out of it.  

    So I looked back at her and smiled. It was a smile that said,

“hey, I caught you. No problem. Our secret. wink wink.” And

back to the Phillies game.  About five minutes later, from the corner of my eye, I saw her walking towards me. She ordered a drink from Ed. A vodka and tonic with a twist. We were almost touching. Forty one years later, I can still remember the gist of the conversation: "Hey, my name is Jeannie." "Hello, my name is Dennis. You out with your friends?" She took the change from Ed and left him a dollar.

"Yes. We are celebrating my husband’s birthday. That is him

over there [the drunken politico]." She rolled her eyes when she

said “husband.” Even at 22, I connected the dots. He was about

60. And looked it. She was what we would refer to nowadays as a

MILF. Probably fifteen years earlier, the phrase trophy wife or

gold digger was uttered behind her back. Had to be their second

or third marriage or even beyond that and God knows what other mileage she accumulated between the gaps. You can size up a

couple pretty quickly. Probably a marriage of mutual

convenience; he supplied the money or the illusion of it and she

banged his brains out or at least let him pretend to his friends

that she did. She told me I was a little bit young to be in this type

of bar. Not critically but matter of fact like. And in the same

breath mentioned that I must have a girlfriend to hang out with

which I did but lied about it. Funny. Back then I thought that if I

told a girl I was dating someone, she would immediately lose

interest. But as I got older and then way older, I realized the

opposite was true. If a woman is even mildly attracted to you, and

thinks you have a wife or girlfriend or sees you with one, it

increases the desire. Its like they want what they cannot have.

But I was naive back then. She told me I was handsome and I

told her she was attractive. What I remember most is that her

eyes were beautiful. Looked like they had been drenched in booze

for the past three days but she still had that look. Like she could

chew me up and spit me out and I would love every minute of it

and so would she. And she smoked. I liked that. Something erotic about it in 1979. Maybe it was those Benson & Hedges

commercials: “You’ve Come a Long Way Baby.” Gave her an edge

which I later learned she did not need.

    She asked how old I was and I told her the truth and she

asked, after a long pause, “well how old do you think I am?” I am

good at estimating a woman’s age no matter the amount of make

up or plastic surgery or bullshit they tell you. I pegged her for 45-

50. But in the great pantheon of lies, never tell a woman the truth

about how old you think she is. Never. If you guess wrong on the

up side, you will get slapped silly. Get it right and she very

quickly loses interest. Go low and you have won her heart. So I

meticulously looked her over, checking out her eyes and asked to

hold her hand so I could examine it. That is always the tell tale

sign. Almost impossible to disguise. But you have to hold her

hand the right way. If she mildly tightens the grip, you know she

likes you. So, knowing it was a bald faced lie, I threw the number38 at her.  Her face lit up.  “Really?” I looked straight at her, and

delivered the coup de grace so to speak. “Yes.  I hope you are not

younger. I would feel really bad and if you are, I apologize.” She looked me straight in the eye. You would have thought I gave her a million dollars. “You are such a sweetheart. Bless you.” Her husband

was looking over at us and I mentioned it to her. “I better get back

there. Stay around, ok?” She walked away. She wore a dress that was cut a little above the knee. Her calves were made iN Heaven. She was not thin but not fat either.  Something about sexy legs on an older woman!  That 15 foot walk back to her social get together seemed like an hour. And without looking at me, I am sure she knew exactly what thoughts were going through my mind.  Her husband said something to her when she got back. And by the look on his face, he didn’t tell her how beautiful she looked. Probably something to the effect of questioning whether or not she was flirting with me. Back to the ball game and a trip to the men’s room. I ordered another 35 cent Pabst and started thinking about going home. I think I was

playing golf the next morning with some friends and didn’t want

to drink too much or stay out late. Then, she returned. Another

gin and tonic. She told me that her husband wanted to know what

we were talking about. She told him that I recognized him and

was interested in getting into local politics and inquired about

working on one of his campaigns. I guess that fed his ego and,

more important, shut the old geezer up. I told her I was going to

leave soon. There was a pause for about five seconds and then the

words jumped off of her lips. “Can I call you sometime?” I was

taken aback but didn’t show it. I give myself credit. I handled it

like a pro, as if things like that happened to me every night. “Of

course.” But the problem was logistics. I could not ask Ed for a

pen and then write the number down in eyeshot of her inebriated

significant other twenty feet away and in Ed’s full view. I told

her to walk back and I would then ask for a pen and pretend I was

just jotting down a reminder. So Ed handed me a pen and I wrote

my number on a napkin and put it in my pocket. Another 10

minutes and here she comes. She ordered a drink and I discreetly put the napkin in her left hand which was by her side. Perfect.

She walked back without saying a word. Mission accomplished.

Now about that phone number. I lived with my parents.

Luckily for me, I had my own phone in my bedroom with a

separate line. But this was 1979. No voice mail, caller ID,

texting, or beepers. Nada. Her contacting me had to be when I

was home and near the phone. On her end, it had to be when her

husband was out of earshot. A slim window of opportunity.

I got home around 1:30 am and woke up about 9 the next

morning. I wish I could say I did not think about what happened

the night before and could just chalk it up to another night on the

town, the antics of a woman who had one too many and was trying

to see if she still had the oomph in her style. A cheap thrill better

to be forgotten. Truth to tell, I could not get her off my mind.

With every burger I flipped or tuna sandwich I cut in half, the

image of those eyes and the back of her calves seared through my

young sex obsessed mind.

    I left work at 9:30 and when I got home, sat by the phone

and waited . . . and waited. Nothing.  The next morning around 11:30, she called. “Hi Dennis. It’s Jeannie. How are you? Sorry I did not call yesterday but my husband went out of town to visit his daughter and grandkids in California and I had to take him to the airport.” I guess that was a hint but I was too naive to pick up on it. After some back and forth banter about my high end job, she asked if I wanted to get together some time. Of course, I said. We agreed to meet that

night at a bar across the street from the Garden State Race Track,

on the south side of Route 70 just west of the circle. That area

was filled with hotels, night clubs, and restaurants. I knew the

place she selected. Sort of a blue collar type of place, probably a

hangout for the two dollar window crowd. The problem was that

most of the establishments were controlled by the mob from New

York and Philadelphia. If I met her at one of the jazzier places,

the chances of being seen would be pretty good. I guess she

factored all this into her choice of a rendezvous. I was not

working that night so off I went. Left my house at 7:45 and

arrived promptly at 8. We both arrived at the same time. She was driving a late model Lincoln Continental, one of those long

square looking cars that got 8 miles to the gallon.

So we entered together: a modern day version of Ozzie and

Harriet. A cheap re-make of Mrs. Robinson would be more like it.

We sat at the bar. There were two men playing pool.

Looked like construction workers. I ordered a beer and she a,

what else, gin and tonic. The jukebox was playing Don’t Let Me

Down by The Cars. The song has stuck in my mind ever since.

Now that there were no distractions, I was able to have a

conversation with her. What she told me was entirely predictable:

she had been married for twenty years, had three sons, got

divorced and then met her current husband because she was his

secretary. They lived in an apartment nearby. He had children

from another marriage whom he was visiting. I am sure she was telling the truth but I am also sure that she was not telling me the

whole truth. But then again, so what? I was not interviewing her

for the lead part in a remake of Leave It To Beaver. We had a few

more drinks, I don’t remember how many. I do remember it was

about ten o’clock because I had to work the next day at 11. As we

both finished the last mouthful of liquor, there was a silence for

amount ten seconds. I don’t know what she was thinking but I

know what I was thinking. But she beat me to the punch. “You

want to come to my place?” I said “sure.” The natural instinct

would be to feel uneasy about going to a married woman’s home

and jumping into her “marital bed” so to speak. But I considered

her a little bit out of the mainstream of what would be called the

social construct. Her husband was a bloviating politico who

probably carried her around like an ornament to impress his

equally vapid friends. It was sort of like stealing from a thief.

The sense of shame is quickly dissipated by the opportunity for

danger and adventure. She told me to follow her. She lived about ten minutes away.  I think the place was called the Cooper River Apartments or something like that. We parked in an outdoor lot. She told me to wait ten minutes and then go up to her apartment and just walk in and make sure nobody was watching. Back then, there was no security. The building was open to the public. Anyone could walk

in. And I did. Took the elevator up to her floor, strolled down the

hall and walked into her place like I lived there. It was a one

bedroom standard issue type place of the era. Kind of complex

that divorcees or middle aged single people with jobs would live in.

Not elegant but not shabby either. She invited me to sit on the

couch. She offered me a drink. Scotch. I love scotch but back

then scotch to me was something my father drank on special

occasions. I drank mostly beer. Every once in a while, for special

romantic moments, I would spring for a bottle of $1.99 Boone’s

Farm wine to share with my girlfriend in the back of my dad’s car.

So we toasted and talked. And talked. About nothing. After one

drink, she excused herself and went into the bedroom. A minute

later she came out dressed in a conservative type housecoat.

Something you would buy at K Mart or the Sears catalog.

Definitely not suggestive. Another drink and more bullshit. Sheexcused herself again. She turned on the TV for me. I did not

know why. Carson was on. That means Johnny Carson or The

Tonight Show, the most famous talk show host of all time. There

will never be one like him. Ever. She was gone for what seemed

like an eternity. She re-appeared. Might as well have come out

naked. She wore a full body negligee that a sneeze could have

swept away. It was all downhill from there. No need to say

anything. She sat down next to me with a slightly embarrassed

smile on her face. I kissed her and kissed her again. I don’t

remember how but we ended up in her bed. Off came the negligee

and off came my Chuck Taylors and everything else. At that time

in my life, I kind of knew what I was doing but this was

unchartered territory. Compare it to excelling in little league

baseball and then unexpectedly finding yourself swinging at a

major league fastball.

    Not to be pornographic but even at 47, she was stunning.

Perfect boobs and the cellulite had yet to develop in her legs. I

don’t know if it was instinct or memories from making out with

college girls, but I was all over her. I took my time and savoredevery roll of my tongue. She moaned and blurted out in a heavy

whisper “you are one precious man.” Which to me confirmed my

original hunch: her husband was lousy in bed. I made love to her.

Or better yet, she made love to me. Then we talked. It was

around 1:30. I was going to get dressed and then she was all over

me again. She wanted more. Nowadays, at 63, that would be

impossible but back then it was kind of effortless. And the effort

did not go unappreciated.

    I left at 3 am. We agreed to do it again. Told her to call me.

And she did. The next day. She said she missed work that day

which did not surprise me. We met again that night, a Friday.

Same time, same place. It was a lot more crowded. Same type of

crowd. I think the track was open that afternoon. I don’t know

why she wanted to meet again in public. There was no pretense

anymore. Why not just get down to business? But we went

through the social niceties by sipping two drinks and then

skedaddling back to her place. It was like a replay of the night

before except better. I guess a matter of familiarity. One moment

sticks in my mind. After I finished massaging her whole body with my tongue, she looked at me with a devilish smile and said

“where did you learn to do that?” I always had a gift for timing

and without missing a beat, I said “I read it in a book.” She

started laughing and then hit me in the head with a pillow.

“Smart ass.” We talked for two hours. She kept complimenting

me. Then, like a teacher advising a student, she told me to never

get married. Or at least not for a long time. She then gave me a

primer on how to meet and seduce older women. She rattled off

the names of nightclubs in the area where older (i.e., sexually

frustrated) women hung out. She said they would love me and

vice versa. I had heard of all of these places and did frequent

them. She was right. Was like low hanging fruit. Opened up a

whole new world of adventure and danger for me. But that is for

another chapter.

    As I was leaving, she told me that her sons were coming over

for the weekend and she would call me next week. In the back of

my head, I knew this had to end soon. She did call me at the end

of the next week. Said her husband was coming back on

Saturday. She suggested maybe we could arrange something at a hotel room one afternoon. I agreed but never thought it would

happen. And it didn’t. In retrospect it was inevitable. She was

obviously looking for a quick affair and that is exactly what she

got. But there was something about her that I could not get out of

my head. I really thought she liked me. Call it naïveté or

immaturity but I don’t think so.

    So life went on. I started law school in late August and no

Jeannie. In early September, I had a two-hour break between

classes. Her husband’s office was in city hall about three blocks

from my school. I entertained the thought about paying her an

unexpected visit. Crazy? Yes. Dangerous? Of course. But I was

always nuts when it came to women and I loved to feel the

business end of a knife, especially in matters of the opposite sex.

So off I went all decked out in my Converse All Stars and old blue

jeans. I walked into the old city hall, looked at the directory and

saw the bloviator’s name and office number. Up the elevator I

went without any sense of trepidation. I saw the office with the

correct number and walked in. The door was open and there she

was sitting in the secretary’s desk wearing reading glasses and staring at her typewriter. She looked up and was in a semi-state

of shock. “Dennis!” She had that look on her face that said “GET

OUT.” Her husband’s office was right behind hers and I guess he

heard her and came walking out before I could leave. “Can I help

you?” I introduced myself. Just gave my name. He looked at me

and it clicked. I was the kid who was flirting with his wife a few

months ago. I am sure he was adding up the score very quickly.

Old men with younger, hot wives, have one thing in common:

insecurity. Big time. I said goodbye and I left. It wasn’t right and

I should not have gone at all but something about the encounter

made me feel good. I didn’t like the guy and the thought that he

knew some young nobody punk could bed his wife right under his

nose made me feel good. Again, not right but that is how I felt.

Later that day, I found out the near catastrophe I caused.

She called me. The fact that she still had my number meant

something to me. She was not happy. But she was not screaming.

“Dennis, you should not have done that! He accused me of having

an affair with you. I told him that you were only interested in

getting involved in local politics and you were in the building. I pretended to be angry with him for even suggesting that I would

cheat on him and with someone so much younger. I told him I felt

betrayed that he did not trust me. It was the foundation of our

marriage.” I had to laugh at that one. In a relieved tone, she said

she convinced him that it was nothing. She told me I could not do

that anymore. So that was the end of the affair as the saying

goes. Or so I thought.

    Two years later, I finished law school. It was May. My

finals were over and I had not yet graduated. It was around 5

p.m. on a Friday. I was with a few friends at the school. I don’t

remember why. We decided to go walk down the street at a local

watering hole and have a few beers during happy hour. It was one

of those places where the local politicos met. I walked in there she

was . . . again. Jeannie. Sitting at the bar with another woman

her age. I said hello and she introduced me to her friend. I didn’t

want to be obvious so I went with my friends and we ordered a

beer and started playing shuffleboard. But I kept looking over at

her and she at me. Her friend left and I guess under normal

circumstances she would have too. But she stayed and I knew why. I had drank about three beers by now and happy hour was

coming to a close. My budget being what it was, that meant

something to me. I walked over to Jeannie and asked how she

was doing. Nothing changed. Still married to the political

blowhard. And she still smoked and drank gin and tonics. But

she had not lost her allure. I told her not by accident that I now

had my own place. She took the bait and asked me where. I told

her it was close by. Then we talked. Told her I was starting a job

in New York after I took the bar exam. More small chatter. Then

she “suggested” that she follow me home. Or actually asked

“permission” if it was ok. I think that was an indirect way of

seeing if I had a girlfriend living with me. So out we went into the

parking lot. She had the same car. Not me. I was moving up in

the world and had bought my friend Kevin’s 1973 Ford Maverick

for $700. I doubt she was impressed. Sort of like a replay of three

years ago except she followed me this time. I lived on the second

floor of a garden apartment. Unlike her place, mine was at the

low end of the totem pole. $200.00 a month. Small one bedroom.

We waked up the stairs. She looked around and then looked at me and nonchalantly said “you gonna fuck me?” She didn’t forget

our escapade two years ago. Off we went to the bedroom which all

of five feet from where we were standing. We re-created the

magic. All I remember is her looking me in the eye and saying

“my Dennis. You are my Dennis” about ten times. After the thrill

was gone we talked for 2 hours. I told her I took her advice and

spent a lot of time hunting older women at the haunts she

suggested. She laughed. Around 1 am, she got dressed and said

she should be getting home. I said nothing. I knew this was the

end. She kissed me and hugged me in more of a maternal way

and wished me the best of luck. No talk of getting together again

as well there should not have been.

    Looking back forty-two years later, I am sure she has passed

on. To me, it still seems like yesterday. That experience will

affect me forever for better or worse. I often wonder if I had never

met her, would I have met someone my own age and lived a

Father Knows Best type life. I don’t know. As it is or was, I never

stopped chasing women and they never stopped chasing me. One

thing I learned at an early age: it is more fun to be bad than good.