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Saturday, Jul 4, 2009
I turned to her and said, "Could I take you to your home?" She looks at me and -- with a pause -- she says, "If you got a quarter you can go anywhere you want."
Editor's note: This is the debut of a new series on Salon, Americans Talk About Love, which will feature original, intriguing, true oral histories of the subject we all care about most, as told to writer John Bowe. Americans Talk About Love will appear every other Monday.
By John Bowe
Read more: Love, Marriage, John Bowe, Life, Americans Talk About Love
Christopher Walsh/Salon
Jan. 12, 2009 | I was born in Brooklyn. My mother died when I was about 9 years old. My father tried to take care of us. What he did was he moved us in with a family. My brother and I. And he went to work and he paid them for room and board to take care of us. But then he would come home and say, "Did you drink your milk?" and I would say, "What milk?" He'd say, "I gave money to the people to give you milk." And besides the money business, other things happened. But we won't talk about those.
Anyway, he had to put us in the orphanage. After we got out, there was a war on, so I went and I joined the Navy. When I got out, the whole world had changed for me, because they were paying for education. What I did was, I went to pharmacy school in the day, I went to high school at night to finish up my high school diploma, I worked as an X-ray technician, I had an internship, which I was doing at Walgreen's in New York. And going home one Sunday night, I go down on the subway and something happened that has never happened before -- ask any New Yorker, they'll agree with me -- there was nobody, I mean no single person on the subway platform.
It was maybe 10:30, 11 o'clock. The train comes, and again, nobody is on the train. Except for a woman sitting at the head of one of the cars. So being a young New York boy I get on the train, I walk the length of the train to where she's sitting, I sit down right next to her, pull out a book, and start reading. And I peruse the page, or a half-page, I turned to her and I said, "Excuse me, does this train go to Brooklyn?" She looks me in the eye and she points across the other side of the car and, of course, there's a big sign: "To Brooklyn." I said, "Oh! Thank you! Goodbye."
Get back to the book. Couple minutes later I turned to her and said, "Could I take you to your home?" She looks at me and she says -- with a pause -- she says, "If you got a quarter you can go anywhere you want." Which was what the subway cost at that time. And she got off at the next station, and I got off with her and followed her.
She's standing here watching me tell this story again.
Now, I can't say why I was doing this. It was just instinct. And if the train had been crowded that day, I wouldn't have seen her, or if I had, I don't think I'd do what I did. I can show you pictures of her back then. She was very good-looking. I've got pictures of her. But I really have to say that it was just instinct. We went from one train to another, from the New York train to the New Jersey train, and then at one of the stations, she changes to a two-tiered bus. She goes up to the top, and I sit down next to her, pull out my book, I'm reading it, and I turn to her and I say, "Excuse me, can I buy you a drink?" She looks at me and she says -- with a pause again -- "I don't drink." I said, "Oh no, no. I meant coffee. Can I buy you a drink of coffee?" Pause. She says, "OK."
OK, great. So we go down, have a cup of coffee, and when we were leaving the coffee shop I said to her, "Can I walk you to your home?" She says, "I'd rather walk by myself." I said, "Oh. All right. Would you give me your phone number?" Pause. "OK." Pulls out a paper and pen, writes down a number. And I go home. And her name is Eleanor, by the way.
Monday morning I call right away. And Eleanor comes to the phone and I said to her, "Can I take you out tonight?" And she responds, "No." "How about tomorrow night?" And she responds, "OK."
So she gives me her address and phone number, and I pick her up, take her to New York, and take her to see a play. And as we're exiting from the play I turned to her and I said, "Will you marry me?" She looks at me -- pause -- and she says, "OK."
Now you gotta realize that the time that we spent together did not really include much communication. Having coffee was not the most intimate relationship. Through the play we hadn't talked to each other. I was standing next to a stranger and so was she. And as we're walking out, "Will you marry me?" "Yes."
Now she's left the room, but at this point, when she's listening, she usually says, "And what's the name of the play?" And this was 55 years ago. I always answer, "I don't know. I don't remember." Which I don't.
I really don't know why I asked her. I just liked her. Before I met her, I was just doing the thing that comes naturally to a young man. As far as I was concerned I'd be dead before I was 35. Shot by a jealous husband. I wasn't thinking about marriage. It just came out. I think it was just instinct.
