What a Strange Day
It was two days after New Year’s Eve of 1971 in Midtown Manhattan. The temperature on New Year’s was six degrees, with a wind chill factor of minus twenty, making the actual temperature -14 degrees below zero. Now, two days later, it was the hottest day on record in New York City at 102 degrees. They had just finished cleaning up the streets of the millions of pounds of confetti from the party celebration. The temperature had just gone from -14 to 102 in two days, and it was about to get… even crazier.
I was walking down the street at Times Square, which had been party central several nights before, where the New Year’s ball had dropped. My mind was racing, my inner voice chattering quickly and loudly about one subject after another, none of which quite made sense. All of a sudden, I stopped, completely frozen in my tracks. I felt paralyzed, hardly able to move. Something I had feared and resisted my whole life was happening at that moment. Directly in my line of vision was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She was far beyond my level of communication, let alone the thought of ever being with. I had often dreamed of meeting a woman like this, only to pretend I didn’t see her and walk away. Would I do that now? Because I was… scared witless?
I felt immense pressure to approach her, but I had faced this situation many times before—and chickened out. I always had a rational excuse not to act. But today, I felt I had to. I had to risk it, to approach and talk to her, even without knowing what to say. There was a strong possibility I would be laughed at or rejected. But I just had to do it—to prove to myself that I was a man.
So I made my move.
I hoped she hadn’t noticed me staring before I walked up to her. I wished I were as cool and suave as James Bond or Cary Grant, but my mind was racing: I am nobody but little old me. Not exactly encouraging. I felt scared, awkward, and clumsy as I slowly entered the “queen’s” space. My last thought before opening my mouth—without knowing what I was going to say—was: If the impossible happened and we clicked, it could be life-changing for me.
There I was, in front of her, totally overwhelmed by her beauty. The first words that came out of my mouth were:
“I just noticed you, and I was curious—are you related to Will Rogers?”
She giggled. “Will Rogers? That’s a strange question.”
I replied, “I’ve been known to be a bit strange. Do you know why I asked you that?”
She stared at me in what seemed like a flirting manner and said, “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
I said, “Because you have very pretty lips.”
She laughed out loud. “You’ve now moved from strange to very mysterious. Have you studied Will Rogers’ lips?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “And you’re right—I can be quite mysterious.”
I continued, “It would be nice if I knew your name.”
She started playing with her hair and wetting her lips, then said, “You have to guess.”
I looked her up and down and asked her to turn around for me, which she happily did with a big smile. I then said, “My inner genie is telling me that you have more than one vowel in your name.”
She replied, “How perceptive you are.”
She seemed to be enjoying our interaction. I gently took her hand in mine and announced that I would read her palm to determine her name. I had no idea what I was doing, but she laughed loudly—so I figured I was doing something right.
I said, “I see from the smoothness of your hand that I can eliminate the possibility… that you have ever worked in a coal mine. Having said that, I’m also going to eliminate two male names that I don’t think they call you—Octavius or Brutus. Am I correct so far?”
She nodded approvingly.
“And since you’re the second sexiest woman I’ve met today”—I wanted to keep her guessing—”I believe your name is Bridgette… Taylor… Monroe.”
She roared with laughter, playfully staring into my eyes. “No,” she said, “my name is Lolita.”
At that moment, I fell completely in love with her. Lolita? What a name. She couldn’t have been any sexier.
We were vibing, and I wanted to keep it light and humorous. I said, “Can I tell you a secret I’ve never shared with anyone before?” I wanted her to feel like we had a sacred connection.
She leaned in and looked at me intensely, as if I were about to reveal the hidden secret of the universe. “Yes, please do,” she said.
I got close, whispered breathily in her ear, and said, “Do you know what nine out of ten doctors think about one out of ten doctors?”
With a grin, she asked, “What?”
“They think he’s slightly insane.”
She laughed, so I pushed out one more joke: “Do you know why you should never order the ‘Chef’s Surprise’ if you see it on a restaurant menu?”
She said, “No, why?”
“Because ‘Chef’s Surprise’ means… the chef didn’t wash his hands.”
That one bombed, so I figured I’d better go for the close.
I knew I had to get her phone number before I unraveled into a shaking bowl of Jell-O. With commanding confidence, I handed her my phone and asked her to type in her number.
As she did, she said, “Do you know what I like about you?”
I replied, “Let’s see… it’s either that I’m smart, handsome, wearing reversible underwear, or that I’m the sole winner of the billion-dollar lottery?”
That got her giggling.
She said, “No… I like your husky voice.”
That surprised me. I thought I sounded more like my baby sister. But something about sounding husky made me channel my inner Pavlov, and I blurted out, “Maybe that’s because I was a Spitz dog in a former incarnation.”
She looked at me sideways, smirked, and probably thought, You really are a strange guy. But maybe that’s what she liked.
She gave me her number and walked away. I was on a super high—I had pulled off the impossible. A nerd like me had impressed a woman ten miles out of my league.
Later that day, at a coffee shop on the Upper West Side, I spotted Lolita talking to a friend. I snuck into a table nearby, where I could hear but not be seen. She was talking about me! Saying what a cool guy I was and how great our conversation had been. My ego inflated.
Then her friend asked, “Did you tell him about your wedding on Sunday?”
“No,” Lolita replied, “because my fiancé is in solitary confinement and might not be released until Monday.”
What? I thought. She’s marrying a convict?
Her friend sighed. “Charles just can’t stay out of trouble, can he?”
Lolita laughed. “Well, that’s the charm of Charles Manson.”
My head snapped around. WHAT? CHARLES MANSON??
Dazed, I rushed to Penn Station to catch the Long Island Railroad home. When I arrived, the temperature had soared to 118 degrees. I dragged a hammock into my yard, poured a tall glass of iced tea, dumped half a bottle of vodka into it with a lemon twist, and rocked back and forth, trying to decompress.
Then my doorbell rang.
I staggered to the door. Standing there were Sir Paul McCartney, Oprah, and Steven Spielberg.
“What the hell do these guys want?”
They said they were in the area and wanted to say hello. Blah, blah, blah—boring.
I faked a headache, and after a few pleasantries, they left.
Thank God.
I went back to my hammock, poured in the rest of the vodka—this time, no lemon twist—and thought, What a strange day.
Then I smiled. Being a fantasy writer is even stranger. Who knows what my mind will make up next?
Que sera, sera. What will be, will be.
Marvin Rolnick