Girlfriends
Title
Girlfriends
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"Whenever I begin to write a new piece, my tendency is to do it chronologically." (Fragment)
Date
2009
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Identifier
1931/1946
Text
GIRLFRIENDS
Whenever I begin to write a new piece, my tendency is to do it chronologically. I approach it by cataloging whatever it is I want to write about. If it is travel, I start listing all the trips I have taken from the earliest to today. The same for jobs, places I have lived, schools and camps I have attended, and today—girlfriends.
My mind goes back to that moment in time when I first thought about girls. The truth is, I had little contact with girls as a pre-teen. Of course there were my two cousins, Rozzie Goldstein and Barbara Kestenbaum, who coincidentally, were born on the same day, May 13, ( I believe 1931) which made them a little young for me. They were girls, and both were cute. Barbara was the prettier one (and still is). My mother shlepped me along on our visits to their parents, and as a 10 or 12 or even 14 year old, I would sit quietly next to my mother and have very little to say to either of them, and they certainly had nothing to say to me.
When I was in sixth grade, there was the beginning of interest in the opposite sex. I was 12 years old, and there were two girls in my class who excited me: Phyllis Flyer and Rita Feit. They must have made a deep impression on me if I can still remember their names. Phyllis was tall, blond and one of the smartest kids in our class. She lived on Southern Blvd., and I have a vague memory of going to her apartment building after school and shouting “Phyllis, I love you,” and running away. Rita was dark, very pretty and also very smart. I never learned where she lived. If I did, I might have done the same thing. The fact is, I didn’t know how to approach girls. I was very shy, very poor, and very aware that I was both shy and poor. Nor did I think I was good looking.
Unfortunately, when I graduated from PS 62, I went on to an all-boys junior high school, and then to an all-boys high school, and my classroom contact with girls ended. Except for a one-year stint at the Workmen’s Circle Shule on Beck Street, after my Bar Mitzvah. In my class was Beatrice Birnbaum. She was my age, also shy and moderately attractive. When I was 16 or 17, there was a high school event which required attendance with a date. Beatrice was the only girl I could think of, and I invited her. Our first and last date.
In my last year of high school, my friend Sidney Reiter was going with a girl named Elaine, who lived in Brooklyn. Out of desparation, I asked him if she had a friend. When you live in the Bronx, you don’t want to date girls who live in Brooklyn, but when worse comes to worse, and that is all you can find, you will even go out with a girl who lives in Queens. Now here is where it becomes very vague. The double date was arranged: Sid and Elaine, and Elaine’s friend and I. We met them in Manhattan, went to a movie and someplace for ice cream or coffee, and then I took her home. I believe we had a good time, and I asked her if I could see her again. She said yes. There was no goodnight kiss at the door. There was a long ride back by subway to the Bronx. A few weeks later I called her to ask her out. The routine at that time—the mid-forties—was for the boy to call the girl on Tuesday for Saturday, which seemed to be the only date night. If you called Monday or earlier for Saturday, you were seen as too anxious. If you called Wednesday or later, you were taking the girl for granted. Sometimes when you called on Tuesday, you would get a busy signal, and you kicked yourself for not calling earlier. But you kept trying until you reached her. Then you would engage in small talk: how are you, how is school, have you seen so and so, until you came to the question—would you like to go out Saturday? Elaine’s friend and I went out three or four more times, until we had a disagreement, about what, I have no idea. But that ended our relationship. We had reached the point where I got a good night kiss, but nothing more. I really wasn’t broken-hearted about not seeing her again. I no longer had to endure those subway rides to and from Brooklyn.
At about the same time I developed a crush on a young woman who lived in Irving Plotnick’s apartment house, 736 Fox Street. Her name was Eunice Danzig (her name I remember). We had long talks about life, and would walk around the neighborhood, but we never went out. I don’t know why. Perhaps she had a boy friend. She also was pretty and smart, and seemed to feel superior to the other kids on the block.
When I was 16 1/2, I got a job as a camper-waiter at Camp Echo Lake, a private camp for rich kids in the Adorandacks. The role of the camper-waiter is to wait on the campers, but also to provide the senior girls with boys with whom to socialize. A couple of the other camper-waiters were very advanced socially. They were good dancers,
Whenever I begin to write a new piece, my tendency is to do it chronologically. I approach it by cataloging whatever it is I want to write about. If it is travel, I start listing all the trips I have taken from the earliest to today. The same for jobs, places I have lived, schools and camps I have attended, and today—girlfriends.
My mind goes back to that moment in time when I first thought about girls. The truth is, I had little contact with girls as a pre-teen. Of course there were my two cousins, Rozzie Goldstein and Barbara Kestenbaum, who coincidentally, were born on the same day, May 13, ( I believe 1931) which made them a little young for me. They were girls, and both were cute. Barbara was the prettier one (and still is). My mother shlepped me along on our visits to their parents, and as a 10 or 12 or even 14 year old, I would sit quietly next to my mother and have very little to say to either of them, and they certainly had nothing to say to me.
When I was in sixth grade, there was the beginning of interest in the opposite sex. I was 12 years old, and there were two girls in my class who excited me: Phyllis Flyer and Rita Feit. They must have made a deep impression on me if I can still remember their names. Phyllis was tall, blond and one of the smartest kids in our class. She lived on Southern Blvd., and I have a vague memory of going to her apartment building after school and shouting “Phyllis, I love you,” and running away. Rita was dark, very pretty and also very smart. I never learned where she lived. If I did, I might have done the same thing. The fact is, I didn’t know how to approach girls. I was very shy, very poor, and very aware that I was both shy and poor. Nor did I think I was good looking.
Unfortunately, when I graduated from PS 62, I went on to an all-boys junior high school, and then to an all-boys high school, and my classroom contact with girls ended. Except for a one-year stint at the Workmen’s Circle Shule on Beck Street, after my Bar Mitzvah. In my class was Beatrice Birnbaum. She was my age, also shy and moderately attractive. When I was 16 or 17, there was a high school event which required attendance with a date. Beatrice was the only girl I could think of, and I invited her. Our first and last date.
In my last year of high school, my friend Sidney Reiter was going with a girl named Elaine, who lived in Brooklyn. Out of desparation, I asked him if she had a friend. When you live in the Bronx, you don’t want to date girls who live in Brooklyn, but when worse comes to worse, and that is all you can find, you will even go out with a girl who lives in Queens. Now here is where it becomes very vague. The double date was arranged: Sid and Elaine, and Elaine’s friend and I. We met them in Manhattan, went to a movie and someplace for ice cream or coffee, and then I took her home. I believe we had a good time, and I asked her if I could see her again. She said yes. There was no goodnight kiss at the door. There was a long ride back by subway to the Bronx. A few weeks later I called her to ask her out. The routine at that time—the mid-forties—was for the boy to call the girl on Tuesday for Saturday, which seemed to be the only date night. If you called Monday or earlier for Saturday, you were seen as too anxious. If you called Wednesday or later, you were taking the girl for granted. Sometimes when you called on Tuesday, you would get a busy signal, and you kicked yourself for not calling earlier. But you kept trying until you reached her. Then you would engage in small talk: how are you, how is school, have you seen so and so, until you came to the question—would you like to go out Saturday? Elaine’s friend and I went out three or four more times, until we had a disagreement, about what, I have no idea. But that ended our relationship. We had reached the point where I got a good night kiss, but nothing more. I really wasn’t broken-hearted about not seeing her again. I no longer had to endure those subway rides to and from Brooklyn.
At about the same time I developed a crush on a young woman who lived in Irving Plotnick’s apartment house, 736 Fox Street. Her name was Eunice Danzig (her name I remember). We had long talks about life, and would walk around the neighborhood, but we never went out. I don’t know why. Perhaps she had a boy friend. She also was pretty and smart, and seemed to feel superior to the other kids on the block.
When I was 16 1/2, I got a job as a camper-waiter at Camp Echo Lake, a private camp for rich kids in the Adorandacks. The role of the camper-waiter is to wait on the campers, but also to provide the senior girls with boys with whom to socialize. A couple of the other camper-waiters were very advanced socially. They were good dancers,
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Girlfriends,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 26, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/273.