Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

and books, to all the intellectual things she knew so much about. It was a mistake. She was so much smarter than I could ever be. and as we talked I felt worse and worse — unsure of myself, squelched. Soon only she was talking, about jazz, and poetry, and what makes people tick. I just listened, and felt miserable. And then later that night we walked along those rambling Greenwich Village streets, hand in hand at midnight, and I told myself over and over again, “I must change. I will change. She’ll have to fall in love with me. I’ll show her.” Next day I bought a copy of Emily Post’s book of etiquette. When I told her about it, she smiled and said, “But it’s such a big book and it’ll take so long for vou to read it. So, instead, maybe I can help you; let me try to teach you.” That was nice to hear. She was concerned, she wanted to help me. Perhaps I had a chance. Still, I studied a little of Emily Post at night and I tried to show her my newfound manners whenever we met, and she would smile and nod pleasantly and tell me she was impressed. That autumn and winter we took acting classes together at Sandy Meisner’s. We’d go to the all-night cafeterias after class, and we’d talk about acting and the kind of people we wanted to be when we grew older: bright, witty, sophisticated and easy-to-get-along-with. We ate sweet rolls and drank black coffee, and invariably we’d end up talking abstractly about love. But talking’s not enough. I just didn’t want to listen to her from across a table. I decided to make her jealous. In the midst of that winter I began dropping names during our conversations of other girls I’d gone out with and the things we did. You won’t believe what she said. “That’s good,” she told me. “I’m glad you’re seeing other people besides myself.” How does a fellow break down such a wall? “But don’t you want me to see you? Only you?” I’d say. She’d answer, “I want you to do whatever makes you happy.” So I’d get all mixed-up, and I’d try to figure out what she meant. Didn’t she know I could only be happy with her? Or didn’t she? P 78 Well, polish up your manners, Damon, I told myself, and sooner or later she’ll get with it. I polished and polished but it did no good. Yes, we kept seeing each other, but there was always the Wall. She kept me at arm’s length until spring. Then she called me up one Sunday and said, “Let’s take a walk. I feel like getting out in the air. Only don’t get all dressed up, huh?” “What?” I said, raising my voice in disbelief. “Let’s not get all dressed up. We can go to Central Park and lie in the grass and relax. I don’t feel like wearing fancy clothes. Okay?” Of course it was okay. But what happened to her? No fancy clothes? We met that April afternoon and battled the thick Fifth Avenue crowds, all the people showing off their Sunday best. She was wearing a pink sweater and skirt, and I was wearing a white polo shirt and a pair of corduroys. We headed for the park and looked at the animals in the zoo. We made faces at a family of monkeys, but the monkeys pointed at us and laughed. I said, “I’ll bet they’re laughing at us because we’re wearing old clothes!” But she shrugged her shoulders and said, “You’re not ashamed, are you?” I couldn’t figure her out. That day the sky was the bluest blue, little tufts of green were beginning to appear on the bare trees. We lay under a tall tree near the pond and looked up at the white, cotton-candy clouds swimming in the blue above. We played games. This cloud looked l'ke her dad; that cloud looked like my friend Jeff; a pretty cloud looked like her. We let the afternoon slip through our fingers like sand, and as the sun began to go down behind the canyon-like skyscrapers facing the Park, we began walking along the bushy paths and suddenly the two of us stopped in the middle of a dusty dirt road, although we hadn’t said a word to each other — almost like the day we stepped behind the Rodin statue in the Museum — and we kissed tenderly. This was a love kiss, our first. I closed my eyes and let my lips linger on hers. Then I held her in my arms and whispered my deep love to her. There were footsteps behind us, but neither of us moved. The footsteps passed us as we stood arms around each other, and neither of us looked up. I don’t know if Emily Post has rules for such situations, but I didn’t care — and more important, she didn’t care either. Love is meant to make its own rules. That was the beginning of happiness, or was it? In the days that followed, she admitted she was falling in love with me (finally!), but she said it wasn’t right. Our careers came first. It was wonderful, this beauty of first love, but we were too young, she said. How could we settle down while we were still unknown actors? I told her I could — and I would. I’d clerk in a store or run an elevator in the Empire State Building. We could rent a small apartment and by scrimping and saving make ends meet. With love, we could get along, couldn’t we? Sure, she said, we could. For a while. BIRTH DEFECTS NEW target... NEW hope JOIN THE MARCH OF DIMES «««i TOWARD GRCA TER VICTORIES «1 We hked a lot of the same things. Chinese chicken with almonds. Jumpy cha-chachas and symphonic music. L’il Abner and Peanuts. Pizza pie and pineapple malteds and hamburgers with the works. But no, she said, it had to be more that this for marriage. We had to be willing to compromise on a lot of things. I told her I could and I would. She shook her head no. Still, we saw each other steadily for another year. And on the anniversary dav of our first kiss in the Metropolitan Museum, I surprised her with a charm bracelet of personal trinkets: two hearts a wooden bench in honor of Central Park, a slice of pizza pie . . . Again I started to talk of marriage, but she stopped me. Her tears stopped me Then she managed to speak. She was leaving New York. She was going to Hollywood. We weren’t good for each other, she said. We were holding one another back. I begged and pleaded with her to stay, but she said no, she had made up her mind. We ate that evening at the Tavern-on the-Green, and we danced by the light of the summer moon in the open-air pavilion in Central Park. Later we took a ride in a hansom cab all along the dark roadways of the park, and we heard the thin summer breezes rustling the trees and bushes. Suddenly, I let go of her hand. Before I’d been hurt, now I was ashamed. “You’re a fool. She doesn’t love you,” I told myself “She’s leaving you flat and going to Hollywood. She loves Hollywood more.” So I sat in the corner of the leather sea! of the hansom. I felt that already I was. alone, already she had left me. I took hehome, and that was the last night I saw her in New York. She left for Hollywood that next week, and in a few weeks I tagged along after her. But she was busy, trying to get started in the movies. Soon I was busy, too Then we both got lucky breaks, and the world of success opened to us. Sure, we would run into each other at the studios, at Wil Wright’s Ice Cream Parlor, in the coffee houses along the Sunset Strip. Sometimes we’d have dinner together and exchange news about our careers, and before I knew it we began dating again. Off and on we dated for another year; and then a few months back she broke off again. “Let’s wait a while, let a few months pass.” Now, suddenly it’s almost Christmas, and I look at the telephone in my apartment and I say, “Should I? Shouldn’t I?” Then something inside of me says, “Call her if you want. Call her and say happy holidays. But forget it, forget the rest of it.” And my heart cries no, it doesn’t want to forget all those memories of our moments together. Then the same voice that tells me to forget seems to say, “Mark, take a lesson from nature. Learn patience. Nature needs time to heal wounds, to make seeds grow, to have a butterfly spin itself out of a cocoon.” So, maybe I’m not her kind of guy Maybe she got tired of trying to make me a gentleman. Or maybe she just didn’t love me. Guess things happen that way. Still, I sit here remembering our firsf kiss, and the time in the Park when w-’ were so close that nothing else in the world mattered, and the afternoon I gave her the charm bracelet . . . And I look at the telephone and wonder, “Should V Shouldn’t I?” — over and over and over again. The End WATCH FOR MARK DAMON IN PARAMOUNT “THE PARTY CRASHERS.”