Sid's friend, Ted, and two other men met him at a restaurant for an early dinner. Other than some brief talk about personal commitment and the agreement he would have to sign, most of the questions they asked were innocuous. What were his hobbies, pet peeves, favorite books and movies? It was more like casual chitchat than an interview to join a men's group. They invited him to the meeting scheduled for the next evening at Ted's house.
Sid arrived on time. All eight of them were already seated in a circle. He was certain they had been discussing him. They got up from their chairs and each shook his hand. Ted asked him if he would like to join.
Sid said, "O.K."
Ted would have preferred he had said, "Yes, I would love to join," or even just, "yes."
"O.K., you would like to join, Sid?" he asked.
"Sure," said Sid.
They asked him to sign a confidentiality agreement which Harvey, a Los Angeles business formation lawyer, produced with an air of gravity'. Sid was about to say, "I'd like my lawyer to look at it," but their mood was too solemn for a joke, and he let it go.
The agreement was a simple paragraph which merely stated that Sid agrees that whatever will be said, discussed or revealed at the meetings will be kept in strict confidence. Harvey said that although the agreement was not legally enforceable, all the members honored it. Sid, one of the best big rig accident lawyers, was slightly uncomfortable, yet impressed by the trust the group placed in one another. Harvey pointed out that by signing the agreement, which he called a compact, the member's acknowledged a moral obligation to one another, and this in turn allowed for frank and open discussions. One member said that the bond of trust was like that between him and his cat lying on its back to have its stomach scratched. "To have the bene-fit and comfort of a good discussion, we need to be vulnerable," he said.
Sid thought a cat an odd choice to illustrate trust, but nodded to show his approval of the comparison. He wasn't sure he wanted to join, but he was recently divorced, and looking for "time fillers." Ted suggested he might benefit from the group. Sid was pleased that Ted, who had vast real estate holdings throughout the state, had relied on him to handle many of his transactions. Ted was the last guy in the world to whom he would reveal his fears and weaknesses.
Sid's rationalization for joining was that he might get ideas for his short-story writing class. He signed the "compact" with a flourish of his pen, flushing slightly at his hypocrisy. The smiling men who gathered around him each gave Sid a hug. He felt awkward. They even took a group photo with Ted's camera, which he set up on a tripod with a timer. Sid forced a smile.
A Los Angeles business lawyer placed a ninth chair in the circle of chairs for Sid. The men's ages ranged from the middle fifties to early seventies, and all of them were grappling with, among other things, the forced exile from middle-age to an uncharted region. In various ways they were coping with the ineluctable certainty that repatriation is not possible. This struggle to accept advancing age produced talk about lost dreams, disappointments, and hard-ons of bygone years. But, surprising to Sid, the men were mostly optimistic, involved in their families and professions, and only occasionally displayed pettiness.
To Sid's disappointment, he found nothing from which he could begin to fashion a story or even a treatment for a screenplay. Instead, he often entertained the men with droll sketches about his ex-wives and hilarious anecdotes about more recent sexual exploits gone awry. The depressing truth was that Sid's advancing age and girth made liaisons with younger women a yearning more than a reality. A humorous story with a few embellishments was Sid's way of dis-cussing his fear of being alone. He could hardly admit to himself that his need for the companionship the group offered predominated over his discomfort.
Sid listened with irritation to the occasional complaints about trivial slights, real or imagined, others in the group claimed to have suffered in their daily lives. But when someone 'opened up," baring a private pain, Sid often felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. He recalled the time Harvey spoke about his grandson who suffered from Down's syndrome. Harvey said he was ashamed to admit it, but he was repulsed by the child who drooled on him and ruined his tie. Harvey wanted to take revenge on God, fate or maybe the doctor who delivered the "'monster" as he called it. And then Harvey broke down and sobbed, and Ted took his hand. Sid wanted to run from the room.
Sid was not sure whether Harvey's tears were of contrition or rage. And though Sid had no words to offer him, he could understand the storm raging within Harvey's soul. Sid's last wife had moved out of the house with the suddenness of a deal gone sour. He pondered whether the weight pressing on his heart was borne of remorse, anger, or maybe a combination of the two.
He blurted out, "I understand, Harvey."
"How do you feel about this?" Ted asked.
Sid admired Ted, who was so successful and confident, yet openly dis-cussed his fears, emotions and disappointments. But Sid, the raconteur, felt powerless to articulate even a superficial answer to the question.
Ted pressed him. "Just tell us how you feel."
'"I feel I would be encroaching on Harvey."
Harvey, who had recovered himself, said, "Not at all. We all profit by sharing these feelings."
'"I feel ... angry. That's all I can say now. "
They backed off for the moment. But in future meetings, they would now and then press him to discuss what went wrong with his marriages. And now and then he opened up a little. He admitted he was lonely, even acknowledged that he just might be a pain in the ass to live with.
This gave the men hope that he was worth keeping in the group and that he would eventually gain insights about himself and them. But Sid convinced himself he was more interested in getting story ideas than in spilling his guts. He convinced himself this would not create an ethical dilemma because a story idea was not the same as an actual story. But, as the months passed, he found that the personal revelations to which he was privy yielded no story ideas.
But that changed about a year after he had joined. He had just turned 59, and the meeting began with everyone wishing him a happy birthday. He was happy, and felt a spreading warmth for these guys whom he could call his friends. Then the formal meeting started with the usual check-in, each member giving a brief synopsis of his mood, how his week went, and his level of contentment or frustration.
The first check-in was from Amie, an accountant, who complained that he had been running late for an important lunch meeting that day and could not find a place to park.
Amie's check-in seemed so inconsequential after Sid's birthday greeting that Sid's flowering smile deteriorated into a sneer. Amie looked at Sid as though he were an I.R.S. auditor. "Why such a scornful look?" he asked. Of course everyone knew that Arnie was not looking for an answer to that question or to the next one he asked before Sid could answer the first. "You think this is such a small thing, nothing to be pissed about?"
Sid chose a related metaphor instead of a placating response. "I don't give a shit," he said.
"I was looking for support, not abuse," said Arnie.
Sid looked into Arnie's indignant eyes and said, "Hey Arnie, lighten up, what's eating you?" As Arnie mumbled something, it suddenly dawned on Sid that he knew Arnie. He had been meeting with this group for close to a year and it just hit him. Maybe it was the offended look that gave it away. Sid thought that a "look," like a voice, doesn't change all that much with passing years. This was Amie Copeland's look and voice. Yes, it was Arnie, a kid he had slightly known in high school over 40 years ago. In those days Sid's name was Schlomo Klein, a fact of his past life he had chosen not to reveal. His parents, in a sudden rush of sentimentality about their neglected Jewish heritage, named him Schlomo when he was born. Sid's therapist suggested that he hated himself in high school. What, in fact, Sid hated was his name, which he legally changed to Sidney King when he was in college.
Sid was also sure, despite his therapist's thoughts to the contrary, that one thing he did not hate in high school, or at any other time in his life, was women. He had three ex-wives to prove it. For the last year, however, he did not seem able to connect with women. But from high school through the present, his interest never waned. Indeed, Sid believed his near-obsessive attraction to women was what accounted for his previous misadventure with Arnie.
Obscure fragments of the incident flashed through his mind. It was a party. When? The 12th grade? While Arnie, who had too much to drink, was throwing up in the backyard, Sid had his hand up the dress of Arnie's date, Glenda someone. He wondered who had told Arnie that night about the incident. He could not remember if he had bragged about it or whether it was Glenda, whose thighs had closed tightly on his groping hand. After cleaning himself up, Arnie challenged Sid to a fight. Arnie was in no shape to fight. Sid pushed him away and said something to the effect that Amie couldn't hold his liquor or his women, Arnie threatened to get even. Did he say if it took him the rest of his life?
Of course Arnie did not look the same. Now, parts of his face appeared to have been folded, and the creases gave the appearance of a perpetual scowl. But what did not change was his voice. It suddenly came back to him, that breathy quality, as though intensive labor was required to get the words out,
Sid found this discovery was more exciting than disquieting. Being in a men's group with a guy who more than 40 years ago may have threatened him was exhilarating. He thought he could "read" people, but was unable to tell whether Arnie remembered him. If he had not done so now, would he remember him in the future? Would he still harbor resentment over what now seemed like an inconsequential incident? He saw the makings of a story' here. His pulse quickened.
A month or so later, a story began to take shape. The men's group met at the usual time, 7:30 p.m., at Rudy's house. Everyone showed. They went around the room for the usual "check-in." This time the check-ins were unusually brief. Ted characterized his week as painful but did not elaborate. Bobby's check-in was sim-ply one word. He said, "Happiness," with an annoying smugness. Arnie said, "I'm O.K., but I want to reserve time to tell you about a perplexing incident."
Sid had noted that occasionally Arnie seemed harried, but, when he spoke, he was succinct and candid. Amie seldom asked for time and his check-in piqued everyone's curiosity. Arnie began, "I'm not sure that this has anything to do with my story, but I love my wife." 'That led everyone to conclude that the story had everything to do with his wife.
"You know Heidi Fleiss?" he asked rhetorically. Of course they did. She was the famous Madame whose clientele included movie and TV personalities and maybe a politician or two. Her trial on charges of pandering and prostitution had recently concluded with a guilty verdict, and her lawyers were making frantic motions for a new trial while she was still out on bail. At the mention of her name, Sid conjured up the image he saw of her on the TV screen, her anorexic body that seemed to move on an invisible dolly propelled by the lawyers who accompanied her in and out of the courthouse. When she took off her sunglasses, she looked at the photographers and the TV cameras with unfocused eyes, reflecting a tired emptiness.
"She lives in my building," said Arnie with a touch of self-importance. On the first story of Arnie's four-story building were commercial establishments - a gym, a dress shop, a bakery, a restaurant, and an upscale hardware store. The second story was reserved for offices. There were a lawyer, a financial planner, an insurance agent, a theatrical agent, and Arnie, the accountant, On occasion, the men's group met in Arnie's apartment, one of the residential apartments on the third floor. It was open and airy, and its high white walls displayed the works of a few avant-garde Venice painters. Despite its location, with all the bustle below, Arnie's apartment was surprisingly quiet. On the top floor, Fleiss had a suite from which she allegedly transacted her business.
"Last week, around 7:00 p.m., I got a call on the intercom," continued Arnie. "A woman in a thick Austrian accent asked for Fleiss. I told her she does not live in this apartment. I would not give her Fleiss's apartment number. The woman on the other end says she is a real estate agent and has a buyer for a house that Fleiss wants to sell. She asks me if she can leave an envelope in my mailbox which I, in turn, can deliver to Fleiss. Most of the residents do not have their names on their mailboxes, including me. I ask her to drop the envelope in the mail slot of my office on the second floor."
"You let her know you have an office in the building?" someone asked.
"Of course not. I did not tell her it was my office. I said it was my accountant's office and to address the envelope to Mr. X."
"Mr. X? You've got to be kidding," said Sid, laughing. "She obviously knows you are Mr. X."
"Let him tell his story," said Howard.
Arnie paused and collected his thoughts. "The next morning, I went down to my office to get the envelope. I planned to give it to the building manager, who could deliver it to Ms. Fleiss. But no envelope was brought to my office. Maybe it was delivered somewhere else in the building but not to my office. And now I've got a dilemma. A woman called my office later in the day and asked if an envelope had been left for Mr. X. The receptionist didn't know what she was talking about. The woman left a number, and I called her. I think its Heidi Fleiss. She wanted to come to my office to get the envelope. I told her no envelope was delivered to my office."
He stopped and shook his head in exasperation. "She insisted on coming to my office to speak about it. She obviously knows who I am. I told her in no uncertain terms not to come to my office." "You don't want your wife to know Heidi Fleiss came down to your office," said Sid.
"Hell no," said Arnie.
Sid could not restrain himself. "But what does this have to do with loving your wife, Arnie?" he asked.
"Probably nothing, but this Fleiss, I don't know, I can't explain it, but she turns me on."
He didn't have to explain it, because Sid knew exactly what he was talking about. She turned him on, too, just like the date in high school. He thought about Fleiss, that milky white skin and anorexic body, a corpse that moved- Maybe he and Arnie were latent necrophilia's.
"Isn't Fleiss in jail?" someone asked.
"She's out on bail," said Howard the lawyer.
"So how are you going to keep her from coming to your office?" asked Sid?
"I agreed to meet her for dinner."
Everyone almost said in unison, "You agreed to what?"
"I can't believe I did it, but I'm sup-posed to meet her tomorrow night at Geoffrey's."
"Geoffrey's, the romantic restaurant on the ocean in Malibu," reported Sid. "Been there many times."
"Are you really going to go?" asked Rudy.
"I don't know what to do. A part of me wants to, but I know I shouldn't. It's nothing but trouble."
He turned to Sid. "Sid, you know the place. You have experience with women, and you are not married. Why don't you go with me?"
Sid could hardly control himself. "I'll be glad to go with you."
"That would be terrific, Sid."
Arnie was flushed and excited. His eyes locked onto Sid. "Let's do it," he said.
"You guys sound as if you are planning a nature trip or a hike," said Rudy.
"The whole idea is nutty." said Bernie. "Who knows what you could be getting yourselves into?"
"What is there to be so concerned about Bernie?" asked Sid-
Ralph, the most quiet guy in the group, said unexpectedly, *Tm all for it - on condition you guys tell us everything that happens. I mean everything."
Arnie became indecisive once again. "I'm not sure what I want to do."
Sid interrupted. "Go with your gut, Arnie/'
There was a pause, Amie said, "My gut says, maybe it will be O.K. if we both
"Atta boy/ said Sid.
Ted thought they should discuss in greater detail why Arnie mentioned his wife. Sid feared a discussion could dissuade Arnie from going ahead with the dinner. He persuaded everyone to with-hold further discussion until the next meeting. He reasoned that they would have a more substantive discussion about Arnie's feelings after the dinner.
Sid could not concentrate on what was said during the remainder of the evening. But at the end of the meeting he was at attention as Amie filled him in on the details. Amie had made a reservation at Geoffrey s for 7:00 o'clock. He suggested they go in separate cars, just in case he got jittery and wanted to leave. This all suited Sid fine. Later that evening, Sid called the restaurant to verify the reservation. He was relieved to hear that there was a reservation for three under the name of Arnie Copeland. Sid was a little suspicious, but Arnie had given a plausible reason for inviting him. And, besides, whatever happened, this was an adventure.
The next evening Sid drove up the coast to Geoffrey's, feeling that same kind of anticipation he always felt when going out on a first date. He arrived a few minutes before 7:00. Arnie was already there leaning against the bar. He motioned Sid over and ushered him to a small table overlooking the ocean.
"I thought this would be ideal," he said.
Sid took the seat opposite him so that Fleiss would be sitting between them.
"Think she will show?" he asked.
"It's just a little past 7:00. How about a little patience?" Arnie was smiling and affable.
"I'm patient. I just asked a simple question."
"Relax, Sid, this is our adventure."
Sid realized that Arnie was loose and relaxed, and he was nervous. "Our adventure?" he asked himself. He was afraid his tension would spoil "the adventure."
Sid looked past the waiter who was approaching their table and saw an attractive brunette speaking to the maître d'.
He pointed to their table and began to escort her, but she walked quickly ahead of him.
"Mr. Copeland?" she inquired, looking directly at Sid.
"I'm Mr. Copeland," said Arnie with a touch of importance. He stood up. So did Sid. They and the waiter were all standing.
"How do you do. I'm Samantha Richlore." She held out her hand and Arnie shook it. She sat down, followed by Arnie and Sid.
"And Tm the waiter," said the waiter. She laughed. "Drinks anybody?" he asked, they ordered.
"Heidi asked me to come and speak to you," she said.
The momentary pang of disappointment vanished when Sid regarded the stunning woman sitting next to him. She was a brunette like Fleiss, but there the similarity ended. This one could have stepped off the cover of a sports magazine. She had a fresh, healthy athletic look, and yet with her stately and relaxed air and high cheek bones, she could have easily been a fashion model.
Sid began the draft of a story in his mind. He ultimately wrote, "She glided effortlessly towards the table. Her look was determined, and she sat down before we could offer her a chair her dress was black, short and flimsy. She crossed her legs so that the thin material of her dress lay luxuriously draped over her upper thigh which protruded from under the table without apology." He winced but reminded himself that this was a first draft.
"So why would Ms. Fleiss want to see ... speak to me?" asked Arnie, looking hard into the woman's eyes.
She shot a look at Sid. "Don't tell me this is Mr. X."
Tm not Mr. X," answered Sid. The pause that followed hung in the air for a moment like a sigh that smells bad. She had not taken her eyes off him and Sid continued through a forced smile, "... I'm Sid."
Arnie chimed in. "Sid is a friend I asked to join us."
Her eyes narrowed. Sid felt uncomfortable. "If you would like me to leave...?"
She kept staring at him. Finally, she said, "That won't be necessary ... are you a lawyer?"
"No, I'm in real estate," he answered.
She smiled. "Well, that's better."
"It is?" said Sid.
"You can understand Heidi's concern," said Samantha, if that was in fact her name.
"Concern about what?" asked Arnie.
"I hope you're not being coy/' answered Samantha. "An envelope containing papers for Ms. Fleiss was delivered to your office."
"No envelope was delivered to my office."
"That's not what my person tells me."
"Your person? The lady with the heavy Austrian accent?"
"She has a slight German accent. She called you or whoever answered the intercom and was told to address the envelope to Mr. X and drop it in the mail slot of your office. We hoped that you would deliver it to Ms. Fleiss's apartment. You haven't done so. That is your right, but please give us the envelope, or tell us what you want for it."
"I don't have any envelope, and if I did, I wouldn't want anything in return for it."
Samantha rolled her eyes and fished in her purse for a cigarette. She pulled one out and stroked it with her fingers. "They don't allow smoking in restaurants," said Sid, who felt a little left out, "even in the bar area."
"I'm not smoking," she said. She looked in her purse again and took out what for a moment Sid thought was a gun. Actually it was a cell phone. She pressed in a number without looking at either of them. "He says he never got an envelope," she said into the phone. "Yeah ... You and me both ... O.K., O.K. ... Yeah ... O.K." She hung up.
"Can I appeal to you, Sid?"
"I wish I had the envelope, but I don't," said Sid.
"Yes, you do," said Amie.
Arnie reached in his coat pocket, took out an envelope and gave it to Sid. Samantha smiled. Arnie laughed.
"Got to go now," he said. "You two have a lot to talk about ... or maybe not. See you later ... Sid." Arnie got up and walked out.
"So open the envelope, Sid," said Samantha smiling.
Sid didn't attempt to stop Arnie or ask him what the hell was going on. He just sat there, while his heart raced around his chest,
"You want me to open the envelope that you are so interested in getting?"
"The envelope is not for me. It's for you. Go ahead and open it" Sid thought about getting up and leaving.
Samantha said, "Relax, Sid. I am not a process server ... though I could be one. And, if I am, you would have already been served, so take a chance and open it." He slowly opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph of an attractive but slightly overweight woman in her mid to late fifties. Sid didn't know what to say.
"It's not Heidi Fleiss, but someone a lot more interesting and far less controversial."
"You are from a dating service?" asked Sid
"Maybe so," said Samantha.
"Who is this woman?"
"My mother."
"And you, and I suppose Arnie, want me to meet her?"
"You already have met her."
It took him a moment, but then the full name popped into his head. "Glenda Sue?"
"Who else?"
"That sneak, Arnie," said Sid scratching his head.
"He is my godfather. He and my father were partners. My father died several years ago, and ... Arnie mentioned you to my mother, and she and Amie thought it would be fun, or interesting, for you to get together."
Sid began laughing. So did Samantha. "I guess I am supposed to call her."
"That all depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Whether I like you after we have dinner."
Sid called out a little louder than he intended, "Waiter!"
At the next meeting of the men's group, Sid asked for time. He took some typewritten pages from a folder. "Here is a story I wrote. I would like to read it to you. It's called An Unexpected Gift," He cleared his throat. At first he was a little tentative. "Sid's friend, Ted, and two other men met him at a restaurant for an early dinner. Other than some brief talk about personal commitment and the agreement he would have to sign, most of the questions they asked were innocuous. What were his hobbies, pet peeves, favorite books and movies?"
He paused and looked around the room . . .
* This is a contributed article and this content does not necessarily represent the views of sciencetimes.com
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