CATCH OF THE DAY

by

Laurence C. Schwartz

Everyone said "Yes ... Marry him. He's a catch. So he's not the best looking of men. So he's not William Holden. You ask too much Lisa. What did you think? Your dreamboat would wait around the corner at Avenue L and Ocean Parkway? Did you think he'd be wearing a trench coat and rival Barrymore's profile and Cooper's shoulders?

What's the problem? I've always seen you smiling when you're together. And what about the restaurants he takes you to? Do you think my Bernie took me to Steak Houses on a regular basis? And those wonderful seafood places? You'd be foolish to pass him over Lisa. The last time I looked he's got himself a solid job in a business that knows no heights in sight. The economy is good. More and more people are buying television sets. And the more television sets in people’s homes, the more products can be sold and the more products, the bigger and fatter the advertising business can be. How many young men can find themselves on the ground floor of a gold mine like your Sam Efferstein at his age? His company's office is on Madison Avenue! For crying out loud! Madison Avenue is being re-invented. It's becoming the Washington D.C. of trade.

Well Lisa, know what I think? I think he's a special guy. Sam is that rare sort of man who is a gentleman at the same time as being gentle. Any man can be courteous and help a lady take off or put on her coat. But not every man can do such a simple thing and cause the lady's shoulders to tingle by the mere brush of his wrists.

What d'ya mean he's not as literate as you are? Y'wanna talk about novels — join a book-club. And by the way, that's a feather in your cap! Why would any woman want a match for her literacy? You sound like a spoiled child. Let him carry the briefcase and you carry his children and the wisdom in the family.

They were all right in their immediate assessment of the situation. Yet they were all forgetting a key thing. Sam Efferstein was predictable to a fault. Never had he said anything, done anything, or even responded to something that would shed the slightest light on the soul behind his pleasing mask.

Yes, he had all the trimmings of a catch. But that wasn't good enough for Lisa Greenfield.

Regarding Sam's appearance, Lisa was perfectly satisfied. Though no heartthrob, like the men on the screen who made her blood simmer, his bespectacled handsomeness could certainly disarm. One of Lisa's oldest friends once referred to Sam as "a rich woman's Clark Kent." And Lisa knew that the only places where the Charlton Hestons of the world fell for short-legged, semi-attractive heroines, were in some of the short stories she'd written while majoring in English at Brooklyn College.

Sam read one of them. When Lisa sought some informed feedback, the content of his comments betrayed a far from lettered man. But that didn't matter either. Lisa knew that Sam read five newspapers a day, and, because of his chosen profession, he had a keen understanding of demographics. He could talk most men under the table when it came to city politics. Besides, the few times Lisa had met genuine homes des letters, these literary thoroughbreds made her feel as if she was intruding upon hallowed minds; as if the simple task of making small talk was too much for these eggheads to bear.

With Sam Efferstein, Lisa knew she'd found a pleasing balance. Wasn't that real life? He made her laugh. When she spoke to him about her problems, she could tell by the way he held his head that he was truly listening to her. So what was the problem?

Why can't I think of Sam Efferstein as my future husband, Lisa asked herself as she rouged her right cheek. Could it be his unshakable dependability? Oh yes, what a dependable man was Sam Efferstein. Never late was he. Always early. Why did he bother to say "I'll meet you there at seven," when he knew full well that he'd make it his business to arrive earlier? There he would be, waiting under the theatre marquis, or in front of a restaurant — no matter how biting the windchill. Couldn't he wait inside at the bar ... or on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art?

A Chesterfield tucked in his mouth, he'd be flipping through The New York Times with the complacent ease of a man who had already read it from cover to cover.

How could a lady tell her man to stop being early all the time? What could her reasoning be? "It makes me feel late"? Or maybe she would just once like to be waiting for Sam, to give her the satisfaction that she was waiting for her man. Waiting for her man to tell her "Sorry I'm late" when he finally arrived. And then she'd say "That's all right, but don't make a habit of it," wagging her finger like a demure coquette, as her suitor momentarily blushed like a naughty boy caught in a mischievous act.

And then there was that dependable way Sam Efferstein ordered a meal. Why does he even look at the menu when he already knows what he's going to order? When they met for breakfast it was always a "runny Western omelette, extra jelly with the toast." At lunch it was always a club — turkey-club, roast-beef club, egg-salad club. Nothing but repetition. And the tone of his voice suggesting that he had discovered an awe-inspiring truth his countrymen would never know. But it was at dinner that Sam was most dependable. At a diner it was a hamburger "really really well done, with a slice of raw onion on top," pointing his index-finger due north on the word "onion."

On their second date, she had told Sam her preference for seafood. "Anything that came out of the water, within reason," was the precise way she put it. A week later, Sam took her to one of Manhattan's finest seafood spots, that always featured fresh catches of the day. The regular menu ran the gamut from cod to mako shark, from broiled butterfish to baked halibut. The catches of the day included Trout Almondine, Lobster Newburg, and lightly breaded Scrod sautéed in white wine with baby hearts of palm. Sam listened to the waiter's recital, said thank you, and closed the menu with flair.

"Already know what you're having?" Lisa asked.

"Yup," replied Sam.

"And what's that?"

"Fried shrimp. But you go ahead and take your time."

And take her time she did, because she liked a nice list to decide from. Yet she felt as if he she were keeping him waiting, just like she felt she had kept him waiting on their three dates. Sam ordered fried shrimp the next time they ate seafood, and the time after that and that.

This night marked exactly seven months that Lisa Greenfield and Sam Efferstein had been courting. This was Lisa's longest relationship with a man. All of her close friends were married. She was fast approaching an age in her twenties whereupon with each passing year, the second digit enveloped the first. Tonight she was to meet Sam in front of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 7:30 for an eight o'clock show of "Designing Women." Sam had had a late meeting, otherwise they would have dined beforehand. Lisa looked forward to seeing the film. She admired Gregory Peck and had always been fashion-conscious.

She arrived at 7:20 and waited. At 7:40 people began pouring into the theatre. At 7:45 she began to feel alarmed and the closest she had ever felt to Sam.

At ten minutes of eight, Sam Efferstein walked up West 54th Street and waved to her. His pace was slower than usual, and he was grinning to himself. When he kissed her on the cheek, Lisa smelled the usual tobacco and tasted scotch.

"C'mon," Sam said, still grinning.

"You're late," Lisa said.

"C'mon," repeated Sam, taking her hand.

They sat quietly in the balcony, Sam next to the aisle. The House was packed. At two minutes of eight, Sam snapped his fingers and said, "I'll get us some popcorn."

"You're gonna miss the beginning of the picture," Lisa said.

"Take notes," Sam replied.

As he ascended the carpeted stairs, the lights dimmed. A Warner Brothers cartoon burst on the screen. By the time a buck-toothed bunny showed his smile, Sam Efferstien was back in his seat. He rapped his seat's armrest and snorted to himself, "I hope it's a good one!" Lisa glanced behind her.

On the screen, Bugs Bunny sat under a blow-dryer, wearing a burgundy bathrobe while reading an Arthurian legend. When Bugs mispronounced Lancelot, Sam laughed. Two minutes and several laughs later, when Bugs, confronted with a threatening Knight, alluded to his friendship with "Satchmo of Armstrong," the pain of Sam's silent laugh caused him to keel over and put his hand over his mouth. Lisa wasn’t laughing, but she betrayed a profound smile, for the only genuine laughter in the entire theatre had come from the young man sitting beside her. Lisa put her hand on Sam's knee, wondering whether he would notice. If he did, he didn’t let on, perhaps because he was too busy cackling at Bugs' desperate insistence pronouncing “sauce!” for “sorcerer”! Please! Lemme see ya sauce . . .!"

An usher flashed his light on Sam Efferstein. Sam ignored it, while Lisa exchanged a knowledgeable look with the usher, before he walked away.

Some three months later, Lisa Greenfield married Sam Efferstein.

Copyright 2002
by Laurence C. Schwartz