The Great Divide

Copyright 2018 Anita Fontana

The Great Divide

Throughout the evening, the fact that she was absorbed in the panel discussion, attentive, and took lots of notes kept drawing my attention to her. How could I have foreseen the way outside forces would shape the course of our relationship.

Having been a professional speaker and trainer for over 30 years was the closest I have ever gotten to feeling like a celebrity. It’s an invigorating feeling standing in front of a group of people, sharing my wisdom, feeling the mood of the room and reading an audience. Whether I felt like one or not, I was the expert and they were there to hear what I had to say.

Years ago, I was invited to speak on a panel at an eBay event. When the discussion was over, people began milling around talking with each other, but this woman sat in her seat going over her notes, not talking to anyone. Several people came up to ask questions or tell me their stories, but she continued to sit in her seat.

After the crowd had thinned out I walked over to her, introduced myself and shook her hand. We chatted for a while and my feelings were confirmed that I wanted to get to know her. I suggested that we meet for lunch or dinner. Her reaction stunned me. She looked at me with huge eyes and a shocked look on her face and said, “YOU want to have lunch with ME?” It was a heady feeling.

We exchanged phone numbers and began getting together. We both belonged to a group of eBay sellers and we made sure that the other one would be at the monthly meeting and that whoever got there first would save a seat. We even would call from the car on our way to the venue, as if seeing each other at the meeting couldn’t come soon enough.

She was unlike anyone I’d ever known. Straightforward, honest, funny, wise, sincere, business-like without being cold, get the job done, generous, no bullshit. She was one of the least judgmental people I had ever met; not warm and fuzzy, just solid.

She had at least as many years of eBay selling as I had, and we shared an open respect for each other’s experience, sharing our knowledge and learning from each other. No matter how down I might have felt before our visits, I always left feeling happy, hopeful and rejuvenated after spending time with her. I knew I could count on her friendship.

Although we were different, we meshed together. Our friendship grew and, although most of our time was spent sharing our eBay experiences, we moved into a more personal relationship, talking about family, friends, our likes and dislikes. My admiration grew for her whenever she talked about her family. Unlike some women I have known, I never heard her say one negative word about her husband. And her mothering skills in dealing with her teenage son were far beyond any I had developed over the 20 years of helping raise two boys.

We collaborated on a business idea, forged by cooperation and teamwork. Ideas flowed freely and no thought or suggestion was rejected or judged by either of us. A rational, logical, humorous collaboration that gelled into a fun and educational venture.

Throughout the 3 years of our friendship, we had never discussed politics, so I didn’t know her party preference. One night early in the 2016 campaign, while having dinner with another eBay friend, the topic was broached, and our feelings surfaced.

Except for a short stint in high school when I joined the Young Republicans thinking it was a good way to meet boys, I have been a life-long Democrat. But that night I learned that she was what she called a moderate Republican, a “blend.” She said some things that made me uncomfortable, but I allowed my affection for her to override my discomfort.

We continued our friendship without any political discussion for a few months until one night at dinner we accidentally slid into the topic. That night I learned that not only was she a fanatical Trump supporter but a rabid Hillary hater. I was rendered speechless. I never dreamed that this logical, funny, non-judgmental person could champion someone who spewed hate. When I asked her how she could defend his behavior and ideas she bombarded me, for what felt like an hour, with reasons why Trump was the answer to all the country’s prayers and why Hillary was the devil herself. So much for being a “blend.”

A feeling of incredulousness overtook me to the point where I became mute. I could only react by shaking my head and putting my hands over my ears. I was incapable of defending my position or my feelings about the two candidates. I felt like I was being lectured on why all the things I believed in and held close to my heart were wrong. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller as she continued her tirade. I tried getting a few words in but was shouted down. She didn’t make me wrong; I just felt that way. I felt stupid being unable to defend my positions.

Finally, I told her to stop, that I couldn’t stand it anymore, that we would never agree and let’s just never discuss politics ever again. At least we agreed on that. We ended the evening by declaring that I was her favorite Democrat and she was my favorite Republican. We laughed and hugged as usual and said good night.

But all the way home I was sick to my stomach and tears stung my eyes as I drove. That night I shared my experience at length with my husband and walked around in a disbelieving trance for the next few days.

How could I reconcile this chasm between us? We had always been so much on the same page about almost everything. And, even though we were not twin minds, I never knew her to be a hate-spewing person.

A few weeks went by and we set a date to get together. I insisted that political discussion was banned, she agreed, and we laughed about it. But at the last minute she cancelled. We texted back and forth a few more times about getting together but then communication just stopped.

A mutual acquaintance posted on Facebook that if a friendship ended over the election then it was never a friendship to begin with. I thought about that long and hard and decided that the statement was an oversimplification of a true friendship. I came to realize that I couldn’t respect anyone who could advocate such a hateful point of view and that I could never be friends with someone I didn’t respect.

The election is over and, apparently, so is our friendship. I often wonder, as the craziness gets crazier, if she has changed her mind but I’m afraid to ask. I miss her every day.

The Hand That Won Chicago

Copyright 2018 Anita Fontana

The Hand That Won Chicago

          So, I’m driving north on LaSalle St. and I’m thirsty. I pull into one of those drive-thru, fast food joints along any street in Chicago.

            “Wecometoshekrrrsmyhepyou,” assaulted me through the loudspeaker at an ear-splitting volume.

             “A medium, half diet, half regular Coke, please,” I shouted into the speaker. I have this notion that if I cut the Coke with Diet Coke, I won't blow up like a balloon. Is this true? I don't know.

            I pulled around the semi-circle and spotted a car next to the pick-up window—a Lexus I think. As soon as I pulled up, I knew something was going on. Three or four female employees were hanging, up to their waists, out of the window, arms extended, screaming and pushing each other out of the way.

            “Oh, please, can I touch your hand again?”

            “Will you sign this paper, oh, p-l-e-e-e-s-e. Comeon.”

            More pushing, shoving, giggling and screaming. I'm directly behind the car now and totally fascinated by the theater on the other side of my windshield.

            Suddenly, to my left, a stern-looking woman, arms folded angrily across her considerable bosom, began to shout, “Mebee he's gonna give you a job, huh! If you wanna keep yours, you better stop hangin' out dat window!” 

I don't recall ever seeing anyone ignored quite so completely.

            I looked at the car ahead of me and saw a black leather-jacketed arm unfold out the window, each finger at least six inches long, beautiful, smooth brown skin. That hand allowed itself to be touched, mauled, caressed. A piece of paper was shoved into that hand and it disappeared into the window. A moment later it appeared again, delivering the piece of paper to a swooning girl, who promptly clutched it to her bosom.

            The stern-looking woman returned, looking particularly threatening now. “Git back inside and git to work if ya'll know what's good for ya!” she shouted, hands on her hips now.

            Again, that hand appeared; fingers slowly unfolding, languishing out of the car window, allowing itself to be touched and adored some more.

            A young woman came out of the back door of the restaurant and started screaming something at the stern-looking woman, totally unmoved by her threatening look.

            I lowered my window and asked, “Who's in the car?”

            “Scotty Pippen, girl, don't you know?”

            “Get outta here,” I said, trying to sound hip.

            “You better know it!”

            I had only had three encounters with celebrity in my lifetime. A Woody Allen sighting on 44th & 8^th Ave. in Manhattan way back when he was still just a radical, low-budget movie maker. A glimpse of Soupy Sales on 6th Ave. after he had been thrown off the air for being too “suggestive” on his afternoon children's program. A nice discussion with Roger Ebert in Whole Foods about a review he had done years ago. So, what should I do with this opportunity?

            I'm not a big basketball fan, but I know a star when I see one. Even I knew that the Bulls had won a three-peat in ‘91, ‘92, & ‘93, led to victory by the troika of Michael Jordon, Scottie Pippin and coach Phil Jackson. It was all Chicagoans could talk about, prancing around like peacocks, basking in the glory of their Hall of Famer gods. And, here he was, one of the big three, right in front of me, unable to drive away since the girls hadn't given him his order yet.

            I could get out of my car and shake his hand too, maybe even get his autograph. But I decided that seeing him up close would somehow take the fun out of it. Seeing his hand was enough; quite impressive even a car-length away.

            One of the screaming, giggling young women handed him a box of French fries. It was over. They had no excuse to keep him there any longer.

            By now most of the women, and some of the men, had come out of the restaurant looking longingly as the car pulled away. Even the stern-looking woman had uncrossed her arms, a hint of a smile on her lips.

            I pulled up to the window; a man and a woman stood inside, laughing. “What was your order, ma'am?” they asked.

            “I don't think anyone even took my order!” I said, and we all laughed together.

            The spectacle the women had created continued inside the restaurant, screaming, laughing and high-fiving each other, not one of them doing a speck of work. I suspected that that visit to their fast-food drive-thru would be the topic of discussion for weeks to come.

            As for me, that hand is indelibly imprinted on my memory. That hand told the whole story. Now I understand why that single hand can hold a basketball with such ease.                                                             

Early Lesson in Love

Copyright 2018 Anita Fontana

Early Lesson in Love

            His name was Henry Mueller, pale-skinned, blonde, he lived across the street from me. I don't remember how we became attracted to each other; no logic or detail that I can recall. No swelling music. No “I fell in love with him the moment he flicked that piece of fried chicken off his chin!” No, it all happened gradually and without really noticing.

            It was 1960, Seventh Grade. I had been to his house a couple of times. Everything scrubbed to a shine, a tall armoire with locked glass doors housing dozens of Hummel figurines occupied a prominent place in the living room, lace doilies covered the furniture and every other surface.

This time Momma Mueller, stone-faced and coldly polite, offered me tea and cookies, speaking half German half English to her son. She asked me if I wanted zucker and milk with my tea. Looking back, I think she was testing me.

My eyes widened, “Zucker. Does that mean sugar?”

She smiled and said, “Ah, you recognize a German word. Yes, zucker and sugar mean the same.”

“Yeah, the words sound so much alike, so I thought that’s what you meant. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Maybe you learn German a little, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that.”

I thought that maybe she was beginning to like me just a bit. Henry was smiling which I took as a good sign.

The bus stop was a block from my house. It was kind of a long block, but I could see the corner from my gate and he could see me coming from the corner. He always got there first, so much more punctual than me. I would come through my gate, looking with anticipation down the street and watch him slowly walk to meet me half-way. Our daily ritual. Thrill at the meeting. Touch hands. My guy had come to escort me, to guard and protect me from all the terrible things that could happen in that half block. Him on the outside, a perfect gentleman, me on the inside, a not-so-perfect lady. We would arrive at the corner and say hi to our friends, still arm in arm. All the kids knew. He had chosen to make our love public in front of the others, to proudly accompany his girl.

            Of course, we sat together on the bus, the other kids automatically avoiding the double seat all the way in the back reserved for our love.

            He played trumpet in the school band. My older sister had told me that dating a horn player was really cool because they had something called an Embouchure—well developed, muscular lips—and were great kissers. She was right. His pale skin would flush red when I told him how much I loved his lips, how I loved kissing them because they were so thick and soft. Why were we attracted to each other; a German and an Italian? Me so full of gusto, flapping at the world, he so proper and restrained.

            Life in junior high can be so hectic that you may not see that special person all day. Mornings and afternoons were our time, the bus ride to and from school. My face would be hot as we got off the bus after smooching in the back. No kissing on the street—someone might see. Arriving at my gate, I would press myself against his hard, beautiful body, begging for just one more kiss with my eyes.

“I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.” Parting is such formality. Momma Mueller peeking through the white lace curtains making sure her boy was acting properly.

            I would arrive home with mixed feelings of delight and disappointment. Would we ever be alone long enough to really kiss? Long, lingering, unhurried kisses, like in the movies and in books? My awakening body longed for those thick lips, those strong arms holding me close.

            For the first time I had a steady boyfriend and could finally go to the annual Spring dance. Momma Mueller drove us—she was one of the chaperones—and we entered the school gym together. The ominous, smelly place where we were forced to perform inhuman feats of calisthenics had been turned into a breathtaking nightspot. Crepe paper streamers hung from the ceiling lights where the glaring white bulbs had been changed to pink and blue, casting a lavender glow over the dance floor. Tables decorated with pink and blue tablecloths and silver doodads circled the room.

Everyone was dressed in their finest: boys in suits and ties, girls in frilly, sherbet-colored dresses and sparkly jewelry. I wore a pink felt poodle skirt, a crinoline slip that coaxed it wider around my bony legs, and a black blouse. A pink necklace and bracelet, and black patent leather shoes completed the outfit. I felt like a model.

            The kids danced the Bop, the Hop and The Twist to Chubby Checker, Chuck Berry and Little Richard and slow danced to The Platters, Pat Boone, and Connie Francis. Henry had told me that he didn’t know how to dance to rock ‘n roll music. So, he had given me permission to dance fast dances with other boys as long as there was no flirting and if I came back to him when each dance was over. I had dutifully obeyed. When a slow dance came on, we clung together, me with my head on his shoulder, Momma Mueller eyeing us vigilantly from the sidelines.

            It was Monday morning and I was still giddy from Saturday night. I closed the gate with the same anticipation, turned the corner, and looked ahead to the bus stop. There he was! There he was! There he stayed. He wasn't walking down the block. Thoughts raced through my mind; he must be distracted, maybe he's looking to see if the bus is coming. 

Something wasn’t right. I began to walk faster, hoping that any minute he would turn around and start down the block. He didn’t move. I could see he had his back to me. Oh my God! What's wrong? My breakfast threatened to pay me an unwelcome visit. Heart pounding, panic crawling into my chest and landing in my throat, I swallowed hard and thought, “Compose yourself. You're acting crazy. There's probably a perfectly good explanation. Calm down. Wait till you get there.  Don't panic, DON'T PANIC!” I panicked.

            “Hi, how are you?” I was so composed, so serene on the outside, choking down the fear and the tears.

            “Fine, and you?”

            What was going on? Where was the squeeze of my hand, the I'm-so-happy-to-see-you smile? Only cold, grey-blue steel where his eyes used to be. What to do. What to say. I couldn't stand it anymore.

            “What's wrong? Why didn't you meet me in the middle of the block? Why won't you look at me?”

            “It's because of Saturday night.”

            “What? What do you mean? We had a great time at the dance together.”

            “My mother said you acted like a slut, dancing and flirting with all the boys and having so much fun doing it.”

             A SLUT. The lowest kind of woman. A SLUT? Me, who had never even kissed a boy before him. A SLUT. Didn't sluts take their clothes off and do unspeakable things in the back of cars? I was more confused than hurt. How could this be?

I had had so much fun. I was actually just showing off in front of him, hoping my dancing would impress him and he would love me even more. I thought we were so happy.

             “What did you say to your mother?” I cried, hoping beyond hope that he had told her to mind her own business, that I was his girl and if it was okay with him, then she could just go ...

            “Nothing,” he said, as if his blood had turned to ice.

            That word ... so hard, so unyielding, so final. “Nothing.” It echoed in my ears. “Nothing.” Nothing left. That one word said all that needed to be said. It was over.

            I don't even know how I got through the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the school year. On that Monday morning, at that bus stop, on that corner, I learned that love doesn’t always last forever.