Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York Page 2

  So Will Fisher had me first. Good for you, Will. You won the big prize … Sheila Levine’s virginity. Why, you weren’t even overcome by emotion. No thank-you note or anything. But I would like to say thank you to you, Will, belated as it may be. Because of you, my social life at old Syracuse blossomed. I slept with a ZBT and a Sammy in one week. Ten years ago, if you did that, word got around. My name and telephone number appeared on the bathroom wall of every fraternity house on campus. No … not every one … only the Jewish ones. I wasn’t particularly religious; I had just heard awful things about uncircumcised penises … peni?

  Have you heard? Sheila Levine is an easy lay. All you have to do is call her. You don’t have to buy her a drink or take her to parties or anything. You don’t even have to be seen with her in public. Just call her and lay her.

  I’m glad. All that sleeping around did two good things for me. First of all, I lost a little weight.

  FACT: The average sex act uses up about a hundred and fifty calories. Really, that is a fact. And you don’t eat while you fuck. Therefore, the more you fuck, the less you eat. It’s the best diet I’ve ever been on.

  Second of all, all that sleeping around got me rid of my sexual hang-ups. Whadda you mean, Mom, don’t let a boy touch you, you know where? It feels good when they touch you, you know where.

  My mother got married when she was twenty. I always knew that, but as I approached two decades, she compulsively told me the story of her courtship over and over again—while she was doing her exercises, while she was wrapping toilet paper around her head so the set wouldn’t fall out. I would be opening up a can of tuna fish and she somehow related what I was doing to the fact that she got married when she was twenty.

  Bernice Arnold, alias my mother, was the most beautiful girl in Washington Heights. She was a petite, dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty. A beautiful, beautiful girl. This was not only the opinion of Bernice’s mother and father, and Manny Levine, the man who asked for Miss Arnold’s hand at her sweet sixteen … No, this was the opinion of the whole neighborhood. It was the opinion of the officials, very big men, who judged the Miss Coney Island contest in 1934. Bernice Arnold entered, and Bernice Arnold won. I look like my father, and a Miss Coney Island he isn’t.

  Miss Arnold could have married many men. Someone who is a very big lawyer now wanted to marry her, and even a bandleader was dying for her hand. But she played the field at night, while modeling stockings during the day. Bernice had, and still has, great legs. I have stretch marks.

  At twenty, her mother told her she should get married. She, as she tells it, always listened to her mother because her mother knew best. She decided to get married, choosing my father over her many other suitors. My father is a very nice person, but why would a Miss Coney Island choose him over a bandleader?

  “And so, I’m telling you, Sheila, listen to your mother, like I listened to mine. Get married while you’re young. It’s better to find someone while you’re in school. Once you get out, it gets harder and harder.”

  Married? Married, you say? Mother, this was your daughter, Sheila, you were talking to. I wasn’t programmed for marriage. In your day, things were different. In your day, there was such a thing as an ugly bride. Everyone got married. Everyone. Thin Sharon, fat Harriet, tall Bea Finkle. I was born too late, Mom.

  “SHEILA, DARLING, IT’S BETTER TO FIND SOMEONE WHILE YOU’RE IN SCHOOL. ONCE YOU GET OUT, IT GETS HARDER AND HARDER.”

  Now, there was an unwritten code that said if you were at the end of your sophomore year and you weren’t pinned or engaged or involved, then you’d better pull out of Syracuse. We had all lived through one crop of new freshmen girls, and we were not about to live through another.

  Susan Fink went out with a freshman boy when she was a sophomore, and we all snickered. She showed us all when she married that freshman boy right in front of our jealous eyes. I heard, years later, that she was divorced and remarried. That’s not fair, Susan. Some of us have never had our turn. Mommy, she took two turns and I haven’t even had one.

  The year I was a sophomore, approximately two thousand girls transferred, mostly to New York University, home for the transferred.

  I would like it known that at NYU I was no longer Campus Punchboard.

  FACT: It’s hard to be Campus Punchboard when you’re commuting.

  Here I could have a fresh start. I could be the virgin again. I played virgin several times … up until I was about twenty-four, when it’s really sick to be pure.

  Finding a man—and wasn’t that why we were there, girls? —finding a man was a very difficult thing at NYU. There were hundreds of Jewish lovelies, with their charm bracelets, their teased hair and their shares of AT&T, all looking for Mr. Right. And if he wasn’t Mr. Right now, he would be in a few years, after a few children, a house in Scarsdale and a five-thousand-dollar wedding gift from the bride’s parents.

  I couldn’t compete. I couldn’t sit in Loeb Student Center day after day pretending to read The Behavior Problems of the Young Child, eyes glued to the door … “Excuse me, is that seat taken?” … (moving over gracefully) “No, no, it’s not.” … “I see you’re reading The Behavior Problems of the Young Child.” … (crossing legs, throwing head back) “Yes, yes, I am.” … “Could I persuade you to put it down and come with me for a cup of coffee?” … “Love to!” (eyelashes batting so hard, they’re becoming unglued) … It never happened to me. The only man who ever spoke to me in Loeb Student Center was the guard informing me that they would be closing soon.

  So I went the artistic route. I wore pants and sweat shirts and sneakers without socks in the snow.

  “Manny, I don’t know why that girl doesn’t catch pneumonia.”

  Mom, you used to beg me to put on a nice dress. Practically every night when I came home, there was another box from Klein’s with a “cute little outfit” (size fourteen) in it. I made you take them back, but they kept coming. Dresses in slenderizing colors, matching skirts and sweaters, a black cocktail dress for when I went out to dinner. Out to dinner?

  At NYU I set up for myself a nonphysical ménage à trois. “Oh, no, Sheila. You said you had changed! I mean, we thought things would be better, and now this! It’s too much to bear.” Calm down. Calm down, everyone.

  There was me, and there was Joshua. He said he didn’t have a last name, but he did. His class records showed him registered as Alan Goldstein. And there was Professor Hinley of the Department of Dramatic Art in the School of Education.

  Oh, God, the School of Education. I never wanted to be a teacher. Never. When Ruthie and I, or Madeline and I, or my roommate Linda and I talked for hours and hours and hours about what we wanted to be, I never mentioned teaching. Not even once. When I was a very little girl, I wanted to be a wife and mommy. Ruthie, trite as it was, wanted to be a ballerina. I think I knew even then that I could never be a ballerina. I went to dancing school for as many years as Ruthie did, but I never was able to do a cartwheel or an arabesque or even walk across the room on my toes. Five years of tap and I couldn’t even shuffle off to Buffalo. So I wanted to be a wife and mommy. Why, I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I got a lot of approval from relatives.

  By the time I got to high school I had definitely decided that I didn’t know what I wanted to be. Of course, I eventually wanted to get married and have children. But I was selfish. I also wanted a career.

  “What are you going to major in in college, Sheila, darling?”

  “Liberal arts.”

  “I think teaching is such a good profession for a woman. Good starting salary. Good vacations, and it’s always something that a girl can fall back on. Even if you get married, it’s always something you can go back to when the kids are older.”

  “But, Mom, I hate teaching. I hate it!”

  “How do you know until you try? Do me a favor, be whatever you want to be, but also be a teacher, it wouldn’t kill you. Your father doesn’t have money to throw out on a college education t
hat when you graduate you’re a nothing. I wish I had something to fall back on. I couldn’t earn a nickel if I had to. I don’t have to, thank God, but I didn’t have a father who could send me to college.”

  “Okay.”

  So there I was, saddled with a drama major and an English minor in the School of Education, where I met Joshua and Professor Hinley. The three of us drifted together because we were the stars of the drama department. Joshua was the star performer, immediately cast in all productions. Professor Hinley was the star director, directing all the main stage productions. And Sheila? Sheila was the star worker. She swept the stage and painted scenery and worked the props and pulled the curtains and at the opening night party she sang the score of Fiorello off-key. Why did I choose drama? Why? Probably a Marjorie Morningstar fixation. I wanted approval? The final exams were easier? Kate Smith made it? I don’t know.

  Joshua, Professor Hinley and I ran the drama department and did everything together. Joshua and I kept the professor in coffee and doughnuts from Chock Full o’Nuts. Professor Hinley and I kept Joshua fed and clothed. My father doesn’t know it, but he practically sent Joshua (Alan Goldstein) through college. Every time I ate, he ate and I paid. Mind you, I didn’t mind. Joshua was one of those people whose poverty made him more attractive. For his birthday, I bought him shirts and sweaters, charged to Manny Levine.

  And Professor Hinley provided us with a resting place. I commuted from Long Island, Joshua from Brooklyn. How great to have a place to rest and escape to. The good professor gave us each a key to his West Village walk-up. The good professor also gave me a C-minus in Children’s Theater 101.

  Joshua, Professor Hinley and I were the first flower children on earth, all loving each other. It was no easy task trying to decide which of these two charming gentlemen I would finally settle down with.

  “SHEILA, DARLING, FIND SOMEONE WHILE YOU’RE IN SCHOOL. ONCE YOU’RE OUT, IT’S HARDER.”

  Joshua had Paul Newman eyes. That’s the very first thing you noticed about him, those gorgeous Paul Newman eyes. You could die from them. Not only did he have the eyes, but great brown curly hair and—I know it’s crazy and you’re gonna think I have some kind of fetish—feet like Elvis Presley. That sexy. I once saw a big picture of Elvis’ feet in Life magazine, and they were exactly like Joshua’s. He was moody, but with those eyes and those feet and everything in between pretty fabulous, Joshua was going to make it. Not in the movies—we of the NYU drama department didn’t think in those terms. Joshua would definitely have Broadway at his sexy feet.

  He could also, if he played his cards right, have me for his wife. We would live on Central Park West in a huge old co-op. We would, of course, be photographed for Vogue. I pictured him in a turtleneck and me forty pounds thinner. Our friends would be artistic.

  “Darling, throw something on the stove, the Bernsteins will be over for din-din.”

  On the other hand, Professor Hinley had a lot to say for him. Very dark eyes and a very defiant air. Not handsome exactly, but well-put-together. Corduroy jackets with elbow patches and a pipe. He didn’t actually have those things, but ol’ Sheila would buy them for him on birthdays and anniversaries.

  Ah, yes, Hinley would make it too. Wasn’t he always almost involved with some off-Broadway production? In the short time I had known him, he was practically offered three directing jobs, and as soon as he actually got one, he was going to tell off the head of the department and leave teaching. We would live in a Village brownstone with high ceilings and low rent.

  “Darling, throw something on the stove, Salome Jens will be over for sup-sup.”

  Yes, it was a problem that I pondered. Joshua or Hinley—Bernstein or Jens. I didn’t want to hurt either of them. Could I have both? Wife to one, mistress to the other? So little Sheila’s story gets exciting? No … little Sheila’s story gets depressing. So what did you expect?

  In the middle of my senior year, just when I was deciding which of these two great men to love, they fell in love with each other. Surprised? So was I, you betcha.

  I realize now why it took me so long to realize then. It’s hard to tell when a man is making it with another man. There are no lipstick stains on shirts or cigarettes. There is no lingerie accidentally left. There is no engagement ring.

  So how do you tell? There are ways. Single girls, listen, so it shouldn’t happen to you what happened to me. The first thing to look at is clothing. Men who are sleeping together very often borrow each other’s clothing. I would see a shirt of Hinley’s on Joshua, Joshua’s belt on Hinley. The suede jacket was passed back and forth freely. This, better than anything else, is a sure way of knowing.

  They also start talking like each other. There were a lot of “Hi ya’s” and “Right’s!” Instead of saying good-bye, they said “Later,” but only the trained ear would be able to pick this up.

  The third way of telling—and this is surefire—is albums. If two guys are friends, they usually buy the same record albums. If two guys are sleeping together, they only buy one copy of the album. Take it from Sheila. I know. The day I saw Carnival at Professor Hinley’s and they both called it their album, I knew. What a waste of a pair of really sexy feet.

  Graduation stinks at NYU. Everyone knows that. What’s to celebrate? I didn’t even take a picture for the yearbook. It was depressing to think I had gone to college for four years and all I had was a diploma, no husband. My mother must have thought of it as flushing my dowry down the toilet.

  No one in the drama department goes to graduation. I said good-bye to my classmates the last day of tests and haven’t seen or heard from most of them since. That’s some successful class in dramatic arts! I saw one of them on a commercial once, and that’s about it.

  Sheila Levine was planning not to attend graduation. Sheila Levine’s mother made her guilty thinking such thoughts.

  Tap … tap … tap. I heard my mother tapping on my bedroom door.

  “Sheila, it’s Mother.” No kidding. I thought it was Daddy with long, pointy nails.

  In she came, ready for bed, covered with moisturizers. I don’t know. Maybe that stuff works. Everyone was flabbergasted when they found out she had a daughter in college. “You look like a college girl yourself,” they said.

  “Sheila, your father doesn’t know I’m talking to you. You know he’s not the type of person who expresses himself well, but he’s a very emotional man. I know it would break his heart if he couldn’t attend his oldest daughter’s graduation.”

  “Okay.”

  Lucky man. He gets to attend his daughter’s graduation and funeral. What a thoughtful daughter!

  So I graduated on the hottest day of the year. I stood proudly, sadly, with the other graduates from the School of Education, at the Uptown Campus, a place I had never been to before, far away from where the parents sat. We never went up to get our diplomas—that would have taken four and a half days. Our names weren’t even announced. All the graduating doctors said the Hippocratic Oath in unison. There was a speech about commencement being the beginning. The microphone was faulty. The whole School of Engineering sat there letting the static come through.

  I was trying very hard to feel something, but all I could think about was hair. I had just had mine straightened at a place on Tenth Avenue where a lot of Negroes—Negro was the right word at the time—were supposed to go. I never saw any Negroes, but I did see a lot of nice Jewish girls with frizzy hair. I felt the waves crawling under my mortarboard, ready to peep out. That’s what I thought about the whole time while my mother with her Kodak and my father with his Yashica craned their necks to see their precious daughter. As a graduation present they offered me a nose job or a fur coat. I took the fur coat with a high collar.

  “Our Sheila graduated. She’s going to be a teacher.”

  No, I’m not! No, I’m not! No, I’m not!

  Mom, did you have to tell the whole world I was going to be a teacher? You said it with such pride. Ruthie, Madeline, Mom, did I ever mention the
word teacher?

  The minute we got home that day, Dad sat down to read the paper; my thin sister, Melissa, was picked up by a nice young man in a red Corvette; Mom put the kettle on so we’d all have tea; and I went to my room to plan the rest of my life.

  MY LIFE’S PLAN:

  1. Get hair straightened.

  2. Get a creative job.

  3. Get married, etc.

  On Jobs and Apartments; Miss Burke and Miss Melkin

  “SHEILA, DARLING, LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER. TEACHING IS ALWAYS SOMETHING YOU CAN FALL BACK ON.”

  The Monday after I graduated, the ink on my diploma not yet dry, I went out into the world to seek my fortune. With the New York Times under my arm (“I Got My Job Through the New York Times”), I headed for Manhattan on the Long Island Railroad.

  Tap … tap … tap.

  “Sheila, darling, I don’t know why you want to knock yourself out looking for a job when you can teach, be home at three, get Christmas vacation, the whole summer off, good starting salary. Mrs. Lichtman’s Cynthia has been teaching for two years, loves it. Went to Europe last summer and Puerto Rico over Easter.”

  “Mother, I don’t want to teach. I want to do something creative.”

  “Creative? Excuse me, College Graduate. Excuse me for even suggesting something that isn’t creative.”

  I wanted the type of job that Glamour magazine writes about—WOMEN WHO ARE DOING THINGS—Sally Harding spends most of her day in a helicopter with her handsome boss, whom she married just six days after becoming his creative assistant. The picture shows Sally, blond, thin, straight hair with a little flip on the end, in a white coat, getting into a helicopter beside her big, handsome husband-boss. They are off to buy two of the world’s most expensive paintings, and Mr. Harding wouldn’t think of going without little Sally. Did she get her job through the New York Times? Did Sally’s mother nudge her to teach?

  As a result of an ad in the Times, the first employment agency I went to was called For College Graduates Only, one flight up on West Forty-fifth. Why did I think they were waiting for me? Come right this way, Sheila. Here’s your creative job, and right over there, through that door, are the reporter and photographer from Glamour waiting to get your fascinating story.