How much others see in this photograph. How little I see.
Periodically, I read my email. Oh, I read specific mail,
always and quickly. But every now and then I look at the things that come in on
subscription. The sale at 6pm.com. What’s
new at Amazon. What does Nancy Pelosi have to say? And is there something I can
contribute to on the “Help a reporter out” mailing list.
There - in the middle of the pleas for experts in every field
from real estate to economics to bio chemistry there is an interesting
question: Did you and your spouse meet in an interesting or unusual way? Well, some people think so. Funny, I don’t anymore;
I guess I’m used to it. But I took a minute and hit the “reply” button. “My husband and I met when we were
contestants on a game show”
When I look at this picture, I remember two people, young,
enthusiastic, full of excitement. We were smart, sexy and funny.
We grew up when television was still young, summer days and
Christmas vacations from school were spent in front the television. “I’ve Got a
Secret,” “To Tell the Truth,” “Match Game” “Video Village,” “Concentration,” and
the Rolls Royce of the genre: “Jeopardy!”
In 1978 the show was in a comeback, and had moved to Los
Angeles. The ad appeared in the Los Angeles Times: Contestants wanted. Written tests, try outs, mock games and there,
in a green room (which wasn’t any shred of green) at NBC, during the ever
popular “What’s your sign? Me too! What’s
your birthday?” round robin we discovered we shared a birthday and, eventually,
so much more.
And that is what brought us here, to this place, sitting in
a booth at Canter’s Delicatessen on Fairfax, posing with coffee and lox,
wishing I could go home, wishing I had never answered the damn query.
When our story was chosen (along with four others) I thought
it would be a mention, a paragraph or two, our names in a magazine. And then there
were interviews, re-writes, a photographer flown out from New York and a
stylist who came over the night before the shoot with two racks of newly
purchased clothes for us to try on while she took pictures with her iPad and
made final decisions on what color, what style made us look our best.
Asked to submit a list of places that meant something to us,
we realized that all those places were gone. Hamburger Hamlet. The big Pickwick
bookstore on Hollywood Blvd. Victoria Station Restaurant up the hill at
Universal City. My husband decided on The Magic Castle, he’s a member and a
Castle Knight. Permission to shoot inside the private club isn’t easy to get,
but he got it. It didn’t mean much to me and I wasn’t disappointed when the
magazine offered us Canter’s on Fairfax or Dupar’s at the Farmer’s Market on
Fairfax. We chose Canter’s…at least we’d been there, more than once.
I always liked the place, open 24/7, there is an air of
equality unrivaled anywhere else in Los Angeles. Kings and vagabonds all stand
in line, waiting for a booth or table. Our family has it’s big Christmas
celebration on Christmas Eve, we’ve spent more than one Christmas Day having dinner
at the packed Jewish deli as they merrily serve up roast turkey and stuffing to
Jews and Gentiles alike. Legend has it that the restaurant, located in the
heavily Jewish Fairfax district of Los Angeles,
was run by Jews understandably sensitive to discrimination and determined
to treat others better than they themselves had been treated. Back in the 60s and 70s it was a place
hippies, flower children, comics, lawyers, rock musicians and Elizabeth Taylor
were all seated only when they got to the front of the line. And all were
welcomed, no one said a word about long haired men or bell bottoms.
When I look at this picture, I see two people -
strangers, people who are showing their
age, a grey haired man and a fat middle aged woman with chopped off hair, tired
and distant.
At Canter’s, we changed clothes in the closed bar, "The Kibitz Lounge.".We were pinned and posed. We were brought
plate after plate of food, all of it set up with more care than usual by a kitchen aware they
were decorating the table of a magazine shoot. The pancakes were professionally
cut. The lox and bagels were artfully scattered with sliced onions and capers.
I hate lox and I hate onions. The waiter who was helping out used to be a food
stylist.
Only in L.A.
When I look at this picture I remember us speaking in
banalities. We talked quietly about the food, about liverwurst and rye and
matzo ball soup. We conjectured about the storm brewing between the crew of the
magazine and the manager on duty that morning, we were in a separate room but
the manager had seated a group of women having a breakfast meeting in there
with us. The magazine had booked the room from 8am to 12 noon but the women
having the meeting were annoyed. The manager on duty demanded the photographer
turn off all the lights being used for the pictures. She said we were using the
room too long, we were annoying the diners in the other dining room. She told
them to get this wrapped up and over by 10:30.
Cell phones were immediately taken out of pockets and bags
and a representative from the magazine mentioned to us that, considering the
size of the check Canter’s had received for these four hours the manager should
be helping us dress.
When I look at this picture I remember smiling as the current
owner of Canter’s showed up, spoke to the manager and watched her purse her
lips and leave the room, we never saw her again. The room relaxed and the
pictures continued. The current owner, a great grand nephew of Ben Canter, told
fascinating family stories of the restaurant’s early days, when, during the
depression, the Bank of American borrowed money from THEM. We finally wrapped and were sent home with the
outfits we were wearing, two sandwiches packed to go and a box of rugalah. I was
glad I never had the idea to go into modeling, we were exhausted. I thought of
my husbad’s high school friend who DID become a model and wondered how she ever
got through all those photo sessions.
When I look at this picture I see the distance between us,
the same distance that had grown between us over the last 10 years. I see the
bad hair, the awful profile, the slouched shoulders, the uninvolved look in our
eyes. I see my husband, anxious to get this over with and get to the site of a
writing assignment, I see myself, always thinking that something will change
and we will become the couple we once were and always being disappointed.
Two and a half months later, the February issue of Real
Simple was on the newsstands, we didn’t want to wait for ours to be delivered
and the local super market had their new supply out. My husband and I looked at
the page, our page and had the same thought: “They took hundreds and hundreds
of pictures and they picked THAT one? We look awful!” I looked fat, he looked
old. We looked un-attached to one another.
The next morning I took the magazine to work with me. It was
the cause of some excitement, and some disinterest. I wasn’t surprised. Until I
showed it to an Executive Vice President, someone I like very much but thought
wouldn’t be particularly impressed.
When HE looked at the picture he said “My God…you two are
crazy about each other – and after all these years. I’m jealous.”
A picture IS worth a thousand words. It’s deciphering them
that takes all the time.
