Lesbians on the moon

So it came to pass, in 1965, “The Colt 45s” baseball team would change its name to “The Houston Astro(naut)s” to play in the first ever domed stadium – the Astrodome. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), headquarters for astronautical travel was just down the road, so the name was appropriate. The stadium had been called (mostly in Houston) “The Eighth Wonder of the World”.  Not even the Roman Colosseum had a dome. It was a big deal. Anticipation had been building for years. But not long after the Astros’ season began to great fanfare, there was a problem. Players complained the glare off the glassed ceiling made it hard to catch fly balls (the Astros also had trouble with ground balls). In order to accommodate the athletes, management dark-tinted the overhead glass, causing the sun-deprived lawn to die. Houston had tax-funded a mega-million-dollar domed baseball albatross. 

There was no running from the sinking ship. During a long, whiskey-sozzled, cigar-smokey meeting (I supposed), some crazy hotshot must have raised their hand. “Hey, I’ve got an idea…” Desperate, worry-wrinkled faces would have quickly swiveled toward the speaker. “Why don’t we replace the real grass with plastic turf. Anyone heard of ChemGrass?” City government had already crawled out onto the tippy-pointy-point of a political limb with this whole domed stadium fiasco. They were kamikaze pilots searching for parachutes, but “ChemGrass” sounded toxic. Then, as sometimes happens during moments of acute distress, inspiration struck. “We’ll call it AstroTurf!” And, as they say, the rest is history. 

I bring up this whole AstroTurf thing, not just to applaud circumstantial innovation, but to help set the time, place and tone for my early transformative years. It was a time that included a race to the moon, the Cuban Missile Crisis, President Kennedy’s assassination, the Vietnam War and the Woodstock Music Festival. It was also during this time I was Bar Mitzvahed (a Jewish rite of passage). At age twelve I would become an adult man overnight – a man who couldn’t drink, drive or vote, but who would be responsible for his sins, real or inspired by masochism. Much older now, guilt for everything still haunts me.

*

I grew up in south-central Houston, a fifteen-minute drive from the Astrodome. It wasn’t the nicest or worst part of town. We had King Center Twin Drive-in Theater nearby, across Calhoun Road. People could watch movies from their cars parked on either side of the screen. The first movie I remember seeing was there – “Lawrence of Arabia”. The soundtrack still stirs me. Our neighborhood had been set up for WWII veterans. Some of the streets were even named after battles – “Bataan”, “Dunkirk”, “Iwo Jima”. I don’t know how we ended up living there, my father wasn’t a war veteran. He’d wanted to kill Nazis but was rejected at his Army induction examination. The doctors found a crack in his skull that would have made him more susceptible to concussion during artillery fire. It was possible he’d have to make some immediate life and death decision on the battlefield and become disoriented. As bombs were exploding around him, he might have said something like, “Black, no sugar”, forgetting where he was or what he was meant to be doing. It was a concern. As explanation, my father told me that when he was a kid, another kid was swinging him around by the legs for fun and he’d hit his head on a concrete wall. It must have been a solid knock. His younger brother, Hymie, had been in the Air Force and once gave me a little bit of blue tin shaped like a ‘V’ he’d taken off a crashed German aircraft. My dad was envious. 

The reason we moved to Houston from St. Louis (I was only six months old) was for my father’s work. He had wanted to be a cartoonist, but at fourteen, when his mother died, he and his older brother had to support the family. Paul, that was my father’s name, had three siblings. He never knew his father. Paul became an apprentice furrier and eventually took a job at Neiman-Marcus. At the time, they were only in Texas. Neiman’s was a luxury department store, well-known for their Christmas catalogues. They sold Chinese junks, Arabian safaris and one-man submarines. My father worked in the basement, the store’s “Fur Service and Storage Department”. For thirty-five years he made coats out of mink, fox, chinchilla, ermine, sable and other animals. On occasions when I visited him at work, I liked to walk down the aisles of the air-conditioned storage vault, eyes closed, and let the fur brush my face. He was good at what he did, a perfectionist, and fielded questions from furriers all over the world. Paul had a stocky build, bald on top with dark sidewalls. Once when someone called attention to it, my father replied, “Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street.” Good answer, but the reply was better. “It doesn’t grow on concrete either.” When not at work, my father dressed in a flamboyant way he called style. It wasn’t unusual to see him in plaid pants, a canary yellow shirt and straw, porkpie hat. When people told me I took after my father, I didn’t like it. I thought my mother was more sophisticated.

Ida, my mother, might have been described as “demure”, but that would have only been a first impression. She was stoic, life bounced off her. Ida was barely five foot tall with dark hair and nice legs (she confided loudly). In her nineties, she told me her proudest moment, apart from her kids, was getting her nose fixed. She had a ‘beaky’ nose. An old photo confirmed this. The other high school kids made fun of her, and she had trouble getting dates. Her mother would have never approved (her father had absconded – “That son of a bitch”), so Ida did it secretly. It wasn’t easy. At the time, aesthetic cosmetic surgery was highly unusual; cosmetic work was done mainly to mend battle scars. She’d finally found a doctor who would fix her nose, but only if she allowed a gallery of medical students to observe. Supine in the theater, semi-conscious, she could hear bones crunching and gasps from the gallery. After the operation was successfully completed and Ida lay in a hospital bed like a sedated, swaddled racoon, my grandmother found her and fainted one step into the recovery room. Ida had two brothers and a younger sister, Rose. Rose was newly married and pregnant when running across the road on a rainy night, she was fatally struck by a car. My mother said Rose came to visit her at the foot of her bed not long after she’d died. She told my mother she was okay and not to worry. 

       Ron(ald), my brother, was three years older. He was slim, wore glasses and a brainiac. Where he could get ‘A’s without breaking a sweat, I thought getting a ‘C’ was cause for celebration. Ron was mean (nicer now, in case he reads this). Occasionally, we would get into physical fights that he would always win because I’d give up. I worried he’d pour battery acid in my ear while I was asleep. He was that mean. When I was being measured for my new Bar Mitzvah suit (the old one made me look like a Jewish Quasimodo), the salesman described me as “Junior Robust”. I didn’t think I was fat, but my brother never missed an opportunity to bring up the “Junior Robust” description given the opportunity. Ironically, years later he joined The Peace Corps. 

*

In today’s world, my father might have been diagnosed with a combination of ADHD and OCD. Sundays were “Project Days”; that’s what I called them. They would start after breakfast (bagels and lox) and last until evening. It meant instead of playing baseball with neighborhood kids I was required to do chores around the house. I pulled weeds, swept the patio, mowed the lawn or held a flashlight while my father, head buried under the hood of our decrepit Plymouth station wagon, changed the oil, tightened the fanbelt, vacuumed the air filter, etc. He was niggled by imperfection. He liked to remind me, “Ninety-nine percent is not one hundred percent. Never be satisfied, you can always do better.” I was constantly criticized for being immature (a description I cling to in old age). 

One Sunday, my father entered the house less than one hundred percent happy. Our den/dining room was separated from the kitchen by a waist-high counter. Paul, in sweaty t-shirt, stood in the den addressing my mother folding laundry at the dining table. Apparently, our new neighbors had not fully mowed their share of the lawn separating our houses. There was a vague line of demarcation.

“It’s a health hazard,” Paul told Ida. He pulled a pack of menthol cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, sucking in the smoke. He was a two pack, forty-cigarettes-a-day smoker. “And a discourtesy,” he went on. “It encourages bugs and rats.” 

“You should talk to them about it,” Ida said reasonably, half listening.

He wasn’t into conversing with strangers. He preferred muttering angrily as he mowed. “It’s just something people should know.” 

“Maybe they don’t know. Talk to them.” 

“I cut it this time, but next time there’s going to be trouble.”

“Yes, trouble, that’s what we need.” She was used to hearing these rants.

We hadn’t met our new neighbors; they were renters in a long line of renters.

*

One evening, Joe Saladino, a weaselly guy who was always beard-stubbled, dropped in for a visit. He lived a few houses down, on the opposite side of the street. My family liked his family. Joe was a bricklayer and probably a war veteran. His daughter, Carrie, and I played “doctor”, checking out each other’s nether regions, in our toolshed. 

“I saw them kissing.” He wasn’t talking about Carrie and I, we never kissed. The three adults were drinking coffee and smoking at the dining table. My mother smoked one cigarette a day after dinner. I was lying on the floor watching “The Rifleman” on TV.  The end of the show marked my bedtime. Ron was in his room leisure-reading the history of calculus.

“So, they could be sisters,” my mother teased, suspecting, hoping that wasn’t the answer. Nothing of much interest ever happened in our neighborhood. Miss McGuire, the cat lady, once set herself on fire, but that was accidental.

Joe’s smile widened. “It didn’t look like that.” He glanced toward me to see if I was listening. My eyes were fixed on the TV. “They kissed on the lips.”

My mother lowered her voice, “You think they’re lesbians?” 

“One of them has a lot of tools,” Joe elaborated.

“But not the one that matters,” my father joked. 

The men laughed. I didn’t get it. I thought “lesbians” sounded like they might be aliens from another planet, the name had that ring about it. I was very interested in outer-space and aliens. After the Russians sent Laika, a homeless dog, into orbit around the Earth, President Kennedy gave a speech about going to the moon. He said, “…it will not be one man going to the moon—if we make this judgment affirmatively, it will be an entire nation.” To me, that sounded like enough spaceships for everyone. 

When I had a chance, she was ironing, I asked my mother, “By the way, what’s a lesbian?” 

She didn’t pause in her work. “Women who like women more than men. I might become one.” They weren’t from another planet.

*

I dreamt of being a major league baseball star. I would bat my wiffle ball (hollow hard plastic full of holes) around the backyard. With bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth inning, and two strikes, I took a mighty swing, and my ball sailed over the wooden-slatted fence that separated us from the lesbians. I only had the one ball.

My mother might have been in the kitchen, my father was still at work. I didn’t bother with permission. There was a pick-up truck in the driveway, full of tools. I knocked on the door. A large, bulky blond woman over six feet tall answered. Her hair was cut short. She might have just finished work; dressed in worn, oil-stained jeans and long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t speak, just stared down at me, waiting. 

“I hit my ball in your backyard. Can I get it?”

Another woman, slim, not quite as tall, came up from behind the one blocking the door. She was wearing a dress and had shoulder-length dark hair. 

“You live in the next house?” she asked. She had an accent.

“Yeah, from over there.” I pointed. 

The second woman said something to the first one in another language. Not Spanish, I knew that much, and the bigger woman moved out of the way.

“Come in,” the dark-haired woman said. “I have just made butter cookies.”

I’d read Hansel and Gretel and knew the pitfalls of entering a stranger’s house for sweets, but I only had the one wiffle ball.

Once inside, the large woman spoke to me for the first time. “You went to the space center?”

I’d forgotten I was wearing my NASA t-shirt. “I went on a field trip.”

“Hege wishes to be an astronaut,” the dark-haired woman said with a smile. Hege was the big woman.

“Me, too. I want to go to the moon if I don’t get a baseball contract.” In fact, Baby Ray (his father’s name was Ray) had sold me a discounted ticket to the moon. It was a small scrap of paper with careful fifth grade lettering, ‘Ticket to moon 25¢’.

“My name is Anita,” the smaller one said, “and this is Hege. We’re from Norway.”

“I’m Marc.” They couldn’t see it, but the ‘c’ was my parents attempt to make me special. “I’ve always lived in Texas.”

“Sometimes I hear you speaking a different language.” Hege said.

“Oh, yeah. I’m practicing my Hebrew prayers. I’m getting Bar Mitzvahed soon.” In case there was any confusion, I clarified, “It’s a Jewish thing.”

“What are your prayers for?” Hege asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just have to learn them. Then I become a man.” It sounded like witchcraft, like someone would wave a magic wand. I’d been taking Hebrew lessons for over a year, two times a week and still didn’t know what I was saying. I was a parrot.

“You want to become a man?” Hege asked, cracking a smile.

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

They were amused. “You want a Norwegian cookie?” Anita asked.

“Sure.” I wanted to be polite. 

Each of the cookies had an almond pressed into the top. The Norwegians invited me to sit down, and I found out Hege worked at the Port Houston Shipyards and Anita was a sales assistant at a local sporting goods’ store. When there was a lull in the conversation and I was pretty sure we were friends, I told them, “My father thinks you’re lesbians.” Discretion was still a foreign concept.

The two women looked at each other, then Anita asked, “Why does he think that?”

“Hege has a lot of tools.”

There was a hiccup of silence before they burst out laughing. Once again, I didn’t get the joke.

Over the next month, I made regular visits but kept them to myself. I was pretty sure my parents wouldn’t approve. Sometimes I threw my ball over the fence just for an excuse. Once when Hege was still at work, Anita picked up a small, framed photo and showed it to me. She was ice-skating on a frozen lake. Anita was caught in a spin, her skirt flaring out. She told me Norway had beautiful mountains, waterfalls and fjords, expecting me to know what those were. She missed home. I liked that Anita treated me like an adult, even asking my advice about certain words she didn’t understand – “groovy”, “far-out”, “bummer”. 

*

Joe stopped by. He saw me and asked, “So, what are they like?” He kept his curtains parted.

I shrugged, with no doubt who he was talking about. 

“Who?” My father returned from the kitchen with a couple of beers.

“Your son’s been visiting the lesbians.” 

My dad turned to me. “What are you doing over there?”

“I hit my ball over the fence. They’re nice. They’re from Norway.”

Joe said, “They didn’t seem like Americans.” Joe was patriotic.

“Hege wants to go to the moon.” I thought we were all on the same page.

“Lesbians on the moon, that’s all we need,” Joe said.

My father was focused on me, pointing his finger at my chest. “Don’t hit your ball over the fence.” 

“But…”

“No ‘buts’. I don’t want you going over there.” 

I couldn’t be sure if he was still holding a grudge about the lawn between our houses or because he didn’t like Norwegian lesbians. 

*

I was in the backyard, once more walking in circles, practicing Hebrew prayers I didn’t understand, when I heard Hege and Anita talking on the other side of the fence. I wanted to explain why I hadn’t been over lately, but when I looked between the wooden slats of the fence, I saw them lying on the grass sunbaking, face-up, naked. Hege had a jungle of hair between her legs and under her arms. She also had a rose tattoo on her right shoulder. Terrestrial women didn’t have tattoos back then. 

*

The big day finally came. My parents had invited everyone they knew – people from my father’s work, relatives and neighbors. I hadn’t memorized my prayers properly, panic-skipping from one to the other out of order (the first Talmudic hip-hop). The older men in the congregation, bushy grey eyebrows twitching, shook their heads in disbelief. Fortunately, neither of my parents or their friends understood Hebrew, and my brother wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, it was finally over. While the Bar Mitzvah service was nerve-wracking, there was a reception with food and drinks afterward. A separate table was for gifts. After my brother’s Bar Mitzvah, he received a new telescope (he wouldn’t let me use), money and books. I was expecting more, since I was more popular. Everyone mingling with my parents, eating and drinking, told them how wonderful the service was, people I barely knew. Even the Rabbi shook my parents’ hands, grateful to be rid of me.

A quiet stir entered the room. It wasn’t exactly like the parting of the Red Sea, more like a Viking longship cutting through the waves. “They came,” I told my parents.

“Who?” He looked up to see them.

“The lesbians,” I announced. They were both smiling at me as they approached. 

“Why are they here?” my father asked.

“I invited them.” Hege was wearing a dark suit and tie, while Anita dressed in a white blouse and dark skirt. They’d made an effort. I could see my father becoming uneasy as they got closer and loomed larger. I was hoping he wouldn’t complain about the lawn. The Norwegians were a head taller than pretty much everyone. I introduced them, “This is Hege and Anita.” 

My mother stuck out her hand. “I’m Ida and this is Paul. Thank you for coming.”

My father shook their hands. “What did you think?” he asked, struggling to be polite.

Anita answered. “It was my first Bar Mitzvah. Thanks for inviting us. I think Marc did a good job. We hear him practicing.”

“We’re very proud of him,” my mother replied. “Please help yourselves to food and drinks.”

They were looking at the table with a pile of wrapped gifts; mostly suit ties in clear plastic boxes, books for college and a telescope. “We got you something.” Hege held out a cylinder-shaped, gift-wrapped package. They’d found wrapping paper with Hebrew on it.  “Anita thought you would like this.”

I took it. “Can I open it?” 

Hege and Anita looked at my parents for approval and my father nodded cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Congregants were moving in for a closer look. As I ripped open the paper, I could see a package of three wiffle balls. “This is so great! Thank you,” I told them.

My father found his voice. “I’m sorry he’s been disturbing you.”

“He’s a nice…” looking at me, “man.” Anita smiled. “We like to be good neighbors.” 

Hege surveyed the crowd from her superior vantage point, then let her eyes fix on my father. “We have to go now, but if you ever need any tools, I have many.”

*

I was still in bed, trying to shorten Project Day, when I heard familiar voices outside. Looking out the window, I saw Hege and my father standing beside the Plymouth, its hood raised. My father said something, and they both laughed like friends. I dressed and went outside to see what was going on. By the time I got to the car, Joe had joined the group, and my father was introducing them. I stood beside them as they talked about the carburettor and getting the air and fuel balance right. I wasn’t sure if they knew I was there. My father offered Hege a cigarette from his pack.

“She doesn’t smoke,” I said, but then Hege took one and my father lit it. They bent over the engine.

My father turned to me. “Go get the flashlight.”

*

I’d quit going next door. Then, one day, when I got home from school, my head in the fridge, my mother let me know, “Your friends left today”.

“Who?”

“The Norwegians. They said to tell you, ‘Goodbye’ and left those.” She pointed to a paper plate on the counter – Norwegian butter cookies.