I grew up in the protective cocoon of Northeast Philadelphia - mostly white, mostly Jewish, mostly middle class. Aside from a few family vacations to Atlantic City and a trip to Florida with some friends, I rarely ventured south of Cottman Avenue. My whole existence remained within the confines of a six-mile radius. It was a skewed reality that I didn't realize was skewed until I graduated from high school.
Once I left the Philadelphia Public School System, I was on my own. I chose to attend the small, but respected, Hussian School of Art in center city Philadelphia. The thought of me following my childhood dream of becoming a professional artist didn't exactly thrill my father. So, I had to pay my own tuition (which meant obtaining student loans on my own). I had to find my own transportation to school. Since I didn't own my own car, I opted for public transportation and was expected to pay for same. After my first solo ride on the subway, I found the world outside of the so-called "Great Northeast," was an adventure. I saw people of all shapes, ages, colors and races, some that I had been shielded from in my previously-sheltered life. At art school, I instantly became classmates with a wide variety of young men and women from a full range of backgrounds. There were hippie holdovers, mohawked punks, other-worldly New Wave disciples, flannel-clad greasers (whose style, in another decade, would be called "grunge") and Madonna-wannabes. I did my best to fit in with the mix of personalities and I succeeded, for the most part.
The school was tiny, with a student body of just over 300. Graduates were awarded an Associates Degree*, despite the course of study requiring four years. The catch (read: benefit) was there were no academic subjects offered. No math, no science - it was a dream come true... ask any artist. And because of the school's small size, upperclassmen mingled freely with lowerclassmen. We were one big, happy, eccentric bunch.
A week or so into my freshman year, a girl named Debbie took an unprovoked interest in me. She was tall, blond and four years my senior (my brother's age). She was not particularly attractive, but compared to the Semitic sameness of all the girls I knew from twelve years of public school, she was compelling. Plus, the fact that she was the same age as my brother... well, the possibility of pissing him off was irresistible. Oh, and when she wasn't sitting in class at art school, she was a go-go dancer. That pissed my brother off even more.
Debbie was — shall we say "aggressive" — and wasted no time. She invited me to spend a weekend at her apartment. Alone. For three days. For a naïve nineteen-year-old, this was the stuff you only read about in Penthouse Forum. We always thought those stories were made up, but here it was happening to me. In my elation, I managed to spit out a "Sure!" over my tied tongue. She gave me instructions for the train to her house and folded a single key into my palm. I anticipated the argument with my parents about my (Debbie's) plans, but it didn't really matter, because my mind was made up. I was not spending this weekend at home. My mother was not pleased. Not pleased at all. She was even less pleased when I didn't phone for three days. (This predates my first cellphone by quite a few years.)
When Monday morning arrived, I took the train into Philadelphia with Debbie. I went through the day at school in a fog, as I had just experienced a weekend with out much sleep. At the day's end, I took the subway home. When I wearily shuffled through my front door, my mother greeted me with a stern "Where have you been?," which she delivered through clenched teeth and a long pause between each word. My mom was not someone to be messed with. She didn't have time for anybody's bullshit and this little episode fell squarely into the Mom Pincus "Bullshit" category. We exchanged words, although her word output was nearly triple mine. When my father got home from work, dinner was nearly silent. My parents were angry and (speaking now as a parent myself) they had every right to be. When you're a nineteen-year-old boy, you don't think about things like responsibility and accountability. Nineteen-year-old boys mostly think with their penises and penises don't have much capacity for deep or rational thought.
Things eventually calmed down at the Pincus house. My parents realized that their little Josh was growing up and, although they had a difficult time with it, I spent several more weekends with Debbie.
One day, Debbie asked to come to my house. WHAT?, I thought, MY HOUSE? YOU? AT MY HOUSE? MY MOM MIGHT SEE YOU! I dispatched every possible excuse I could come up with, but Debbie wasn't buying. She insisted and was relentless about it. I told her I'd discuss it with my parents (a very childish thing to say, I felt). I explained that I couldn't possibly come and pick her up, that she'd have to find her own way to my house.I thought that would be the clincher, but no — she agreed to take the train, the subway and two buses. When I got home, I broke the news to my mother. My mom, used to the nice, manner-conscious girls I dated in high school, thought nothing of the request. Next Sunday, Debbie would come to my house. This was not gonna be good.
My mother was the manager of a women's discount clothing store. She was a hard worker and she often logged sixty hours in an average week. She relished her days off. Debbie chose one of my mother's precious days off to pay a visit. I got an early morning call from Debbie saying that she was leaving her house. I sweat bullets from the time I hung up the phone until I answered the knock on my front door nearly three hours later. There was Debbie — in all her tight-skirted, see-thru top skankiness — right there in my living room. The living room where I had my fourth birthday party. The living room where, every year, my mom set up a large aluminum folding table to accommodate extra guests for Thanksgiving dinner. I knew that allowing this slut to breach the sanctity of my home was an exercise in poor judgement. The poorest.
My mother entered the living room, smiling, in her fluffy pink bathrobe. It was her day off. She was going to be comfortable after sixty plus hours on her feet dealing with bargain-hungry customers. My mom extended her hand as I introduced Debbie to her.
Debbie parted her painted red lips and asked my mother, "It's nearly one in the afternoon. Aren't you going to get dressed today?"
Time froze. I cringed.
My mother, in pure Mom Pincus fashion, coolly replied, "I worked all week. Today is my day off. I will get dressed whenever the fuck I feel like getting dressed." Then, my mom cocked a beckoning finger at me and, through those familiar gritted teeth, asked me to join her for "a word" in the kitchen. We excused ourselves. The "word" my mom had for me was "I don't like her very much."
I spent the next weekend at Debbie's apartment. It would be the last time. Debbie received a letter which she didn't really try to hide from me. She left it out and open on her kitchen table. It was from her boyfriend. He wrote how he missed her and they would be together soon. Debbie never invited me back to her place again. In school, she barely talked to me. I realized that she was just biding her time with me until her boyfriend returned from where ever. I had been used.
But, it was a blessing in disguise. A short time later, I met the future Mrs. Pincus.
Where is Debbie now? Who cares.
*In thirty years, no employer has ever asked to see my diploma.
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