The Five Books of [Abraham] Moses

BUT FIRST: SEDUCTION I didn’t date in my freshman year at Yeshiva College. Hormones flying. Sex on the mind. Pulsations all over. I didn’t date. The guys talked about their trysts, lasciviously, heated-ly. Were exploits true or false, imaginary, wishful thinking, it didn’t matter. The guys were go-ing out. A chance to be with a warm, curvaceous, succulent woman. I was a campus recluse. The dorm and study halls were my playgrounds. It was no problem during the school week. There were others bookworms who shared my space and disposi-tion. That was not the case on Saturday nights. The campus was virtually deserted. With the exception of security personnel, no one was around. Where had all the guys gone? They were on the prowl, cherchez la femme. It was embarrassing to be seen just hanging out, while the tongues of my schoolmates were hanging-out in anticipation. The showers were jammed, shortly after Shabbos. Guys pushed and shoved to get a spritz here, a spritz there. Not too much. Just enough to get by. Dry off, shave, clean suit, shirt and tie, check shoes; a satisfied look in the mirror and off they went. I joined in the frenzy and feigned exhilaration. Kibbitzed with the lot. Rushed to my room, post-spritz. My towel billowed behind me as I hustled down the hallway. I dressed as if for a date. Enviously, I hid out in the security of my locked Mann cave until the girl-hungry masses left. When the coast was clear, I slithered away to the movie theater on the corner of Broad-way and 181st street; my Saturday night haven. Most of the time, I managed to avoid guys on the prowl. Occasionally, my ruse was un-covered by other date-deprived-denizens of the dorm, guys who shared my social oblivion. A few months of that kind of Saturday night, I had enough. I decided to do what I really didn’t want to do; swallow my pride, suck it up, stow my concerns and ask for help. * There was a guy, a chemistry major, whom I felt that I could trust. Ephy was an honor-able chap. I could talk with him. He would hold my confidence and not think me a schmuck. I feared that anyone else would jump for the opportunity to hear my plight; then gossip ad nau-seam. Make me the butt of his jokes. Humiliate the hell out of me. I sought my guy out and re-vealed my soul. I wanted to date. Fix me up; tall, short, blond, brunette, observant, secular it made no difference. I wanted to be with a girl. What a mistake. Ephy listened empathetically, then tore into me, and I mean tore. Effusively he admonished, “Freshmen don’t date.” It was a foolish and stupid, insane to get emotionally involved in one’s first year of college. You don’t need distractions; date and mate can wait. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. In the freshman year, keep your head in the books. Eyes on your notes. Ears on the professors’ voices. Work is the operative word, not wine, women or whatever. There’ll be a surfeit of time for adventure with the opposite sex. Enough, already. Ephy didn’t let up. College was very competitive. I would be judged not on my dating “scores” but on my exam scores; study, study, study. An industrious work ethic would garner the favor of my in-structors. He was fierce. He was persuasive. I toed the line. I stayed emotionally and physically put, straying nary an inch off the hallowed scholarship’s “yellow brick road.” I tempered my enthusiasm. With Saturday night fever under control, post Shabbos hours became just another night in the week, dedicated to study and more study. There was one bright side to my ascetic, mo-nastic lifestyle. I built a reputation. I was a no nonsense student, the go-to guy when you need-ed to know. A fount of knowledge, the answer man. Jews are often venerated as the People of the Book. I was known as the Mann of the Book. * The freshman year at YU was thankfully drawing to a close. I took stock of my academic achievements and remembered Ephy’s remonstrations months earlier. He had been cor-rect; work hard, stay the course, reap the rewards and I had. I made Dean’s List. I was respect-ed by my classmates and a recognizable name to my professors. Ephy was a nice guy. Perfidy! One day in May I heard and what I heard blew my mind. Ephy had gotten en-gaged. That (expletive) freshman chemistry-major had punishingly blasted me months earlier. Fire for affect. Don’t date. Don’t joust with fate. It was books for now. I would find my mate later on. He, my drill sergeant, had been secretly dating his entire freshman year. No wonder Ephy was never around on Saturday nights. I assumed that he had a favorite nook, a secret cave, a hiding place; out of sight, out of mind. He could read and think, write and type undis-turbed. Jerk that I was. I spent the next three years at YU razzing Ephy, reminding him of his duplicity. I laughed, reminiscing about the whole affair, but it wasn’t laughable at the time. I can say this about him. He was a darn good actor. Could keep a secret. Mixed a potent psychological brew. Ephy is an accomplished chemist today. I think that he could have made an even more ac-complished conman. * It was September, the fall semester of my sophomore year. Shortly into the year, I received a phone call from an uncle, one of my mother’s four brothers. He had friends who were parents of a very attractive woman. Would you like to meet her? I jumped at the opportunity to date. Arrangements were made. Ask around, is an inviolate dating principle. You don’t make a date without due diligence. You don’t want to make a regrettable, beat yourself up mistake. You were warned. I was aware of the mantra but my uncle was the shadchan (Yiddish), matchmaker. Surely I could trust my uncle. What could be bad? (The classic Jewish attitude when faced with the un-known.) I called. “This is Diane.” The conversation was easy and pleasant; no slip-ups, no mistakes. The congenial banter segued into the three Ws, what, when and where; all was set. “Looking for-ward to meeting you” and the complementary response, “It’ll be my pleasure as well.” The phone call ended. I was charged up. A date at last. I took the subway to the Lower East Side. It was a short walk from the station to the Manhattan neighborhood where Diane resided. The area owned a unique, distinctive name, Al-phabet City. The enclave was comprised of four avenues; A, B, C, D. They were the only streets in Manhattan to sport single letter names. I was nervous as I paced my way to Diane’s address. Reaction of an ingénue anticipating his first date? Yes, to some degree but only a minor player. The surroundings raced my pulse. Alphabet City did not have a good reputation; roving gangs, turf-wars, intimidation and mugging were common. And, then it had its bad points. My steps were casual but cautious. Eyes forward but peripherally surveying the surroundings; shoulders back, head up, stay alert. Security level? High. I was dressed to the nines and attracted the attention of the locals; both the women and the men. I didn’t know how to respond to the whistles, catcalls and hoo-hahs. Smile? Well, maybe not. Just ignore? Not a good idea either. Too good for us white boy? Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact, my friends at YU had warned. Never make eye contact. Great. Every-one told me what not to do. No one told me what to do. I decided to go with a friendly, non-provocative wave of the hand. That too was fraught with danger. I executed the move nervous-ly. Heaven forefend a misconstrued gesture. A misaligned middle finger might be read as a classic “Bronx Cheer.” Tempting yes, prudent no. Perspiration ran down the nape of his neck. I walked controlled but with gasped breaths. Did I really need this tension? What a way to begin a date. Heart racing, I approached the stoop to Diane’s home. “Thank God,” I whispered. There are no atheists in a foxhole. I arrived at Diane’s apartment house exactly on-time. It was 6:30 pm.