Life Is Not a Stage (17 page)

CHAPTER 14

Detours and Other Digressions

N
o one ever promised that the path was going to be straight and narrow. Sharp curves, detours, and U-turns made things quite adventuresome out on the road during this time of self-awakening. Call it a case of arrested development, immaturity, or a delayed onslaught of teenage rebellion, because in many ways that isn’t a stretch.

Deferred for all those years were all the things that young people normally should be experiencing as a rite of passage upon leaving the nest. Branching out and trying different things…Going to college…Having a relationship or two that didn’t work out…Experimenting…With the exception of studying that single year at the American Academy, I had leapfrogged headlong from adolescence to adulthood.

As described, there was one side of me that was having the time of my life doing the nightclub tour. But the other side was engrossed in dealing with a real Pandora’s box. I was trying to solve all of the things that were going on inside of me that were suddenly freed from the repressed depths. There wasn’t the luxury of cherry-picking the issue of the week to focus on. Everything seemed to come up at once, demanding urgent attention like a chorus of crying babies.

There was no depression to smother these feelings as in the past, and the devil and all his threats could go bother someone else for all I cared. Instead, when matters got too intense during this period, I called on that old family friend, alcohol, to help quiet things down. After all, that was how I was raised. If you had trouble, how did you cope? Open the bottle. I can’t say that I was happy about my consumption, and Ira was none too thrilled about it either. Thank God that particular crutch to help keep me on the horse was cast aside.

The liquor flowed freely, and often in the culture of the nightclub circuit was the steadfast companion of many a performer. It wasn’t a good thing for any of them either, with one possible exception—George Burns. Based on the results, those untold thousands of cocktails and fine cigars probably did a lot more good than harm if you live for a century and have a brilliant career in the process. For years, George had a set routine that the first thing waiting for him when he got off the stage was a double gin martini, one of at least four he imbibed each day. I’m sure it also put him in a good mood. Over the years, whenever I appeared with him on TV or onstage, he never failed to be good-natured and very gracious, especially to all those who came backstage after the shows to visit with him. I was the last performer to work with him in Las Vegas, which happened to be on his ninety-eighth birthday, although he fulfilled his promise that he would live to be a hundred. His famous joke was that he couldn’t die before then because he was booked.

For me, however, the alcohol was really just the opening act, warming things up for the main attraction: The Affair. In the twenty-first century, celebrity love affairs and infidelities barely raise an eyebrow, and those who end up staying in a marriage for twenty, thirty, or fifty years are considered almost a freaky curiosity. But for a toe-the-line Catholic in the middle of the twentieth century, “till death do us part” was a serious vow, a one-way ticket. Of course, for those trapped in very unhappy situations, the death part took on a truly long and protracted meaning. Lovelessness, neglect, and abuse can be lethal in the long run. Plan B was resignation to the conditions as they were, another form of death by a thousand cuts, slowly but surely shriveling up, stressed out and diseased. Plan B also offered the optional route of checking out with drugs, alcohol, food, gambling, and other addictions.

I was certainly a prime candidate for Plan B. As gut-wrenching as it was to go against my long-held beliefs and have an affair, so was making the decision to write about it in this book. There was no way that I could truthfully tell my story without disclosing it, since it is at the top of the list of life-changing moments. Before signing the contract, I thought deeply about my ex-husband, whom I still love dearly and cherish as a lifelong friend. We were fortunate to move on over the years with forgiveness and acceptance of personal responsibility. We found a way to stay close and connected despite going our separate ways. I didn’t want to do anything now that would jeopardize this. Nor did I want to be a part of anything that might be construed as making myself look good at his expense or in any way pointing a finger of blame.

I thought also of my children, now all adults with families of their own. One of my sons even took me aside because he was understandably concerned about just how graphic I was going to be in talking about this period of my life.

In the end, the same answer applies to my ex-husband, my children, and the prospective reader. The ultimate love I can share is to offer up my experiences, warts and all, with the intention that it will in some way be helpful to others. For my family, would it have ultimately served them well had I followed the likely pathway of Plan B? Or will they read these pages and view their mother and grandmother as someone who made hard choices (and often mistakes), but modeled for them in her actions something helpful in the final tally? If I am honest and forthright in telling how I dealt with my problems instead of sweeping everything under the carpet, maybe they will avoid the possibility of carrying on the family legacy of riding galloping horses. For Ira, I hope that he will see a more enlightened purpose behind the retelling of what happened between us and not some ridiculous attempt to settle old scores. I hope it will be an inspiration to all of those who are out there today struggling to forgive each other and themselves. As difficult as it was at times, it worked out well in the end for both of us. Ira is happily married to a lovely woman who is a friend to my children and me.

The affair was with a man who was one of my musicians. I think he was in the same place as I was in his marriage. There was enormous chemistry between us, and we were crazy about each other. It is a gross understatement to say that I was in conflict about the whole thing. I didn’t know where in the hell I was, or what I was thinking. Everything was turned upside down. But there was one thing for sure: I was ready. I felt I wanted to seize the opportunity. Who knew if it would ever come again?

When people step outside, there’s usually a good reason for it. If you are in a union that is functioning well from both a spiritual and a physical standpoint, you are going to think twice about violating that. I enjoyed sex with Ira, but the stress over the whole family planning issue, as mentioned before, was a heavy burden to overcome. That healthy sexual desire and drive hardwired into all humans that can be a continuous source of joy and rejuvenation was not working in our relationship. Instead, we grew accustomed to the static, low-grade tension to the point where the dysfunction was tolerated as normal.

I told him once, “Ira, I know you love me, but I don’t think you like me very much.” He was by nature not the jealous type, but given the emotional constraints of his childhood, I think he resented my freedom and my persona. I often felt he would have been happier had he married a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn. I, on the other hand, brought my own special baggage to the mix. The expectations I had about romance and happiness were unrealistic and naïve in so many ways, a tangible by-product of my upbringing that also put strain on the relationship. All those newspaper and magazine articles about being the perfect wife and mother in the perfect home were not a public relations exercise but something I deeply believed. It was like that concept that if you repeat something enough times, it can turn an illusion into a perception that you start to believe and regard as fact.

The affair with the musician ended after several months. He didn’t want to leave his wife, and I didn’t want to risk losing my children. Ira found out about it, which I probably wanted him to do, and needless to say, he was very upset about it. I told him, “It’s not that I don’t love you. I will always love you. It was something I had to do.” I am sure there was a part of Ira that was equally frustrated, but whether or not he ever went outside the marriage, I don’t know. I never asked him. After the initial trauma subsided, the matter seemed to fade into the woodwork on his part. There were attempts to heal the rift. We tried. He tried. I even delicately bought a few books to try to spice things up.

I would like to be able to make it a nice and tidy story and say that when the affair was over it was also the end of my infidelity. But that was not to be the case. None of the affairs were really meaningful and all were short-lived. I guess I had to give it a little more research to be able to say with conviction that sex for the sake of sex did not prove very satisfying for me. One of the incidents in particular demonstrated convincingly that it wasn’t the kind of life I wanted.

PARENTAL ADVISORY: To my son or anybody else potentially allergic to TMI (too much information), please stop here and skip over these next few pages. I will indicate with a row of asterisks when it is safe to resume reading.

I had alluded earlier that the much-ballyhooed kiss from John Lindsay at the premiere party for my nightclub act was just a prelude. What I am about to share is the kind of fodder for the tabloid press that I truly wanted to avoid in this book. I can hear and see it now as I go out to do interviews after its publication. I’m on a network morning show. The host says to me, “Florence, I really enjoyed your book. What a great life and wonderful insights you share, blah, blah, blah…But I can’t stop thinking about your one-night stand with the late former New York City mayor John Lindsay. Please tell us more about it!” Sixty seconds later, the host says that they’re sorry they don’t have more time to talk about the rest of the book, about the deeper meaning of life and the profound secrets of happiness I reveal, but how they loved that juicy John Lindsay story!

At the end of the day, I decided to relax my principles and let this story skip by my internal censor despite the future consequences I have just described. One reason is that it is a good cautionary tale for all and a poignant reminder to listen to that little voice called
the intuition
. When it says, “No, this isn’t the right thing for you to be doing right now,” please know that it is usually not blowing smoke. Take heed or that Old Testament form of instant karma will get you, sooner more often than later. In my case, divine providence did not dawdle.

The other reason for sharing it is that I’m still pissed off at him and myself! It may have been over forty years ago, but it seems like yesterday. This story still makes me cringe, so I’ll get right to the point and spare you any unnecessary details.

John and his family were casual friends of ours, and throughout his political life I had made a number of appearances for him at benefits and some campaign events. I was out in Los Angeles, and it so happened that he was as well. He called me and invited me to come along with him to a get-together at the home of movie producer Dan Melnick (who had been married to Richard Rodgers’s daughter). I accepted. After the party, he invited me back to the Beverly Hills Hotel for a drink, just down the street from the rented house on Rodeo Drive where the kids and I were staying at the time.

From here the story gets blurry and crazy. There was no tremendous sexual attraction from my point of view. I didn’t believe in one-night stands and frankly detested the very thought. But he was extremely persuasive. I was lonely. I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. So, what did I do? I did it. I went home later that night.

I woke up the next morning. Something didn’t feel right. I pulled off the sheets and looked down my pajama bottoms, and saw that something didn’t look right either. What in the hell is this? What are these little things? Terrified, I rushed into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh my God, one of the little black things I saw below was crawling on my eyelid! I had no idea what they were, but then suddenly it hit me. I remembered my brothers who had been in the Navy talked about guys going to prostitutes and coming back with the crabs. Oh my God! To this day, I’ve never thoroughly researched crabs. Where in the hell do they come from?!

I got up the courage to call my physician, Dr. Giorgi, and she told me what to go out and buy. I was leaving the next day to go up to San Francisco to open a nightclub engagement at the Fairmont Hotel. When I arrived, there were flowers from John Lindsay and a note of apology. Guess I learned the hard way that crabs do not discriminate but cross over all socioeconomic strata. He must have had quite the active life. What a way to put the kibosh on a relationship.

As promised, here are the asterisks.

********************************************

My philandering days were over not so long after they started. I hated that life. I decided to give it one more try to salvage my marriage with Ira. But deep down, nothing had radically changed, and I still knew that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. From that day forward, I held out the promise that someday, somehow, I would be in love and share my life with someone equally committed to exploring that exciting and sometimes thorny path of personal growth—speed bumps and U-turns included.