TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 162

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 25, 2000000007


Dear friends of the arts,

	Thank you for all the congratulations for 
Feyna's finding a job.  I will tell her that she 
has some people rooting for her.  You folks 
always come through.

	Yesterday, I accompanied Feyna and her 
inseparable friend, Alex, to some clothing stores 
in the city (San Francisco) to buy her some 
business outfits for her new job.  I was blown 
away, not by the size and busyness of the stores, 
but by the music they were piping in to them.  It 
shook the building.  Honest.  And it was lousy 
music too.  Can it be that there is a direct 
correlation between how loud the music is played 
and how bad the music is?  I think I've got 
something here.

	We got her two blouses and two pairs of 
fentsy slacks, one pin stripe and one flat black. 
She looked very tailored in it all.  Then we hit 
the shoe department at Macy's.  It was huge! 
Covered an entire floor.  My mother tells me that 
Macy's used to have a separate entrance for the 
shoe store.  It was all organized by 
manufacturer, and it was all so extreme: the 
pointy arrow shaped toes and the stiletto heels. 
I told her I would not buy her anything that she 
could not run in.  She agreed.  She has no desire 
to wear those high high heels, but there wasn't 
much choice.  We couldn't see anything 
reasonable, and I thought we should try to get 
some help from some friendly salesperson.  I 
approached this man who was standing among the 
chairs where people were trying shoes on.  I 
explained that my daughter had found herself a 
job, and we needed some good sensible shoes, 
because she might be walking a bit.  So no heels, 
please.  I thought he'd smile and say, I have 
just the shoes for her.  But he kept this 
disinterested expression on his face and pointed 
behind him.  "You could try that maker, or over 
behind you, there's that one."  Then he returned 
to his vigilant stance.  Has the practise of 
having a shoe salesperson help you with the 
selection of shoes come to an end?  Has civility 
come to an end?  His attitude gave me the creeps. 
We left.




                             


































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Courting Style of Bernie Lustgarten


	I met Bernie Lustgarten, my second 
husband, at a meeting of a networking 
organization called, "Stebbins & Gold".  My 
publicist recommended I join them to get clients 
for handwriting analysis and any other thing I 
might like to publicize.  So I signed up with 
them.  I don't remember if there was a membership 
fee.  This was 1982 and networking was all the 
rage: know people who know people who, in turn, 
know people who may know people who may help you. 
And then, in return, I might know someone who 
knows someone who, in turn, knows someone who 
might know someone who may help them.  It was 
like pitching the wild tangential.  You could get 
anywhere from here if you reached out to a single 
other human because all human beings have 
connections.

	The first meeting I went to was a dinner. 
There were two long tables set up elegantly for 
supper.  At the head of the two tables and 
between them, was a podium and microphone where 
people could stand and deliver their addresses, 
announce their needs and offer their help.  I 
arrived early, because that is what I do.  I was, 
therefore, present when the steering committee of 
Stebbins & Gold were doing their last minute 
preparations for the evening.  There were about 
three of them and they were discussing the order 
of the meeting.

	"First, we'll all mingle and have hors d'oeuvres."

	"Yes, and then who wants to call everyone to the table for dinner?"

	"We should  go around the table 
clockwise, and everybody gets a turn at the 
microphone."

	"Who's going to introduce the concept?"

	"I'll do that," said the guy in the dark 
blue vest.  "Then what do we do to close?"

	"How about we all join hands."

	"Yes, and we can suggest they all feel 
the power and energy passing between from hand to 
hand."

	"Yes.  Who locks up?"

	I felt like I didn't want to hear that. 
It sounded so hokey.  "Feel the power and energy 
passing from hand to hand."  This was last minute 
stuff.  We were networking as a religious 
ceremony.  Praise be the network!  I moseyed on 
over to the hors d'oeuvres table and swiped a few 
raw vegetables, dunked them in the blue cheese 
dip in the purple cabbage bowl.  While I was 
experimenting with the crudites, Bernie came up 
beside me and made some comment about the 
appetizers.  I think I agreed with him.  This was 
our first accord.  We were all called to the 
tables to take our seats, and Bernie followed me, 
sat next to me without asking permission.  One of 
the ringleaders stood up to the microphone and 
welcomed everyone warmly.  He announced the 
procedure.  Everyone would get a three minute 
stint at the podium.  We were to introduce 
ourselves and tell everyone what we did, what we 
had to offer and what we were hoping to find at 
the gathering.  We would start at the head of 
this table and work our way clockwise around the 
room.

	"Please eat your dinners and enjoy yourselves."

	This is all like a dream now.  One 
cockeyed meeting became the hinge to the second 
marriage.  As they worked their way down the 
table, I rehearsed what I would say.

	"Hello.  My name is, 'your handwriting 
analyst'.  I am also an artist, a writer, a 
composer, a cellist and a chef."  That shouldn't 
be too obnoxious.  I admit that I didn't expect 
much from the meeting.  I was there because 
Bonnie Weiss told me to go, and I was pleasing 
her.  Maybe there was an outside chance that 
someone there would want to get her handwriting 
analyzed.  They brought the salad.  It was 
Bernie's turn.  He walked to the podium, leaned 
over into the mike and a bashful, humourous voice 
was delivered to all our ears.

	"Hi.  My name is Bernie Lustgarten.  I'm 
a photographer."  He described his experience 
with professional photography, emphasizing that 
he was not in this for the weddings and Bar 
Mitzvas, but for the art.  He did art.  He 
started to back away from the microphone, but 
came back.

	"Oh, and I'm falling in love with the woman sitting next to me."

	I took a look at the woman sitting on the 
other side of his place setting.  She looked like 
a suburban cupie.  Her nails were perfect.  Her 
hair was perfect.  Not a thread was out of place, 
and she was seated next to her husband.  I nixed 
her as the object of Bernie's affections.  That 
left me.

	He returned to his seat, put his napkin 
in his lap and attended to his meal.

	"Do you want to talk about this?" I 
asked, putting down my utensils and facing him.

	"How about we talk about it over dinner tomorrow night?"

	His approach floored me.  I'd never been 
treated to so enthusiastic a charge.  "How about 
we both go home, get some sleep, and you think 
about it so we can be sure this isn't just a 
glass of wine talking."

	We exchanged phone numbers.  Then I got up for my turn at the mike.



                             


































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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net