MARY DEE
In 1954 I matriculated at U.C. Berkeley. I was sixteen years old and thrilled to be there, even though I had to work my way through. It was a challenge at times, and the jobs I worked and people I met were as educational as my studies.
The first semester I joined a fraternity, but not the one I wished to join, where my four best friends from high school were members. I wasn’t invited, and that came as a huge surprise and nasty shock. I didn’t know for more than twenty years why I was not invited, until one of them told me about the huge fight that occurred within their ranks. It turned out I was refused entry because my mother was Jewish, a reason I had never thought to contemplate, it was so outrageous. Our high school was completely integrated, as were our grammar and junior high schools. Black, white, Asian, Latino, rich, poor, smart, and not-so-smart were all part of the fabric of the California school system, and I had never experienced prejudice. For several months I was broken-hearted, then joined another fraternity simply because they invited me – not because I wanted to be there. Returning very late one night, the house was dark except for a light in the kitchen. I went in to turn off the light, and, to my surprise and delight, there was a beautiful young man, completely naked, mopping the floor.
I excused myself for barging in, however he was totally at ease and said he didn’t mind. I asked him why he was mopping the floor naked, and he responded that it felt good to be naked, and he didn’t expect anyone else to be there. We chatted for awhile, he continued his mopping, told me his name was Bill, and during the next couple of weeks and months, we became friends. It turned out that he didn’t like the fraternity any more than I did, so we both decided to leave gracefully at the end of the term and find an apartment near the campus.
We did, in fact, locate a spacious old apartment on Channing Street, where we remained for the rest of our undergraduate studies. Bill was studying architecture. I was studying French, music, art, and Abnormal Psychology, as any self-respecting gay boy would do, in an attempt to find out why we were different.
Bill was not gay, and it didn’t make any difference in our friendship. We had our own rooms, mutual friends from Berkeley, Stanford, and the California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland. He had his girlfriends, I had a few girlfriends and quite a few boyfriends. It was all open, above-board, and tremendous fun. Bill introduced me to the beauties of architecture, invited me to lectures by Frank Lloyd Wright and Philip Johnson, and I introduced him to classical and baroque music, poetry, fine art, and readings by Marianne Moore.
Our friend Violet Chew, a tall, elegant Chinese woman, was studying with Richard Diebenkorn at Arts and Crafts, and I bought my first oil painting from Violet for a hundred dollars – ten installments of ten dollars each. Then I bought a second, in the same way. About forty years later, it occurred to me I was really stupid for not having bought a Diebenkorn painting, but it seemed beyond my reach at the time.
Meanwhile, I worked at odd jobs while continuing my classes. The University Placement Office maintained a job board, and notices were posted daily for those who needed or wished to work. During my senior year I did painting jobs, yard work, wall-washing, cleaning, musical gigs, and best – or worst – of all, market promotions for Spreckels Sugar Company. The father of one of my former fraternity brothers, a salesman for Spreckels, took a liking to me and thought I was responsible, which, in truth, I was. He engaged me to pick up a vehicle on weekends, take a machine supplied by The Company, and spend full days at Supermarket openings throughout the Bay Area preparing cotton candy for distribution to endless queues of children whose parents were spending money at the supermarkets. The children were usually greedy and unruly, not much fun to deal with, and I usually was stuck in a drafty corridor large enough to accommodate crowds enjoying the freebies. By the end of the day, I would be covered with sugar debris and worn out from the work and pressure. But it was worth it because he paid me $125 per day, a fortune, at the time. And when the work was finished, I had to drive the car an hour or two or three back to Berkeley. To this day I can’t bear the look or smell of spun sugar, grateful as I was at the time for the job.
To supplement that work, I did odd jobs posted on the board. Sometimes I played the piano at Larry Blake’s on Telegraph Avenue. They didn’t actually pay, but I was fed far too much beer and pizza, and survived on tips.
One very sweet Berkeley lady, Mrs. Rogers, hired me to mow her lawn, weed, and maintain her yard once a week. That was a delight, compared to the other jobs, because it was outdoors and satisfying, but of course it didn’t pay as well.
One day, while I was working at Mrs. Rogers’ house, a large shiny, brand-new, black Buick sedan pulled up in front of the house, and an elegantly attired, handsome woman, probably about thirty, disembarked and went inside. Shortly after, Mrs. Rogers introduced me to the woman, who was her sister-in-law. She was called Mary Dee, and before she left, asked for my telephone number in case she could provide any additional work. Happy to oblige, I gave her my number. The next day she telephoned and asked me to visit her at home, which turned out to be an imposing, handsome house in the Berkeley hills.
Alone in the house, she offered me a cup of coffee, asked me what I was studying, then showed me the yard, garden shed where the mower and tools were kept, and suggested I begin work there. It seemed to me that the yard was already in fine shape and did not require much in the way of mowing. She then informed me that the gardener took care of the yard, and perhaps I could teach her how to pronounce the names of all the French wines in her husband’s cellar. We abandoned the yard and moved into the cellar, which was extensive and excellent. I did my best to teach her a rudimentary French pronunciation, and she suggested we take a bottle upstairs to try it out.
This was all quite fascinating, and I told her I’d feel better if I at least cleaned up the dead leaves in the garden. I went back to the garden and began clearing away the leaves, when I suddenly noticed her standing on a balcony above, watching me. I waved, and she said: “It’s awfully warm, wouldn’t you feel better taking off your shirt?”
By this time I was beginning to get what was actually happening, so I took off my shirt and replied: “Maybe it’s time to try out that wine now,” and climbed the stairs to the balcony. It was about 10:30 in the morning by then, and we tucked into the wine, a delicious aged Burgundy.
We talked more, she told me her husband was a dentist, they had three boys who were in private school, that she had almost died during the birth of the third boy, and her doctor told her it was not advisable for her to have any more children and gave her a hysterectomy. Consequently, her husband lost interest in her sexually and emotionally, and she was, except for the sake of propriety, alone. Her husband gave her the Buick, as much money as she needed or wanted for clothing, jewelry, and fine dining, and left her to her own resources.
She was a lovely woman, slender, with honey-colored hair, usually pulled up into a French twist, and of course I felt sorry for her and of course she was deprived and needy. We then, gradually, embarked on an affairette. She remained at home in the evenings, with the children, and during the day, she was totally free. Two or three times a week, she would meet me at Sather Gate at midday, with the Buick, and we would go off to a quiet, elegant little restaurant far from her neighborhood. She would slip me a twenty-dollar bill, so I could be The Man paying for lunch, and then we’d go back to my apartment and have sex. Lots of sex.
In those days, no one ever locked their doors, and sometimes in the afternoon, when I returned after classes, I would find steaks, fresh vegetables, peaches, water-melons, strawberries, lovely wines, and various treats which she had left during the day. Bill and I, along with many of our friends, were the grateful beneficiaries of Mary’s largesse during that year.
The future was not a topic for discussion. It was clear I would graduate and go away, and Mary would, of course, remain in Berkeley. We took advantage of the moments we had, and enjoyed them thoroughly.
Shortly before my graduation, Mary offered to host a party in our apartment. My mother and sister came to the event, my aunt, uncle and cousin, boyfriends, girlfriends, Bill, of course, and also the girl who had invited me to the Prom. The bathtub was filled with bottles of French champagne, there were platters from the best local delicatessen, and an assortment of fabulous pastries.
When it became time to leave for the Prom, I knew this was the bittersweet end of our relationship. So did she, and it was sad, as well as inevitable.
The following day I left for a Summer job working in a Rockefeller resort in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, then a hitch-hiking trip across the country to Boston, New York, Miami, and New Orleans and the beginning of my adult life.
