Cindy, Tom & Jerry

Cindy was perfect. She was everything I’d fantasized about. Slim, with round firm breasts. Smooth skin, with the slight glow of a tan. High cheekbones and lips that always seemed to be on the cusp of a pucker. But most of all, she had dazzling blue eyes and blonde hair down just past her shoulder.

I grew up in an east coast suburb where everyone was of southern and eastern European descent. Jews, Italians, Poles & Greeks. There were some pretty girls, but ones with blonde hair and blue eyes were few and far between. In my high school, there were only two girls with blonde hair and blue eyes that didn’t have either big noses or fat butts. One went out with the captain of the football team, the other with the singer of the local rock band.

I’d been in California for over a year and had dated some women. But most everyone I knew were either transplanted New Yorkers, or part of the artsy set, which didn’t seem to attract many Barbie look-alikes.

It was right before the start of the new semester, and I was in line to register for classes. Cindy got in line right behind me. I hadn’t seen her approach, and when I turned around and saw her I literally forgot to breath until I gasped for air. I was stunned. I’d never seen a girl that beautiful in person, up close.

I tried to think of something to say, but my mind was racing and my tongue was lead. I’d turn around every now and then to look at her, and she’d give me a small shy/sly smile that left me even more self-conscious. Eventually, she made a comment (was it to me?) about how slow the line was moving. This was my chance to break the ice and turn on the charm. I blurted out some non-sequitor, to which she gave a puzzled look, before returning to her beguiling smile. I eventually calmed down to the point that I could engage in casual chatter. I tried to inquire as discretely as possible if she had a boyfriend. I figured she must, and this gave me the confidence of a man who has nothing to lose. I soon learned that she just move up from Santa Barbara, had never been to San Francisco before, and didn’t know a lot a soul in town. I panicked.

As we got closer to the registration tables, I knew if I was going to do anything, I’d better do it soon. I screwed up my courage and asked her for her phone number, saying I’d be happy to show her around the city. I was crushed by her reply. She said she was staying someplace temporarily, but would be moving soon to something more permanent and she didn’t know the number there yet. As a last ditch attempt, I offered her my number. She accepted it politely, if not with enthusiasm. I was sure I’d never see her again, and that if I did, she’d have a new boyfriend plus several runners up.

Three days later she called.

She asked me if my offer to act as her tour guide was still good. I said it was, and we set a date for Saturday. When I got off the phone it hit me. I was going to spend time alone with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and could take my best shot at trying to get her into bed.

On Saturday evening, I picked her up in my Orange VW Bug. We drove around to various scenic spots in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill, The Embarcadero, Aquatic Park and Golden Gate Park. Then it was off to dinner at a nicer restaurant than I could afford.

We made small talk over dinner, but all I could think about was how great she looked and how lucky I was to be with her. I also wondered if I should try and sleep with her that night, or roll the dice and see if I would get another date with her, figuring the odds would be better that she’d sleep with me after a second date.

As we waited for desert, I got a newspaper so we could see the movie listings. There were a few light, romantic comedies playing, perfect date movies. She didn’t seem too interested in any of those. Then she said she heard that the Castro Theater was really nice, and she wanted to know what was playing there. The Castro is one of the last of the old-time movie theaters left in the country. It’s huge and ornate. Between features, an organist plays a huge pipe organ that rises up from the stage, and they often show a short film or a cartoon as well. Seeing a movie there is an event. I thought it was a great idea, and figured that if we couldn’t see a romantic movie, at least we could see a movie in a dramatic setting.

I looked at the listing for the Castro and was disappointed to see that the movie playing that night was "A Clockwork Orange." I told her which movie was playing, and she said, "I haven’t seen it but a friend of mine said it was really good." I told her I had seen it and that while I thought it was a great movie, it was very heavy. She said she that didn’t matter, she was still interested in seeing it. I gave her more details about the violent nature of the move, that in fact, it was a movie about violence, but neither my description, nor the fact that I’d seen it before could dissuade her. As we discussed it, she became even more insistent that this was the movie she wanted to see.

We arrived at the theater just as the giant organ was descending into the stage and the cartoon was about to start. It was Tom & Jerry, and the cat and mouse were going through their usual antics, using anvils, cleavers and piano wire. About a minute into the cartoon, I turned to look at Cindy. She had her head turned, her hands partially covering her eyes, and a pained expression on her face. She was also letting out little grunts of pains and disgust every time one of the characters on screen was hit, fell or somehow hurt. Her eyes were full of tears.

I thought "Oh my God. This girl having sympathy pains watching a Tom & Jerry cartoon, and next up is A Clockwork Orange!"

Finally, I said, "Cindy, I can see this upsets you. You’ve got to understand that the movie we are about to see is very graphic, with a lot of extreme violence directed at real people. If you want to leave now, that’s okay."

She looked at me, cleared her throat of emotion and said, "Violence only bothers me when it happens to animals, not people."

My first though was that I’d misheard or misunderstood. After all, these weren’t even real animals. It was Tom & Jerry for God sakes. Then I reasoned that maybe because I had seen "A Clockwork Orange" before and knew how violent it was, I knew what she couldn’t. I suggested again that we might want to leave, but she would have none of it.

Once the movie stared, it was my turn to cover my eyes, look away and let out grunts of sympathy pain. I’d occasionally look over at Cindy, only to see her watching the screen through wide blue eyes, with a pleasant expression on her face.

When the movie ended, I felt drained. As we stood up and fumbled for our coats, I asked Cindy what she thought about the movie. Her reply: "It was fun."

Fun, I’m thinking, fun!? There’s a lot you say about "A Clockwork Orange". Disturbing, overwhelming, brilliant or even pretentious. But fun? I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

We walked in silence to my car and continued in silence on the drive to her house. Not only was Cindy not upset by the movie, she didn’t seem particularly upset that I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to her. When we got to her house, mostly by reflex I made a half-hearted attempt to invite myself in. She said she needed to get up early for some reason or another. I was actually relieved, because I still couldn’t think of one thing, no matter how inconsequential, to say to her. I walked her to her door, gave her a squeeze and a kiss, and left.

I never called her again because I never could think of anything to say to her.

For months afterwards, I spent much too much time trying to figure out what went wrong.

© Jonathan Bryce 2001