I’m a single man - Summer of 1976.

I’m a single man - Summer of 1976.              

 

As a single father, in my thirties, I was always looking for companionship, someone who would accompany me on a dreamy romantic getaway. I even had a book that I picked up at a garage sale; the title was something like America’s Best Romantic Hotels. I consulted it often and daydreamed as I flipped through the pages. Regardless, romantic companionship generally eluded me for extended stretches, and so I did my traveling primarily with my daughters.

                           Down the Shore
               I remember one adventure that took in the whole Jersey Shore, north to south. It started in Ocean Grove and ended in Ocean City.
               In Ocean Grove we stayed at the Castle Arms Hotel, which was on Main Avenue, across the street from my childhood vacation residence, The Main Avenue House. The year was 1976, which would make Brett seven years old and Ashley almost five. Asbury Park was still alive and well at that time and after dinner we walked up the boardwalk to see the amusements. I played Skeeball and tried to win a prize, or two, but for some reason found that I had lost my touch. I was no longer an ace at Skeeball after being such a crackerjack as a child – or was I? I wondered. Perhaps it was just my father’s encouragement, given so lovingly to his youngest child, that I remember. Still it seemed easier when the Skeeball alley was waist high and the ball rested like a cantaloupe in my hand. Everybody said I was great at Skeeball and I cashed in lots of tickets for prizes, or so I recall.

                            Rocking on the Porch

                Returning to the hotel we lingered a while outside on the lawn as the guests watched from their rocking chairs on the front porch. One guest, an elderly gentleman named Andrew, ventured out to speak with us. We were a rarity here, the two children especially, but even myself at age 36. Most of the clientele were seniors. Andrew said he was here for the whole summer. In the winter he lived in Staten Island.

                “Do you want to see my room?” Andrew asked, after we had talked for a while. 

 

                “No, that’s O.K., thanks,” I said, “I guess we’ll just go to bed.”

 

                A few minutes later when we walked into the hotel, there was Andrew standing in the lobby. “Take the elevator,” Andrew said. Actually I wanted to walk up the stairs, but we got onto the elevator because Andrew seemed to want to show us the ropes. “My room is small," Andrew volunteered as the elevator ascended. "But it has a bath,” he added.

 

                “That’s good,” I said. It turned out we were on the same floor.

 

                “Dad,” Brett said as the elevator door opened, “He wants to show you his room.”

                         Andrew's Room

                “O.K.,” I said, and we followed Andrew as he beckoned us down the hallway. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Andrew’s room, but honestly I just wasn’t thinking …about Andrew. Brett, age seven, was more perceptive, less self absorbed.

There wasn’t much to see in Andrew’s room. It was very neat. There was a bed, night table, one dresser and a closet with no door. Its opening was covered with a cloth drape that hung to the floor. Andrew slid the drape to the side and we peered in at the neatly hung clothes, three or four summer shirts and a couple of pairs of pants. We acted as if we were prospective home buyers, very polite, low-key, responding our approval with variations of, “Hmmm,” and "nice." Andrew turned toward the bathroom, and extended his open hand, “And here is the bathroom.”

 

                “Hmmm, nice,” I said.

            

                “It’s nice,” Brett added. Ashley, age five, was silent.

                The tour complete, Andrew stood in front of us and said, “It’s a nice room.”

                “It is,” Brett and I said. Ash was still quiet though she turned and looked in each direction with us. Her hands hung in front of her, palms on her thighs, rounding her dropped shoulders, the five-year-old speechless pose.  

                          I'm a Single Man

 

                Then Andrew said, as if apologetically, “I’m a single man.” 

                I took it to mean that he always had been so. He was plain without exception, just a man, single and from Staten Island who summered now at the shore, in this sparse room without color, or trimmings or company the likes of which, I now recognized, adorned me so splendidly. 

                I offered a humble gesture of gratitude and placed my hands on the shoulders of the two children at my side. I did not feel proud here. It was sadness - true - but more a sympathy with, not for, Andrew. I had seen enough of life at age thirty-six to understand the difference between Andrew and myself – that it could be very little. I knew that this was not a tragedy that I was looking at here and yet I still felt a small fear push into my head that someday that I might be standing alone as Andrew now stood before me and hear myself say much the same thing – an aging soul trying to break through a feeling of invisibility, to present a little part of myself, to someone - to someone who was young  

                 Thanks for Showing Us Your Room 

                As best I could, I offered a word of praise for Andrew. “Thank you so much Andrew. Thanks for being friendly to us. That's very nice.” Then I took a step toward him and put my hand on his shoulder, then shook his hand. “Thanks for showing us your room,” I said.

                I hoped that I wasn’t overdoing it. Andrew seemed to appreciate our visit. Brett added her own support to my comment. “Yes, thanks” she said and she and Ashley both extended a small handshake to Andrew.

                The next morning Andrew was on the porch when we all came downstairs. We bid goodbye to him here and told him that we would see him maybe next year. We fussed over him and his porch friends oohed and ahhed over the girls.