Mara Kurtz

Word Count 1241

I arrived at Los Angeles International Airport in the middle of a heat wave three days before Christmas, 1961. Having just finished my freshman semester at a college in frosty upstate New York, I couldn’t wait to jump into the ocean.

Walking into the crush of people filling the arrivals area, I scanned the sea of faces, wondering whether I'd recognize Lenny Auerbach from the small black and white photograph I’d looked at every day for the past three months. Lenny and I had been writing ever since my closest friend, Dickie Lieberman, told me I’d fall in love with his cousin when I went to California over my winter break. At first our correspondence had been erratic. But after a while he began calling me. I liked his deep, gravelly voice. He sounded warm and funny and I instinctively trusted him. 

My mother ordered my plane ticket and made arrangements for me to stay with my cousin in Pasadena. She was excited about my upcoming trip too. “From everything you’ve told me, your new friend sounds so interesting. And he’s Dickie’s cousin!”

 When I saw Lenny waving at the edge of the crowd he was more attractive than I expected, strong and athletic, with cropped dark hair and a ruddy tan. Smiling, he handed me a bunch of pink roses as we laughed and hugged. Then he kissed my cheek and said, “let's go.” In the parking area he pointed to his shiny black Corvette. Opening the door, he leaned over and whispered, “Dickie told me you were the prettiest girl I’d ever meet and he was right.”

Driving along the freeway, conversation flowed easily. We had many similar interests and talked about jazz, Jack Kerouac and WW2 movies. Lenny described his job at Boeing and monthly week-end excursions in the Coast Guard reserve. As we approached Pasadena, however, Lenny slowed the car and pulled over. When he turned off the ignition, I could see that something in his expression had changed. 

He looked very uncomfortable and, turning toward me, took a deep breath before speaking. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about and I guess this is as good a time as any.” I couldn't imagine what he was going to tell me and wondered if he might be married. “You know I mentioned my monthly Coast Guard service. Well, we’re all required to take an annual physical that includes a blood test. My result just arrived, positive for Gonorrhea.” I almost laughed. The word was so shocking, I couldn’t even speak. My mind raced as I thought of the boys in high school who were always talking about prostitutes and Syphilis, Crabs and the Clap. “But I want you to know it's a mistake” he said. “These tests are often false positives. There’s no way in the world that I have Gonorrhea, I can absolutely guarantee you that. But I still think it’s only right to tell you about this. I took another test this morning, but with the upcoming holidays the report probably won’t arrive before you're back at school.”

 I didn't know what to say. I wasn't even sure what Gonorrhea was, but I felt too embarrassed to ask. We sat quietly for a few minutes as my mind whirred with confusion. I thought about how much I’d looked forward to meeting Lenny, crossing off each day on my calendar leading up to the trip. Most of all, I didn’t want to spoil the vacation. I kept saying to myself, “He wouldn’t lie to me. I trust him. And he’s Dickie’s cousin.”

The days passed quickly. Each morning Lenny picked me up and drove to his office, giving me his car to explore L.A. for the rest of the day. Evenings were romantic dinners followed by late parties at a smoky jazz club on Sunset Strip.  I did my best to avoid thinking about “the problem” and we never discussed it again. But it was impossible to get it out of my mind when we were together in bed. I imagined bloody sores, high fevers, and spreading rashes as I struggled to hide my increasing panic. 

With just the long New Year’s week-end remaining, Lenny suggested we spend it in Las Vegas. I called my parents and lied, “We’re going with two other couples, and I’ll share a room at the Tropicana with Lenny’s nice neighbor, an airline stewardess.” But my mother had no problem and said, “Why not? You’re with Lenny, so I know you’re safe. What could go wrong? He’s Dickie’s cousin.”

We took turns driving through the steamy desert in the Corvette with the top down. The four-hour ride on the single paved road in the middle of nowhere abruptly ended at dusk as the brightly lit strip of hotels and casinos appeared like a magician’s trick. Our suite at the Tropicana was enormous. 

From the living room I could see a huge blinking sign with Peggy Lee’s name in pink neon. I’d never been in a casino before and had no idea how the games were played, but Lenny encouraged me to try everything. As we walked into the huge, carpeted room with no windows or clocks, I stopped at the first slot machine and inserted a silver dollar. Suddenly bells started to ring and lights fluttered wildly as 200 silver dollars dropped onto the metal tray. Lenny laughed and said, “I’m just betting on whatever you play tonight.” I won at roulette, betting on red three times in a row, and twice on black. Then we sat down at a blackjack table where Lenny explained the rules. Despite my poor math skills and calling for extra cards when I should have stopped, I won five hands in a row. The dealer, a bleached blonde named Crystal wearing a tight red satin blouse with the Tropicana logo in script above the left pocket, smiled and said,

“I think you’re the luckiest girl in the world.” 

After collecting my $400 in winnings I told Lenny, “dinner is on me.” We spent the next two days relaxing at the kidney shaped pool and seeing nightclub shows with Frank Sinatra at the Desert Inn and Don Rickles at the Flamingo. It was lighthearted and fun on the surface, but as we drove back to Los Angeles, the reality of Lenny’s blood test terrified me. I flew to New York without an answer.

Back at school, I went to the library immediately and realized that the reality might exceed my worst fantasies. Three days passed with no word from Lenny who was on a Coast Guard assignment. 

I was too embarrassed to mention my dilemma to any friends, especially Dickie. Lenny called on the fourth day to say the results still hadn’t arrived. Walking around in a state of sheer panic I was unable to study or eat or sleep, certain that Lenny was afraid to give me the bad news. Finally, at the end of the week, he called to tell me that the test, which had been mailed to the wrong address, had arrived.

“I’ve got great news. You can relax. Everything is fine, the test is negative, just as I expected.” 

I laughed and then cried with relief as I thought about Crystal, the Las Vegas dealer in the red satin blouse, who called me “the luckiest girl in the world.” 

As for Lenny, I never saw him again.

Mara is a graphic designer, photographer and illustrator and founder of Mara Kurtz Studio. Her work has been published in numerous publications including Metropolis, New York Times Magazine, New York Magazine, Conde Nast Traveler, Travel and Leisure, and The Wall Street Journal. She has been a Professor at Parsons School of Design,The New School, NYU and School of Visual Arts since 1990. She is a graduate of New York University and Parsons School of Design. She received an MA from The New School in 1995. The Rock Hill Pictures, a book of Mara's documentary photographs, was published in 2012.