Everyone said yes. Marry him. He’s a catch. So he’s not the best looking of men. So he’s not William Holden. You ask too much Lisa. What did you think?  Your dream-boat would wait around the corner at Avenue L and Ocean Parkway?  Did you think he’d be wearing a trench coat and rival Barrymore’s profile and Cooper’s shoulders? What’s the problem? I’ve always seen you smiling when you’re together. And what about the restaurants he takes you to? Do you think my Bernie took me to steak houses on a regular basis? And those wonderful seafood places? You’d be foolish to pass him over, Lisa. The last time I looked he’s got himself a solid job in a business that knows no heights in sight. The economy is good. More and more people are buying television sets. And the more television sets in homes, the more products can be sold and the more products the bigger and fatter the advertising business can be. How many young men can find themselves on the ground-floor of a gold-mine like your Sam Efferstein at his age? His company’s office is on Madison Avenue! For crying out loud! Madison Avenue is being re-invented. It’s becoming the Washington D.C. of trade.
         Well Lisa, know what I think? I think he’s a special guy. Sam is that rare sort of man who is a gentleman at the same time as being gentle. Any man can take off and put on a lady’s coat. But not every man can do such a simple thing and cause the lady’s shoulders to tingle by the mere brush of his wrists.
         What d’ya mean he’s not as literate as you are? Y’wanna talk about novels,  join a book club. And by the way, that’s a feather in your cap! Why would any woman want a match for her literacy? You sound like a spoiled child. Let him carry the briefcase and you carry his children and the wisdom in the family.

All were right in their immediate assessments of the situation.  Yet they were all forgetting a key thing. Sam Efferstein was predictable to a fault. Never had he said anything, done anything, or even responded to something that would shed the slightest light on the soul behind his pleasing mask.
         Yes, he had all the trimmings of a catch. But that wasn’t good enough for Lisa Greenfield.
         Regarding Sam’s appearance, Lisa was perfectly satisfied. He hardly bore a resemblance to the men on screen who boiled her blood, yet his bespectacled handsomeness could certainly disarm. One of Lisa’s oldest friends once referred to Sam as “a rich woman’s Clark Kent.” And Lisa knew that the only places where the Charlton Hestons of the world carry on with short-legged Jewesses were in some of the short stories she’d written while majoring in English at Brooklyn College. Sam read one of them. When Lisa sought some informed feedback, the content of Sam’s comments betrayed a far from lettered man. That didn’t matter either. Lisa knew that Sam read five newspapers a day, and, because of his chosen profession, he had a keen understanding of demographics. He could talk most men under the table when it came to city politics. Besides, the few times Lisa had met genuine homes des lettres, they made her feel as if she was intruding upon hallowed minds; as if the simple task of making small talk was too much for these eggs to bear.
         With Sam Efferstein, Lisa knew she’d found a pleasing balance. Wasn’t that real life? He made her laugh. When she spoke to him about her problems she could tell by the way he held his head that he was truly listening to her. So what was the problem? Why can’t I think as Sam Efferstein as my future husband, Lisa thought as she rouged her right cheek. Could it be his unshakable dependability? Oh yes, what a dependable man was Sam Efferstein. Never late was he. Always early. Why did he bother to say “I’ll meet you there at seven,” when he knew full well that he’d make it his business to arrive earlier? There he’d be; waiting under the theatre marquis, or in front of a restaurant—couldn’t he even wait inside at the bar?—or on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art no matter how biting the wind-chill. He’d be flipping through The New York Times with the complacent ease of a man who’d already read it from cover to cover, a Chesterfield tucked in his mouth.
         How could a lady tell her man to stop being so early all the time? What could her reasoning be? “It makes me feel late”? Or maybe Lisa would just once like to be waiting for Sam just to give her the satisfaction that she was waiting for her man. Waiting for her man to tell her “sorry I’m late” when he’d finally arrive. And then she’d say “that’s all right, but don’t make a habit of it,” wagging her finger like a demure coquette, as her suitor momentarily blushes like a naughty boy caught in an act.
         And then there’s that dependable way Sam Efferstein orders a meal. Why does he even look at the menu when he already knows what he’s going to order? When they meet for breakfast it’s always a “runny Western omelette extra jelly with the toast.” At lunch it’s always a club; turkey-club, roast-beef club, egg-salad club. Nothing but repetition. And the tone of his voice suggests that he’s discovered an awe-inspiring truth his countryman will never know. But it was at dinner that Sam was most dependable. At a diner it was a hamburger “really really well with a slice of raw onion on top,” pointing his index-finger due north on the word “onion.” On their second date, Lisa told Sam that she’d always loved seafood. “Anything that came out of the water within reason,” was the precise way she put it. A week later Sam took her to one of Manhattan’s finest seafood spots. There were always fresh catches of the day. On the regular menu there runs the gamut; from cod to mako shark, from broiled butterfish to baked halibut. The catches of the day include Trout Almondine, Lobster Newburg, and lightly breaded Scrod sautéed in white wine with baby hearts of palm. Sam listens to the waiter’s recital, says thank you, and closes the menu with flair. “Already know what you’re having?” Lisa asks. “Yup,” replies Sam. “And what’s that?” “Fried shrimp. But you go ahead and take your time.” And take her time she does, because Lisa likes a nice list to decide from. Yet she feels as if she’s keeping him waiting, just like she feels she’s kept him waiting on their three dates. Sam orders fried shrimp the next time they eat seafood, and the time after that and that.

This night marks exactly seven months that Lisa Greenfield and Sam Efferstein are courting. This is the longest relationship that Lisa has had with a man. Never a beauty to begin with, time is running out on her. All of her close friends are married. She is approaching an age in her twenties whereupon with each passing year, the second digit envelops the first. Tonight she’s to meet Sam in front of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 7:30 to make an eight o’clock show of “Designing Women.” Sam has a late meeting, otherwise they would dine beforehand. Lisa is looking forward to seeing the film. She loves Gregory Peck and has always been fashion-conscious.

Lisa arrives at 7:20. She waits. At 7:40 people start to pour into the theatre. At 7:45 she begins to feel alarmed and the closest she’s ever felt to Sam.
         At ten minutes of eight, Sam Efferstein walks up West 54th Street and waves to her. His pace is slower than usual. He’s grinning to himself. When he kisses her on the cheek, Lisa smells the usual tobacco and tastes scotch. “C’mon,” Sam says, still grinning. “You’re late,” Lisa says. “C’mon,” responds Sam, taking Lisa’s hand by the fingers, a first.
         They are seated in the balcony. Sam sits on the aisle. No words have passed between them since entering the theatre. The House is packed. At two minutes of eight, Sam snaps his fingers and says, “I’ll get us some popcorn.” “You’re gonna miss the beginning of the picture,” says Lisa. “Take notes,” says Sam.
         Sam starts ascending the carpeted stairs. Then the lights dim. A Warner Brothers cartoon bursts on the screen. By the time a buck-toothed bunny shows his smile, Sam Efferstien has rushed back to his seat. He raps his seat’s armrest and snorts. “I hope it’s a good one,” he says to himself. Lisa looks in back of her. Now the tale on the screen begins. Bugs Bunny is sitting under a blow-dryer wearing a burgundy bathrobe while reading about Arthurian legend. When Bugs mispronounces Lancelot, Sam laughs. Two minutes and several laughs later, when Bugs, confronted with a threatening Knight, alludes to his friendship with “Satchmo of Armstrong,” the pain of Sam’s silent laugh forces him to keel over and put his hand over his mouth. Lisa isn’t laughing, but she betrays a smile profound, for the only genuine laughter in the entire theatre comes from the young man sitting beside her. Lisa puts her hand on Sam’s knee, wondering whether he’ll notice. If he does, he’s not letting on. This is because he’s too busy cackling at Bugs’ desperate insistence to a sorcerer to “sauce! Please! Lemme see ya sauce …!” An usher has spotted his light on Sam Efferstein. Sam ignores it. Lisa shoots a look at the usher. They silently exchange a mutual knowledge, and the usher walks away.
         It was with this knowledge that Lisa Greenfield married Sam Efferstein some three months later.

Laurence C. Schwartz is a teacher, writer, and actor who lives in New York City. He has published fiction and poetry, and has had several one-act plays produced in New York. He is the author of “Artaud for Awhile,” a full-length play about the French aesthetician Antonin Artaud, which was produced at Wings Theatre in New York. He teaches Speech Communications at Hofstra University.