It All Started at the Dennis

A hot August night in 1969 found Ross Enzor and Marc Milner sitting in the outdoor lounge area of the Hotel Dennis. By then, it was still among Atlantic City's finer hotels. Yet, like AC itself, once the Grand Dame of the South Jersey Shore, it was showing its age. People who once patronized the place were taking their summer vacations elsewhere.

Not that Ross and Marc cared. They were twenty-year old college guys that once came to this place with their parents. If AC had gone downhill since Eisenhower was president, they barely noticed. They were too busy watching the parade of humanity on the boardwalk, looking for, what else, a couple babes they might induce to pay them some attention. If you were young and single, going on the prowl was the thing to do when you came to the beach. Boardwalks, after all, were sexy places.

Neither was much adept at picking up girls—Marc, especially, whose moldy lines such as "do you live around here?" got him nowhere. But on this night he came up with something original: "I'll sing your favorite song for a dime." Corny, right? Maybe, except it worked on two blondes who strolled by a few feet from where Ross and Marc had set up their base of operations.

"We've got a nibble," Marc said. The girls had stopped walking and were huddled in conversation, deciding if they should take the bait.

When they began to drift over, Ross said, "Okay, Casanova, clear your throat and prepare to croon."

Wearing shorts and collarless blouses, the girls stepped tentatively toward their callers. The taller one said, "Do you have change? The smallest coin I've got is a quarter."

Ross laughed and pulled out fifteen cents. "Actually, we do." He then dragged his thumb toward Marc. "He's the singer."

Marc expected them to request something from the Top 40, a Beatles song perhaps. But no, the taller girl came up with a Rogers and Hammerstein number, "Some Enchanted Evening." Marc made a face, as if disappointed. "You don't know that one, do you," she said.

Marc turned to his friend, his face contorted into a mock plea for help.

"I didn't think so," the shorter girl said.

Then: "Okay, here goes."

"Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, you may see a stranger, across a crowded room. And somehow you know, you know even then. That somewhere you'll see her again and again..."

Marc shrugged. "I'm not sure of the rest."

"Hey, that's okay," the taller girl said, "I'm impressed." She then turned to her sister. "LeAnne, give that man a dime."

Marc gave the halt sign. "Not necessary, that was a freebee."

"You pay only if he sings the complete song," Ross explained. "So you're LeAnne."

"And I'm Rylie. We're sisters, in case you haven't guessed."

Ross chuckled. "LeAnne and Rylie. Sounds like a comedy duo."

"We are. You can catch us on Ed Sullivan this fall."

"I'll make note of that," Marc said. "Last name?"

"Feigelson."

"Jewish, like us?"

"Well, sort of," Rylie said. "Our dad, our biological dad, is Jewish. Our mom raised us Catholic, like her. Our parents are divorced."

The guys introduced themselves—Ross, the six-footer with black, wavy hair, and Marc, a few inches shorter, with brown hair long enough to just cover his earlobes. They dressed alike, jeans and short-sleeve sports shirts and sneakers. They invited the girls to sit with them. Except for those four, the courtyard was empty, strewn with chairs and white metal tables holding umbrellas, most of them collapsed. "Our mom and stepdad are doing their own thing," LeAnne said. "We're supposed to meet them back at the Steel Pier in about an hour. We're staying at the Claridge."

Ross beamed. "Really, what room number?"

"He works fast," Marc said.

Rylie grinned. "I gather. Where are you guys staying?"

"Down the coast in Ocean City. We come up here at night. There's better restaurants and the boardwalk's more interesting."

Rylie turned to her sister. "I think what he means is that his favorite song for a dime routine wouldn't fly down there."

Marc chuckled. "You're probably right."

When Ross asked where they were from, LeAnne leaned forward in her seat and said, "Promise you won't ask our street address and phone number?"

The guys roared. "Try us," Ross said.

"Okay, well, we're from Harrison, New York. I'm going into my first year at SUNY and my sister her second year at Hofstra. How about you guys?"

"We're from Beemo," Marc said.

"Where?!"

"Baltimore," Ross clarified, flashing a mock look of annoyance. "He's a silly guy, tells everybody that."

"Got it from a black radio DJ in our fair city." Marc then sang the station's call letters as he'd heard them over the airwaves back home. "WWIN, radio fourteen, radio fourteen..."

"O-kay," LeAnne said, glancing at her sister, rolling her eyes. "Next I suppose you'll tell me you attend Beemo University."

"Maryland," Marc said. "Psychology major."

Ross raised his hand. "Miami, the party school."

"So I've heard," Rylie said. "What's your major?"

"Jai Alai, with a minor in sunscreen application."

The girls laughed.

"Seriously, it's mass communications. What I'm supposed to do with that, I haven't any idea."

Rylie rubbed her jaw, pondering. "Hmm...I can see you sitting at an anchor desk one day. But you'll need to shave off your beard. The mustache can stay, though."

"When I take Walter Cronkite's place," Ross said, "I'll say I knew you when."

"That would be nice. And I'll say the same thing when I become a famous novelist."

"In the Jacqueline Sussan mold," LeAnn added.

"Really? You're writing a book?"

"Not yet. But let me warn you, I'm gathering material right here and now as we speak."

"What's the plot?" Ross spoke in the insouciant, tongue-in-cheek tone he thought she meant it.

"No plot yet, the night's still young. But if I put you guys in it, I won't use your real names. That might get me sued."

"No way," Marc said, "we'd feel honored."

The repartee went on like this for close to an hour before Rylie glanced at her watch. "Wow, it's close to ten already. Well, it's been great, guys, but we're due at the Steel Pier in about five minutes."

Marc frowned. "So soon? We were just getting warmed up. Look, like you said, the night's still young and you'll want more material for that novel of yours. So let us at least escort you to the Steel Pier. That is, if you're not embarrassed for us to meet your parents."

"We'll be on our best behavior, I promise," Ross said. He winked at his friend.

The girls looked at each other and nodded. "Okay, we're game."

Marc paired off with LeAnne, Ross with Rylie. The Steel Pier was about eight to ten short blocks away. They strolled north near the boardwalk railing, glancing at the beach and the ocean beyond, barely seen through the dark. Five blocks from the Pier, they were holding hands, chatting away.

Rylie told Ross that she liked beards on guys. Ross told Rylie that he liked her "natural" look and clear complexion. She almost kissed him when he complimented her for not wearing all that heavy makeup a lot of girls wore. "You're pretty enough without it," he said.

Marc told LeAnne that she looked cute with that yellow ribbon atop her bangs. "It goes great with your blonde locks." LeAnne told Marc that she liked his tan and "athletic" build. They talked movies that each had seen: The Graduate, Putney Swope, Last Summer.

Mom and stepdad were waiting at the entrance to the Steel Pier. The girls introduced their "escorts," then told them how they met. Marc made the mistake of addressing their mom as Mrs. Feigelson. "It WAS Mrs. Feigelson," her husband said sternly. "Now it's Mrs. Brennan." Slim and wiry, he wore a hard look of caution.

"An honest mistake, Herman," her mom said, her tone close to admonishing. She extended her hand to Marc and Ross. "I'm Vivian Brennan." At nearly five-seven, she stood slightly taller than her husband. Flecks of gray streaked her natural blond hair worn longer than most women her age.

After a few minutes of small talk, before LeAnne and Rylie followed their parents back to the Claridge, they huddled with their new-found friends off to the side to make plans for a beach date the next day. The plan called for the guys to meet them on the beach in front of the Claridge around noon. "Don't worry," LeAnne said, "we won't have to sit with our mom and Herman."

Minutes later, the guys were heading south toward Ocean City in Marc's blue '68 Chevy Nova. "This could be the start of something big," Marc said.

Ross, riding shotgun, his arm resting atop the door with the window open, said, "Isn't that a song?"

"Yep." Marc hummed a few bars, then said, "Maybe we'll make a night of it, too."

"Let's see what happens on the beach first."

"They're both really cute."

"Cute and chaperoned. Which kind of limits our options, big guy."

Marc pulled up to a traffic light in Margate. "So I guess taking them back to our place in OC is out."

"I'd say that's an accurate assessment," Ross said, playing along with Marc's rhetoric. "But even if they were alone, they don't look like the type that would get too familiar with guys they've known for just twenty-four hours."

Marc nodded as the light changed to green. "Good Catholic girls, choir girl clean."

"Yeah, but you never know. Looks can be deceiving. We'll see."

Marc wasn't here to get laid. Not that he'd reject the opportunity if it arose. But making plans with LeAnne and Rylie had already exceeded his expectations. What might follow would just be icing on the cake. Neither he nor Ross was what you'd call desperate. Marc had been dating a girl since January, and Ross looked forward to connecting with Jasmine, a Baltimore girl who also went to Miami. Spending more time with LeAnne and Rylie, platonic or otherwise, Marc reckoned, would spice up their time here.

*****

The guys wore jeans over their bathing suits for the eight-mile drive to Atlantic City. They had all four windows down. The car had no AC and the dog days of August had arrived, hot and humid. "Swanky, Swanky," Marc said as they approached the towering brick pile that was The Claridge. The hotel's huge greensward of lawn and gardens set it about a football field away from the boardwalk.

"You could get lost in that place," Marc said. "I hope we can find them among that crowd on the beach."

Ross glanced sideways. "Hey, let's just hope they're ON the beach."

"Good point." He began looking for a place to park.

They found a space a couple blocks away. Marc popped the trunk and retrieved their beach chairs and bags containing bottles of Coppertone, Sea&Ski and beach towels. Minutes later, they crossed the boardwalk, kicked off their sandals and gazed through the hazy sunshine, looking for their "choir girls" among the crowd. "We should have told them we'd shoot up a flare," Ross said.

They trudged toward the ocean, scanning the landscape. Seconds later, they heard shouts of "over here," and then saw the girls waving beside their colorful beach umbrella a few yards from the water's edge. The guys quickened their pace toward their company.

"My sister owes me a dollar," LeAnne said. "We had a friendly bet on whether you two would show." She stood there attired in a white bikini, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was on the short side, about five-three, but slim, well proportioned and athletic. As she told Marc last night, she'd been a cheerleader in high school.

Ross looked at Rylie and grinned. "Cynical minds think alike. I was wondering the same thing about you. Where's your parents?"

"They're lounging by the pool today," Rylie said. Wearing a black one-piece, she was an inch taller than her sister and bigger boned. Her legs were on the chunky side, though solid and shapely. Her boobs were larger than her sister's smallish pair, though few would describe her as "stacked." Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders, held in place by a blue headband.

The guys set up their beach chairs, then slipped off their T-shirts and jeans. The ocean's roar and the squawk of seagulls mixed with the sounds blasting from the girls' Sony transistor tuned to WFIL, a Philadelphia-based Top 40 station.

LeAnne couldn't help but notice the guys' well toned bodies. "Looks like we're with a couple gym rats, Rylie." She lapsed into a mock muscle pose.

"That's how we met," Ross said, "in the JCC weight room. My friend here followed me around like a lapdog, angling for a routine that would make him big and strong."

"Don't believe that BS," Marc whined, rubbing sunscreen into his thick, round shoulders. "It was the other way around. I mean, you can see who's bigger." He saddled up against Ross and flexed a bicep."

"All biceps and no brains," Ross shot back. "MENSA wouldn't even let him into their rest rooms."

"That's his best Don Rickles," Marc said.

Rylie chuckled. "Well, you're both fine physical specimens. We're impressed."

Ross fixed his gaze on Rylie, ogled her from head to toe and back again. "The feeling's mutual, hon." The hon part was pure Baltimorese.

"And that goes for me too," Marc said, admiring LeAnne's pancake-flat stomach and adorable tush.

"Let me do that," LeAnn offered, watching Marc's awkward attempts to apply sunscreen to his back. She took his green bottle of Sea&Ski and then began to rub it in while singing along to Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline. "Hands touching hands, reaching out, touching me, touching you..."

The others joined in. "Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good..."

Good times indeed. What started with a corny pickup line had progressed into a seaside rendezvous with two cute blonde sisters from Harrison, New York. Settled into his beach chair next to Ross, Marc whispered to his friend, "Does it get any better than this?"

Ross, with shades covering his dark brown eyes, his head tilted back against his chair, acknowledged his friend's statement with a grin.

"Hey guys," LeAnne said, "it's getting hot out here. Who wants to join me?" Marc shot up from his chair.

Ross and Rylie followed them toward the ocean. According to the number scrawled in chalk by the lifeguard chair, the water temp was in the mid-seventies, typical for the season. Ross hugged his body and shivered. "What are we, polar bears? This might be warm by South Jersey standards," he said, "but frigid next to Miami Beach this time of year."

"I can just imagine what you'd say about Montauk," Rylie said, referring to the East Hampton town where her family once vacationed. "Somehow, we got used to it."

At least there were some decent waves today, something that Florida beaches rarely had, and the foursome bodysurfed for nearly twenty minutes before returning to their spot. The day wore on, the time dancing with the sort of languid rhythms endemic to spending hours doing nothing. As the song went: "Here on the sand I can dream away or look at the girls in their pretty..."

When LeAnne suggested a walk down the beach, the dynamic set on the boardwalk the night before held. She paired off with Marc, her sister with Ross. They took off in opposite directions, with Marc and LeAnne heading south, strolling by the water's edge.

"I'm really looking forward to college," LeAnne said, starting off the conversation. "How about you?"

"To be honest, I can't wait to graduate next year. It's been a grind."

"And then?"

"And then I might bum around for awhile. See the USA in my Chevrolet or backpack through Europe. Then I'll enter the world of full time employment. Doing what, I'm not sure. You?"

"Teaching. I like kids. Rylie's thinking about a career in law. Whether that's before or after she writes the Great American Novel, only she knows. At least we don't have to worry about getting drafted. I guess you got a student deferment."

"They did away with deferments, claimed it was discriminatory, which it was. I lucked out in the lottery drawing. No Vietnam for me."

"That's good. I know some guys from high school who weren't so lucky."

Marc nodded. "Our commitment to that war is beyond ridiculous. It's time we pull out."

"Agreed. Rylie feels the same way but my stepdad thinks otherwise. We've had heated arguments over it."

Just as Marc was thinking of throwing his arm around her, LeAnne stepped onto a rocky jetty and took off. Caught off guard, he watched her petite, nimble form scamper over the rocks. Did she want him to join her? He wasn't sure, because she wasn't saying anything, no catch me if you can, nothing like that. "What the hell," he said, and then launched a pursuit. When she glanced back and giggled, he felt he had made the right move. Even so, he stayed a few lengths behind until they reached the end. "You can't lose me that easy," he joked, slightly out of breath from the effort.

Grinning, she threw her hands on her hips. "You enjoy the thrill of the chase, don't you?"

"Only if the woman I'm chasing wants to be caught." He folded his arms against his chest. "Do you?"

She reached out and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Maybe." Then she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes," Marc said, and then wrapped his arms around her. As he stood there kissing her, that uber romantic scene in From Here To Eternity came to mind, the one with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr entwined on the beach.

LeAnne pulled away and said, "We seem to fit together quite well, don't you think? Just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here To Eternity."

Marc stepped back and blinked. "I can't believe you said that!" After he told her why, they dived back into it, ramping up the passion level, pressing their bodies closer, barely aware of the sounds around them, the seagulls, the wind and the waves slamming against the jetty.

*****

"If you do write that novel," Ross said, "I hope you convey to the reader that the character you select for me is a good kisser."

Rylie pouted. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Now kiss me again."

He did, under a wood pier about a half-mile north of the jetty where LeAnne and Marc were doing the same thing. The water lapped up around their ankles as they stood and smooched, oblivious to the clip-clop of feet above them and the few bathers who bothered to look.

Ross told her she smelled good. "Ditto," she said back.

"Ditto...sounds like the latest pen from Parker."

She laughed. "You're a funny guy, you know that?"

Suddenly, he scowled, as if offended. "What do you mean I'm funny? Funny how? How am I funny? The way I talk, what? Tell me, what the hell's so funny about me?" Watching her confused expression, he struggled to keep a straight face.

Rylie stepped away from one of the beams that she'd been leaning against. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Ross, I didn't mean it as an insult."

He laughed. "You know, that's the first time anybody's thrown my name into the lot with THOSE people. Look, I was just kidding. Just feeding you dialogue for future reference. You know, for your book."

"You delivered it like some hood in a gangster movie. Just when things were getting romantic, too." She slapped him gently on the arm.

He ran a hand through his hair, gone curly from the salt and wind, then got down on one knee. "I beg your forgiveness. Please?"

She relaxed her shoulders; her frown morphed into a gentle smile."Of course. The hero is always forgiven." She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "Now kiss me, damn it."

Moments later, he did more than that. Gingerly, with their lips still pressed together, he reached up and tucked his finger under the strap of her top. When she did nothing to stop him, he tugged at the strap, millimeter by millimeter, until most of her boob was exposed. "You'll get us arrested," she whispered. When he began to tongue her nipple, her words melted into moans. She closed her eyes. Her knees buckled.