Oil and Water

The year was 1972, about four months since the Watergate break-in and just weeks before the presidential election between President Richard Nixon and George McGovern. Those of a certain age might recall listening to such Top 40 hits as "Saturday Night In The Park" (Chicago) and "Nights In White Satin" (Moody Blues) and watching "The Godfather" and "Deliverance" at the movies (and not on Netflix which didn't exist).

The fall of '72 was also a social downtime for two college guys looking to connect with a couple of college gals for fun and frolic. Ross Enzor and Marc Milner were the guys, both now over once "serious" relationships that had gone south and then dissolved. It was time to get serious again, or at least semi-serious. Both were ready, and it didn't matter the source of their would-be connection to these as yet unnamed and unknown young lasses, preferably hot or at least semi-hot.

Enter Ross' mom, whose close friend had a daughter that attended Dulaney College, an all-women's, liberal arts institution in suburban Baltimore. "She's cute, or so I've been told," Ross' mom said, referring to the daughter, a one, Judith Kaplan. Even though Judith lived in the area, she roomed on campus. Ross got her dorm phone number. Then, following a pleasant enough chat, they agreed to meet. Before hanging up, Judith said her dorm mate would also like to meet someone and wanted to know if Ross could bring a friend along. A grand idea, Ross thought, and he enlisted his good buddy Marc for the trip to Dulaney.

So, on a warm, early fall weekday evening, Ross and Marc, clad in what college kids normally wear, jeans, pullovers, sneakers, they entered the three-story stone pile that was Fletcher Hall, the girls' dorm, with the sort of nervous excitement one feels before a blind date. Well, more like a meet and greet than an actual date. Dates would come later if all went well.

Ross' talk with Judith gave him an idea of what to expect. He and Marc both knew that Dulaney girls were smart, as well as culturally and politically astute. They listened to jazz and classical music, watched foreign films and demonstrated for and against this cause and that. Many of them also went on to grad school. Neither Ross nor Marc was what you'd call intellectuals. Other than assigned reading for college, Marc devoured muscle and hi-fi magazines, with the occasional foray into Time and Newsweek. Ross subscribed to Oui and Playboy and Time. He also read books, all non-fiction and mainly medical stuff, reflecting his ambition to pursue the field.

"Let's just hope they're cute," Ross said as they approached the security desk and encountered a young woman who was anything but. Besides being at least twenty pounds overweight, she had short, curly dark hair, more fuzz than a female should have over her upper lip and a pug nose. And that voice, cold and authoritarian enough to make a drill sergeant proud.

Warily, she eyed her two visitors while she dialed Judith's room. "Two gentlemen are here to see you." After getting the okay, she nodded. Then, without saying another word, she abruptly flicked a fat arm in the air, scowled and pointed to the stairwell.

"That chick's gotta be a lesbian," Marc said, as he and Ross took the stairs to the second floor. "Some left wing, man hating, women's libber. We might be out of our element here."

"Stay positive," Ross said. "Judith didn't sound like that over the phone." He folded his slim, six-foot frame into a crouch, then added a look of mock horror to his bearded face.

Marc, gripping the stairway railing, doubled over in hysterics. Ross' shtick had been making Marc laugh from the time they met as freshman in high school. After recovering, he said, "Listen, if they look anything like that mama at the desk, we split upon contact. Got it?"

"What if one does and the other looks like Raquel Welch?"

"Then you take the mama," Marc said. Still laughing, they continued up the stairs.

They were pleasantly surprised to see that neither Judith nor her dorm mate Allison Michaels looked anything like that mama at the desk. Judith, per her reference, was indeed cute. She wore her light brown hair in the fashion of the day, long and parted in the middle. Her features, small and adorable, looked perfect on her face, her skin light and blemish-free. She wore no makeup save for a touch of eye shadow. Her snug fitting white jeans did justice to her figure, slim but shapely.

Allison looked like a throwback to an earlier time. Did college girls still wear plaid skirts and bobby-sox? Allison did, at least on this night, with brown loafers and a white blouse. Very preppy. She had dark brown hair, wore it with bangs that just reached her eyebrows. Her shoulder-length locks flipped at the ends, pushing her retro look back to the JFK administration. Aside from a few small zits, she also had nice skin, a shade short of olive. Red lipstick coated her wide mouth.

Marc thought she was pretty, and because Judith seemed "reserved" for Ross, Marc assumed he'd connect with Allison.

"Welcome to Dulaney," Judith said, meeting the would-be suitors in the hall. After perfunctory introductions, she then ushered them into her room, which seemed smaller than its twelve-feet by eleven, crammed as it was with furniture for two students. Posters lined the green painted cinder block walls—The Beatles, Cream, Miles Davis, Leonard Bernstein, Robert Redford, Michael Caine, et al. The girls sat on their beds, while Marc and Ross took the two desk chairs.

Allison leaned back against the wall next to her bed, hands in her lap, ankles crossed. "You two didn't have much trouble finding this place, I take it."

"Not at all," Ross said. "By the way, who's that snake charmer, that Brunnhilde at the security desk downstairs?"

Marc grinned. "Yeah, Miss all Sweetness and Light."

The girls glanced at each other and frowned. "Excuse me?! That's Gail," Judith snapped. "From your tone, I assume you guys are being sarcastic."

"Um, kind of," Ross said. He glanced at Marc who struggled not to laugh.

Not five minutes had passed and already an uneasy pall began to settle over the room.

Judith shook her head. "Why? Did she offend you in some way?"

Ross looked down and shook his head. "Oh boy, see how easy it begins," he grunted under his breath. Speaking up, he said, "Not really, she just...well, she doesn't look very happy, I'll put it that way. No offense to you two."

"Right, no offense," Marc chimed in.

"Good, because Gail runs our consciousness raising group," Judith revealed. "We meet once a week."

Marc chortled. "To discuss what? Bra burning?"

Ross threw his hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh.

Judith shook her head. "You guys...Look, are you really interested or are you trying to irk and make fun?"

"Seriously, Judy," Marc said, "curious minds want to know. I've heard about this women's consciousness raising thing." He kind of wanted to know, but still struggled to keep a straight face.

Judith slid to the edge of her bed. "First off, my name's Judith, not Judy," she said, wagging a self-righteous finger in Marc's direction.

Ross ducked and threw his arms up. "Look out, here it comes."

"Sorry," Marc said, "I distorted it. But not by much. Say, one point five percent. Still audible but listenable." He grinned at his own inside joke, one only an audiophile like him would get.

Judith sat tight-lipped and clueless. "Huh?"

Marc explained that it referred to the distortion of amplifiers. "Actually, most of them now claim less than one percent distortion. Not that thing," he added, shooting a contemptible glance at the "lo-fi" compact stereo on one of the dressers.

Judith rolled her eyes. "Oh-kay. Right, well, as I was about to say, women's consciousness raising isn't a THING. It's a world-wide movement. We discuss everything from the personal to the political, with women's issues getting top billing, of course. Now, if you'd like us to go from the general to the specific, we'd be glad to fill you gents in."

"That won't be necessary," Ross said, "we get the gist."

"Speaking of politics," Allison cut in, "what's your guys' take on the up-coming election? Will it be Tricky Dick or McGovern?" With her back still against the wall, she crossed her arms over her chest.

Marc shrugged. "Beats me. All I know is what I read in Strength and Health."

"It's a weightlifting and bodybuilding magazine," Ross said in response to the girls' blank expressions. "My friend here is a muscle head."

Marc flexed his pectoral muscles through his tight fitting shirt. Thick and stocky, he stood a few inches shorter than Ross.

The girls traded exasperated looks. Then Judith said, "Well, you do plan on voting, don't you? I mean, Maryland just granted people our age the vote, you know. Or do you not know?"

Marc let her smug, condescending tone roll off him. "I do know and do plan to vote. I'm just not sure for whom. Too bad Wallace got shot. I was expecting to pull the lever for him." He met the girls' hostile looks with a wide grin. "Kidding, just kidding. Where's your sense of humor?"

"Not funny," Allison said, her face stern and unforgiving.

Ross asked the girls who they thought would win, and Judith said, "Nixon, most likely. He's the incumbent and incumbency is an advantage in any election."

"Really?" Ross feigned interest just to keep the conversation going.

"Absolutely," Allison said. "Look, incumbents have the name recognition and therefore fund raising advantages. In addition, they already have their hands—their grubby little hands in Nixon's case—on the levers of power. Then there's the average proletariat's fear of the unknown, the untried and untested. So Nixon should win."

"Right," Judith chimed in. With equal passion, she proceeded to prove the point by citing presidential elections dating back as far as the late nineteenth century. Her "lecture" took over five minutes.

Ross sighed. His weary, sorry I asked look wasn't lost on Judith. "Am I boring you?"

"Not a problem," Ross said. "This proletariat can always use a nap." Grinning from ear to ear, he pointed to Judith as if he wanted her to laugh too. She didn't. Allison either.

Marc guffawed. "Come on girls, we're only trying to raise your consciousness. No offense."

Judith shot him an admonishing look. "None taken. I mean, who doesn't love to be mocked? No offense on my part either, man, but I can't help but wonder if YOUR consciousness ever goes beyond the girth of your biceps." She glanced at his thick arms.

"Or higher than your prominent pectoral muscles," Allison said, "which you apparently feel compelled to keep flexing as if you're afraid they'll atrophy or something. Is that the way you typically try to impress women?"

Still flexing, and with tongue planted firmly in cheek, he said, "It's not working, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Allison said, a sour grin plastered across her face. "I assume you're being facetious."

"Facetious is as facetious does," Ross said, squirming in his chair like some restless student who can't wait for the bell to ring. Sliding forward and backward, slowly and gingerly, he extended his right leg across the few inches from Marc's chair until his Nike gym shoe bumped up against Marc's Adidas—a not so subtle hint that he wanted to end this little pow wow.

The girls saw it but ignored it. Instead, they turned back to the upcoming election, gabbing away. Marc began to laugh. Then Ross got even less subtle, and began kicking his shoe against Marc's. A deaf person could have heard the smack of rubber against rubber. Still, the girls acted as if they were alone in the room.

Realizing that they were employing their own not so subtle hint, Marc stood up. "Ladies, I think it's time for us to part ways. It's been real."

Allison flashed a huge mock frown of disappointment. "So soon?" She glanced at her watch. "Time flies when you're having fun."

The girls walked them into the hall. Then Ross said, "So does this mean our double wedding is off?"

What a look, what a disgusted look from girls with such fresh faces. They looked as if they wanted to hurl. They were not amused, not amused at all. Didn't laugh, didn't even crack a smile. Well, only when they waived in unison. "Bye guys. Toodle-oo." Then they ducked back into their room.

The guys, well, they cracked all the way down the hall, down the stairs, though the lobby and then out to Ross' green Plymouth Duster. "Not our type, were they?" Marc said.

"Ya think? Understatement of the year, man."

"Too bad, they were cute."

Ross got behind the wheel and turned the ignition. "They WERE cute. However, I think we can find just as cute without having to endure a fucking political lecture."

"Yeah, and we can do without the consciousness raising thing as well."

"Right," Ross said, driving off the lot. "But you might have to look far and wide to find a chick willing to put up with your pec flexing."