A Cab Ride to Forget

A Cab Ride to Forget                                                       August 2015   

This is a true story. It is a story from the past, a coming of age story. It happened in Cincinnati in 1944. Looking back on the incident from where I am today, is much fun.
      I was a young social worker concluding my obligations to Family Service of Cincinnati. The agency had made it possible for me to go to the Columbia School of Social Work in New York, to obtain my Masters’ Degree. I owed them a year on staff for every year in school. The boy was a seminary student, bright and sure-footed, too sure-footed. He was studying to become a rabbi. I had dated one of his fellow-students. When we broke up, Dan (not his real name) asked me for a date. We went to dinner, had a great time, the evening went well. We talked easily about our undergraduate days at different Big Ten schools: Dan had his Bachelors’ degree from Ohio State University. I was a graduate of the University of Michigan, mortal enemies on the football field.
     When a game was scheduled during the November football season of 1944, Dan asked me to go with him to Columbus, his hometown, so we could enjoy our rivalry and our football teams. I trusted my friend completely, foolishly, I was naïve at 22, had no idea that he had the trip well planned. I was simply eager to go to the game. In answer to my questions, my friend lied in absolutely bad faith. Yes, we could stay at his home in Columbus, yes I would have a room to myself and yes his parents would be at home. I trusted him, I was a foolish innocent girl.
     We took the bus between Cincinnati and Columbus. My friend Dan was a good talker, we chatted all the way as time flew. I was delighted to be with such a bright friendly man and thrilled at the prospect of hearing the Michigan band once again while watching “my” team beat his team. Deep down I knew that Mother and Dad would admonish me: “You are going to his home overnight and you have not been invited by his Mother, you should not go!” I was 22, living on my own and said to my conscience, “we will discuss this later.” It took twenty years before I told my parents about that weekend. By then it was a humorous incident.
       We arrived in Columbus on the Friday evening before the game. His parents had taken a “sudden” trip to Detroit; it was too late for me to raise objections or find a hotel room in a strange city. Of course he entered my bedroom that night. I ordered him out. I surprised myself, shocked him, my fury overtook his expectations. I think I frightened him with my intensity. He had offended me and I let him know it. I am sure his anger-disappointment matched mine. I was trampling his pride, at the time I was shocked, naïve enough to be angry at his deviousness. As he had promised, I had a room to myself. I was a virgin who felt protected by his promise that his parents would be home. We did not even pretend to be in love with each other, good friends, maybe.
     We went to the game together the next day without speaking. I believe Michigan won, that only added fuel to his ire. I do not recall having a meal with him or talking to him on the way home on the bus. We reached Cincinnati at 2 am in the morning. My Sir Galahad paid me back for my refusals. He left me on the sidewalk in downtown Cincinnati to find my own way home in the middle of the night. Dan did not scare me, but the circuitous cab ride surely did.