Let’s Call Her Barbie

Do You Want to Dance?

Do You Want to Dance?

“You seem to be in an awfully good mood today,” Dr.Greene observes, indicating in his notes that Jack appears to be entering a bout of mania. His last manic episode had been four months prior. In addition to attending Group once a week with his wife, Jack also sees Dr.Greene privately. There are things he can’t talk about in front of Barbara and a room full of loons. For example, today Dr.Greene wants to probe deeper into what he refers to as Jack’s “hypersexuality syndrome.”

“I like sex and my wife doesn’t,” Jack says. “Barbara and I have an understanding about this. She knows I go elsewhere for sex. Is that such a crime?”

Dr.Greene tilts his head before flipping to a clean page. “Do you remember your first sexual awakening?”

“No,” Jack lies, knowing exactly when this occurred. He owes his sexual awakening to the Rockettes. He grew up in New York, where his father was a big developer, and one afternoon, twelve-year-old Jack accompanied him to Radio City Music Hall. While his father was busy with clients, Jack sneaked into the orchestra pit to watch the Rockettes rehearse. That kickline—those legs—oh, what they did to his young body, making it tingle and harden in ways he’d never known possible.

“Really?” says Dr.Greene. “No recall? None whatsoever?” He clears his throat.

Jack remains silent.

“How are we doing on the masturbating?” Dr.Greene asks.

“ We are doing just fine with that. I’ve taken matters into my own hands,” he says, knowing Dr.Greene won’t appreciate his pun. Dr.Greene is concerned about frequency, the goal being to reduce the number of incidents to a normal range. But who’s to say what’s normal?

Now Dr.Greene changes the subject. “In our last session, you were talking about your childhood and your parents.”

Jack sighs, then groans.

“You said your father is distant.”

“My father is a cold, callous sonofabitch.” But Jack still reveres him.

“And your mother?”

Jack laughs. “Lily Ryan is a pretentious snob. She’s all about appearances.”

It’s true. A perfect example was Jack’s childhood home in Riverdale, on the fringe of Manhattan and the Bronx. Theirs was the largest house on the block, with a big circular drive, columns out front and ornate ironwork on the door. Unfortunately, the inside of the house did not match the grand exterior. His mother had a vision and was forever re-wallpapering, repainting, reupholstering, trying to get it just right. The result was a clutter of ladders and paint-splattered drop cloths all around. Jack often feels like he is that house, so appealing on the outside in his tailored suits and silk ascots, but on the inside, a mess.

“I recall you mentioned not being allowed to have friends over.”

“Oh hell no. My mother wouldn’t allow anyone inside the house. Even delivery boys had to leave stuff on the back porch. Having friends over was out of the question. Besides, she didn’t approve of any of them, and if I was invited to their houses, she’d say, ‘You don’t want to mix with those sorts. Those people are commoners.’?” Jack laughs sadly. “Everyone was a commoner or a loser, too bourgeois, too uncouth, too oafish, too something .”

“That must have been quite lonely for you,” says Dr.Greene.

“Can we change the subject, please?” The truth is, he’s still lonely. Especially in his own home. His wife is right there, but he feels her flinch each time he touches her. It wasn’t that way in those first few years—there was laughter, intimacy and sex, though never quite as much as he would have liked. Still, he thought they were good together, and yet, somewhere between having children and his work, they lost each other, the chasm between them impossible to cross, impossible to deny. She can’t give him what he needs and vice versa.

Now he tries to fill that empty void any which way he can. Aside from insomnia bouts, he cannot sleep alone unless he’s passed out, and Jack would sooner set his hair on fire than eat in a restaurant by himself. If only his mother had allowed him to have friends. It’s because of her that he learned at a young age to live inside his head, and now, he’s parked there.

—

Elliot leaves work early one day to run some errands before heading home. He’s out back by the pool taking stock of the improbable fact that he, Elliot Handler, owns a home with a swimming pool and no mortgage. When he met Ruth, his pockets were empty. They were at a charity dance for B’nai B’rith and he borrowed a nickel from his friend to get in so he could dance with her. By the end of that first foxtrot, he was in love and didn’t know what to do about it. She was out of his league. How could a kid from Denver’s west side—who ran around town with a bunch of Jewish and Italian thugs—possibly win the heart of a girl like Ruthie Mosko?

Later that night, as they stood outside the Denver Lodge on Colfax Avenue, he dried his sweating palm on his pant leg before daring to hold her hand. His voice croaked when he asked if he could walk her home. He didn’t have a car and she lived more than a mile away, but she agreed. So walk they did, her delicate hand in his. Elliot’s head was swimming with excitement as he anticipated their first kiss. Oh, how he’d agonized over it, trying to figure out how to orchestrate it. When should he kiss her? For how long? Should it be a peck? On the cheek? On the lips? Something more intimate? Could he dare French-kiss her? While he was running all this through his mind, Ruthie stopped on the sidewalk, the streetlight glowing all around her, making her look even more angelic. They were just a few blocks from the lodge when she got up on her tiptoes and kissed him, long and soft and full of miracles. Elliot smiles remembering that moment and how she took charge then and forever since. She was even the one who proposed marriage. And thank heaven for that.

He goes to the toolshed and takes down the long-handled skimmer off the hooks on the side and collects leaves and insects floating on the water’s surface. They have a pool boy who comes in twice a week, but Elliot likes taking care of the pool himself when he has time. He focuses on going after a coppery, iridescent-backed beetle in the shallow end.

Elliot knows he’d never have this pool or the house and for sure not a successful company without Ruth. Had it not been for her, Elliot and his friend Matt would still be working in a garage, potchking around with Lucite picture frames. It was Ruth who had th e idea to go out and sell them. Eleven years ago, she made her first sales call, shlepping a sample suitcase she could barely lift into a home furnishings store. Before she’d even gotten the case open, the owner said he wasn’t interested.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to say no.” Ruth held out a frame, explaining that Lucite was the latest thing. “I’m giving you first dibs, but if you’re not interested, I’ll just sell these to your competition.” That man ended up placing a $3,000 order, and knowing she’d made him bend to her will set a fire under her. It was like a pilot light that to this day has never gone out.

She never lost her drive, even during the tough times, of which there were many. Just as their picture frame business was getting off the ground, the government needed all plastic products for the war effort. Apparently, the war effort needed Elliot, too, but he was thankfully never sent into combat. As soon as he was back home, Elliot and Matt started working with cheap lumber and wood scraps, designing dollhouse furniture. Once again—but now with two children in tow—Ruth went about selling those items and learning the toy business. She studied trade magazines like she was cramming for a test. She even took a train by herself to New York City to attend her first Toy Fair in 1945. She had no idea how enormous the toy industry was and just how much money there was to be made there.

After that Ruth convinced Elliot and Matt to go into business together. Their first year out of the gate they made $30,000, and they more than tripled that in their second year. By 1947, they’d made their mark in the industry with Elliot’s Uke-A-Doodle, a plastic toy ukulele. Since they’d outgrown their little storefront, Ruth negotiated the lease for their first building. When their payroll hit one hundred people, Matt became overwhelmed. It was too much for him, and Ruth encouraged Elliot to buy out Matt’s interest for $15,000—it was a king’s ransom at the time, and they’d borrowed the money from Sarah and her husband, Louie, to do it.

“What are you doing out here?” asks Ruth now, coming through the sliding glass doors. “Is everything okay?” She sets her purse and car keys on one of the lounge chairs. “I came out of my meeting and they said you’d already left for the day.”

“I had to get the pressure checked on my rear tires. And I stopped by the travel agent. We’re all set. Two weeks in Hawaii. A resort hotel right on the beach. We’ll go whale watching and take a helicopter ride over Kauai—oh, and a boat trip along the Napali Coast. Doesn’t that sound great?”

“When is this again?” she asks, sitting down on the lounge chair.

“We’ll leave June eighth—that first Saturday after school lets out.”

“Oh.” Ruth chews on her lip, sighs with exaggeration.

The tone of her voice, the look on her face—he knows what’s coming and he can’t bear to hear her say it. “Oh, no, Ruthie. You cannot back out of this trip. The kids will be crushed. They’ve been looking forward to this for months.”

“Okay, all right,” she says, capitulating. “I’ll go.”

“And what? Sit in the hotel room and work the whole time like you did in Tahoe? In Niagara Falls?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Can you even remember the last time we went on vacation when you didn’t spend half the time working? I’ll tell you when it was, it was Europe—that was over a year ago—before you saw that damn doll.” He lifts the net from the pool, flips it over, tapping it on the cement to empty his trappings.

“What do you want me to say? I’m trying to run a company.”

“It’s my company, too, Ruthie. You forget that sometimes.” This comes out harsher than he intended. He doesn’t like losing his temper. That tends to upset him more than the thing that infuriated him in the first place. Now his head is hurting; now he’s aware of the stagnant air and the tightness in his chest.

“I have never forgotten that,” she says. And she means it. But like so many creative types, Elliot’s not necessarily a businessman. He’s a dreamer, fanciful and childlike. And like Jack, Elliot can tinker with a toy forever. Without her pushing, nothing gets finished. Can’t he appreciate the kind of pressure she’s under? She carries their business on her shoulders.

“Ever since you found that doll you’ve been consumed with work. You don’t have time for anything else—not even your family. You spend more time with Jack these days than you do me.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re jealous of Jack.”

“Of course not. God no.” He takes a deep breath, tries to find the words to explain himself. “But I know what happens when two people collaborate on a project. There’s a bond that no one else can penetrate. There’s an energy, and I know you feel it. He does, too. It’s like a private club that no one else can join. Didn’t you feel that way when I was working with Matt?”

She was so busy selling, getting their business up and running, she never thought of it that way.

“So yes,” says Elliot, ashamed to admit it. “I guess I am a little jealous of your partnership with Jack.”

“Then work with us. God knows we could use your help.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see why you’re so hell-bent on making this doll. It’s not going well, Ruthie. One week the hair’s not working. The next, it’s the arms. And you still don’t have a name. You’re going in circles. I’ve worked on a lot of toys, and when you hit this many roadblocks, the universe is trying to tell you something. It shouldn’t be this hard. Plus, the whole concept of a doll like this, with the breasts…” He shakes his head again. “It just doesn’t feel right. No one else has the guts to say it to your face, but we think you need to hit the brakes.”

“Who’s we ?”

“The accountants, the lawyers, half the developers and engineers. There’s too much risk involved.”

“Oh, come on, we’ve always taken risks.” Though, really, she’s the risk-taker who then persuades Elliot to go along with the plan. “It’s how we’ve built this company. It’s why we’re successful.”

“That’s not the only reason. You and I have different strengths that complement each other, and that’s why we’ve been successful. I design and you sell.”

And then she gets it. It’s not only that he’s jealous of Jack. “Do you resent me for trying to create a toy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious. Do you?” He doesn’t usually challenge her, and that’s a big reason why their marriage works. She leads and he follows, happily, willingly. But then again, she’s never veered into his area of expertise before. But she’s not trying to take anything away from Elliot or upstage him at all. It’s just that she’s banking everything she’s got on this doll’s success, and when all is said and done, she wants it known that this was her idea, her vision.

“Ruthie, I’ve never told you how to go out there and sell, have I?”

“So you do resent it.”

“Now you’re insulting me. It’s not about you designing, it’s about what you’re designing. It’s a toy that doesn’t make any sense.” He hangs the skimmer up on the hooks. He’s so angry he can’t look at her right now, and he goes back inside the house to simmer down.

Ruth stays outside on the lounge chair, watching the droplets of water gathering on the cement beneath the net. With each fresh drip of water, she feels her family pulling farther and farther away from her.

—

They always vowed never to go to bed angry, but Elliot’s already asleep by the time Ruth comes upstairs. She considers waking him to talk it out, but it’s late, she’s exhausted, and part of her thinks he should apologize, or at least meet her halfway. She feels like he’s asking her to choose between her family and work.

She sits with this for a moment, trying to see it from his point of view. Maybe Elliot has some cause to be jealous of Jack. There is an intensity if not an intimacy that’s developed over the past year or so. The two of them can fall into fits of laughter just as easily as they can be at each other’s throats. When one of them gets an idea, the first thing they do is rush to the other’s office to share it. There is passion—not of a romantic sort, but then again, who’s to say what the difference is. You’re giving your heart and offering up all that you’ve got inside.

What frustrates Ruth, though, is that an opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, and Elliot can’t see it. If this doll is even half as successful as Ruth thinks she’ll be, they will be set for life, and so will their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Ruth knows what it’s like to have money one day, lose it all the next. Her sister’s drugstore had plenty of ups and downs, and Louie often joined Ruth’s father at the poker tables. Sarah never knew when he’d come home or if she’d be able to put food on the table the following week. Money for even the necessities was never a given. She remembers their electricity being turned off and having to rely on flashlights until Sarah had enough money to pay the bill. The toy business is always a gamble, and this fear of scarcity is ingrained in Ruth. She would have thought Elliot would understand better than anyone. Has he forgotten how broke he was when they met? Does he forget the days when they were lucky if they had $18 in their bank account?

She glances at Elliot, feeling so distant from him even though he’s right there. She can’t remember the last time they made love. She’s too tired in the evenings when his foot crosses to her side of the bed and touches her leg—his mating call. In the mornings, while fastening her pearls and applying her lipstick, she’ll look at him through the mirror and say, “Want to tonight?” He understands the shorthand and always smiles, always says, “Sure.” But when tonight comes, she’s too tired, or he’s too engrossed in a book or a television program. And another day goes by.

Ruth eventually dozes off into a restless sleep and is disoriented for a moment when the alarm goes off. It stirs them both, and even before she opens her eyes, their argument replays in her mind. She doesn’t want something like a doll to come between them. Elliot is the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and she loves this man in all the big and small ways. She loves his creativity and is endlessly fascinated by how his mind works. Only Elliot can point to a cracked sidewalk and see an old man’s profile where everyone else sees broken concrete. He has the ability to spot the goodness in everything—even in her. She loves that he gives the best foot massages, loves that he never curses out other drivers when they’re stuck in traffic and rarely loses his temper with the kids. He loves to laugh, and when he does, it makes her laugh, too. She loves that V-shaped patch of hair on his forehead, all that’s left of his dark, lanky curls. And his smell. Elliot has a unique smell, clean and sun-kissed. And he never has body odor. Ever. In all the years she’s known him, no matter if he’s golfed eighteen holes, played six sets of tennis or been working with a blowtorch in a hot garage, he still smells good to her, welcoming and pleasing.

She scoots over to his side of the bed. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into his ear.

Still half-asleep, he pulls her closer. “I’m sorry, too.”

A tear slips from the corner of her eye and onto her pillowcase. She doesn’t let herself cry often, finding tears to be a waste of time. But this morning’s tears are her contrition because she realizes she’s been taking him for granted.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I just miss you, Ruthie. That’s all.”

This makes her cry harder as she buries her face in his shoulder, already growing damp from her tears.

“Shush.” He soothes her, rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay, Ruthie. We’re okay.”

She breathes him in deeply, feeling her whole body expand as all her little hurt, empty spaces fill with his love for her. Nothing else feels as safe to her as Elliot, and at times like this, when she’s so raw, she never wants to be anywhere but at his side, even as the voice inside her head is urging her to hurry up, get showered, get dressed and get to work.