Compared to me, Doctor Zhivago was a study in instant gratification….well, almost.

 I endured a saga that began in 1961 when I asked my love, Carol, to marry me and then………

Before launching into this, scroll down to the “Trifecta” series of chapters about my suspenseful trip from Mexico to Detroit with Carol after we had “celebrated” a Mexican marriage in Juarez. There, you sign a paper stating that you intend to get married, pay them a fee, wait three days and get married…in Spanish. 

I turned to Carol after the ceremony and saying,” Buenos dias. Como esta Usted?” And she looked dreamily into my eyes, gave me a long lingering kiss and replied, “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”  Then, we fell laughing into each other’s arms like we had awakened together from the same bad dream. Our five long years of separation were over. 

Let the fiesta begin. Vamonos, Muchachos!. I booked a mariachi band that broke into a medley of spirited corrida songs during our short ceremonial walk to the hotel. That was in January of 1967.  

In 1961, I had asked her to marry me. At that time, I had been “filed” against by my then wife, and it was only going to be a matter of months until she  picked up the ”final,” I spirited Carol away to Cleveland with me to begin our new life together with me doing mornings at KYW with Specs Howard, and to await the “final” from California.  

Tectonic events, details of which are too convoluted to relay here, overtook us in Cleveland, ripping us apart. During those years of separation, Carol went to Miami and became the Administrative Aide to her Producer father, Ben Chapman, at the Ivan Tors Studio in Miami, which produced the “Flipper” TV series.  At this time, She was casting the underwater stunt crew that would make “Thunderball,” and coordinating with Frank Sinatra’s company while he made “Tony Rome” in Miami during the TV off-season. 

The week prior to my Miami arrival to make the try at winning her back, she had been asked by Aaron Rosenberg, Frank Sinatra’s producer, to do a screen test. She said no. She found the spotlight blinding.  

I was assailed with doubt about ever getting her back. In Cleveland, I had spent hours on the phone desperately begging her, “Just let me come and talk to you,”  She gave no sign that I was getting to her, but, after daily dunning calls, she  relented, saying in effect, “Okay, we’ll talk, but don’t get your hopes up.” I clung to those words like a drowning man clings to the proverbial  straw. 

I am now telling you about my first trip there, one that began with my landing at Miami International, and walking out into the lobby expecting a long lonesome cab ride to the Ivan Tors Studio to seek out a reluctant Carol. Instead, there she was, waving and smiling at me, snow white teeth and golden hair set in a richly tanned body. She seemed happy to see me, like I was a long lost…wait a minute…I had been long lost.  

The smile grew more faint as I approached, ending in a cheek peck when I reached her, She led me to a Cadillac that she had parked off to the side in an Ivan Tors space near the main terminal. “A special perk”? I asked, trying to get the visit going on a higher note. She motioned wordlessly toward the car door. 

After a long silence in the car, I said, “I’ve booked a room at the Fountainbleu, darling..” Translation: This is going to be an overnight trip, and we are going to make up for lost ti…” 

“I am going to the Bahamas tomorrow morning,” she interrupted firmly.” Let’s talk today, so you can grab a return flight this evening. I know a place where we can go talk.” 

“Oh?”  I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. 

“Have you ever been to Vizcaya?”  She asked. 

Vizcaya…isn’t that the former home of John Deere? I think it’s now a museum.” 

She didn’t reply. It was worse than I thought. She had asked me to come to all this way so she could take me to a neutral place and make it a formal kiss-off.  

“Vizcaya!! You could have just written me.” I said, plundering my brain for a way to avert tragedy. “Maybe, sent me a John Deere letter.”  

She usually laughed at my jokes.

There was a stone silence from across the front seat.

This was going to be a lo-o-o ng day. 

We arrived at a large Romanesque mansion with a commanding view of the bay, and wove our way through the  parking slots, almost to the main entrance of  Vizcaya where Carol eased into a space, got out and walked toward the entrance without looking back. 

Finally, she turned back and said without smiling, “It’s not John Deere. It’s James Deering.” 

What? 

“The former owner of this place is James Deering, not John Deere. Deering was an agricultural industrialist whose company, International Harvester, made harvesting machines. John Deere made tractors.”  

She had changed in the past years, with an enhanced  self-assurance packaged in a body that had been even more finely honed after years of cavorting with the “Flipper” dolphins during her lunch breaks.  

It didn’t help my self assurance that she wore a form-fitting silk dress. the palest of greens contrasting with her golden tan. 

I tried desperately to exorcise the threatening images that were swarming in my mind.

Had she taken a different path?  One without me? 

We were moments away from the “talk” I had begged for.  

It hit me like a sledgehammer:

Plan A:

A cheap petition for pity,

and a heart-wrenching expression of my love wasn’t going to do it.  

Time for Plan B… only there was no Plan B. 

Next week: The most bizarre proposal ever, like I was channeling Hunter S Thompson. 

“Did ya ever have the feelin’ that you wanted to go,

  and still had the feelin’ that  you wanted to stay?”

                                                                              ………Jimmy Durante