Essays
My Robert Redford Minute
© Sande Boritz Berger
shorter version
Driving has always enabled me to relax. It’s my time to take stock.
And there is just so much one can accomplish behind the wheel of a car.
One late August afternoon, many years ago, I’m in traffic, on the
way to the airport. The sun’s rays were so brilliant, I had to shift
the visor each time the car changed direction. I was mesmerized by the
illusive powers of the asphalt surface, one mirage after another, making
my throat burn with thirst. I reached for the Diet Coke suspended on the
dashboard in the magnetic holder. Wiped the bubbles from the tip of my
nose. The traffic, at a dead halt, I peeked in the rearview mirror. Not
so bad, I thought— finally a good haircut, free of frizzies, each
hair obediently in place. Steve had said he loved my hair. He called me
Sister Golden Hair like in the song by the group, America. It was one
of the only good hits of the mid-seventies, unless you dug Barry White
and all that heavy breathing. Music eased the pain. Our divorces, like
most divorces, were brutal. The usual rift over money, or the lack there
of, kids and visitation and sometimes vengeful exes.
In the middle of all this change, was Steve’s big trial in D.C.
The trial that took him away every Sunday through Friday, leaving me with
the weekend fallout, shaking with fatigue. Even though the weather was
spectacular, I drove to the airport that particular day, feeling the usual
mixture of fear, anticipation and yearning: In a few weeks, Steve and
I would be married. We hoped our remarriage would solidify us as a family—help
us to create a bond with our four children. We knew we had a difficult
task ahead, caring and raising four children under the age of six.
Now, I began to feel a surge of joy looking forward to seeing him. I imagined
his coy look as he walked towards my car, smoking his pipe, his deep-
set brown eyes intent on finding me. I was grinning like a Cheshire, when
a guy with wild shoulder length hair drove past me on the left and made
lewd gestures. I ignored him and looked straight ahead. Frustrated, he
made a quick getaway and burned rubber. I smelled it through the rolled
up windows. What made some men so rude and infantile? I remember when
I first posed that question to my mother.
“
Don’t ask me, what should I know? Didn’t I marry your father.”
“Thanks Mom, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”
At the time, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I got the same
nonchalant attitude a few years later when I announced I was getting divorced.
“Why,
you think you’ll do so much better the next time? You’ll only
be trading one set of problems for another,” my mother said, never
looking up from her needlepoint.
I arrived at the American terminal about fifteen minutes early and begged
the security guard to let me stay at curbside. I always got lost looking
for the parking lots. Once I’d exited the airport by mistake. When
I got out of the car to stretch my legs, the smell of the cars’
exhausts in the stagnant air made me dizzy. I leaned against my old Pontiac
and peered at people coming and going through the terminal doors. A young
couple wearing matching floral shirts carried straw bags and balanced
their suitcases. They looked happy but badly sunburned. I guessed they
were returning from their honeymoon. Why exactly did they call it a honeymoon
I wondered? After a few minutes of people gazing, I saw a tall handsome
chauffeur walking quickly, carrying two black bags. A few steps behind
him wearing dark glasses, a powder blue shirt, and navy blazer walks a
short, but strikingly handsome man. Who? Who is that? It finally registered;
my hands flew up to my face in disbelief. I reappeared slowly, like a
toddler in a game of peek-a-boo, to see the man chuckling, his head tossed
back. He seemed amused at my display of shock. Was this another mirage,
a dizzy daydream on a stifling summer’s day? No, no, I was sure.
It was really him…it was Robert Redford!
I feel a sudden surge of adrenalin. “Oh my God,” I shouted
to no one in particular.
“You still here lady?” The security guard asked. Breathlessly,
I babbled on trying to make him my friend. I pointed to the direction
of the white stretch limo, sending the guard to investigate, to see for
himself. I realized the limo would have to pass me when making its exit
from the one way lane in which I was double-parked. In my mind I did what
any normal, divorced woman, about to be remarried in three weeks, would
do. I reached into my bag and touched up my lipstick. Then I posed against
the Pontiac covering the neon graffiti someone once sprayed across the
car door.
I waited, my heart beating relentlessly in my throat. I felt like a leading
lady in some untitled B movie. But none of that really mattered. As predicted,
the limo passed in front of me ever so slowly. The rear window was rolled
half way down, just enough for our eyes to lock in an intense glaze. Burning,
sizzling. This was a scene I’d remember, take with me, whenever
things got really rough. I saw him gently smile, not mocking at all, and
as he passed me, his head turned in my direction, until all that was visible
was the black glass of the rear window.
Dazed,
I fantasized the limo stopping. Then, he opened the door, beckoning me
to enter. What would I say? Would I tell my life story and ask him to
please get me home in time for the girls’ baths.
“Lady, that was him all right. Tiny little guy, ain’t he?
Lady you gonna move that car now. Yo, lady!”
Just then, someone called out my name. It’s Steve grinning from
ear to ear. He’s carrying his big litigation bag. One hand’s
gripping the pipe. As we embraced and I felt the heat of my flushed cheeks
against Steve’s cool smooth shaven face. And just the slightest
tinge of guilt.