Wingman Batman Makes Introduction to Superman

December 1959 Superman and a Nose Dance

I’m twenty-one, divorced and living in Manhattan. Just off Sutton Place on 55th Street. Great address and high rent. I’m determined to go to law school, but at the moment I’m an NYU undergrad. The last semester before Law School. I hope. To cover rent and food I work nights and go to school full time during the day. Not too many places to work nights. Hooker? Nah! Night watchwoman? Nah! All night disk jocky? Not a sultry enough voice. I’m the hatcheck girl at Gatsby’s, a chi-chi supper club on the corner of 49th Street and First Avenue. I can do homework in the check room between customers and as staff eat a good free dinner.

It’s cold as hell. I shiver behind the checkroom counter pushing schoolbooks around in front of me. The front window is half covered by a brass bistro railing and burgundy velvet curtains. Damn! It’s another blustery New York City night and insistent fluffy snowflakes dive to their death against the glass. Every time the door opens, a blast of cold air mixed with damp snow blows into the tiny space between the front door and the checkroom and I’m isolated in chilled purgatory while another door to the restaurant saves the customers from intermittent blasts of freezing wind. No one in the restaurant can see me and I have time to hide my books and put on my greeting face before anyone gets in the front door. It’s a great place to study in between customers; that is, if you’re a polar bear.

The wind smacks my face as two chubby little white guys stomp in through the door. It’s held open by a tall, handsome black man, who I later find out is George Elliot, their company chauffeur. He has a gentlemanly grace about him, a contrast to the two little guys.

“You OK now Mr. D? You need anything else, jes let me know. I'll be waiting out front with the car. Sonny found me a place and he’ll come and get me when you're ready.” He smiles down with fondness at the two short men who nod back to him. It’s clear to me they’re all buddies, even though he’s their driver.

They hand me heavy winter coats as they pass into the restaurant. As I put the coats on hooks I admire the softness, hummm, alpaca…maybe vicuna, or at least cashmere. I check the labels—Saks Fifth Avenue.

Leon and Hodges, waiters, sidle over to the doorway to the checkroom. “That’s Superman, he’s Harry Donenfeld, a big shot comic book publisher.” Leon points to the smallest of the two, not quite five feet tall. “The other guy is Uncle Herbie. He carries the money.” Hodges says

“They’re real big tippers.” Leon says. “Just make sure if a woman calls for him you tell her they aren’t here, but get her name and number to give him.” I see two smirky smiles. “Yeah, and if it’s his wife he won’t call back. If it’s Sonny, his girlfriend, he may want her to meet him here if he can’t find anyone else interesting.” Looking back into the restaurant he checks out the bar. “None of the regular ‘ladies’ are here tonight, too much snow. He’ll probably take her call.”

I nod while the waiters offer their advice. It’s amazing to me how much they know about all the customers. Before Hodges turns to go back to the dining room, he adds, “Give them whatever they want. Herbie’ll take care of it. That is, whatever “it” needs to be taken care of.”

Okay, I get the drill, I think to myself. But maybe not.

A bit later, Uncle Herbie comes over to the check room and starts up a conversation. His intro is to lean over the checkroom counter, and with his index and middle finger do a little dance on the bridge of my nose. I notice he’s got one eyebrow that goes from one side of his face to the other, and there are several long curly wild hairs poking out. I lean back, not really offended, but not used to anyone finger-dancing on my nose.

Herbie takes a drink. He holds the glass by the rim opposite to his mouth with his thumb inside the glass and the index and middle fingers outside. It looks awkward to me, but it’s his signature. That and the nose dance.

We chat a while and I finally understand he’s trying to find out if I’m available for the night for a price. He’s polite about it. So I am when I explain to him I’m a pre-law student hat-checking for rent and food money and, thank you very much, but I don’t perform extra services for extra money.

He leans closer, “No problem kid, just checkin’ things out, ya’ know. No hard feelings?”

“No problem. I understand.” So that’s what he takes care of. Now I get "it."

“Just wanted to make sure…need ta' find out about these things, ya’ know.” He palms a bill into my hand. “Use it for books, okay?”

“Thanks, I will.”

Later I look at the tip. It’s twenty bucks. The guys were right - generous.

I leave Gatsby’s a few months later when summer comes and there are no more hats and coats to check. The new job is clerking in a law office. It's the first step in preparation for my grand plan to go to law school, even though at the law firm I make less than half what I make working checkrooms.

1961 Batman, Son of Superman, and The Law Student

It’s fall. I know because the air has a crispy fall smell and the leaves are changing. I just haven’t had the chance to see them myself because I’m at New York Law School. All I do is work and study, no way can I spend the every night in a checkroom. Now, I'm working only Friday through Sunday at the Luau 57 nightclub. Hawaiian theme, delicious Chinese food for staff.

My friend, Marion, and I live on opposite sides of the Sutton Place apartment complex. She’s one of the few friends I get to see. We often have coffee together weekend mornings before I go to work at my gig at the Luau 400, and we manage dinners from time to time when she comes home from her office and I’m bleary eyed from law books.

Friends say we look like sisters. Think girl-next-door clean cut, East Coast WASP looking blondes, blue eyes, preppy looking—even though we’re both Jewish. I’m taller at five foot seven, and with the upsweep hairdo and spike heels brush six feet.

Being young and beautiful, Marion is in demand, but her social life is limited by not wanting to leave her 12 year old daughter Diane home alone. She’s a great kid, but we call her the “Mish,” from making a mish-mash when left to her own devices.

I’m stuck home in the evenings during the week, keeping company with my law books, hence dateless. I bring my books over to Marion’s and the Mish and I do our homework together until her bedtime, then I continue with mine until Marion arrives home from her date. Problem solved!

My phone rings and Marion’s on the other end. “Hi Alice, I’ve got a date with a new guy I just met. Can you come over and sit tonight?”

“Sure, let me collect my books. Who’s the guy?”

“His name’s Bob Kane. He lives in this complex. I think he said he’s the creator of ‘Batman.’”

“Cool, what’s he look like?”

“He’s older than usual, but tall and kinda’ handsome …dark, craggy.”

I’m just spreading law books on the dining table when the doorbell rings. Marion’s in the bedroom putting the finishing touches on her makeup as I open the door. He is tall, pleasant looking, angular, dark-haired and looking at me quizzically. “Am I at the right apartment?” he asks. I get it, one blonde looks much like another.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Marion?”

“Are you Bob?”

“Yes, I’m Bob Kane.”

“Come on in, yeah, you’re at the right place. I’m Alice, the babysitter.”

He comes in. I take his coat and scarf, invite him to sit while he waits until Marion is finished. Diane comes out. The Mish is on her best behavior as she checks out her mother’s new swain. The three of us chat.

“You don’t look like a babysitter.” Bob declares.

“I’m Marion’s friend. I live in the building…law student,” I nod at my open books, “I come over and keep Diane company…we do our homework together.”

He’s looking me over very closely and I squirm a bit.

“Are you single?” he asks.

“Yes.” I don’t like where this is going.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” The Mish is now giving him the fish eye; he’s taking her mother for dinner and asking me these questions? "Why do you ask?" Creepy.

“My boss is single. I’d like to introduce you two.”

Diane and I relax a bit. “No thanks, I don’t have time.” I nod to the open books again. “Law School during the week and work on the weekends. No free time to date, but thanks anyway for the thought.”

“I’m sure he’d really like you. He’s a nice guy. Recently divorced. I know he’d like to meet someone like you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Anyway, recently divorced? Too much baggage, if you know what I mean.” I start into the kitchen to get away from the conversation.

“He’s really a good guy, a top corporate executive. Vice President of DC Comics. You know, Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman.”

Without turning back toward Bob, I roll my eyes. I hatcheck and see businessmen all the time. Yuck! Booor-ring! Recently divorced and a businessman? This friend of Bob is at the bottom of my idea of a desirable date. Even if I had the time, no way would I waste it on him! Something crawls around the back of my mind–“Superman?” Seems familiar to me somehow, I feel my nose and have a vague remembrance of something—a nose dance? Nah, not possible.

Thankfully, Marion appears. They’re off for the evening. The Mish and I take to our books. She’s asleep by the time they return. I beat a fast retreat before Bob can start in again on how nice his boss is.

A week or so later, Marion announces she has another date with Bob, and can I come over to stay again. No problem. I lug my books across to the other side of the building and again answer the door for him.

“Hey, glad to see you. I told my boss about you and he really wants to meet you. He asked for your number and wants to call. C’mon on, how can you resist going out with Superman?”

Does this man not understand the word “no”? I don’t even find the idea of a comic company mogul vaguely exciting. I was a comic fan when I was a kid but those days are long gone. And what’s with the nose dance?

“Sorry Bob. All booked up for the next month or so. Mid-term exams. Please give my regrets.” I’m trying to be polite; he is Marion’s date.

“Look, I’m positive you’ll like him. He has three beautiful children with his ex-wife, they’re great kids.”

Bob is so insistent I figure maybe he’s either getting deaf or senile?

He’s now completed the top three categories of men I avoid like the plague—recently divorced, businessmen and children from a prior marriage. This ain’t just baggage baby; it’s a full luggage store!

“Bob. Please understand. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I am not interested. I do not want this man to call me. Ever! Let’s forget you even met me.”

He looks unfazed. Do I need to hit this guy with a baseball bat to make the point understood?

Marion comes to my rescue and drags Bob out of the apartment. The Mish grumbles, “If the boss is as much of a jerk as Bob, I don’t blame you.” We go back to our books.

The next day Marion and I decide if she ever goes out with Bob again, I won’t come over ‘till they leave. The Mish can give the all-clear once they’re out the door.

A few days later, I answer my phone to: “Hello, I’m Bob Kane’s boss, Irwin Donenfeld.”

I can’t believe it. Have I been talking to myself? Now the dreaded recently-divorced-businessman-with-children is on the other end of the phone.

“Oh, hello.” I try to make my voice as disinterested as possible. “What do you want?”

“I have tickets for a film premier on Thursday and would like to take you. And to an early dinner, before the film, if possible.”

“I’m sorry. I really don’t have the time. As I explained to Bob, I’m a law student. I work on weekends. I do my homework weekday evenings.”

“Well, how about just cocktails and dinner? Everyone has to eat.”

“No thanks. Really. But I appreciate your calling.”

I’m moving the phone from my ear to cradle when he says, “How about I come over and we just go out for a drink in your neighborhood? I could pick you up Thursday about five. I won’t take up more than an hour.”

This is freaky. The guy is not giving up. Maybe what I need to do is be snotty to him in person. He’ll get the message.

I weigh my options, an hour of my time on Thursday versus the visions I have of this guy calling for who knows how long. I mean, all right already!

“OK, pick me up at five-fifteen, and have me back by six.” I hope he’s aware I just shaved fifteen minutes off the date in the negotiation. The message should be clear.

“Sounds good. See you then.”

At five-fifteen on Thursday my doorman calls to announce a visitor. I don’t know what I expected when the bell rings, but it wasn’t what’s standing at my door.

Here’s this little guy, slightly over my height, his hair buzz cut to be almost shaved. He’s very darkly tanned and wearing a nasty-colored green suit with gold overtones—the unfortunate last fashion in men’s suits. But I can tell he's fit even with the horrible suit. In fact, in the dim hallway light, the suit and dark tan make him look like a little trim green Martian. What saves him are his sparkling blue eyes. What on earth have I gotten into? I think I’m going to do Bob Kane great damage when next I see him in the lobby.

Trying not to look too awestricken by this odd apparition, I grab my handbag and make for the door. “Let’s go, we don’t have too much time.”

He takes my keys from me, locks the door and escorts me to the elevator as he hands back the keys. He has manners, I’ll give him that.

We go downstairs and a block away for cocktails. We chat about inconsequential trivia. Under different lighting he doesn’t look so green. He has truly spectacular eyes; a charming smile. He bears a very close resemblance to the movie actor Donald O’Conner. He is, this Irwin Donenfeld, actually kind of appealing in a cute way. He’s sort of growing on me.

Six o’clock comes and goes. We order dinner at the bar. It’s time for me to get home and crack the books. He offers to walk me back and as we cross the street, he takes my hand.

POW! BLAM! WHAP!

There’s something about his hand that jolts me, it’s both strong and soft and the touch of his skin feels oddly familiar—I’m bonded to him in an instant. Does this guy have superhuman powers? Is there an alter ego he just showed me by touch?

“What the heck,” I look into those blue eyes, “the books can wait. Let’s go to the opening.”

KAPOW! BAM! SOCK!

He’s captivated me. I never want to let go of his hand again. Damn! My life’s not going to be the same. Talk about changing plans!

Six months later we’re married and I’m the law student wife of a recently-divorced-businessman-with-three-kids.

I don't tell him about meeting his father, and Uncle Herbie's offer at Gatsbys. It just never seemed to come up.