You Will Never Again Doubt the Power of Storytelling
If you doubt the power of storytelling, or rather, if you question the potency of a great storyteller and his ability to spin a yarn — to take an actual spool of yellow-colored thread, and, through a combination of impassioned narration, calculated timing, deliberate silence and pregnant pauses, convert that material into gold — then you must meet (by way of this story) my beloved “Uncle” Arthur.
So magnetic is his personality, and so captivating is his talent as a raconteur, that I make the following guarantee: If given the chance, and provided his female counterpart has a love for language rather than an empty mind, that this individual’s brain is not a walk-in closet for some neural chain reaction whenever she buys another luxury home, vacations on yet another private island and cashes a series of seven-figure checks from corporate suitors in Paris, Milan, New York, São Paulo, Rome and Rio de Janeiro, Arthur — my lanky, bespectacled and balding uncle from Brooklyn — can “steal” Gisele Bündchen from her husband, Tom Brady, with more alacrity than the fastest defensive safety intercepting a pass from this three-time Super Bowl MVP, six-time AFC Champion and part-time fashion model, whose appearance gives credence to the notion that stray particles of glitter from the Blue Fairy’s wand landed on a page of A&F Quarterly, printed by Abercrombie & Fitch, thus transforming a Tuscan woodworker’s shop into a maternity ward for a hand-carved marionette and a shirtless Adonis.
If you doubt my uncle’s skills, take comfort in the fact that he bested an even more famous (at the time) professional athlete; and he won the affection of — and secured the religious conversion from — the most iconic, celebrated, coveted, gorgeous, sensuous (and sensual) actress in the history of Hollywood.
The woman who bedazzled Joe DiMaggio, baseball’s celebrated “Yankee Clipper,” as well as the mythological figure revered by Ernest Hemingway’s Cuban fisherman and the unpretentious hero referenced by Simon & Garfunkel; this temptress who reduced JFK into a salivating, panting boy of presidential pubescence by singing the most memorable and sultry rendition of “Happy Birthday to You,” before an audience of 15,000 Democratic fundraisers at Madison Square Garden, this film goddess could not resist my uncle.
She married Arthur.
Marilyn Monroe married Arthur Miller, the playwright, novelist, screenwriter and essayist.
The moral: If you can talk, you can get anything you want.