That Time Jessica Lange Slapped Me in the Face

The year was 1983. Summer, I think. Or was it spring? Yeah, spring. It had to be spring because that was when Greg Michaels broke up with me.

We met at a party in Brooklyn on June 4, 1982. I remember the date, not because it was the night I met Greg, but because it was THE party of the year! One of the first since my friends and I had I graduated from college, me in 1981 and the rest of our bunch (think The Big Chill, after whom we later fashioned ourselves) a year later.

I was wearing red pants with a black button down top and black leather boots with ties that crisscrossed their way around my calves. (Why this outfit in June? I couldn’t tell you.) A perfect crowd of old and new friends danced to “The Police,” “Culture Club,” “David Bowie,” and “The Clash.” Alcohol and drugs flowed freely. And although it was too soon after we all arrived back home to consider this “reliving” our carefree college days in upstate New York, we tried our hardest to at least extend them. On this particular night, we succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. In fact, the host and I — friends 35 years later although we haven’t lived in the same city since 1984 — still contact each other every June 4th to commemorate the occasion.

This was the backdrop under which I met Greg. It was impossible for me not to notice him from any corner of the living-room-turned-dance-floor. Ridiculously handsome with caramel-brown hair and eyes just a shade darker, he had a matching beard and mustache that suited his personality and his profession. To say he was a carpenter would deny him his due. He was, in fact, a master craftsman who built breathtakingly beautiful custom-made furniture. I, on the other hand, was already in my second dead-end job post-graduation, working as an Administrative Secretary for the Cartoon Editor of Playboy. A fun conversation starter but trust me, nothing about that job was fun.

I saw Greg coming toward me. My body reacted before my mind could. Butterflies in my stomach, sweaty palms, dry mouth. I honestly don’t remember much about our first conversation because of the private conversation that was going on in my head: “Be cool.” “Act aloof and disinterested.” “Keep swaying to the music and whatever you do, don’t spill your drink!” At the end of the obligatory Q&A, Greg leaned in and whispered in my ear: “Can we see each other later?” I looked up to meet those brown eyes and returned the whispered tone in his ear. “Check with me when later comes,” I responded and slinked away. I thought I was SOOOOOO cool! LOLOL!

Well, “later” turned first into days, then weeks, then months. I began staying over at his apartment more than I didn’t (I had several friends who lived in Brooklyn so was I really lying to my parents when I said, “I’m heading to Brooklyn?”). During the week, I peeled myself out of bed, rode the F instead of the 4 train to work, and watched the clock as it slowly ticked toward quitting time. We would meet for lunch, for drinks, for dinner, and for more overnights. On the weekends, we would listen to Prince — “Little Red Corvette,” “When Doves Fly” — and Steve Winwood’s entire “Arc of a Diver” album over and over and over again. Friends commented on our happiness. How could they not? It was evident we were great together. Until we weren’t.

The call came while I was at work.

Greg: “Let’s meet in the city tonight.”
Me: “Sure. What’s up?”

I was immediately sorry I asked because the answer was the four most dreaded words in the relationship lexicon: “We need to talk” (precursor to “It’s not you, it’s me.).

When I arrived at our meeting place, Greg was sitting at a two-top facing me. I sat down, slammed two packs of Marlboro Lights on the table and said, “Okay, I’m ready.” But I wasn’t.

The relationship ended just as it had started, with me having a conversation with myself, only this time I was saying, “This can’t be happening,” “Please don’t do this to me,” and “There aren’t enough cigarettes in the world to get me through this.”

My Bronx-to-Brooklyn excursions came to a screeching halt. I was back on the 4 train, crying the entire 15-minute walk from my apartment to the subway station at 7:30 each morning and again walking home at 6:00 each evening. I cried in the bathroom during afternoon lunch breaks and in my bedroom at night, muffling the sounds of my broken heart so my parents couldn’t hear my pain. This went on for months with no end in sight. And then our Big Chill gang went to see Tootsie.

This is the movie where Dustin Hoffman plays an actor named Michael Dorsey who can’t find work so he becomes Dorothy Michaels and is cast as a woman named Tootsie in a soap opera. He falls in love with Jessica Lange and, in a classic case of mistaken identity, well, you can figure out the rest. Lange’s character, Julie, is devastated at her discovery of who Dorothy really is and like me, she just couldn’t get over this (wo)man.

And then it happened. During another failed apology scene, Lange clenches her teeth, eyes filled with angry tears and a defiantly raised chin, and utters the words to Dustin Hoffman/Michael Dorsey/Dorothy Michaels that felt like a slap across my face: “I’m going to feel this way until I don’t anymore and it’s all your fault.” In other words, it really was him and not me.

When I got home that evening, I threw away the tissue box that I had stashed under my bed, washed away the last of the tears I would shed over Greg Michaels, turned on my record player, and at the top of my lungs, sang and danced the night away to Prince and Steve Winwood.