of his son, “Any ideas for a gimmick?”
“Well,” Sandy said, proud of the opportunity to parade his learning, “as a matter of fact, I might. You could have Dr. Frankenstein be a genetic researcher building his monster with DNA.”
“What’s DNA?” his father asked.
“It’s really the latest thing,” Sandy said, waxing enthusiastic.“Back in ’fifty-three two guys in England named Watson and Crick deciphered the code of life—the genetic material we’re all made of. DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. It carries the instructions for making all living things in a simple code based on four chemicals. I mean, Dad, what makes your idea so brilliant is that it’s right where science is at. I bet every guy in my school will see this movie twenty times.”
“But kiddo, you gotta remember that in the great land called America, not everybody goes to Bronx High School of Science. I’m afraid your concept won’t fly with Mr. Z.”
Sandy felt embarrassed, thinking he had gone down in his father’s estimation for having made so foolish a suggestion. He vowed to keep his big ideas to himself from now on.
The visit provided many an opportunity for heart-to-heart conversations, during which Sandy had revealed his unflagging passion for Rochelle. His father tried to be sympathetic, though platonic love was an emotion beyond his ken.
Sandy was relieved when the subject turned to one they could both comprehend: their aspirations for the future. On several occasions they had taken long walks by the ocean in Santa Monica, sharing the same cloud of fantasy.
The older man dreamed on a wide screen—of making big pictures with big stars for big money. And most of all, to have his work designated as “A Sidney Raven Production.”
Biochemistry was the realm in which Sandy wanted to dominate—especially the genetic side. When he explained what this entailed, the elder Raven remarked warmly, “Well, in a way, we’re both gonna be in the same business.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll re-create life in a test tube, and I’ll do it on the big screen.” They understood each other.
And then, ever prone to rhapsodize, Sidney conceived of a time not too distant when—in a single year—he would win an Oscar and his son a Nobel Prize.
“You’ve got a vivid imagination, Dad,” Sandy said affectionately.
“That’s why I’m in the movie business, sonny boy.”
Father and son had grown closer that summer than they ever had when they were living together 365 days a year.
Sandy returned from his first visit to the Coast tanned and confident. At least self-assured enough to put a dime in the slot and phone the lovely Miss Taubman “just to say hello.”
She seemed less than overjoyed to hear from him until he reminded her with casual deliberation where he had spent his vacation. Her tone warmed and she suggested they meet for coffee.
At first he looked around for her in vain. Then, with a jolt, he realized that she had been waiting for him all the time at a booth near the jukebox.
She waved and he hurried to her table.
“Sorry, Rochelle, sorry,” he apologized abjectly. “But I really didn’t recognize you. I mean, you didn’t tell me that you were a blond now. And that you …” He glanced at her face and was embarrassed to say it.
But she finished his thought. “I had it done last spring during Easter vacation. Didn’t the doctor do a great job?” She showed him both sides of her new profile. “You’d never believe it wasn’t my real nose.”
Sandy felt genuinely saddened, for in truth he thought she had been far prettier with her original physiognomy.
And now he realized, to his growing chagrin, that he would never see that lovely face again. The operation had changed her from soulful madonna to Barbie Doll.
“Yeah, yeah, it looks great,” he responded dutifully.
“Of course, I was against it at first,” she explained. “But my agent insisted that I wouldn’t
“Well,” Sandy said, proud of the opportunity to parade his learning, “as a matter of fact, I might. You could have Dr. Frankenstein be a genetic researcher building his monster with DNA.”
“What’s DNA?” his father asked.
“It’s really the latest thing,” Sandy said, waxing enthusiastic.“Back in ’fifty-three two guys in England named Watson and Crick deciphered the code of life—the genetic material we’re all made of. DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. It carries the instructions for making all living things in a simple code based on four chemicals. I mean, Dad, what makes your idea so brilliant is that it’s right where science is at. I bet every guy in my school will see this movie twenty times.”
“But kiddo, you gotta remember that in the great land called America, not everybody goes to Bronx High School of Science. I’m afraid your concept won’t fly with Mr. Z.”
Sandy felt embarrassed, thinking he had gone down in his father’s estimation for having made so foolish a suggestion. He vowed to keep his big ideas to himself from now on.
The visit provided many an opportunity for heart-to-heart conversations, during which Sandy had revealed his unflagging passion for Rochelle. His father tried to be sympathetic, though platonic love was an emotion beyond his ken.
Sandy was relieved when the subject turned to one they could both comprehend: their aspirations for the future. On several occasions they had taken long walks by the ocean in Santa Monica, sharing the same cloud of fantasy.
The older man dreamed on a wide screen—of making big pictures with big stars for big money. And most of all, to have his work designated as “A Sidney Raven Production.”
Biochemistry was the realm in which Sandy wanted to dominate—especially the genetic side. When he explained what this entailed, the elder Raven remarked warmly, “Well, in a way, we’re both gonna be in the same business.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll re-create life in a test tube, and I’ll do it on the big screen.” They understood each other.
And then, ever prone to rhapsodize, Sidney conceived of a time not too distant when—in a single year—he would win an Oscar and his son a Nobel Prize.
“You’ve got a vivid imagination, Dad,” Sandy said affectionately.
“That’s why I’m in the movie business, sonny boy.”
Father and son had grown closer that summer than they ever had when they were living together 365 days a year.
Sandy returned from his first visit to the Coast tanned and confident. At least self-assured enough to put a dime in the slot and phone the lovely Miss Taubman “just to say hello.”
She seemed less than overjoyed to hear from him until he reminded her with casual deliberation where he had spent his vacation. Her tone warmed and she suggested they meet for coffee.
At first he looked around for her in vain. Then, with a jolt, he realized that she had been waiting for him all the time at a booth near the jukebox.
She waved and he hurried to her table.
“Sorry, Rochelle, sorry,” he apologized abjectly. “But I really didn’t recognize you. I mean, you didn’t tell me that you were a blond now. And that you …” He glanced at her face and was embarrassed to say it.
But she finished his thought. “I had it done last spring during Easter vacation. Didn’t the doctor do a great job?” She showed him both sides of her new profile. “You’d never believe it wasn’t my real nose.”
Sandy felt genuinely saddened, for in truth he thought she had been far prettier with her original physiognomy.
And now he realized, to his growing chagrin, that he would never see that lovely face again. The operation had changed her from soulful madonna to Barbie Doll.
“Yeah, yeah, it looks great,” he responded dutifully.
“Of course, I was against it at first,” she explained. “But my agent insisted that I wouldn’t
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