The Small Act of Courage That Led to 50 Years of Marriage

This is Lee Habib, and this is Our American Stories. Up next, a story from Lori Cohen about how she met the love of her life. Laurie is a writing student of our frequent contributor, Leslie Leyland Fields, and we thank her for turning us on to this story.

Take it away, Laurie. In nineteen seventy-two, the cafeteria of the high school was loud, always with an undercurrent of muffled conversations, high-pitched squeals of newly pubescent girls, and the scraping of aluminum chair feet across the linoleum floor. There lie in my brain the familiar sounds and smells of that cafeteria. Those pistachio-colored plastic lunch trays with their tidy compartments clattered as students smacked them forcefully against the large trash can to collect the remains of our pizza burgers, paired oddly with corn and orange-yellow salad. I was about to have my first public date with the senior of my dreams as a sophomore. My pulse raced, and my stomach fluttered in anticipation of our time together. Me, with this senior, through mutual friends. We met on a blind date the previous weekend. Not having much experience with upperclassmen, I did my due diligence by stalking him in the hallways before her date. When I first met him coming out of a classroom, I thought to myself, “Huh, not my type.” I was used to choosing my dates by how much they resembled the nineteen-seventy, these rock stars I admired with long hair and those who carried themselves with that bad boy swagger. But after the date, I had to say, there was just something about him. I eagerly accepted his lunch date for the following week. He was clean-cut, perhaps shorter than me, wearing white Adidas sneakers with red stripes, paired with cuffed, straight-legged navy pants and a button-down light-blue shirt cuffed at his wrists. He sported the ever-stylish Rod’s belt, smartly displaying the classic shotgun shell at the buckle. As I looked down at my hip-hugger bell-bottoms, enhanced my friend’s sewing skills, reframed with Indian-themed cloth, expanding them to the appropriate elephant-bell size, my white knit bodysuit, and my grandfather’s oversized plaid shirt, I thought, “Well, might as well try something different.” I was hoping that my hesitation in his wholesomeness might turn out to be unfounded. As we carried our lunches to a nearby table, a group of loud, rowdy kids was congregating. One of the boys nodded toward me as I passed by. “How do you know those guys?” Gary asked as we scooted out the chairs at the lunch table. “They hang out with Steve,” I said. “I more intimately knew them to be my brother’s druggy friends.” We were sitting at a table that was parallel to the exit of the lunch line, giving us an unobstructed view of the entire cafeteria. We watched as this one girl made her way through the line, pistachio-colored tray in her hand. She turned to find a seat after paying the lunch ladies, and as she did, she skirted the table near the group of rowdy boys, who were acting out by indiscriminately yelling random things at those passing by and punching on each other. I didn’t know the girl, but had seen her in the hallways, as had everyone. I guess she kept here herself for the most part. Rarely did she make eye contact as she left along, always close to the wall for support, dragging her leg behind her because of the clans. I later found out she was one of the few remaining people our age who had, in fact, gotten polio as a child. Well, I’m ashamed of this now, and I don’t believe it was on purpose, at least least for most of us in high school at the time. We just didn’t go out of our way to befriend her. In fact, we didn’t really acknowledge her at all—selfish and the narcissism of adolescence. I’m sure now that our lack of empathy left her feeling perpetually isolated and different. Whether it was deliberate or not, we may never know for sure. But as the girl exited the lunch line and neared the boys’ table, Bruce, my brother’s friend, stuck his long legs out in the middle of the aisle, tripping her with great fanfare. The food careened upward, pizza burger flipping over in the air as if in a trapeze act, and landing with a splat on top of the gyrating orange-yellow salad. Suddenly, all the background noise in the crowded cafeteria came to an abrupt stop. As the girl fell to the floor, the corn sprinkled unceremoniously amidst her ringlets, landing against her upturned face. It seemed that everyone in the cafeteria had heard the commotion and the clattering of the lunch tray, and they turned to stare at her in dead silence. As the sound returned to the cafeteria, I remember hearing the slow rising roar of awkward laughter. Bruce, the one culpable for the mishap, was standing, clapping, pointing with delight, shouting, “She’s down! She’s down!” I sat with my own pizza burger, paralyzed, trying not to stare. It was then that it happened. Gary rose, looked at me, and said, “Be right back.” Just like that. This clean-cut man-child with his Adidas sneakers, button-down shirt, and Rod’s belt, left our table as if he had been summoned by an unspoken call of duty. He grabbed a handful of napkins and bent down in front of the girl. He gently wiped the food off her brow. He cupped her face with both hands and, with his thumbs, wiped the tears from her eyes. Supporting her by her arms, he helped her stand up and carefully walked with her to the safety of a more private corner. He spoke quietly next to her as they walked. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she was looking gratefully up at him, and she smiled at his words. Then he went back through the lunch line to replace her meal. He carried the lunch out into the cafeterian silence. While I’m not sure if the others in the room, my eyes were solely focused on him. He brought the girl her lunch, bent down and spoke quietly in her ear again as she smiled and nodded. He stood and lasered his sight on the offending group of boys who had gone back to their loud and rowdy behaviors. He walked quickly and directly, which caused most of the group to step back. He grabbed Bruce by the front of his shirt and a fist, forcing their faces only inches apart. There was no yelling because he spoke so calmly and quietly. I’ll never know what was said in that moment, yet I was able to see Bruce’s face pale, and the rest of the group of his peers suddenly just walked away. Gary released him, and Bruce sat there now alone and quiet. Gary then looked directly at the girl eating her lunch and gave her a quick nod of his head. Again, she smiled at him. He turned then and sat down next to me, saying, “How’s the pizza burger?” and gave me a wink. In that moment, I said to myself, “I’m going to marry this boy.” I was fifteen at the time. We’ve had fifty-four years together since that day when two girls in the cafeteria needed a hero and found one.

And special thanks to Laurie Cohen for sharing this story about how she met the love of her life. Where, when, and why? And what a story Laurie told! And we’ve all been there in high school. I love the way she described that meal on that pistachio plastic tray: a pizza burger, corn, and an orange Jell-O salad. Sounds great. And, well, she talked about this young girl who suffered from polio and how she regrets that she didn’t go out of her way to befriend her or to reach out to her at all. And then came that agonizing act of cruelty by Bruce, tripping this young girl. And what happens? That boy named Gary just immediately gets up, as if summoned by some unspoken call of duty. And Laurie, thinking, “I’m going to marry that boy someday,” fifty-four years later, married. The story of the Cafeteria Hero won Laurie Cohen’s heart, here on Our American Stories.