Men My Mother Dated: And Other Mostly True Tales (Signed Edition) by Brett Leveridge

From the Publisher

As heard on "This American Life" and NPR's "All Things Considered," Brett Leveridge spins mostly true tales of small-town Lotharios and big-city dreams in a voice that is simultaneously hip and homespun -- and utterly his own.

There's something universal in these tales of the dating life, peopled with well-intentioned boys-next-door, two-timing playboys, and traveling roustabouts with a girl in every town. You'll meet the fellow behind Mom's first arrest; get the unexpurgated truth about winking Bob Wills, the King of Western Swing; and learn why a young woman would consent to see "The Eddie Cantor Story" six times in two weeks -- with six different men. Leveridge holds forth on many other topics as well, offering his decidedly contrarian views on major holidays, hilarious skewerings of television ads, and a bittersweet account of the life of a straight man often presumed to be gay.

Like the best of our current essayists -- Roy Blount, Jr., David Sedaris, Sandra Tsing Loh -- Leveridge is at once forward-thinking and nostalgic. With his enormously appealing voice and happy knack for taking a commonplace topic and veering off into uncharted territory, Leveridge is, as one scribe put it, "Will Rogers meets Garrison Keiller meets Jack Kerouac." Men My Mother Dated and Other Mostly True Tales collects the best of Leveridge's work from his award-winning website BRETTnews and his long-running Might magazine column; it also boasts ten brand-new, never-before-published installments of Mom's romantic adventures and assorted other surprises.

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"[D]roll and effortless ... As an essayist, Leveridge has an interesting voice. He belongs to the school of bemused dyspeptics that has produced such disparate observers as Calvin Trillin and Andy Rooney."
--Andrew Essex, The New York Times Book Review

"If Garrison Keillor and Dave Eggers [author of the bestseller A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius] merged into some freakishly funny media hybrid, Brett Leveridge would be it ... The humor is subtle, but distinctive."
--Samantha Puckett, St. Petersburg Times

Product Details

• Interviews & Essays
• Forewords & Introductions
• Read an Excerpt
• Read a Sample Chapter

Interviews & Essays

Okay, let's begin with the question that will no doubt be on the mind of every person who reads this book: are the stories true?

You're right, it's the question I'm most often asked about my work, and the Men My Mother Dated stories in particular. Ira Glass, the host of "This American Life," once told me that David Sedaris gets the same question, and I liked his answer, as Ira quoted it: "They're true enough."

That's pretty much how I feel about these stories. They were inspired by my mom's tales of her youthful romantic exploits, and beyond that I don't really think it's important to address specifics about what's true and what isn't in any given adventure.

When my siblings and I were kids, we used to ask Mom about the men she dated before marrying my father, and she had some great stories to tell. When you're ten years old, it's hard to imagine your parents having had lives before you were born. And even later, once you've begun dating, it can be difficult to picture them facing the same romantic trials and tribulations -- and triumphs, even -- that you're going through...falling hard for someone who proves to be a real jerk, being tempted by some worldly stranger, experiencing feelings for an older man or someone who's already married. Becoming obsessed with someone who doesn't return your interest in the least.

These are the kind of things that most of us go through in our lives, but we somehow don't imagine that our parents experienced them, too -- that there was a time when they weren't a matched set -- or, in some cases, a mismatched set -- but were just feeling it out, still playing the field, still trying to suss out what they wanted from life and what they were willing to settle for.

In writing the book, I had fun imagining my mom as a young woman, with the same passions and hopes and fears and dreams that we all experience. I enjoyed bringing to life these other men in her life, these mysterious, long-alluded-to figures from her past. No mom is just a mom; they've all got a sort of past life that, for the most part, remains their own little secret.

What is it about your mother that made you write this book? Was it her interesting dating history, or was it more about your relationship with her? Why not write about your father's relationships?

I don't know if it's a sexist thing, if we sort of expect that our fathers dated other women but are somehow surprised to learn that our mothers have a romantic history that extends beyond their relationships with our fathers. Perhaps, as Ira Glass has jokingly suggested in talking about these stories, it's an Oedipal thing. I don't know. I certainly think I could write entertaining stories about my father's romantic adventures; he was -- and is -- a great-looking and very charming guy, so I'm sure he has his share of war stories. But the tales he told us when we were growing up -- or, perhaps more accurately, the questions we asked him about his youth -- tended to be about other aspects of his life. Not that Mom limited herself to tales from the dating front, either; she didn't. But those stories seemed to intrigue my siblings and me, and we returned to them again and again.

How does your father feel about the book?

Oh, I think he's quite pleased with it. He pops up in several of the stories, you know, so he's definitely a key figure in the book's mythology. I like it that, through those several appearances, his character slowly takes shape, that the reader learns about him gradually. He's not the central figure in any of the stories, but my last name tips it off that, of all the men mom dated, he's the one she married. They celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary last year, so he clearly has staying power.

Did your mother's relationships affect your relationships?

Not directly. I was never as active a dater as she was in her day. But I got stood up once when I was in college and was taking it kind of hard when Mom shared that she'd done the very same thing to a guy when she was that age. He was a member of a fraternity to whom Mom was some kind of official "little sister," so she was pals with most of his frat brothers. When he took something more than a platonic interest in her, she panicked and cancelled what she'd expected would be just a friendly date. It got her in dutch not only with him but with all his fraternity brothers. That story was a bit of a pick-me-up, giving me a chuckle at a time when I was blue, but it was an eye-opener, too. It had never occurred to me that Mom could do such a thing, and it convinced me to let the woman who stood me up (with whom I'm still good friends, by the way) off the hook.

Do you think that the dating scene has improved or gotten worse since your mother was dating?

I think it's drastically different. I think men and women can be friends far more easily today than in my parents' day. My father has often admitted to being a bit mystified -- though not necessarily displeased -- that I have so many female friends. In his day, apparently, you didn't really hang out with young women; you dated them. So I guess there existed an ever-present sense of mystery, that bit of sexual tension, that's not always at play today between men and women in social situations.

In one story in the book, Mom goes to see the same movie six different times with six different men in a two week period. That was one of the most difficult stories to write, because I just don't think that would happen today. I can't imagine a young woman today not speaking up after having already seen a movie once or twice. Mom can be very gracious and accommodating, but she's no shrinking violet. I tend to think it was the time she grew up in and the fact that those were "dates," and not just evenings out in the company of a male friend, that stifled any impulse she might have had to suggest seeing another film instead.

I also don't think that most single people today, male or female, cast such a wide net that they would ever go out with six different people in a two week period. On another occasion -- and this is in the book, too -- Mom went on five dates in one day. The most I've ever managed in one day was two dates. I'm like some light-hitting utility infielder on an expansion team trying to live up to the standards set by Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth. They were giants in those days, I'm telling you.

You've spent your life in two quite disparate locales: You were born and raised in Oklahoma City, but have lived for many years now in New York City. Which is more greatly reflected in your writing?

I would imagine they're both in the mix. I definitely consider myself a tried-and-true New Yorker, but you can't take the Oklahoma out of the boy, I'm afraid. I'll admit that I fancy myself a urbane, sophisticated observer of modern life, but, as my writing has received more review attention over the years, the word that has popped up as often as any in describing the work is "folksy." So perhaps it would be premature at this point in time for me to invest in a satin smoking jacket and silk ascot.

In the stories and essays found in the back half of the book, the section entitled "Mostly True Tales," New York is a sort of recurring character.

Any writer could do worse than to live in New York City. Hardly a day goes by in New York that you don't experience some surprising turn of events, overhear some quotable line of dialogue, encounter some interesting character who deserves to be recorded for posterity.

Probably the most popular of my Mostly True Tales is one entitled "My Life Among the Elite." It concerns a man I encountered on a midtown subway platform some years back. He approached each and every single person there waiting for the train and, in effect, gave them a thumbs up or a thumbs down. "You're in," he'd tell them or, if they were deemed not worthy, "You're out." I was amused at my own reaction as he made his way along the platform: I found myself hoping I would make the cut.

To a non-New Yorker, that story might seem a bit dark, that self-appointed arbiter a sinister figure. But he was in no way threatening; he wasn't attempting to act upon his pronouncements. He was just an oddball of the sort you perhaps don't often encounter in other towns but which thrives in New York. New Yorkers like to think we've seen it all -- and we may have come closer to it than most people -- but one great thing about this town is that it reminds you on an almost daily basis that you haven't seen it all -- that, in fact, you ain't seen nothing yet.

Forewords & Introductions

Foreword

by Bob Costas

I first met Brett Leveridge at Mickey Mantle's restaurant in New York City. I was seated at a booth in the far corner of the restaurant's main room, and he arrived, pen and pad in hand, ready to take my order.

He had an Oklahoma accent (fitting for someone working at Mantle's); more to the point, he saw to it that my burger came out just the way I ordered it: medium rare, topped with American cheese, pickle and tomato on the side. Not that getting this straight was brain surgery, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

As it happened, Brett would wait on me any number of other times in the ensuing months. I'd stop in to Mantle's for a bite and often as not find myself seated in his section. The routine was always the same: attentive (but not fawning) service, a little sports talk, and a tasty meal -- simple pleasures that I came to take for granted.

A good waiter, one who can be relied upon to get you a burger and a beer with a minimum of fuss, is a craftsman to be cherished. But in a city like New York, it's a rare service worker indeed who doesn't have his or her eye on a larger prize. The cab driver who brings you in from the airport is probably hard at work on his third symphony; the doorman at your hotel likely spends his nights slaving over a script he's certain will one day win an Oscar; and the waiter who serves you that night at your favorite little cafe does so only to pay his bills and bide his time between auditions.

And writers outnumber them all; the city's crawling with playwrights, journalists, novelists, and other assorted scribes. You can't throw a fastball in Manhattan without hitting one. So I wasn't particularly surprised when Brett presented, at the end of a meal, not only my check but a copy of his zine, BRETTnews. Here were twelve xeroxed pages filled with essays, tall tales, slightly skewed horoscopes, and quirky advice columns that surely no one would heed. It was clever stuff, and I enjoyed reading it.

But little did I realize that that issue of BRETTnews was a presage to the end of a perfectly satisfying diner-waiter relationship. By 1994, Brett had taken his publication online, and things really started to take off. His column, "Men My Mother Dated," was a regular feature in Might magazine; he was profiled in a cover story for Virtual City magazine; he made a pair of appearances on the popular radio program, "This American Life," and delivered several humorous commentaries on National Public Radio's "All Things Considered."

And it wasn't long before Brett had moved on from Mickey Mantle's and begun working as a freelance writer and as an editor for various online operations. Still, I held out hope that the whole online thing would be just a fad, that the Web might peter out, that perhaps Brett would return to Mickey Mantle's, where I might again enjoy a burger, a beer, and a bit -- but just a bit -- of sports talk under his attentive watch. That's not so much to ask, is it?

Alas, the publication of this book probably signals the final dashing of those modest hopes --- the end of an era. So, go ahead -- enjoy the book you now hold in your hands. Thrill to Brett's mom's romantic adventures. Chuckle at his accounts of life in New York City. Nod in assent as he offers contrarian views on most of the major holidays. While you're at it, why not buy a few copies of this reasonably priced volume for your friends and family? Your mom would probably love a copy, no? Your Aunt Edna, your mailman? They could all use a good laugh, I'm sure. And Brett could certainly use the sales, right? By all means! Let's put Mr. Too-Good-to-Serve-a-Burger on the damned best seller lists!

And as you page through this book, don't give a thought to my pain and disappointment. After all, I'll no doubt be seated again, one day soon, in that booth in the far corner of the main room at Mantle's. But it won't be the same, because Brett won't be serving me. And you, in a small but undeniable way, will be to blame.

I hope you can live with that.

--Bob Costas, March 2000

Read an Excerpt

Mostly True Tales

My Life Among the Elite

It's not always easy to recognize life's turning points but occasionally they make themselves perfectly clear.

It's late afternoon and I'm standing on a midtown subway platform, waiting for the downtown #1 train. The platform is moderately crowded but fifty or sixty feet away, a figure catches my eye.

He's a young man, no more than thirty-two or three. Five-foot ten or so, dark hair, pasty complexion, a little pudgy. He's making his way slowly along the platform, approaching, and speaking briefly to, every person standing on the platform. He makes eye contact with each individual as he nears them, a certain demented fervor reflected in his gaze.

One might assume he's making a pitch for spare change but as he draws near enough to be audible, one learns it is not a plea he offers but an assessment, a judgement, an approval or a dismissal of each and every person he encounters.

"You -- you're out!" he proclaims to one stranger who is found lacking.

"You -- gone!" Another one bites the dust.

"You -- you can stay."

"You -- outta here."

And so it goes. No justification is offered for his pronouncements. Whatever his guidelines are, he chooses not to share them. He doesn't strike one as threatening, and he makes no attempt to act on his verdicts. The announcing of them is what he is about. One is in or one is out, that's it, case closed.

Easy, you might to think, to dismiss him as just another subway eccentric, but the effect he has on those he addresses is undeniable. At first, each feigns disinterest, but eventually, as the moment of truth draws nigh, as their assessor approaches, one can sense the anxiety, the panic, even, as each one -- man, woman and child -- awaits his or her judgement.

I, too, am but a man, only flesh and blood, and try as I might to remain disinterested in his progress, I find myself casting the occasional askance glance his way. Now, only five or six people separate me from my moment of the truth and I can feel my heart pounding within my chest. My mouth goes cotton-dry, and the slightest tick -- just a little twitch -- appears over my right eye.

Meanwhile, the fiftyish women in the business suit and thick glasses is summarily dismissed.

The homie in the baggy shorts and Chicago Bulls jersey makes the cut.

The young immigrant mother, who seems not to be grasp the import of this moment, is given the okay.

The bookish man in the maroon cardigan sweater, with balding head and red face, is cut loose with particular relish.

The young woman with the tattoos and the piercings and the Astor Place haircut is looked upon favorably.

And now it is my turn. All noise ceases, I become immune to all other external stimuli. It is as if there is no one else in the world but this man, this gatekeeper, this sentry, this dean of underground admissions, and me. And it is with an exalted sense of relief that I hear him pronounce, in authoritarian tones...

"You can stay."

O, sweet acceptance! To be among the selected, the honored, the chosen few.

I find myself, against my own better judgement, now looking with some disdain and perhaps a tinge of pity upon those who didn't make the cut. How terrible to be excluded, to be found unworthy! But no one has ever claimed life to be fair, have they? I choose not to dwell on why some are chosen and others cast aside. I prefer to revel in my newfound status, my new life among the elite.

Excerpted by permission of Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Copyright © 2000 Brett Leveridge. All Rights Reserved.

Read a Sample Chapter

Legal Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. In the legal sense. I mean, you know how lawyers are. Either it's 100 percent true or it must be fiction. But what is truth? You've seen Rashomon, right? No? Oh, you really must see it, it's one of Kurosawa's best. Anyway, in Rashomon, there's this rape-murder, and four people who witnessed it each offer an account of the incident, and of course they all differ. So say, for example, that the author's mom, years before the author is even a twinkle in her eye, goes out to dinner with a guy named Pete. They go out for Italian. Their waiter is named Herman. And the coat-check girl's name is Velma. At one point, Mom stands up, spills red wine all over the table, gives Pete a good hard slap across the face, and storms out of the restaurant. Now, if you were to ask Pete what happened, his version would probably differ greatly from Mom's. And Herman, who's waited on Pete before and knows him to be a rather chintzy tipper and who only saw the spillage and slappage from the corner of his eye while he was taking an order at another table anyway, would have still another account. And Velma, who thinks Pete one gorgeous hunk of man and who was watching the pair from the moment they sat down in an attempt to ascertain whether Pete and that cheap blonde were actually on a date or if they were just friends or first cousins or something, would offer another story altogether.

So the reader is advised to think of the accounts in this book as one woman's recollections of dates that occurred many years ago filtered through the overactive imagination of her no-account son, the author. No doubt the men Mom dated would offer different versions of the events detailed in this collection. As would the various waiters, cabdrivers, landladies, ticket sellers, and other peripheral characters who appear in these tales. And that's just fine; let 'em all write their own damn books. Because, like we said, these stories are, in the legal sense, works of fiction. Like every love story ever told. But the essays and stories that follow them, the ones taken from the author's own life? Those are true. Mostly.

Men My Mother Dated

Bob Petronick

Mom's one date with Bob Petronick, in her freshman year of college, was an eventful evening of firsts. He escorted her to her first fraternity party, a semiformal affair at which she imbibed the first beer of her young life. One beer led to another and then a third, and in short order, she was pretty tight. Another female party-goer bumped into her there in the crowded ballroom, and before anything could be done, she and Mom became embroiled in a hair-pulling, eye-gouging catfight, the first such row Mom had ever been involved in.

The fight was broken up by the campus police. Mom's arrest (her first) on drunk-and-disorderly charges led to her first night in jail. Bob, much to his credit, took up a collection around the fraternity house and posted her bail the next morning, but he never called for another date. Mom garnered thirty hours' community service, six months' probation, and a reputation.

Nick Fogarty

My parents married some four months after they became formally engaged. Mom, as most of us would, experienced the occasional bout of cold feet during this time of waiting. It was during one of these periods of uncertainty that the company for which she worked as a secretary, Garrett Grommet Corp., hired a new director of sales.

His name was Nick Fogarty and, oh, was he smooth. He began to ply Mom with sweet talk from the day he set foot in the corporate headquarters, and he never let up. Normally, Mom would easily have dismissed the lines of such a slickster, but in her erratic emotional state, she was vulnerable to his attentions.

After two weeks of pressure, she finally gave in and met Nick for a Tom Collins at Zasu's Paradise Lounge, not far from the office. He was quite charming, and perhaps sensing Mom's trepidation, he behaved in gentlemanly fashion. Mom drove home in a fog, more confused than ever. Sure, she loved her fiancé, the man who was to be my father, but was he the man she should marry? Perhaps she too young to settle down. And what of Nick? He was so worldly, so exciting.

Her answers came the next day at the office, when she picked up the phone to have a sandwich delivered for lunch and inadvertently selected Line 2 instead of Line 1. Nick was on Line 2, reassuring his wife -- his wife?! -- that he'd not forgotten their fifth anniversary and professing his undying love and devotion.

Trembling at the thought that she might have thrown over my father for such a louse, Mom marched into Nick's office, told him the jig was up, and informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he was to refrain from speaking to her in the future, or she would go straight to Mr. Garrett with all the sordid details of Nick's behavior.

It wasn't until two years later that Mom revealed to Dad her brush with disaster. Dad was, of course, furious with Nick, with whom he'd chatted baseball as recently as the previous summer's office picnic. Not being the violent sort, however, he fought off the urge to give Nick a sound thrashing, opting instead to drop by his house every night for two weeks, ring his doorbell, and run.

Excerpted by permission of Villard Books, an imprint of Random House, Inc. Copyright © 2000 by Brett Leveridge