Lizzie McKenzie, it has a nice ring to it. Lizzy and I went to the same high school, Milford Mill. but she was way out of my league. Tall, blond, blue eyes, and a smile to die for, Lizzy McKenzie a senior, me, Mick Benderoth, a lowly sophomore.

Lizzy held the school in the palm of her hand. President of the Student Council, and her crowning glory, editor of the school newspaper, which is where we became friends, me a cub reporter, covering what she threw my way. Under her creative guidance, “Millers Monthly” was regarded as the top school paper in Baltimore.

After high school, Lizzy went to journalism school at Columbia. I went to the film school at U.C.L.A. Lizzy returned to Baltimore when The Evening Sun, the city’s main rag, hired her to write an advice column, by-line, “Listen To Lizzy.” Quite a coup for a twenty-one-year-old “J” school grad.

I stayed in California, following my dream of becoming Orson Welles. After paying a lot of dues, going nowhere fast, burnt to a crisp, I fled to New York City when a friend hired me to edit TV commercials. Not Citizen Kane, but it paid the bills.

I clawed my way up for years, finally getting there, editing classics for Pepsi, IBM, Jaguar and American Airlines, where I met and married the commercial’s producer, Ann Carmichael, a woman at the top of her game. Together we started A&M PRODUCTIONS, making high end commercials for fifteen years, until she died from a slow, degenerative illness. We lived, loved and worked together for forty-five years.

After Ann’s death, I lost my bearings. I couldn’t work, my heart wasn’t in it. I was a physical and mental wreck, a little boy in the center of an infinite field of grass having no idea which way to turn, which path to take. Years of intense talk and group therapy helped, but did little to re-socialize. I couldn’t read or write, see a movie or watch TV. I was seventy-five. I wanted to be alone. Stuck. Helpless.

Then one morning, out of more boredom, I picked up The Times in my apartment building lobby. Half-heartedly flipping pages, I saw her picture…her name…Lizzy Mackenzie, byline “Listen To Lizzy.” She achieved her goal, advice columnist for The New York Times.

I was stunned, intrigued and desperate, desperate enough to reach out to an advice columnist for help? A woman I went to high school with? Ridiculous…but I am at wit’s end. I need some…advice.

Sitting at my computer in a cold sweat, I type one word…lonely. I feel like a fool, but automatically press send. Instantly I regret it. Why did I stoop to this? I must really be losing it. I put the whole demeaning blunder out of my head, continuing to hide in the sanctuary of my apartment.

One day, checking my cell for missed calls, which I instantly delete, I see a number from The New York Times. I freeze, motionless, paralyzed, then a me I do not know steps up and dials the number. A young, cheery voice answers, “Lizzy Mackenzie’s office.” My mouth, the Gobi Desert, my mind, blank. Say something idiot. “Rick Learner returning your call.“ “Oh, Mr.Benderoth, Lizzy’s been hoping you’d call back. I’ll put you through.” PING!

“Well, well, well, Mick Benderoth, it’s been a while. So, we both wound up in New York City, doo ya Miss ol’Bmore, hon?” She speaks in the unmistakable Baltimore dialect. I play back on auto-pilot, “I liv donna street, cros frum at Linkin Cener thing, eva seen it?” “Bin er a while ago, saw somkinda music think, or sonthin,” she beams.

Reality kicks in. “Mick Benderoth, I saw your email, and tracked you down. How are you doing? What are you doing? What have you been doing? It been forty years, and you come to your old high school boss for advice. What did you write…lonely?” “Yes,” I answered drawing out the word. “Meaning what exactly?” she questions politely. “A long, long, saga,” I answer. “Well, we all have one, don’t we? Seems like we have a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Lunch! Tomorrow! I’ll clear my schedule.”

Lunch? Tomorrow? I hadn’t seen anyone except my doorman in months. Get a grip asshole. “I’d love to,” I blurt out. “1:30 at Gallagher’s, they grill a mean burger, onion rings to die for, alright by you?” “Sure,” I force out. “Fabulous, we’ll yak till they close the place. I’m so excited. See you tomorrow”. “Bie Hun,” she giggles. “Lookin ford to it an all,” I Be-more back.

I set my cell alarm, take a melatonin, turn on a Star Trek episode I’d seen a thousand times, plop onto my pillow, eyes wide open, unable to relax, no trace of sleep in my brain. Just what I need, an all-nighter. Fate was kind. I conk.

Waking in a mindless daze, it hits me, lunch…Lizzy Mackenzie. I bolt, shower, shave, facing the usual stranger in the mirror, a seventy-year old caricature of me. My grey-white beard needs a trim, my hair, whatever was left, hangs down to my shoulders. Gotta go with what you got.

What to wear? Sweatpants and tee shirts, my daily attire, left me clueless. I open the closet, grab a silk shirt, still in the dry cleaner’s plastic sheath, a pair of new black Levi’s, tags dangling, and socks, no longer an accessory.

Dressed way early, I drift into the kitchen, no coffee, jumpy enough already.

I sit at my computer to finish a scene in a play I was writing, blocked for months. Time passes. My cell alarm scares me.

I cab to Gallagher’s, amble to the podium where a quirky, petite young woman blinks at me. “Can I…?” A voice chimes out. “Ova heer, Hun! I got us a spot with a numbrella!” There she is! LIZZY MACKENZIE, standing like a beacon, beckoning me to the table. Hair no longer blond and flowing, bright white, clipped short, like Twiggy, if you can remember back that far, breathtaking.

Weaving through the diners, she rushes up and gives me a super hug. A whiff of her subtle, so Lizzy perfume, makes me dizzy, a teenager on his first date. ”Oh, Mickey, my dear, dear friend.” My eyes tear up. She gently, slips out of the hug, eyes teary as well, kisses me on both cheeks. I kiss back. She tastes like…like Lizzy.

We sit. She pulls a monogramed hankey from her purse, leans across the table and blots my eyes, then her own. A waiter shuffles up to our table. “Anything to drink?” “Two infinitely dry Sapphire Blue Martinis, onions…you?” flashing those big blues at me. “The same.” “Arctic frigid,” she orders. “Be right back,” grins the waiter.

“So, let’s cut to the chase. Lonely means what?” I take a deep breath, I start, “My wife died three years ago.” Lizzy reaches across the table and caresses my cheek. “I’m so, so sorry, Mick. How long were you together?” “Forty-six years, half fantastic, half rough. It’s…I don’t really have words, watching…watching…. “I know. I lost my only child, my twelve-year old son, Anthony, twenty years ago…leukemia. Torture, exhaustion, heartbreak, alone. I divorced his father years ago. He lives in California. Visited when he wasn’t…too busy,” she says sharply.

The waiter brings our drinks. “Let’s toast to…?” “Ann…Ann Winthrop Learner,” I softly reply. “And to Anthony Mackenzie Warren,” she adds smiling. “And to us”, she says defiantly. We raise, clink and sip. The gin warms me up. I relax, we exchange personal histories for hours, never get around to ordering.

Her cell rings. She answers. “Oh, yes. I’m running late, cover for me.” She smiles at me. “I have to get back for a meeting. Come with me. I’ll drop you off.” I pay the check, haphazardly tossing a handful of twenties on the table and follow her.

She steps into the street, puts two fingers in her mouth and “whistles!” Lizzy Mackenzie, “whistles…like an umpire.” Two cabs screech over. She opens the door of the closest one, waves “bye, bye” to the other.

Getting into the cab, she scoots over, flashing those eyes again. “We can discuss dinner plans on our way, Awl rite, Hon?”

All right! Yeah, all right! The best damn “advice” I’ve gotten in years…“Hon!”