It was almost Valentine’s Day, 2001, and I wanted a man. In fact, I was positively hungry for one. I wanted something steamy and romantic for the day of hearts and roses. And I was intent on making it happen.
I had just ended an insane relationship with a crazy man, and I wanted to wipe all memory of him out of my brain stem. I wanted to replace him with a masculine distraction. I had barely been dabbling in meeting men at bars, but these chance encounters had yielded some frightening results. So I thought I might try my hand at finding a man on the Internet.
I liked the idea of putting what I wanted in a man out into cyberspace, and then sitting tight while they pursued me. And in the end, I would have the power to choose among them. It felt powerful.
So I set out to go about it. But before I began, I made a decision that that I would meet two men. No more, no less. And if neither worked, I’d drop the idea for good.
I knew that I didn’t want to spend the money to join an official dating sight, so instead I placed an ad on Craig’s list, which was absolutely free, and the ad length had no limitations. In other words, you could wax poetic about yourself for a couple of pages, if you so desired.
And I did desire. I wanted to say as much as possible about myself, in an effort to really show the potential candidates who I was and what I wanted. I was as honest as I could possibly be, and I put it all out there for anyone to read. I had no idea if I’d get a response or if anyone would even read it.
The next day I turned on my computer, and I was utterly shocked to see that I had hundreds of responses. And the next day, this was followed by hundreds more. At first I was rather happy about it, until I realized how much time it took to look at them all. I remember remarking to friends that weeding through the responses was like a part-time job. It would have been one thing if I was dazzled by the countless emails I received, but it was quite the contrary; I disliked every single response I got! I was horrified, and let almost all of them dangle, without even a word from me.
Reading them all was arduous. I learned quickly how to identify the spam responses—and those were simply cut and paste and distributed by lonely hearts to every single available ad. Those were first to be deleted.
But the other responses were hideous as well. I had mentioned the word “boyish” in my list of attributes that I appreciated about the opposite sex. What I meant by this more than anything else was a man’s physical appearance; I had never gone for the rugged Marlboro man kind of guy...I went for the cute ones with a big mop of hair. Although I think Paul Neuman is unbelievably handsome, I’d take Paul McCartney over him hands down. It’s their appearance, but it’s also a quality too. Sort of playful and full of life.
But the responses I received around this one little innocuous word sent my head spinning. The way men interpreted that response was far and wide, and to me, a little shocking. Men would tell me that they still lived with their mother, and was relieved to find someone that would finally appreciate their “boyishness.” Many interpreted the word to mean that it was okay if they were out of work, and not financially responsible. Some very young men responded, looking for an older woman. “I’m VERY boyish,” I would read. “I’m 20 years old!” The interpretations about what I meant were far ranging and funny. But what was worse, was that it seemed to attract countless dolts; the uneducated and ignorant. I also found that countless men would respond without a picture, and wouldn’t forward one if I requested it. This was blind dating enough; at least I needed some sort of visual to proceed.
I was tearing my hair out, but I didn’t give up. After all, I had promised that I would date two men, and this is what I would do. The entire occurrence was a tremendous learning experience, and I learned slowly that I needed to be even more specific than I thought I already was. I decided to edit my ad. I removed the word “boyish” from the text, and I added at the end “PhD’s ONLY.” I still laugh when I think back to it. Finally, I said “Do NOT respond without a picture.”
When I published the edited ad, I felt content. I was sure that this would bring me better responses, and I was right. The next batch was far more reasonable. I still had a lot of work to do, reading all of the emails, conversing with the possible candidates, and blocking the stalkers. But after weeks of work, I finally weeded all of them down to two men. And I must say, I was pretty excited about both of them.
One of them was an impossibly good looking bicyclist from San Francisco. Italian with “boyish” good looks, he was also obviously intelligent. He graduated with an English Literature degree just as I had, and enjoyed literature—something that was a big plus for me. In fact, he enjoyed many of the same things as I did—the Beatniks, and espresso, and Italian food; poetry, The Beatles, and Independent films. We conversed for weeks, and finally I agreed to meet him in person.
The second was wildly intelligent, and every letter to me was so wonderfully crafted, that I felt as if I was talking to a fellow writer. It was his words that kept me coming back to him, because damn it, he’d broken one of my rules: he never sent a picture.
But I couldn’t stop talking with him. And soon letters turned to phone calls. He was so witty; he’d have me bent over laughing every time we talked. He was so intelligent he would wow me with his angles. I loved his voice; I found it so sexy my stomach would do flip flops every time I heard it on the other end.
I was certain that he would be the second man that I would choose to meet in person. But when he’d ask me to make a date, I’d say, “Not until you send a picture!”
“Oh come on,” he’d complain. I don’t have one! If I had one, I’d send it. Look, I told you I’ve dated models right? I mean, how homely could I be?” I didn’t really like his comments about dating models, I found it pretentious. Not to mention, I was certainly no model. And I found the fact that he couldn’t find a single picture to send of himself a bit strange. Still, with his charm, he eventually wore me down, and I agreed to meet him.
Both of these gentlemen lived in San Francisco. I have never enjoyed driving around the city by myself, I prefer to be driven. I get lost very easily, and driving their by myself has always seemed like a challenge. On the other hand, I really didn’t want either one of them to know where I lived. So I agreed to meet them in the city.
But there was a kicker. I agreed to meet them both on the same night. I had one date at 7:00 p.m. and the second date set up for 10:00. These dates were to take place on Valentine’s Day, of all days. It was a little surreal.
I didn’t feel at all bad making both dates on the same night, although others might find that a bit rude. First of all, it would save me from driving to the city twice, and I believed that first dates that are blind dates should be kept somewhat short. I believe you know in the first five seconds of meeting someone if there is even a chance of it continuing. So why prolong the potential horror for an entire night? I thought I was being smart about it.
But where I wasn’t smart, I suppose, is that I agreed to meet them both in their apartments. Internet dating was still fairly new at that time, and there wasn’t the protocol that has since been developed; advice like meeting your date in a public arena, like a coffee shop. I was a little nervous about it, but felt I had talked to both of them enough to rule out either being a serial killer at least.
I spent the afternoon bathing and luxuriating and getting ready the proper way. Then I set out for San Francisco that Saturday night, feeling nervous, but hopeful. I really believed either man could be a real candidate for my next significant other; although secretly it was my second date that I felt had the most potential. The one that claimed he didn’t have a picture.
I had difficulty finding the first man’s apartment. But I felt proud of myself when at last I found it, and even found a parking place. I smoked a quick cigarette; knowing I would want one, but having already decided I wouldn’t smoke on this first meeting. Following that, I took a deep breath, and with a muttered, “You can do this, girl,” I marched myself up two flights of stairs in a beautiful Victorian apartment building.
He swung open the door before I even reached the landing. He was smiling a huge grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He was every bit as handsome as his picture depicted, and he had that boyish quality that I found irresistible. “Hi,” he said, and quickly kissed me on the cheek. From behind his back, he pulled out a rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I loved it. “Thank you. A blind date on Valentine’s day, imagine that,” I quipped. It felt a little romantic.
“Do you like espresso? I can make you a cappuccino.”
“I would love one, thank you.” I thought a little caffeine might be just the thing I needed, especially with a second date later that night.
I entered his apartment and I was impressed. It was quite adult, nicely decorated, and had beautifully framed prints on the walls. He had a picture of Charles Bukowski; a poet I had long admired, on top of his stereo. It was the perfect opening conversation, to share our love of the poet and of literature. And soon we were sipping our coffees on the couch talking easily and animatedly, and I almost wished I didn’t have to leave so soon for my second date.
“Excuse me for a minute, will you? I have to hit the restroom,” he said, standing up. Being a bicyclist, he had a beautiful build. I nodded happily as he disappeared down the hall.
A few minutes later I heard a door open and knew he was returning. I stared at the hall entrance with a big grin on my face, waiting for him to come into view.
When he did, he was stark naked.
He saw my look of shock and dismay, and tried to deflate the situation, as if this were possible. “I know, I know,” he said coming toward me with his hand up as if to stop me from talking. “I know this seems a little odd, but please don’t freak out or anything. Give me a few moments to explain.”
I could hardly believe what I was seeing. My first thought was to find my car keys and sprint toward the door. My second thought was one of curiosity, wondering what on earth this man planned to say. “What are you doing?” is all I could think of to say.
He took a seat beside me on the couch. “Listen to me for a minute,” he started. “For spiritual reasons, and for artistic reasons, I have been celibate for four years. I have been taking a sexual coaching course, and we learn how we give away our power and our creativity through ejaculation. Not only must we endure a period of celibacy, we are not allowed to have an orgasm by our own hand either. We are allowed to masturbate, and are even encouraged to do so, but we learn how to stop it just before the moment of fruition. This practice, over time, gives us our power back. Do you understand?”
I couldn’t even respond. I was in utter shock. What on earth was this speech all about? “I understand, but I don’t care,” I finally spit out exasperated. “Is this supposed to be some sort of justification for this behavior? I’m gong to leave.”
“Don’t leave,” he said grabbing my arm. “When you came in tonight, I realized that it was time for me to break this fast. I had never planned on being celibate forever, or never having an orgasm. Tonight is the night I want to be reborn again, and I want to be reborn with you.”
I looked behind his naked body and noticed a fire escape outside of the window. I grabbed a cigarette and a lighter, and climbed out the window and lit my cigarette. He scampered after me and kneeled in front of the window. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“And I didn’t know you were going to be naked. I guess we’re both surprised,” I answered.
“Please come back in.”
“If you go get dressed, I’ll come back in.”
“Don’t send me away. I see you as my future wife!”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said as I rubbed my cigarette butt against the metal to put it out. “In fact, I have to get going. I have another date. Put your clothes on.”
“You made another date on the same night we made a date? I don’t think you realize how much potential I think the two of us have. Let me explain. All of my life I’ve been a real Mama’s boy. Every girl I’ve dated I’ve told them the same thing. I’ll never get married as long as my Mama is alive. But once she dies, I’ll want to marry whatever woman I’m with, because it would be too lonely to be single. My Mama is very ill.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said, crawling back through the window. I grabbed my purse off from the couch and fished its contents for my keys. “Thanks for the coffee. It’s been an interesting night,” and with that I ran toward the door, imagining him trying to block my escape. Thankfully he did not.
With my ears burning I ran into the night and to the safety of my car. It was quarter to ten, and time for my second date. My stomach was in knots and I felt so anxious. I hadn’t yet recovered from my first date, and didn’t know how emotionally ready I was for a second. I was frightened to go to this other man’s apartment, so late at night. But the plan was for me to call from my car once I arrived in the city, and he’d talk me through the directions as I drove to his house.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed his number. “Hi it’s me. I’m on Geary Street. Where to?”
The minute I heard his voice, I relaxed. He took charge, and seemed to know the city like the back of his hand. Surely, this was going to be better, I thought to myself. And really, this was the date I was looking forward to the most. “Okay,” he said, “so you must be in front of a pink building now, do you see it?” He knew every street and every landmark that I passed as if he were in the car with me. But he was also making me laugh uproariously as he always did. I hardly noticed where I was going as I was whizzed through the streets easily, guided by my human GPS. And soon I was led safely and easily right to his apartment building. “I think I’m here!” I said as I hovered in the middle of the street.
“Yes, I can see you. Park right in front of the green truck. I’m on the third floor. I’ll buzz you in.”
“What apartment number?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t worry. You can follow the sound of my voice,” he said laughing, and then hung up the phone.
It felt eerie that he could see me and I couldn’t see him. Not to mention he had seen countless photos of me, and I had never seen a single snapshot of him. I imagined him watching me as I got out of my car and crossed the street. I glanced upwards at the apartment building, wondering if I might get a glimpse of him. The windows looked dark.
When I reached the stoop, the door was already buzzing. I ran to push it open, and I entered the dimly lit foyer. The door slammed behind me. I stood in the quiet.
“Helloooooooooooo,” I heard from high above my head. “Follow my voice.” It echoed strangely in the muted dusk of the hall.
I began climbing the steps, and I surprised myself to feel myself smiling. This man and I had been having the best repoir for weeks, and I was excited. Even though I had no idea what he looked like, I mused, how bad could it be? As I climbed the second set of stairs, I fantasized about finally seeing him, and how we would fall into each other’s arms for a passionate kiss.
I climbed the third set of steps. “Down here,” came his voice. “Walk toward me.” I did as I was told. “Turn the corner and here I am.”
I turned the corner.
And there he was.
I’ve never been one to be overly shallow about a person’s appearance. I find beauty in most people. But there are very few individuals I find so repulsive that I actually recoil in their presence. This was one such person.
His bald head was large, and seemed to sit on top of folds of loose flesh that served as his neck. His skin was so white that it was translucent, and I could see blue veins in his neck, cheeks, and arms. His body was huge and shapeless, and he looked more like a ball with a bowling pin on top. When he saw me he laughed, and his entire body undulated in a blubbery orgasm.
He was dressed in beige from head to foot. He wore beige conservative slacks and a beige conventional shirt. He had beige socks.
We exchanged a glance. I smiled weakly. The idea of kissing him flew away as if it had wings.
He opened the door wide for me to enter. His living room was beige with wall to wall beige carpets, and a beige couch. There was not one piece of art anywhere. The walls were blank. The coffee table was empty. The only thing in the room were bookshelves upon bookshelves of VCR tapes, all labeled. “What are these?” I asked.
“Tapes of my lectures. I’m a Professor, remember?”
I just nodded. I looked out the window to see if I might see a second fire escape I might crawl down. But I was distracted when the mood suddenly took a sudden, almost violent detour.
“See this wine?” he said, pointing to a bottle on the counter. “This is the best there is. This bottle cost hundreds of dollars. HUNDREDS. And I bought it for you.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’d love a glass,” I told him.
“Well, you don’t get a glass. You can have some water.”
“Excuse me?” I said laughing, thinking he surely must be joking.
“I’m not going to open this wine for you. Don’t you think I saw your face when you saw me? You looked as if you might vomit. Am I really that hideous? The only reason you even came inside was to be polite. Why would I share something so expensive with someone who will never give me a second date?”
I was so stunned, I couldn’t respond. He lumbered over to the beige couch, and with great effort, fell into it. Then he lay down, as if he were ready for a nap. “I could turn on the T.V,” he said dryly.
I might have just turned on my heel at that moment, and walked out. But I didn’t.
To this day, I really don’t know why. A part of me felt sorry for him; I had never intended to be so obvous about my distaste, although the truth would have reared it’s ugly head soon enough. There was also a part of me that really liked him; I had been enjoying his mind for weeks. But more than anything, I was so angry at him I plunked myself down and started yelling at him.
“Do you know what a rude ass you are?” I said. “I drove all the way into the city to meet you.”
“Pity I turned out to be such a hideous monster, isn’t it? I have no interest in anyone as shallow as you.”
This conversation would end up continuing until 2 in the morning. He might not be my cup of tea in the romantic department, but he was a potent adversary and could throw a mean intellectual debate. I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy that evening on some level.
When I climbed into my car that morning, dazed and exhausted, I decided I would never venture into the world of blind dating ever again. And I kept that promise. But a week later, I went back to trying to meet men in bars. I met a dandy of a man my first time out, or so I thought. I followed him to his lovely home and took me outside to show me the view from the deck. He disappeared for a moment, he claimed, to open a bottle of wine. When he returned, he was stark naked.
Men really seem like a different species at time.
I could only start laughing, thinking back to my blind date on Valentine’s Day. My laughter embarrassed him, I was sure of that. I poked his nude body with a giggle, on my way out the door.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Turning a Gay Man Straight
I still remember the phone call that changed my life; the call which set off a flurry of unfortunate events and sent my life into a tailspin. It was my friend Tommy on the other line, and by the breathless way he was talking, I knew he had big news for me.
“I’m getting married,” he told me. I could envision him literally beaming through the phone lines. “And I want you to be my Maid of Honor.”
“I’d be honored to be your Maid of Honor!” I answered him laughing. “Brent is a lucky man.”
Tom was gay and single. He was the 7th member of our tiny troupe of friends, and he had always been the odd man out; the third wheel as it were. The rest of the six were in pairs. Tom had been searching for love since I met him, but he could never find the right guy. I was thrilled to see him so happy.
We had all met his betrothed, of course. Young, handsome and boyish, Brent was the life of the party. He loved to drink, he loved to laugh, and he loved to shock. Our first impressions of him were pretty good; he wasn’t shy in the slightest, and had us all in stitches in the first hour that we met him. He was loud, flamboyant, and quick witted. I thought they made a good pair.
Brent asked my boyfriend to stand up for him as Best Man. He had only just met him, of course, but he explained that all of his friends were on the other side of the country. He had come to San Francisco on a vacation; he had long been curious about the Castro District of San Francisco, and he came out for a fortnight and an adventure. But he would never use his return ticket home, as it turned out, because when he met Tommy in a gay bar one night, it was love at first sight. And least that’s the story they loved to tell, while holding hands and smiling. They ended up framing his return ticket and later hung it in their marital home.
The marriage took place on Twin Peaks. A perch high above the ivory buildings of San Francisco, it has a panoramic view that rivals any other place in the city. On a clear day, which their wedding day was, it can be positively magical.
I wore a black sequin gown and white orchids. Brent was very insistent as to what I should wear, and as I got to know him more, it seemed he was always trying to dress me. He loved picking out clothes for me, but he often went with six inch high heels and a dress befitting a Diva. His choices were never really my style, but when I was with him, it always felt like I was playing, and when it came to clothes, I felt as though I were playing dress up. When he wanted black sequins on his wedding day, I didn’t even blink, and bought the dress he asked me to buy. I was sipping on cold champagne, staring out into the view when the first sequin fell off of that dress. By days end it would have completely disintegrated right off of my body.
The wedding went well. Brent and Tom wore white tuxedos with purple orchid leis. They wrote their own vows and both shed tears as they made promises to each other that should have lasted a lifetime. My boyfriend and I stood at their sides, while the rest of the wedding party fanned out in front of us.
I remember a tourist bus pulling into the parking lot. In a moment we could hear feverish shouts from its inhabitants; “It’s a gay wedding! Oh my GOD! We ARE in San Francisco,” they bellowed, when suddenly dozens of flash bulbs began blinding us. When I stared out into the sea of faces watching, all I could see were cameras everywhere. I felt for a moment as if we were movie stars surrounded by the paparazzi.
Following the ceremony, we bid our adieus. Brent and Tom had rented a limousine for the rest of the day, and Brent had made it clear to everyone that the Newlyweds wanted to leave directly after the wedding with only my boyfriend and me, for an afternoon and night of drinking and revelry. “I just want the four of us,” Brent said over and over as others tried to join our fun. And in a moment we had made our getaway, and the four of us were speeding down the hill toward the city, pouring champagne and laughing.
Our first stop was the Top of the Mark, the famous restaurant and bar that turns slowly like a planet on its axis, for stunning and ever changing 360 degree views. When I got out of the limo at that first stop, I noticed the seat was covered in sequins. “I think my dress is falling apart,” I said laughing. But that didn’t stop me at the Mark, nor did it stop me at the half a dozen or so bars we visited after.
Our last stop was to be the Castro, for a drink at the very bar where Tom and Brent met. When I climbed out of the limo, the seat was covered in sequins. The driver was incensed; he began sweeping the shiny circles from the back with a noticeable grumble. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath, shooting dagger looks in my direction. “You’re making a mess,” he told me.
“My dear,” Brent said in his lowest baritone, “your entire rear end is now exposed.” And it was true. There was nothing left of my dress behind me except a few bare threads. “Thank god I’m wearing underwear,” I said as I laughed out of sheer embarrassment. Brent immediately wrapped me in his tuxedo jacket, and told the limo to rush us to his house. There he gave me a pair of jeans, and let me to continue to wear the tuxedo jacket. It seemed he always wanted to take care of me. And soon the party made its way to Uncle Bert’s Saloon, in the heart of the Castro District.
Brent and Tom were the toast of the town that night in the gay district of San Francisco. They seemed to epitomize the dreams of many a lonely gay man in that town; men that were sick of the rather sordid and prolific sexual encounters that many of them enjoyed; one night stands that went on nightly into infinity, without the love and commitment they craved. Tom and Brent were happy and healthy; robust and obviously in love, and their union seemed to give hope to so many. I was welcomed into their community with open arms; and it was a neighborhood I would end up spending a lot of time in.
We had a grand time on their wedding day. I still remember the moment when Brent left the bar briefly and when he returned, he had roses for me. This was a gesture that he would repeat many times in the future; whenever we were all out together he’d leave and bring me back flowers and gifts. “Are you trying to make me look bad?” my boyfriend would joke, who didn’t make these gestures toward me nearly often enough. And in truth, it did make him look bad, because I so obviously enjoyed the attention. But all of it was in good fun. No one at first raised so much of an eyebrow of Brent’s fondness of me. He was gay, after all, and we were nothing more than friends.
The wedding day came and went, but Brent’s gestures toward me didn’t stop with flowers and gifts; he worked overtime to befriend me. He would call me constantly, and he continually suggested we spend a day alone together. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough at first, and I resisted his many requests, but slowly he wore me down.
At the time, I had every Tuesday off from work, and it eventually became our ritual to spend that day together. I would drive into the city, pick Brent up at their Twin Peaks apartment, and we’d spend the day in the Castro at the bars.
I really had no idea that Brent was an alcoholic at the time. I knew he drank a lot, and it took me a long while to get used to the idea of plunking myself on a bar stool at nine in the morning and ordering my first drink. But I followed his lead, and this is what we would do; we’d do shots of hard liquor and we would drink all day and all night, roaming from bar to bar, and getting ourselves in all kinds of trouble.
The community loved me. I was known everywhere by name, and they’d call out my name when I’d enter a venue and holler with joy. The two of us had become the life of the party; we would dance, sing, engage with everyone, and fully participate in their worlds. At one place, they named a sandwich after us. At another they’d have our drinks made before we even ordered them. The lesbians wanted to kiss me, and the boys wanted to do my hair. I can’t tell you how many times I sat in one of those bars, my hair all rolled up in curlers, with several boys fussing around me with brushes and bobby pins. We had become quite popular.
Tuesdays seemed endless, and for good reason. Our days together would stretch out into nearly 24 hour marathons of drinking, misbehaving, and carousing. We would find ourselves in all sorts of dastardly situations; we found ourselves in the middle of sex, drugs, and just about everything in between. Some of the things I saw at that time in my life I couldn’t possibly repeat here, but it all fascinated me. Our times together became increasingly wilder, and we’d stay up later and later. Eventually, we’d crawl back to Brent’s house at dawn, still giggling and carrying on.
Tom would just shake his head when he’d see us walking in at 5 in the morning. “I’m getting up for work,” he would say to us as we stumbled in the door. “Instead of me making up a bed for Cathy, why don’t you both just sleep in our bed for a few hours?” he would suggest.
And that is what we would do. We would get into bed together and sleep for an hour or two, before I’d jump up and head off to work.
My boyfriend became increasingly annoyed by this growing alliance between Brent and me. I would write off his concerns as hogwash; there was nothing to be jealous of, the man was gay for goodness sake. I would tell him he was being ridiculous, and I’d look forward to the next Tuesday with increasing anticipation.
Brent kissed everyone, so when he began kissing me, I didn’t think much of it. Fueled by alcohol and fun, we would often kiss; sometimes even driving up to Twin Peaks where their wedding took place to smooch. I was kissing a gay man after all; a man who would kiss strangers right in front of his husband. Tom never seemed to care; he would only laugh at his antics. I believed it all was perfectly innocent.
Months later, the four of us decided to take a trip together to Vermont, to Brent’s home town. It wasn’t until that trip that I began to wonder if Brent’s flirtations toward me meant much more than I had thought. His friends and family treated me more like his wife than they treated Tom like his husband. It was as if they all knew that I was going to be Brent’s next victim, even before I did. Because they knew him, and they knew his patterns; and they knew he’d chosen me to circle like a hungry hawk after its prey.
But my life didn’t fall apart until we returned to California.
Tom and Brent had a party at their house, which my boyfriend and I attended. The party began to thin out, one by one as parties do, but we were having such a good time, I didn’t want to leave. Tom suggested we stay the night, and eventually both Tom and my boyfriend took to their beds, leaving only Brent and I up and alone.
We didn’t do anything bad that night. I have a vague recollection of us playing horsey. We were both wearing bathrobes and Brent took the rope of his robe and wrapped it around my neck, like a halter. He was standing up with his robe untied, and I was on my hands and knees in front of him, with the rope around my neck, when my boyfriend came into the room.
He didn’t say a word. He got dressed, and with a slam of the door, left me there.
Not for even a minute did I really believe this was the end of our relationship. I loved my boyfriend more than I could possibly love anyone; what we had was rich and deep. This alliance with Brent was just for laughs; it was a distraction and nothing more. Besides, my boyfriend and I had been together more than 16 years, and when you reach those kinds of milestones you know it’s for life. I believed it was for life with all of my heart. But shockingly my relationship did end that night.
There were phone calls and tears; promises and regrets. But he left the key to my house on my kitchen table, and he told me it was over. I don’t think it really would have been, but I believed it at the time. I was so distraught, I asked Brent to run off to Mexico with me.
Within three hours of making the decision, Brent and I were sitting in an airplane awaiting take-off to Cabo San Lucas for 18 days. We didn’t tell a single soul we were going, except for my boss whom I called from the airport.
If I hadn’t run off to Mexico, I’m sure my boyfriend and I would have found our way back to each other. But that little trip sealed the deal. No one knew where we had gone; Tom came home, discovered Brent gone, and being the sleuth that he is, he hit redial on the last number we called from their phone. It was Mexican Airlines. When no one had seen or heard from either of us for days, word spread like wildfire that we’d gone off to Mexico.
When I think back to that trip, I can still smell our cheap hotel; I can still hear the thump of the music playing; I can still smell the odor of enchiladas, tequila, and exhaust fumes. I can still remember the horror as it dawned on me at last that Brent was a raging alcoholic.
Brent went on a bender for 18 days, the likes of which no one has ever seen. We would take a boat every morning to a bar that was on an island, and the bar owners would scream “Borracho” as he got off the boat and headed toward the bar. Borracho means ‘drunk’ but Brent was proud of his title and began referring to himself that way.
When we returned from Mexico, Brent moved in with me. Tom didn’t want him back, and I had broken my boyfriend’s heart. It felt as though we had no one but each other, and out of need more than anything else, we became a couple. I began to wake up in a nightmare that would last six years.
I’ll never forget our first visit to Uncle Bert’s, our favorite bar in the Castro. We approached the door, chatting happily, when the bartender came out from around the bar and ran up to the door. He shoved his hand in my face. “Brent can go in,” he told me. “But you’ll have to wait here.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, still laughing, and pushing his hand down. I assumed he was joking and tried to go around him. He grabbed both of my shoulders and pushed me backwards. “What are you doing?” I said, growing angry.
I looked behind him and noticed something had changed about the dart board that I had seen so many times hanging above the bar. I squinted in its direction, trying to make out an image that had been placed in the center of the dart board.
The picture on the dartboard was me.
As of that day, I was blacklisted from the community. Brent would argue with them loudly, saying that if anyone should understand prejudice, it should be the gay community. And aren’t they now ostracizing us because we’re straight? We had many heated discussions on the streets of the Castro, but I was no longer welcome there. It took me years to be able to return and not be noticed.
From that point onward, my life only endured. The idea of saddling up to a bar and drinking all day sickened me. I found myself living with a full-fledged alcoholic, which is a story unto itself.
It is interesting to me how we can look back on our lives and see the precise moment we went around a bad corner. I never got back what I lost that summer, but my life moved on from there. It was a chapter where everything that I knew I trusted blew apart in smithereens, as though hit by a bomb.
For years, I felt that episode had been the biggest mistake of my life. I had made so many mistakes; my behavior was selfish and I hurt so many people. But whenever I’d share the sad saga with people I met, they weren’t interested in my pain or my regrets. They weren't interested in the pain I caused, or what I had learned. They were really only interested in one thing.
It always began the same; they’d stare at me as if I had some kind of magical power; as if I were a Siren of unbelievable proportions. I would begin to feel they were no longer listening to my story; they only had one thing on their minds. And staring at me with a creepy look of admiration and awe, they’d bring the entire relationship down to one question. “What’s your secret?” they would titter.
“My secret?” I’d ask.
“How did you turn a gay man straight?” they’d ask me. I would only smile in response and stare down at the ground.
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“I’m getting married,” he told me. I could envision him literally beaming through the phone lines. “And I want you to be my Maid of Honor.”
“I’d be honored to be your Maid of Honor!” I answered him laughing. “Brent is a lucky man.”
Tom was gay and single. He was the 7th member of our tiny troupe of friends, and he had always been the odd man out; the third wheel as it were. The rest of the six were in pairs. Tom had been searching for love since I met him, but he could never find the right guy. I was thrilled to see him so happy.
We had all met his betrothed, of course. Young, handsome and boyish, Brent was the life of the party. He loved to drink, he loved to laugh, and he loved to shock. Our first impressions of him were pretty good; he wasn’t shy in the slightest, and had us all in stitches in the first hour that we met him. He was loud, flamboyant, and quick witted. I thought they made a good pair.
Brent asked my boyfriend to stand up for him as Best Man. He had only just met him, of course, but he explained that all of his friends were on the other side of the country. He had come to San Francisco on a vacation; he had long been curious about the Castro District of San Francisco, and he came out for a fortnight and an adventure. But he would never use his return ticket home, as it turned out, because when he met Tommy in a gay bar one night, it was love at first sight. And least that’s the story they loved to tell, while holding hands and smiling. They ended up framing his return ticket and later hung it in their marital home.
The marriage took place on Twin Peaks. A perch high above the ivory buildings of San Francisco, it has a panoramic view that rivals any other place in the city. On a clear day, which their wedding day was, it can be positively magical.
I wore a black sequin gown and white orchids. Brent was very insistent as to what I should wear, and as I got to know him more, it seemed he was always trying to dress me. He loved picking out clothes for me, but he often went with six inch high heels and a dress befitting a Diva. His choices were never really my style, but when I was with him, it always felt like I was playing, and when it came to clothes, I felt as though I were playing dress up. When he wanted black sequins on his wedding day, I didn’t even blink, and bought the dress he asked me to buy. I was sipping on cold champagne, staring out into the view when the first sequin fell off of that dress. By days end it would have completely disintegrated right off of my body.
The wedding went well. Brent and Tom wore white tuxedos with purple orchid leis. They wrote their own vows and both shed tears as they made promises to each other that should have lasted a lifetime. My boyfriend and I stood at their sides, while the rest of the wedding party fanned out in front of us.
I remember a tourist bus pulling into the parking lot. In a moment we could hear feverish shouts from its inhabitants; “It’s a gay wedding! Oh my GOD! We ARE in San Francisco,” they bellowed, when suddenly dozens of flash bulbs began blinding us. When I stared out into the sea of faces watching, all I could see were cameras everywhere. I felt for a moment as if we were movie stars surrounded by the paparazzi.
Following the ceremony, we bid our adieus. Brent and Tom had rented a limousine for the rest of the day, and Brent had made it clear to everyone that the Newlyweds wanted to leave directly after the wedding with only my boyfriend and me, for an afternoon and night of drinking and revelry. “I just want the four of us,” Brent said over and over as others tried to join our fun. And in a moment we had made our getaway, and the four of us were speeding down the hill toward the city, pouring champagne and laughing.
Our first stop was the Top of the Mark, the famous restaurant and bar that turns slowly like a planet on its axis, for stunning and ever changing 360 degree views. When I got out of the limo at that first stop, I noticed the seat was covered in sequins. “I think my dress is falling apart,” I said laughing. But that didn’t stop me at the Mark, nor did it stop me at the half a dozen or so bars we visited after.
Our last stop was to be the Castro, for a drink at the very bar where Tom and Brent met. When I climbed out of the limo, the seat was covered in sequins. The driver was incensed; he began sweeping the shiny circles from the back with a noticeable grumble. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath, shooting dagger looks in my direction. “You’re making a mess,” he told me.
“My dear,” Brent said in his lowest baritone, “your entire rear end is now exposed.” And it was true. There was nothing left of my dress behind me except a few bare threads. “Thank god I’m wearing underwear,” I said as I laughed out of sheer embarrassment. Brent immediately wrapped me in his tuxedo jacket, and told the limo to rush us to his house. There he gave me a pair of jeans, and let me to continue to wear the tuxedo jacket. It seemed he always wanted to take care of me. And soon the party made its way to Uncle Bert’s Saloon, in the heart of the Castro District.
Brent and Tom were the toast of the town that night in the gay district of San Francisco. They seemed to epitomize the dreams of many a lonely gay man in that town; men that were sick of the rather sordid and prolific sexual encounters that many of them enjoyed; one night stands that went on nightly into infinity, without the love and commitment they craved. Tom and Brent were happy and healthy; robust and obviously in love, and their union seemed to give hope to so many. I was welcomed into their community with open arms; and it was a neighborhood I would end up spending a lot of time in.
We had a grand time on their wedding day. I still remember the moment when Brent left the bar briefly and when he returned, he had roses for me. This was a gesture that he would repeat many times in the future; whenever we were all out together he’d leave and bring me back flowers and gifts. “Are you trying to make me look bad?” my boyfriend would joke, who didn’t make these gestures toward me nearly often enough. And in truth, it did make him look bad, because I so obviously enjoyed the attention. But all of it was in good fun. No one at first raised so much of an eyebrow of Brent’s fondness of me. He was gay, after all, and we were nothing more than friends.
The wedding day came and went, but Brent’s gestures toward me didn’t stop with flowers and gifts; he worked overtime to befriend me. He would call me constantly, and he continually suggested we spend a day alone together. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough at first, and I resisted his many requests, but slowly he wore me down.
At the time, I had every Tuesday off from work, and it eventually became our ritual to spend that day together. I would drive into the city, pick Brent up at their Twin Peaks apartment, and we’d spend the day in the Castro at the bars.
I really had no idea that Brent was an alcoholic at the time. I knew he drank a lot, and it took me a long while to get used to the idea of plunking myself on a bar stool at nine in the morning and ordering my first drink. But I followed his lead, and this is what we would do; we’d do shots of hard liquor and we would drink all day and all night, roaming from bar to bar, and getting ourselves in all kinds of trouble.
The community loved me. I was known everywhere by name, and they’d call out my name when I’d enter a venue and holler with joy. The two of us had become the life of the party; we would dance, sing, engage with everyone, and fully participate in their worlds. At one place, they named a sandwich after us. At another they’d have our drinks made before we even ordered them. The lesbians wanted to kiss me, and the boys wanted to do my hair. I can’t tell you how many times I sat in one of those bars, my hair all rolled up in curlers, with several boys fussing around me with brushes and bobby pins. We had become quite popular.
Tuesdays seemed endless, and for good reason. Our days together would stretch out into nearly 24 hour marathons of drinking, misbehaving, and carousing. We would find ourselves in all sorts of dastardly situations; we found ourselves in the middle of sex, drugs, and just about everything in between. Some of the things I saw at that time in my life I couldn’t possibly repeat here, but it all fascinated me. Our times together became increasingly wilder, and we’d stay up later and later. Eventually, we’d crawl back to Brent’s house at dawn, still giggling and carrying on.
Tom would just shake his head when he’d see us walking in at 5 in the morning. “I’m getting up for work,” he would say to us as we stumbled in the door. “Instead of me making up a bed for Cathy, why don’t you both just sleep in our bed for a few hours?” he would suggest.
And that is what we would do. We would get into bed together and sleep for an hour or two, before I’d jump up and head off to work.
My boyfriend became increasingly annoyed by this growing alliance between Brent and me. I would write off his concerns as hogwash; there was nothing to be jealous of, the man was gay for goodness sake. I would tell him he was being ridiculous, and I’d look forward to the next Tuesday with increasing anticipation.
Brent kissed everyone, so when he began kissing me, I didn’t think much of it. Fueled by alcohol and fun, we would often kiss; sometimes even driving up to Twin Peaks where their wedding took place to smooch. I was kissing a gay man after all; a man who would kiss strangers right in front of his husband. Tom never seemed to care; he would only laugh at his antics. I believed it all was perfectly innocent.
Months later, the four of us decided to take a trip together to Vermont, to Brent’s home town. It wasn’t until that trip that I began to wonder if Brent’s flirtations toward me meant much more than I had thought. His friends and family treated me more like his wife than they treated Tom like his husband. It was as if they all knew that I was going to be Brent’s next victim, even before I did. Because they knew him, and they knew his patterns; and they knew he’d chosen me to circle like a hungry hawk after its prey.
But my life didn’t fall apart until we returned to California.
Tom and Brent had a party at their house, which my boyfriend and I attended. The party began to thin out, one by one as parties do, but we were having such a good time, I didn’t want to leave. Tom suggested we stay the night, and eventually both Tom and my boyfriend took to their beds, leaving only Brent and I up and alone.
We didn’t do anything bad that night. I have a vague recollection of us playing horsey. We were both wearing bathrobes and Brent took the rope of his robe and wrapped it around my neck, like a halter. He was standing up with his robe untied, and I was on my hands and knees in front of him, with the rope around my neck, when my boyfriend came into the room.
He didn’t say a word. He got dressed, and with a slam of the door, left me there.
Not for even a minute did I really believe this was the end of our relationship. I loved my boyfriend more than I could possibly love anyone; what we had was rich and deep. This alliance with Brent was just for laughs; it was a distraction and nothing more. Besides, my boyfriend and I had been together more than 16 years, and when you reach those kinds of milestones you know it’s for life. I believed it was for life with all of my heart. But shockingly my relationship did end that night.
There were phone calls and tears; promises and regrets. But he left the key to my house on my kitchen table, and he told me it was over. I don’t think it really would have been, but I believed it at the time. I was so distraught, I asked Brent to run off to Mexico with me.
Within three hours of making the decision, Brent and I were sitting in an airplane awaiting take-off to Cabo San Lucas for 18 days. We didn’t tell a single soul we were going, except for my boss whom I called from the airport.
If I hadn’t run off to Mexico, I’m sure my boyfriend and I would have found our way back to each other. But that little trip sealed the deal. No one knew where we had gone; Tom came home, discovered Brent gone, and being the sleuth that he is, he hit redial on the last number we called from their phone. It was Mexican Airlines. When no one had seen or heard from either of us for days, word spread like wildfire that we’d gone off to Mexico.
When I think back to that trip, I can still smell our cheap hotel; I can still hear the thump of the music playing; I can still smell the odor of enchiladas, tequila, and exhaust fumes. I can still remember the horror as it dawned on me at last that Brent was a raging alcoholic.
Brent went on a bender for 18 days, the likes of which no one has ever seen. We would take a boat every morning to a bar that was on an island, and the bar owners would scream “Borracho” as he got off the boat and headed toward the bar. Borracho means ‘drunk’ but Brent was proud of his title and began referring to himself that way.
When we returned from Mexico, Brent moved in with me. Tom didn’t want him back, and I had broken my boyfriend’s heart. It felt as though we had no one but each other, and out of need more than anything else, we became a couple. I began to wake up in a nightmare that would last six years.
I’ll never forget our first visit to Uncle Bert’s, our favorite bar in the Castro. We approached the door, chatting happily, when the bartender came out from around the bar and ran up to the door. He shoved his hand in my face. “Brent can go in,” he told me. “But you’ll have to wait here.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, still laughing, and pushing his hand down. I assumed he was joking and tried to go around him. He grabbed both of my shoulders and pushed me backwards. “What are you doing?” I said, growing angry.
I looked behind him and noticed something had changed about the dart board that I had seen so many times hanging above the bar. I squinted in its direction, trying to make out an image that had been placed in the center of the dart board.
The picture on the dartboard was me.
As of that day, I was blacklisted from the community. Brent would argue with them loudly, saying that if anyone should understand prejudice, it should be the gay community. And aren’t they now ostracizing us because we’re straight? We had many heated discussions on the streets of the Castro, but I was no longer welcome there. It took me years to be able to return and not be noticed.
From that point onward, my life only endured. The idea of saddling up to a bar and drinking all day sickened me. I found myself living with a full-fledged alcoholic, which is a story unto itself.
It is interesting to me how we can look back on our lives and see the precise moment we went around a bad corner. I never got back what I lost that summer, but my life moved on from there. It was a chapter where everything that I knew I trusted blew apart in smithereens, as though hit by a bomb.
For years, I felt that episode had been the biggest mistake of my life. I had made so many mistakes; my behavior was selfish and I hurt so many people. But whenever I’d share the sad saga with people I met, they weren’t interested in my pain or my regrets. They weren't interested in the pain I caused, or what I had learned. They were really only interested in one thing.
It always began the same; they’d stare at me as if I had some kind of magical power; as if I were a Siren of unbelievable proportions. I would begin to feel they were no longer listening to my story; they only had one thing on their minds. And staring at me with a creepy look of admiration and awe, they’d bring the entire relationship down to one question. “What’s your secret?” they would titter.
“My secret?” I’d ask.
“How did you turn a gay man straight?” they’d ask me. I would only smile in response and stare down at the ground.
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Saturday, January 2, 2010
The New Year Good-bye
It had been a great New Years, and I faced the prospect of returning to work with my usual dread. My thoughts were still wrapped up in tinsel; my memories were lit up with party hats and noise makers, and it felt nearly impossible to leave the brilliant fireworks of the season behind me. January is always a tough month for those who do accounting work, and each New Year I would find myself despising the ledgers that called me back and extinguished the festive lights of the holidays. And this January was no different.
As I headed to work that morning, I felt depressed. But the last thing I expected on that winter dawn was that death was coming to my day. But death was indeed coming; with its bony fingers, it was scratching the back of my neck, warning me of its presence.
I found an empty space in front of my office and parked, and then I looked up at my office window and sighed. Because while January is a time I most wanted to hibernate in the comfort of my heaters and quilts, it was also the busiest time for me at work. The year had ended, and it was time to send out W4’s, 1099’s, and begin the arduous task of closing out the fiscal year. There were accounts to close, journal transactions to be entered, and new books to open. And that morning as I arrived at work, I felt like I was a helium balloon that had just been popped, and all of my joy was hissing out like a sorrowful gas. It was Monday morning.
I got straight to work. It has always been my goal to get out W2’s and 1099’s as soon as humanly possible. It has also been my belief that employees have the right to know, once the year ends, what their prior year earnings were so that they might plan for their taxes. But I have also always done them first thing for selfish reasons. I had learned over the years that the longer I would delay this task, the more phone calls and questions I would receive from my co-workers. So, in part, I cranked out the forms quickly as a way to give myself a little more peace; as a way to keep the hoards of curious and anxious employees at a distance.
It was a busy morning. I spent hours that day reconciling the 1099 accounts and I finally began printing the forms out on the printer. This particular task always filled me with stress; because if the forms moved even a millimeter, they would print incorrectly and render the rest useless. I stood by the printer, my heart in my throat, and watched the forms like a hungry cat; I pawed at them from time to time to guide them in the right direction, and I was ready to pounce on them should something go terribly awry. But on that morning, I had few problems, and soon enough I was stuffing the forms into envelopes and was ready to distribute them.
At the time I worked for a Real Estate office, and most of the employees were Independent Contractors, who worked strictly on the commissions they received from selling homes. Only the office workers were on payroll, so when I produced the 1099’s that morning, the vast majority of them were for people I worked with every day. My office was on the second floor, and I had a little balcony, and if I peered over I could see the entire ground floor of the office and an overview of all of the agents in their cubicles. Rather than wasting money on stamps, I began passing the 1099 forms to my co-workers as I spotted them, running up and down the stairs to bring them their envelope. I felt like the Grim Reaper; because although people wanted these forms as quickly as possible, they didn’t like receiving them. As the Accountant, I have always noticed the looks on faces as I hand out the forms; it’s a pinched, barely discernable expression of scorn and dread.
Directly below my balcony sat a nice man named Rob. Since his office was squarely below mine, I often would stare at the various pictures and things that he hung on the walls of his cubicle. He had children, of that I was sure; as I often saw childish scrawls in bright colors tacked beside his computer. And I would also peruse his photographs and the bits and scraps that made up his life. He seemed like a kind fellow; a sentimental fellow. He was always supremely polite to me.
On this morning as I was staring down, I saw Rob scurry by, and rush into his cubicle. I watched him as he hurriedly removed his coat and I noticed he looked unusually anxious to begin his day. He might have just sold a house, I mused to myself, because he looked particularly harried.
“Happy New Year Rob,” I yelled down from my perch.
He looked up like a skittish rat, obviously unnerved by my outcry. “Yes,” he said, slowly smiling. “Happy New Year to you too.”
“Morning. I finished the 1099’s,” I called back. “I’m going to toss it down there; are you ready to catch it?”
I saw his face fill with a slight twinge of pain. “Those are what we need to file taxes, right?” he asked me.
My face scrunched up without my even realizing it. I was frankly a bit surprised that he didn’t seem to know what a 1099 was. “Yes,” I called down. “Let me know if you need any help deciphering it,” I finished, smiling. He nodded, and I flew the envelope toward him like a paper plane.
He didn’t thank me. They never thanked me. They unknowingly treated me more like I was a cop handing out speeding tickets. At best, they seemed to accept my New Years gifts with polite loathing.
He caught the envelope and looked up and nodded. I smiled then returned to my work.
I don’t know how many hours had passed, but I had been working steadily all day, completing one dreaded task after another, going as fast as I could so that I might be finished with it. But when I looked up, the sky out of my office window had gone from light to the darkest black. It was winter, and the days were shorter, but I suddenly felt as though it were the middle of the night. I looked over my balcony, and noticed that Rob’s cubicle was empty, and then as I allowed my eyes to wander around the entire ground floor, I noticed that most of the agents had gone home for the day, and only a few lamps were burning. I had decided it was time to pack it up and head home, just as my phone began to ring.
I answered with my usual nonchalant greeting; the name of the company followed by my own name. I was tired, and didn’t feel like dealing with anything more that day. “May I help you?”
“Hey, this is Rob,” the voice on the other end said. He sounded frantic and hurried, and he was strangely out of breath. It alarmed me a bit.
“Evening Rob,” I said, listening with only half an ear. I was busy turning off my computer and shutting everything down for the night. I was ready to go home.
“Okay, can you explain this 1099 to me? What exactly is it.” His voice was rough; accusatory.
“Well,” I said, stopping to grab a pen and begin doodling, “it’s a report of your gross income for the year. When you do your taxes, you’ll take this number, and depending on many factors, such as dependents and deductions, you will use it to determine what taxes you owe. I assume you’ve been paying quarterly?”
There was a pause. “Paying WHAT quarterly.” He almost yelled it, and his voice scared me a little.
“Your taxes? It depends on your income, but most Independent Contractors have to pay their taxes quarterly.”
“And how in the hell am I supposed to know that?” he asked me. He was getting angrier. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before now?”
I didn’t like his tone, and I pushed back. “Listen Rob, I’m not in charge of your income taxes. I’m in charge of the company’s income taxes. Your income taxes are your responsibility. What did you do last year? Is this your first year as an Independent Contractor?”
He let out a long seething sigh. “Yes. My taxes have always been taken out in the past. I thought you were taking my taxes out.”
“No, that’s not how it works with commission,” I answered him. “You pay your own taxes. You’re not technically an employee. You get all of your money gross.”
There was a pause. “GOD DAMN IT,” he screamed into the phone.
“Excuse me?”
“IF I HAVE TO PAY TAXES ON THIS, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH GOD DAMN TAX I OWE? I DON’T HAVE THIS KIND OF MONEY. I’VE USED THE MONEY I’VE EARNED HERE TO PUT GOD DAMN FOOD ON MY TABLE. I DON’T HAVE ANY SAVINGS. I THOUGHT I WAS PAYING MY GOD DAMN TAXES. GOD DAMN YOU!”
I was becoming increasingly annoyed by his attitude. “Rob, this isn’t MY fault,” I said softly, trying to steady my voice. “I’m sorry this came as a surprise to you.” I noticed my hands were shaking.
“OH WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO DIE,” he screamed in the phone, and then I heard a deafening click as he hung up on me.
I sat there for a moment dumbfounded as his voice still rang in my ears. When I looked down, I saw the doodles I had created while talking to Rob; I had pushed the pen so hard that I had made holes in the paper. My doodles were overly dark and angry. The way he had talked to me had shaken me to the core, and as I gathered up my belongings and shut off my lamp, my heart filled to the brim with nagging sorrow. I knew that I wanted to cry. I knew I hated my job. I knew that I hated January. And that night as I got into bed, I tossed and turned for hours, going over every last word that he said to me, wondering how I would face him the following morning.
But I wouldn’t have to face Rob.
When I awoke the next dawn, I dreaded going to work even more than I usually did. I decided that I would give myself a little treat so that I would feel better, so I went in a little early so that I could enjoy a cappuccino before work at the coffee shop across the street. On this morning it was bustling with patrons, and I spotted at least five of my co-workers talking excitedly in the corner, their eyes dancing wildly, their voices frenzied.
I smiled hello and walked toward the counter to get my coffee. But the group waved me over; it was apparent they had something urgent to talk with me about.
“What’s going on?” I asked as I approached them.
“Did you hear about Rob?” they asked, almost in unison.
I felt a black shadow pass over my heart. “What about Rob?” I asked.
“He killed himself last night,” was the answer.
It was one of those moments that time seems to stand still. It was difficult to believe what I was hearing; I almost felt as if I were dreaming. I was stunned into silence, and couldn’t speak. The group of agents continued to talk. “Apparently he left the office last night and killed himself. He never spoke to anyone after leaving here last night.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I had to say it. “Yes, he did. I talked to him last night.”
The group of agents stared at me, their collective eyes as wide as saucers. I heard a gasp. They wanted every detail; every last word that was uttered. But I didn’t want to talk about it; it felt strangely private. I knew now that I was the one who had witnessed his grief; his final hour. I knew what I had heard on the phone the previous night was his last good-bye.
But I also felt a horrific sense of guilt creeping over my extremities. I felt somehow responsible, as though it could have been my words, and my actions, which pushed him over the edge. Or at the very least, I knew that in those final seconds before he took his life, it was me who he blamed.
I felt connected to him, and strangely protective of him. My throat was dry. But the group continued to hound me for details. “The family will want to know what he said to you,” they scolded me, trying to coerce the truth out of me. “And probably the police too. Because if you have a clue as to why he did this, you have to tell. So you might as well tell us. What did he say? Come on. It’s important.”
Their voices were shrill, like cackling hens.
Nosey bitches.
I felt sick.
But I couldn’t get the words out that cold January morning. For just a few more hours I was going to allow this man his privacy. I was going to allow him to rest in peace.
Instead, I was treated to a diatribe of what had occurred.
He must have been at home when he called me. There were no cell phones back then.
After he spoke with me he gathered several necessary items from his house, and then packed them into his car. He drove for over an hour, to a remote cabin that his family owned.
But he didn’t park in the driveway of the cabin. He parked about a mile away, and left his car hidden in a grove of trees. His car couldn’t be spotted on the road; he made sure that no one driving by could see that he was there, and surprise him.
He walked a mile to the cabin. And once inside, he gave himself the triple cocktail of death. First he swallowed a bottle of pills. Then he covered his head with a plastic bag. And if that wasn’t enough, he took a gun and blew his brains all over the gnarled walls of his family log cabin.
There would be no mistake. He took every possible precaution. This wasn’t a cry for help, a dramatic gesture; a plea for someone to find him. He made sure he would die. Triple sure.
When my co-workers finished telling me the story, I could taste the poison. I could feel the plastic sticking to my sweating face. I could smell the gun powder.
I was not self-absorbed enough to believe I caused this man to take his life that evening. Nor did I think his suicide was my fault. But I do believe I might have been the final straw that snapped the back of the proverbial camel. And for that reason, I have always felt connected to him; it has always felt as though my left hand holds his, six feet under the damp earth, and I touch his corpse with compassion.
On a cold January evening, when the year was brand new again and ripe with possibilities, and when smiling people were still wishing each other a Happy New Year as they passed by on the street, this man let a monetary reality determine the value of his life.
I am still saddened that he felt that the numbers on that form were of greater value than his own soul. Because I am assured that whatever that number was, it was only a fraction of his worth.
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As I headed to work that morning, I felt depressed. But the last thing I expected on that winter dawn was that death was coming to my day. But death was indeed coming; with its bony fingers, it was scratching the back of my neck, warning me of its presence.
I found an empty space in front of my office and parked, and then I looked up at my office window and sighed. Because while January is a time I most wanted to hibernate in the comfort of my heaters and quilts, it was also the busiest time for me at work. The year had ended, and it was time to send out W4’s, 1099’s, and begin the arduous task of closing out the fiscal year. There were accounts to close, journal transactions to be entered, and new books to open. And that morning as I arrived at work, I felt like I was a helium balloon that had just been popped, and all of my joy was hissing out like a sorrowful gas. It was Monday morning.
I got straight to work. It has always been my goal to get out W2’s and 1099’s as soon as humanly possible. It has also been my belief that employees have the right to know, once the year ends, what their prior year earnings were so that they might plan for their taxes. But I have also always done them first thing for selfish reasons. I had learned over the years that the longer I would delay this task, the more phone calls and questions I would receive from my co-workers. So, in part, I cranked out the forms quickly as a way to give myself a little more peace; as a way to keep the hoards of curious and anxious employees at a distance.
It was a busy morning. I spent hours that day reconciling the 1099 accounts and I finally began printing the forms out on the printer. This particular task always filled me with stress; because if the forms moved even a millimeter, they would print incorrectly and render the rest useless. I stood by the printer, my heart in my throat, and watched the forms like a hungry cat; I pawed at them from time to time to guide them in the right direction, and I was ready to pounce on them should something go terribly awry. But on that morning, I had few problems, and soon enough I was stuffing the forms into envelopes and was ready to distribute them.
At the time I worked for a Real Estate office, and most of the employees were Independent Contractors, who worked strictly on the commissions they received from selling homes. Only the office workers were on payroll, so when I produced the 1099’s that morning, the vast majority of them were for people I worked with every day. My office was on the second floor, and I had a little balcony, and if I peered over I could see the entire ground floor of the office and an overview of all of the agents in their cubicles. Rather than wasting money on stamps, I began passing the 1099 forms to my co-workers as I spotted them, running up and down the stairs to bring them their envelope. I felt like the Grim Reaper; because although people wanted these forms as quickly as possible, they didn’t like receiving them. As the Accountant, I have always noticed the looks on faces as I hand out the forms; it’s a pinched, barely discernable expression of scorn and dread.
Directly below my balcony sat a nice man named Rob. Since his office was squarely below mine, I often would stare at the various pictures and things that he hung on the walls of his cubicle. He had children, of that I was sure; as I often saw childish scrawls in bright colors tacked beside his computer. And I would also peruse his photographs and the bits and scraps that made up his life. He seemed like a kind fellow; a sentimental fellow. He was always supremely polite to me.
On this morning as I was staring down, I saw Rob scurry by, and rush into his cubicle. I watched him as he hurriedly removed his coat and I noticed he looked unusually anxious to begin his day. He might have just sold a house, I mused to myself, because he looked particularly harried.
“Happy New Year Rob,” I yelled down from my perch.
He looked up like a skittish rat, obviously unnerved by my outcry. “Yes,” he said, slowly smiling. “Happy New Year to you too.”
“Morning. I finished the 1099’s,” I called back. “I’m going to toss it down there; are you ready to catch it?”
I saw his face fill with a slight twinge of pain. “Those are what we need to file taxes, right?” he asked me.
My face scrunched up without my even realizing it. I was frankly a bit surprised that he didn’t seem to know what a 1099 was. “Yes,” I called down. “Let me know if you need any help deciphering it,” I finished, smiling. He nodded, and I flew the envelope toward him like a paper plane.
He didn’t thank me. They never thanked me. They unknowingly treated me more like I was a cop handing out speeding tickets. At best, they seemed to accept my New Years gifts with polite loathing.
He caught the envelope and looked up and nodded. I smiled then returned to my work.
I don’t know how many hours had passed, but I had been working steadily all day, completing one dreaded task after another, going as fast as I could so that I might be finished with it. But when I looked up, the sky out of my office window had gone from light to the darkest black. It was winter, and the days were shorter, but I suddenly felt as though it were the middle of the night. I looked over my balcony, and noticed that Rob’s cubicle was empty, and then as I allowed my eyes to wander around the entire ground floor, I noticed that most of the agents had gone home for the day, and only a few lamps were burning. I had decided it was time to pack it up and head home, just as my phone began to ring.
I answered with my usual nonchalant greeting; the name of the company followed by my own name. I was tired, and didn’t feel like dealing with anything more that day. “May I help you?”
“Hey, this is Rob,” the voice on the other end said. He sounded frantic and hurried, and he was strangely out of breath. It alarmed me a bit.
“Evening Rob,” I said, listening with only half an ear. I was busy turning off my computer and shutting everything down for the night. I was ready to go home.
“Okay, can you explain this 1099 to me? What exactly is it.” His voice was rough; accusatory.
“Well,” I said, stopping to grab a pen and begin doodling, “it’s a report of your gross income for the year. When you do your taxes, you’ll take this number, and depending on many factors, such as dependents and deductions, you will use it to determine what taxes you owe. I assume you’ve been paying quarterly?”
There was a pause. “Paying WHAT quarterly.” He almost yelled it, and his voice scared me a little.
“Your taxes? It depends on your income, but most Independent Contractors have to pay their taxes quarterly.”
“And how in the hell am I supposed to know that?” he asked me. He was getting angrier. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before now?”
I didn’t like his tone, and I pushed back. “Listen Rob, I’m not in charge of your income taxes. I’m in charge of the company’s income taxes. Your income taxes are your responsibility. What did you do last year? Is this your first year as an Independent Contractor?”
He let out a long seething sigh. “Yes. My taxes have always been taken out in the past. I thought you were taking my taxes out.”
“No, that’s not how it works with commission,” I answered him. “You pay your own taxes. You’re not technically an employee. You get all of your money gross.”
There was a pause. “GOD DAMN IT,” he screamed into the phone.
“Excuse me?”
“IF I HAVE TO PAY TAXES ON THIS, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH GOD DAMN TAX I OWE? I DON’T HAVE THIS KIND OF MONEY. I’VE USED THE MONEY I’VE EARNED HERE TO PUT GOD DAMN FOOD ON MY TABLE. I DON’T HAVE ANY SAVINGS. I THOUGHT I WAS PAYING MY GOD DAMN TAXES. GOD DAMN YOU!”
I was becoming increasingly annoyed by his attitude. “Rob, this isn’t MY fault,” I said softly, trying to steady my voice. “I’m sorry this came as a surprise to you.” I noticed my hands were shaking.
“OH WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO DIE,” he screamed in the phone, and then I heard a deafening click as he hung up on me.
I sat there for a moment dumbfounded as his voice still rang in my ears. When I looked down, I saw the doodles I had created while talking to Rob; I had pushed the pen so hard that I had made holes in the paper. My doodles were overly dark and angry. The way he had talked to me had shaken me to the core, and as I gathered up my belongings and shut off my lamp, my heart filled to the brim with nagging sorrow. I knew that I wanted to cry. I knew I hated my job. I knew that I hated January. And that night as I got into bed, I tossed and turned for hours, going over every last word that he said to me, wondering how I would face him the following morning.
But I wouldn’t have to face Rob.
When I awoke the next dawn, I dreaded going to work even more than I usually did. I decided that I would give myself a little treat so that I would feel better, so I went in a little early so that I could enjoy a cappuccino before work at the coffee shop across the street. On this morning it was bustling with patrons, and I spotted at least five of my co-workers talking excitedly in the corner, their eyes dancing wildly, their voices frenzied.
I smiled hello and walked toward the counter to get my coffee. But the group waved me over; it was apparent they had something urgent to talk with me about.
“What’s going on?” I asked as I approached them.
“Did you hear about Rob?” they asked, almost in unison.
I felt a black shadow pass over my heart. “What about Rob?” I asked.
“He killed himself last night,” was the answer.
It was one of those moments that time seems to stand still. It was difficult to believe what I was hearing; I almost felt as if I were dreaming. I was stunned into silence, and couldn’t speak. The group of agents continued to talk. “Apparently he left the office last night and killed himself. He never spoke to anyone after leaving here last night.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I had to say it. “Yes, he did. I talked to him last night.”
The group of agents stared at me, their collective eyes as wide as saucers. I heard a gasp. They wanted every detail; every last word that was uttered. But I didn’t want to talk about it; it felt strangely private. I knew now that I was the one who had witnessed his grief; his final hour. I knew what I had heard on the phone the previous night was his last good-bye.
But I also felt a horrific sense of guilt creeping over my extremities. I felt somehow responsible, as though it could have been my words, and my actions, which pushed him over the edge. Or at the very least, I knew that in those final seconds before he took his life, it was me who he blamed.
I felt connected to him, and strangely protective of him. My throat was dry. But the group continued to hound me for details. “The family will want to know what he said to you,” they scolded me, trying to coerce the truth out of me. “And probably the police too. Because if you have a clue as to why he did this, you have to tell. So you might as well tell us. What did he say? Come on. It’s important.”
Their voices were shrill, like cackling hens.
Nosey bitches.
I felt sick.
But I couldn’t get the words out that cold January morning. For just a few more hours I was going to allow this man his privacy. I was going to allow him to rest in peace.
Instead, I was treated to a diatribe of what had occurred.
He must have been at home when he called me. There were no cell phones back then.
After he spoke with me he gathered several necessary items from his house, and then packed them into his car. He drove for over an hour, to a remote cabin that his family owned.
But he didn’t park in the driveway of the cabin. He parked about a mile away, and left his car hidden in a grove of trees. His car couldn’t be spotted on the road; he made sure that no one driving by could see that he was there, and surprise him.
He walked a mile to the cabin. And once inside, he gave himself the triple cocktail of death. First he swallowed a bottle of pills. Then he covered his head with a plastic bag. And if that wasn’t enough, he took a gun and blew his brains all over the gnarled walls of his family log cabin.
There would be no mistake. He took every possible precaution. This wasn’t a cry for help, a dramatic gesture; a plea for someone to find him. He made sure he would die. Triple sure.
When my co-workers finished telling me the story, I could taste the poison. I could feel the plastic sticking to my sweating face. I could smell the gun powder.
I was not self-absorbed enough to believe I caused this man to take his life that evening. Nor did I think his suicide was my fault. But I do believe I might have been the final straw that snapped the back of the proverbial camel. And for that reason, I have always felt connected to him; it has always felt as though my left hand holds his, six feet under the damp earth, and I touch his corpse with compassion.
On a cold January evening, when the year was brand new again and ripe with possibilities, and when smiling people were still wishing each other a Happy New Year as they passed by on the street, this man let a monetary reality determine the value of his life.
I am still saddened that he felt that the numbers on that form were of greater value than his own soul. Because I am assured that whatever that number was, it was only a fraction of his worth.
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Friday, December 11, 2009
A Christmas Story
When I was 14, I worked in a convalescent hospital.
I was too young to legally work, but the word about town was that St. Catherine’s was so desperate for Candy Stripers that they would look the other way. All of my friends jumped on this opportunity, and the best part of that job was that we were all together.
I remember the staff asking me for my social security number, and I had no idea what that was. “I’ll have to call you back,” I told them, then ran to ask my big sister. “Just make it up,” she counseled me. “It’s three numbers, then two, then four.” Her words were reassuring, and I got the job.
My friends were all hired as Candy Stripers, and wore red and white striped pinafores, like candy canes. Candy Stripers were underage girls hired to attend to all of the patient’s needs. To me, the name “Candy Striper” and the duties they performed had a ring of prostitution about it, and I didn’t like the idea at all. Not to mention, I have always been squeamish about nursing. I don’t have that nurture bone that makes it palatable to clean up feces and sponge bodies; and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it.
So instead, I asked if I could work in the kitchen. And I was the only person who did.
I’ll never forget my first day of work. I was met at the door with a time card, and was shown how to “punch in.” It was very mechanical; the whir of the machine as it spit out my card with a blue ink time stamp upon it. It felt robotic. I felt robotic.
The smell was overwhelming. It was a noxious odor that was a combination of medicine and vomit; cleanser and urine. I was led down the hall to sign my paperwork, and I was suddenly accosted by a patient; an elderly lady who was sneering and hissing at me as I walked by. Suddenly she grabbed the back of my collar and pulled me toward her. She stood there posed like a fragile gorilla; arms outstretched as if about to pounce, exposed white legs covered in blue veins, her mouth angry. “For you, my dear,” she said in a guttural malevolent way, and then she squatted over my shoes and urinated.
I’m not sure if I was more horrified or terrified.
“The bathroom is right there,” said the nurse who was leading me toward my destination. “You can clean your shoes.” She was so matter-of-fact, that I wanted to scream, is that all I get? That woman peed on me! I wanted sympathy; but there would be none of that.
I rounded the corner to the bathroom and was stopped by another elderly woman in the hallway. “Last payment on the welfare check,” she told me. I nodded impatiently, and she continued. “Yep, it’s the very last payment. The LAST payment of the welfare check.” In the coming months, I would learn that this was all she said. Over and over. All day long.
Once my shoes were clean and my paperwork signed, which included my false social security number, I was led to the kitchen. I was introduced to my boss; a very tidy woman, with pert lips and a perpetually tight neck. She was a nutritionist; and she went on to instruct me on how to prepare the food. Before each meal, the carts would be wheeled into the kitchen, which were bright silver and all metal. The carts were bunk bed style, and came with about fifty trays per cart in rows which went about as high as I could reach. On each tray was a patient’s name, their food requests, requirements and restrictions. Each meal I would aid her in preparation; the regular patients got things like meatloaf, mash potatoes and frozen peas. A few could even request wine with their dinner, which was served in tiny wine bottles with a plastic wine glass. But many patients couldn’t eat this or that, and we had to prepare a variety of dishes. The worst were the Mechanical Soft patients, who could only drink liquid. For those patients, I would normally just throw the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas in a blender and serve it to them as a meaty milkshake.
My other job was to wash the dishes. I would stand before the industrialized size stainless steel sinks, and a steady stream of trays would come toward me, moving on a conveyer belt. Each plate was capped off with a white marbled plastic lid. I would remove the lid, wash that and the plate under hot water, and then put it into a big washer that would slide it through like a car wash. It was hot, and I would always sweat as I performed this particular task. I didn’t so much mind doing the dishes, but the patients would often leave me little surprises under the white marbled lids. A pile of feces was their favorite gift to me. But a pool of vomit was an equally popular donation.
When I finished with the dishes, I would have to count all the trays, and if I was short, I’d have to roam the hospital and look for them. I remember entering one woman’s room, and I was pleased when I spotted the one missing tray and the white marbled lid on her bed stand. “Good evening Mrs. Wilson,” I said, as I walked in to retrieve it.
“Good evening,” she said in a wicked voice that made me shudder. Then she pulled up her white nightgown, and began extracting bits of salad from her vagina and tossing it in my direction. She was screaming pejoratives as she did this; it was like a scene from the Exorcist. I ran from that room as if I was a soldier running from shrapnel, ducking the pellets that were flung toward my head and the few that landed square on my cheek.
I thought of it like an insane asylum. And I hated every single second of every single day there.
But I had it easy compared to my friends, who were forced to deal with the patients all day long, as well as wash the bodies of the dead, and prepare them for pick up. My best friend begged me to stay in the room with her the first time she did it; as she was so frightened. I’ll never forget the thud as she turned the dead man over to wash him, and revealed his back which looked like raw red meat, and was covered in bruises, scabs and blood. “HE’S ROTTING!” I almost choked. The smell was putrid. “WHAT IS THAT?” I screamed. But she knew what it was, as part of her job was to give sponge baths, and had seen them regularly.
“Bed sores,” she whispered. I was often educated during my tenure there. And the sound of ambulances in the parking lot was the lullaby by which I worked.
There were three levels of patients there. Group One consisted of patients who were almost comatose; sitting in wheel chairs or lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and without any recognition of the world around them. We rarely needed to tend to them at all; only the doctors and nurses fed and bathed them. Group Two were the patients that the Candy Stripers and I would deal with the most; the ones who hid salad in their crotch and like to urinate on young girl’s shoes. They were by far the most difficult, and it was a regular occurrence to see one of the Candy Stripers in the lunch room in tears.
But it was Group Three that broke my heart every single day.
The patients in Group Three, to me, didn’t look as if they belonged there. They looked like someone’s jolly grandmother or grandfather; wise and lucid, laughing with crinkly eyes that would light up anyone’s soul. Whether it would through circumstance or poverty, the reason they lived there I never knew. And most disturbing to me, was that few of them ever had visitors from the outside; and it would always be a big deal if they did. “Mrs. White is having her daughter here today,” I would be told. “Put some flowers on her tray, would you?” It always made me happy when the visitors came, but these occasions were rare.
Group Three would dine in the dining hall, which was right outside the kitchen where I spent most of my day.
It was Christmas Eve and I’d been forced to work. I remember being resentful, and I had done everything humanly possible to be excused. I would need to work until 9 p.m., and would miss many of the festive Eve traditions that my family would do at home. But the management made it clear; either work that day, or lose my job. So I went.
I remember that the dinner was a little more special that evening. The nutritionist and I roasted many turkeys in the gigantic ovens, and I was busy preparing stuffing and cranberry sauce. They had piped Christmas Carols through the entire building, and I was singing as I worked; and I was determined to still find my spirit in a situation that was less than optimal for me. We had dozens of pecan pies ordered; and they came in piles in big pink boxes. This wouldn’t be so bad, I thought to myself.
I remember swinging open the two sided kitchen doors and running into the dining room to set the table. I saw around the corner the community room, and I smiled to myself as I took in a moment to drink in the Christmas tree that the staff had put there. But it wasn’t the tree that kept my attention; rather it was the sight I saw below the tree.
I saw two of the Group Three patients sitting in their wheel chairs in front of the tree, holding hands. I had never seen any physical interaction between the patients whatsoever; and the sight of it held me spellbound and curious.
I dropped the pile of napkins I was carrying and walked over to where they sat. They were both smiling broadly; their eyes crinkling like Santa Claus; and they were holding hands so tight that their fingers were red.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, tapping the man quickly on his hand.
“Merry Christmas, my dear!” he answered enthusiastically. “And what a magical night it is!” I looked around at the gray room, and breathed in the familiar rancid smell, and could barely muster a smile. I couldn’t fathom how this man could be happy; not in the situation that he was in.
“Yes, it is,” I answered weakly.
“And I’ve got my best girl at my side,” he said, squeezing and shaking the woman’s hand in the air. “And she’s my Christmas Sugar Plum.” With all of his might, he struggled and leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. He was shaking almost violently as he did so. She giggled like a girl and laid her head on his shoulder. “Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to sit next to Mrs. Roth at supper,” he continued. “And it was love at first sight, I tell you. Love at first sight.”
“Oh, you do go on, Mr. Jenkins,” the woman giggled, snuggling into his white issued nightgown.
“I’ll shout it to the rooftops Mrs. Roth!” he yelled, and then laughed so robust he could have been Santa Claus himself. I smiled but neither of them were looking at me; they only had eyes for each other. Without a sound, I went back into the dining room and continued setting the table.
But it wasn’t the last I’d hear from Mr. Jenkins that evening.
I was preparing the trays for Group Three which be served in the dining room that evening. I always had to check each patient’s card, which spelled out their meal requests and restrictions, to make certain they were given what they wanted, and were not given what they couldn’t have. On Mr. Jenkins card, under the category for alcohol, he had circled the word “wine” in thick red felt pen, about a dozen times, until the circle of urgent red took up half the card. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was a big red arrow pointing to the circle. Just to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. It made me laugh.
But I was sad, too, as Mr. Jenkins was not allowed any alcohol in his diet. “Mr. Jenkins is requesting wine tonight,” I said to the nutritionist.
“Well, he knows he’s not allowed alcohol. That is the worst possible thing for his condition. Go out and tell him that he can’t have any,” she instructed me.
I walked despondently out of the kitchen and back to the Christmas tree where the happy couple still sat. I didn’t want to interrupt them again.
“Mr. Jenkins,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. But you requested wine tonight and that is not on your diet. I just wanted to let you know we can’t give it to you.”
I never expected what came next.
He lingered for a few seconds more on his lady’s blushing face, and then turned to me with a look that meant business.
“I want you to listen to me, dear, are you listening?” he said. His eyes pierced into mine.
“Yes.”
“I’m 86 years old. I have no living family or children. It is Christmas Eve. I am dying. I am in love. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
Then he motioned for me to come closer. He beckoned me with one bony finger, and continued to beckon me until my ear was right to his mouth. “So, if I want some god damn wine, I’ll have some god damn wine, do you hear me?”
“I understand,” I answered. “But I’m not allowed. I can’t.”
He took his hand and gripped my arm as tight as he could. “You CAN,” he said sternly. There was a pause. Then he whispered, with as much passion as I’ve ever heard in my life, “Please.” I stood up and stared into his eyes for several seconds. There was a world of conversation held captive in that stare; a monument of understanding.
That night, I told my boss that Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins had requested to eat in the courtyard alone, rather than dine with the other patients in the Dining Hall. “They’ll freeze,” my boss said, in an annoyed tone. “But I don’t have time to argue. Take a couple of T.V. trays, will you, and wheel them out?”
I nodded.
Her annoyance at this request was like looking in a mirror, and my soul filled with guilt and remorse at how I had felt about these people since I began work there. They weren’t people to me. They were just problems.
I chastised myself for my heartlessness. But just as quickly, I began to forgive myself. I knew I had distanced myself from feeling compassion, because down deep the entire place was more depressing than I had tools to bear. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel; the problem was, I felt too much. And it was time to give myself permission to feel.
That night I wheeled Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins to the chilly courtyard, which was strung up with Christmas lights. “You two will have dinner out here tonight, okay?” I said as I grabbed several blankets from the linen closet and draped them over both of them, so they were snuggled in together. They nodded enthusiastically.
Then I brought them their trays and their roast turkey. I had carried the trays right from the kitchen, so there was no wine on the trays. When I put the trays down, Mr. Jenkins just stared at them. His disappointment was so palatable that it brought a lump to my throat. He looked up at me with eyes that screamed his anguish; eyes which asked me why. “I’ll be right back Mr. Jenkins,” was all I needed to say. I gave him a knowing look. He didn’t need to speak, he only nodded and smiled.
I went back to the dining room and grabbed a full carafe of wine off one of the tables, along with two plastic wine glasses.
I hurried down the hall, as if I was a burglar escaping the scene of a crime. My heart was in my throat as I rushed past the nurse’s station, carrying the carafe as low as I could so no one would see.
When I reached the courtyard, they were kissing. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I waited for them to finish. I placed the wine carafe and glasses between the wheel chairs, beneath the blankets. “My shift is over, I’m going home. I hope you have a merry evening,” I said, winking at Mr. Jenkins.
“Indeed we shall,” he said winking back. And then in a whisper he mouthed the words, “thank you.”
When I walked out that evening, I worried for a moment, wondering what would happen when the inevitable discovery of the wine carafe occurred later that evening. I tried to comfort myself with the notion that perhaps it wouldn’t be noticed; that it would just be swept up with the rest of the dirty dishes, and carried into the kitchen without raising an eyebrow. But I also worried that when the wine carafe was found, I would be found out as well, and I would lose my job. But the worry only lasted a moment.
I walked out of the hospital and stared into a night sky filled with Christmas stars. And suddenly I didn’t care. It had all been worth it.
It was a Silent Night that night. All was calm, and all was very bright.
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I was too young to legally work, but the word about town was that St. Catherine’s was so desperate for Candy Stripers that they would look the other way. All of my friends jumped on this opportunity, and the best part of that job was that we were all together.
I remember the staff asking me for my social security number, and I had no idea what that was. “I’ll have to call you back,” I told them, then ran to ask my big sister. “Just make it up,” she counseled me. “It’s three numbers, then two, then four.” Her words were reassuring, and I got the job.
My friends were all hired as Candy Stripers, and wore red and white striped pinafores, like candy canes. Candy Stripers were underage girls hired to attend to all of the patient’s needs. To me, the name “Candy Striper” and the duties they performed had a ring of prostitution about it, and I didn’t like the idea at all. Not to mention, I have always been squeamish about nursing. I don’t have that nurture bone that makes it palatable to clean up feces and sponge bodies; and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it.
So instead, I asked if I could work in the kitchen. And I was the only person who did.
I’ll never forget my first day of work. I was met at the door with a time card, and was shown how to “punch in.” It was very mechanical; the whir of the machine as it spit out my card with a blue ink time stamp upon it. It felt robotic. I felt robotic.
The smell was overwhelming. It was a noxious odor that was a combination of medicine and vomit; cleanser and urine. I was led down the hall to sign my paperwork, and I was suddenly accosted by a patient; an elderly lady who was sneering and hissing at me as I walked by. Suddenly she grabbed the back of my collar and pulled me toward her. She stood there posed like a fragile gorilla; arms outstretched as if about to pounce, exposed white legs covered in blue veins, her mouth angry. “For you, my dear,” she said in a guttural malevolent way, and then she squatted over my shoes and urinated.
I’m not sure if I was more horrified or terrified.
“The bathroom is right there,” said the nurse who was leading me toward my destination. “You can clean your shoes.” She was so matter-of-fact, that I wanted to scream, is that all I get? That woman peed on me! I wanted sympathy; but there would be none of that.
I rounded the corner to the bathroom and was stopped by another elderly woman in the hallway. “Last payment on the welfare check,” she told me. I nodded impatiently, and she continued. “Yep, it’s the very last payment. The LAST payment of the welfare check.” In the coming months, I would learn that this was all she said. Over and over. All day long.
Once my shoes were clean and my paperwork signed, which included my false social security number, I was led to the kitchen. I was introduced to my boss; a very tidy woman, with pert lips and a perpetually tight neck. She was a nutritionist; and she went on to instruct me on how to prepare the food. Before each meal, the carts would be wheeled into the kitchen, which were bright silver and all metal. The carts were bunk bed style, and came with about fifty trays per cart in rows which went about as high as I could reach. On each tray was a patient’s name, their food requests, requirements and restrictions. Each meal I would aid her in preparation; the regular patients got things like meatloaf, mash potatoes and frozen peas. A few could even request wine with their dinner, which was served in tiny wine bottles with a plastic wine glass. But many patients couldn’t eat this or that, and we had to prepare a variety of dishes. The worst were the Mechanical Soft patients, who could only drink liquid. For those patients, I would normally just throw the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas in a blender and serve it to them as a meaty milkshake.
My other job was to wash the dishes. I would stand before the industrialized size stainless steel sinks, and a steady stream of trays would come toward me, moving on a conveyer belt. Each plate was capped off with a white marbled plastic lid. I would remove the lid, wash that and the plate under hot water, and then put it into a big washer that would slide it through like a car wash. It was hot, and I would always sweat as I performed this particular task. I didn’t so much mind doing the dishes, but the patients would often leave me little surprises under the white marbled lids. A pile of feces was their favorite gift to me. But a pool of vomit was an equally popular donation.
When I finished with the dishes, I would have to count all the trays, and if I was short, I’d have to roam the hospital and look for them. I remember entering one woman’s room, and I was pleased when I spotted the one missing tray and the white marbled lid on her bed stand. “Good evening Mrs. Wilson,” I said, as I walked in to retrieve it.
“Good evening,” she said in a wicked voice that made me shudder. Then she pulled up her white nightgown, and began extracting bits of salad from her vagina and tossing it in my direction. She was screaming pejoratives as she did this; it was like a scene from the Exorcist. I ran from that room as if I was a soldier running from shrapnel, ducking the pellets that were flung toward my head and the few that landed square on my cheek.
I thought of it like an insane asylum. And I hated every single second of every single day there.
But I had it easy compared to my friends, who were forced to deal with the patients all day long, as well as wash the bodies of the dead, and prepare them for pick up. My best friend begged me to stay in the room with her the first time she did it; as she was so frightened. I’ll never forget the thud as she turned the dead man over to wash him, and revealed his back which looked like raw red meat, and was covered in bruises, scabs and blood. “HE’S ROTTING!” I almost choked. The smell was putrid. “WHAT IS THAT?” I screamed. But she knew what it was, as part of her job was to give sponge baths, and had seen them regularly.
“Bed sores,” she whispered. I was often educated during my tenure there. And the sound of ambulances in the parking lot was the lullaby by which I worked.
There were three levels of patients there. Group One consisted of patients who were almost comatose; sitting in wheel chairs or lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and without any recognition of the world around them. We rarely needed to tend to them at all; only the doctors and nurses fed and bathed them. Group Two were the patients that the Candy Stripers and I would deal with the most; the ones who hid salad in their crotch and like to urinate on young girl’s shoes. They were by far the most difficult, and it was a regular occurrence to see one of the Candy Stripers in the lunch room in tears.
But it was Group Three that broke my heart every single day.
The patients in Group Three, to me, didn’t look as if they belonged there. They looked like someone’s jolly grandmother or grandfather; wise and lucid, laughing with crinkly eyes that would light up anyone’s soul. Whether it would through circumstance or poverty, the reason they lived there I never knew. And most disturbing to me, was that few of them ever had visitors from the outside; and it would always be a big deal if they did. “Mrs. White is having her daughter here today,” I would be told. “Put some flowers on her tray, would you?” It always made me happy when the visitors came, but these occasions were rare.
Group Three would dine in the dining hall, which was right outside the kitchen where I spent most of my day.
It was Christmas Eve and I’d been forced to work. I remember being resentful, and I had done everything humanly possible to be excused. I would need to work until 9 p.m., and would miss many of the festive Eve traditions that my family would do at home. But the management made it clear; either work that day, or lose my job. So I went.
I remember that the dinner was a little more special that evening. The nutritionist and I roasted many turkeys in the gigantic ovens, and I was busy preparing stuffing and cranberry sauce. They had piped Christmas Carols through the entire building, and I was singing as I worked; and I was determined to still find my spirit in a situation that was less than optimal for me. We had dozens of pecan pies ordered; and they came in piles in big pink boxes. This wouldn’t be so bad, I thought to myself.
I remember swinging open the two sided kitchen doors and running into the dining room to set the table. I saw around the corner the community room, and I smiled to myself as I took in a moment to drink in the Christmas tree that the staff had put there. But it wasn’t the tree that kept my attention; rather it was the sight I saw below the tree.
I saw two of the Group Three patients sitting in their wheel chairs in front of the tree, holding hands. I had never seen any physical interaction between the patients whatsoever; and the sight of it held me spellbound and curious.
I dropped the pile of napkins I was carrying and walked over to where they sat. They were both smiling broadly; their eyes crinkling like Santa Claus; and they were holding hands so tight that their fingers were red.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, tapping the man quickly on his hand.
“Merry Christmas, my dear!” he answered enthusiastically. “And what a magical night it is!” I looked around at the gray room, and breathed in the familiar rancid smell, and could barely muster a smile. I couldn’t fathom how this man could be happy; not in the situation that he was in.
“Yes, it is,” I answered weakly.
“And I’ve got my best girl at my side,” he said, squeezing and shaking the woman’s hand in the air. “And she’s my Christmas Sugar Plum.” With all of his might, he struggled and leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. He was shaking almost violently as he did so. She giggled like a girl and laid her head on his shoulder. “Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to sit next to Mrs. Roth at supper,” he continued. “And it was love at first sight, I tell you. Love at first sight.”
“Oh, you do go on, Mr. Jenkins,” the woman giggled, snuggling into his white issued nightgown.
“I’ll shout it to the rooftops Mrs. Roth!” he yelled, and then laughed so robust he could have been Santa Claus himself. I smiled but neither of them were looking at me; they only had eyes for each other. Without a sound, I went back into the dining room and continued setting the table.
But it wasn’t the last I’d hear from Mr. Jenkins that evening.
I was preparing the trays for Group Three which be served in the dining room that evening. I always had to check each patient’s card, which spelled out their meal requests and restrictions, to make certain they were given what they wanted, and were not given what they couldn’t have. On Mr. Jenkins card, under the category for alcohol, he had circled the word “wine” in thick red felt pen, about a dozen times, until the circle of urgent red took up half the card. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was a big red arrow pointing to the circle. Just to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. It made me laugh.
But I was sad, too, as Mr. Jenkins was not allowed any alcohol in his diet. “Mr. Jenkins is requesting wine tonight,” I said to the nutritionist.
“Well, he knows he’s not allowed alcohol. That is the worst possible thing for his condition. Go out and tell him that he can’t have any,” she instructed me.
I walked despondently out of the kitchen and back to the Christmas tree where the happy couple still sat. I didn’t want to interrupt them again.
“Mr. Jenkins,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. But you requested wine tonight and that is not on your diet. I just wanted to let you know we can’t give it to you.”
I never expected what came next.
He lingered for a few seconds more on his lady’s blushing face, and then turned to me with a look that meant business.
“I want you to listen to me, dear, are you listening?” he said. His eyes pierced into mine.
“Yes.”
“I’m 86 years old. I have no living family or children. It is Christmas Eve. I am dying. I am in love. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
Then he motioned for me to come closer. He beckoned me with one bony finger, and continued to beckon me until my ear was right to his mouth. “So, if I want some god damn wine, I’ll have some god damn wine, do you hear me?”
“I understand,” I answered. “But I’m not allowed. I can’t.”
He took his hand and gripped my arm as tight as he could. “You CAN,” he said sternly. There was a pause. Then he whispered, with as much passion as I’ve ever heard in my life, “Please.” I stood up and stared into his eyes for several seconds. There was a world of conversation held captive in that stare; a monument of understanding.
That night, I told my boss that Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins had requested to eat in the courtyard alone, rather than dine with the other patients in the Dining Hall. “They’ll freeze,” my boss said, in an annoyed tone. “But I don’t have time to argue. Take a couple of T.V. trays, will you, and wheel them out?”
I nodded.
Her annoyance at this request was like looking in a mirror, and my soul filled with guilt and remorse at how I had felt about these people since I began work there. They weren’t people to me. They were just problems.
I chastised myself for my heartlessness. But just as quickly, I began to forgive myself. I knew I had distanced myself from feeling compassion, because down deep the entire place was more depressing than I had tools to bear. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel; the problem was, I felt too much. And it was time to give myself permission to feel.
That night I wheeled Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins to the chilly courtyard, which was strung up with Christmas lights. “You two will have dinner out here tonight, okay?” I said as I grabbed several blankets from the linen closet and draped them over both of them, so they were snuggled in together. They nodded enthusiastically.
Then I brought them their trays and their roast turkey. I had carried the trays right from the kitchen, so there was no wine on the trays. When I put the trays down, Mr. Jenkins just stared at them. His disappointment was so palatable that it brought a lump to my throat. He looked up at me with eyes that screamed his anguish; eyes which asked me why. “I’ll be right back Mr. Jenkins,” was all I needed to say. I gave him a knowing look. He didn’t need to speak, he only nodded and smiled.
I went back to the dining room and grabbed a full carafe of wine off one of the tables, along with two plastic wine glasses.
I hurried down the hall, as if I was a burglar escaping the scene of a crime. My heart was in my throat as I rushed past the nurse’s station, carrying the carafe as low as I could so no one would see.
When I reached the courtyard, they were kissing. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I waited for them to finish. I placed the wine carafe and glasses between the wheel chairs, beneath the blankets. “My shift is over, I’m going home. I hope you have a merry evening,” I said, winking at Mr. Jenkins.
“Indeed we shall,” he said winking back. And then in a whisper he mouthed the words, “thank you.”
When I walked out that evening, I worried for a moment, wondering what would happen when the inevitable discovery of the wine carafe occurred later that evening. I tried to comfort myself with the notion that perhaps it wouldn’t be noticed; that it would just be swept up with the rest of the dirty dishes, and carried into the kitchen without raising an eyebrow. But I also worried that when the wine carafe was found, I would be found out as well, and I would lose my job. But the worry only lasted a moment.
I walked out of the hospital and stared into a night sky filled with Christmas stars. And suddenly I didn’t care. It had all been worth it.
It was a Silent Night that night. All was calm, and all was very bright.
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Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Why I Believe in Santa Claus
I have always been giddy about Christmas. Since the moment I realized that Christmas existed, the season has energized me in a way I can scarcely explain. For an entire month, I feel like a child with my nose pressed against the windowpane, staring into a snowy landscape of inexplicable joy.
I know it doesn't fill me because of religion, or because of Paganism. Or because of the conglomeration of traditions and rituals that dozens of cultures bring to the holiday. Its roots spread out farther than the strongest tree, and each root contributes its own piece to a culmination that is different to so many people. There are countless cultures, faiths, ethnicities and societies that have contributed to the modern concept of Christmas, but that’s not why I love Christmas.
I know it’s none of those things that make me love Christmas, but I do know it’s because of all of those reasons. I love the risqué and utterly hedonistic undertones that the Pagans lent us; both riotous and lusty, which still makes Christmas feel so merry. I love the reverence that the Church brought to us; the somber and haunting elegance, the Christmas Carols, and the undeniable charm. The magical, dark and joyous conglomeration of what Christmas is. Whatever the hell it is, I love it. And I believe the reason I love it, is the sense of wonderment and awe that was inspired in my tiny soul, when I was barely old enough to understand that Christmas existed. And that stupefaction, I believe, was inspired by my grandmother.
My Grandmother was the Grand Dame of story telling.
Gogo, as we called her, had a keen imagination. Until she died, she mesmerized us with long detailed stories about anything from her history to the fantastical. We were told about World War II in London, England; how she and my mother were so tired of spending their days in the dark, damp bomb shelters, or in their house with the curtains drawn, that one night they decided to brave the streets and go to the movie theater. That night, not only was the back of the theater bombed, but when they returned home, their house had been as well. “If we hadn’t gone to the movies that evening, you all wouldn’t be here, Duckies,” she’d explain in her thick cockney accent. And she would tell the story in such detail, that some nights I felt as if I had been there. I could smell the rancid margarine they were given to eat on rations, and I could taste the cold tea. I could hear the whistles of the bombs as they fell from the sky, and then the dreaded silence, only seconds before they detonated. I could feel the explosion all around me.
But those aren’t the only stories that Gogo told. Gogo believed in the spiritual, the unexplained, the paranormal, and about everything else odd that you might imagine. And in turn, we believed it too. The combination of the fact that she believed in these things herself, combined with her breathtaking narrative, imprinted these ideas in our minds as truth.
Gogo told us about poltergeists; an entity she really did believe in. When we’d be around her, strange things would always seem to be happening; things would disappear then reappear in the oddest places. It always frightened me, and sometimes I would cry. “Don’t worry Duckie,” she’d tell me. “The Poltergeists are mischievous, but they won’t hurt you. When you encounter one, just count your blessings, and let it bring you comfort. Because they give us proof that there is more to this world than we can imagine.”
She would also tell us yarns about ghosts and being visited by her dead relatives; but this wasn’t fantasy, to her this was all true. “My brother just visited me in my bedroom,” she’d tell me. “Look ducky, you can still see the imprint on the blankets where he sat beside me. Don’t be silly, of course a dent that perfect could not be made any other way. When he sat, I could feel his weight, tugging at my top sheet.
She told us once about a Flying Saucer which had flown right over her head, as she was sipping on tea on her porch. She described in dizzying detail every single facet of what she saw; the way the air smelled when it passed overhead, similar to that strange metallic smell right after a rain. She told us how its enormity covered the sky and appeared to eclipse the sun; she described how theforce of its velocity blew back her hair, and the wake of its tremendous wind nearly pushed her over. “Of course I didn’t imagine it, Ducky. I saw it as clearly as I see you right now.”
Gogo also had out-of-body experiences. They always began in the twilight between sleep and awake, she explained, when her body would begin to violently shake. Suddenly she would hear a sort of a pop, and she’d find herself free of her physical restraints. She would rise slowly to the ceiling, until she could see every speck of dust and fragment of cobweb only inches from her eyes. Then after years of practice, she was able to push herself through the ceiling and into the world. Eventually she could go anywhere she wanted. “I visited my sister last night in England; I did you know. I could see the frock she was wearing; it was brown plaid cotton. She was making herself a cup of tea, and I kept touching her, and she would swat the air like a fly. This morning I called her, and I told her I liked her new brown dress, and she almost fell over, Duckies. Because she didn’t know how I knew.”
She believed it all, and we did as well. So when she began to stretch the truth a little, and tell us stories about fairies, especially one little fairy named Joey who lived in our fireplace, I had no reason to doubt her. The stories she told us about Joey were as complicated and as full of imagery as any of stories. But she also would provide physical evidence that Joey existed; if one of our toys broke, for instance, all we needed to do was leave it in the fireplace for Joey to fix. And sure enough, when we awoke the next day, our damaged toys were good as new, and sitting in the fireplace.
So when Gogo told us about Santa Claus, she did it in such a magical way it was clearly plausible. Santa was as real to me as Hitler was in World War II.
We weren’t given the American version of Santa Claus. The corpulent white man in the cheap red suit wasn’t a part of my upbringing. Father Christmas was somebody that Charles Dickens might describe; a cross between a hippie, and the God of Wine, Bacchus. He was tall, gaunt; with long flowing hair. In fact, I think he had a little bit of Jesus in him. He wore a Victorian crown of mistletoe and holly; and he wore tattered velvet suits of red and green; his shoulders were dusted with perpetual snow. I preferred his solemn sweetness to the other Santa Claus’ obtuse jolliness. I loved his wise Victorian manner; I loved the winter plants that wound around his forehead; I loved the cane with which he walked.
Of course we weren’t spared a single solitary incredible detail. How his leather boots were a bit charred, because he wore them too close to the fire. How he had a burn on his green velvet sleeve, from an accident with a bit of soot. How his brown satchel, tied up with brown twine, could hold enough presents for all the children in the world. And how, exactly, this sorcerer, this magical elf, possessed the powers that he did; and how Santa came to be.
My grandmother would have never been so silly as to try and pass off a department store Santa as the real Santa. We would never have fallen for that rouse; we saw their plastic boots and synthetic beards, and we couldn’t fathom how other children believed such nonsense. Those charlatans, we were told, were just men hired by the stores to pose as Santa Claus, to sell merchandise. We also knew that the slightly drunken fool that appeared at various holiday parties wasn’t Santa either. Santa was dressed in real velvet and fur and leather; and he was an elf. No taller than four feet. He wouldn’t look like a man, she explained. He would look like a mythical creature; something we’d never seen before.
But we would never see Santa.
When we would ask her how she knew for sure that none of those imposters were the real Santa, she explained it was because no one had ever seen the real Santa. He existed only in legends and stories; passed down by elves and Santa himself. Even if you tried, you’d never catch a glimpse of the real Santa, because the moment you opened your eyes to try and catch him, he’d disappear. And this mystery made it all the more spectacular.
Just as most of my friends were told, Santa came down the chimney and filled the stockings that the children had hung there on Christmas Eve. But in our house, Santa would come and bring them to our individual beds, and would lay them across our sleeping feet. Just knowing that Santa would be in my very bedroom that night was more excitement than my heart could stand.
But the oddest tradition we had, was there was absolutely no sign of Christmas in the house when we went to bed on Christmas Eve. There wasn’t a tree; there wasn’t as much as a wreath or poinsettia. There was nothing; not a stitch of anything that would remind anyone that it was Christmas Eve. And when we hung our stockings in the bare room on the night before Christmas, it was a simple and strange event; almost haunting and unreal. The anticipation of it all would make my heart beat so fast, I could hardly catch my breath.
But that was nothing compared to what it was like in the morning.
We’d awaken to feel the weight of our laden stockings, which had been laid across our ankles. With every slight movement we’d make with our legs, the stocking would shift, and the paper on the packages would rustle and crunch. I would always reach down first with my eyes closed; I liked to peruse the contents of my stocking first utterly blind, with only my fingertips. It didn’t much matter what was in those packages; only that a magical elf had visited me in the night and left them. And when at last I would open my eyes to see the colorfully wrapped packages in Christmas colors, it felt as though a little fairy dust had been sprinkled on my shoulders.
Then when all the presents were open, and I was sitting in bed surrounded by torn paper and presents, it was time to creep downstairs.
Of course the reality was I was being knocked over by my older brother and sister. My brother would step on me to get downstairs first. But in my own mind, I was silently creeping; slowly; almost too afraid to take it all in.
I was afraid to look, because as we slept, dreaming of sugar plums and the rest, something miraculous had happened. Something magical and unbelievable.
The naked house which was devoid of any Christmas spirit had been transformed overnight. By fairies. There was fairy dust in front of the fireplace. There was fairy dust on the stairwell. There was fairy dust on the presents.
A fully decorated tree had appeared as we slept, and was surrounded by every bit of garland, tinsel, trim, and Christmas joy that a child could possibly imagine. Everything sparkled and shimmied; lights danced everywhere, Christmas music filled the room, and the smell of mincemeat pie wafted from the kitchen. Santa had come. He’d really come. He’d really been here. And with the help of dozens of busy fairies, Christmas had come to our house.
I hardly remember any of the presents I ever got, only a few stand out in my mind. What lingers is that feeling; that thrilling and enchanting joy, where I knew for one day that all I needed to do was believe, and I would discover that the world was truly a magical place, filled with miracles.
Since that time, my life has taken many devilish turns. I wouldn’t say I’ve become jaded, but I’ve adopted a healthy wallop of cynicism over the years, and I am sometimes filled with doubt and mistrust. But when I see the first Christmas lights go up on my block, or when I sing Christmas carols or decorate the evergreen I just fetched in the cold, all of that goes away. I am suddenly that child again, with my nose pressed against the windowpane, staring into a snowy landscape of inexplicable joy. I am once again transported back to a time when I believed that life was both a marvel and a phenomenon; to a time when I trusted the world and everything and everyone in it.
And that is why I love Christmas.
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I know it doesn't fill me because of religion, or because of Paganism. Or because of the conglomeration of traditions and rituals that dozens of cultures bring to the holiday. Its roots spread out farther than the strongest tree, and each root contributes its own piece to a culmination that is different to so many people. There are countless cultures, faiths, ethnicities and societies that have contributed to the modern concept of Christmas, but that’s not why I love Christmas.
I know it’s none of those things that make me love Christmas, but I do know it’s because of all of those reasons. I love the risqué and utterly hedonistic undertones that the Pagans lent us; both riotous and lusty, which still makes Christmas feel so merry. I love the reverence that the Church brought to us; the somber and haunting elegance, the Christmas Carols, and the undeniable charm. The magical, dark and joyous conglomeration of what Christmas is. Whatever the hell it is, I love it. And I believe the reason I love it, is the sense of wonderment and awe that was inspired in my tiny soul, when I was barely old enough to understand that Christmas existed. And that stupefaction, I believe, was inspired by my grandmother.
My Grandmother was the Grand Dame of story telling.
Gogo, as we called her, had a keen imagination. Until she died, she mesmerized us with long detailed stories about anything from her history to the fantastical. We were told about World War II in London, England; how she and my mother were so tired of spending their days in the dark, damp bomb shelters, or in their house with the curtains drawn, that one night they decided to brave the streets and go to the movie theater. That night, not only was the back of the theater bombed, but when they returned home, their house had been as well. “If we hadn’t gone to the movies that evening, you all wouldn’t be here, Duckies,” she’d explain in her thick cockney accent. And she would tell the story in such detail, that some nights I felt as if I had been there. I could smell the rancid margarine they were given to eat on rations, and I could taste the cold tea. I could hear the whistles of the bombs as they fell from the sky, and then the dreaded silence, only seconds before they detonated. I could feel the explosion all around me.
But those aren’t the only stories that Gogo told. Gogo believed in the spiritual, the unexplained, the paranormal, and about everything else odd that you might imagine. And in turn, we believed it too. The combination of the fact that she believed in these things herself, combined with her breathtaking narrative, imprinted these ideas in our minds as truth.
Gogo told us about poltergeists; an entity she really did believe in. When we’d be around her, strange things would always seem to be happening; things would disappear then reappear in the oddest places. It always frightened me, and sometimes I would cry. “Don’t worry Duckie,” she’d tell me. “The Poltergeists are mischievous, but they won’t hurt you. When you encounter one, just count your blessings, and let it bring you comfort. Because they give us proof that there is more to this world than we can imagine.”
She would also tell us yarns about ghosts and being visited by her dead relatives; but this wasn’t fantasy, to her this was all true. “My brother just visited me in my bedroom,” she’d tell me. “Look ducky, you can still see the imprint on the blankets where he sat beside me. Don’t be silly, of course a dent that perfect could not be made any other way. When he sat, I could feel his weight, tugging at my top sheet.
She told us once about a Flying Saucer which had flown right over her head, as she was sipping on tea on her porch. She described in dizzying detail every single facet of what she saw; the way the air smelled when it passed overhead, similar to that strange metallic smell right after a rain. She told us how its enormity covered the sky and appeared to eclipse the sun; she described how theforce of its velocity blew back her hair, and the wake of its tremendous wind nearly pushed her over. “Of course I didn’t imagine it, Ducky. I saw it as clearly as I see you right now.”
Gogo also had out-of-body experiences. They always began in the twilight between sleep and awake, she explained, when her body would begin to violently shake. Suddenly she would hear a sort of a pop, and she’d find herself free of her physical restraints. She would rise slowly to the ceiling, until she could see every speck of dust and fragment of cobweb only inches from her eyes. Then after years of practice, she was able to push herself through the ceiling and into the world. Eventually she could go anywhere she wanted. “I visited my sister last night in England; I did you know. I could see the frock she was wearing; it was brown plaid cotton. She was making herself a cup of tea, and I kept touching her, and she would swat the air like a fly. This morning I called her, and I told her I liked her new brown dress, and she almost fell over, Duckies. Because she didn’t know how I knew.”
She believed it all, and we did as well. So when she began to stretch the truth a little, and tell us stories about fairies, especially one little fairy named Joey who lived in our fireplace, I had no reason to doubt her. The stories she told us about Joey were as complicated and as full of imagery as any of stories. But she also would provide physical evidence that Joey existed; if one of our toys broke, for instance, all we needed to do was leave it in the fireplace for Joey to fix. And sure enough, when we awoke the next day, our damaged toys were good as new, and sitting in the fireplace.
So when Gogo told us about Santa Claus, she did it in such a magical way it was clearly plausible. Santa was as real to me as Hitler was in World War II.
We weren’t given the American version of Santa Claus. The corpulent white man in the cheap red suit wasn’t a part of my upbringing. Father Christmas was somebody that Charles Dickens might describe; a cross between a hippie, and the God of Wine, Bacchus. He was tall, gaunt; with long flowing hair. In fact, I think he had a little bit of Jesus in him. He wore a Victorian crown of mistletoe and holly; and he wore tattered velvet suits of red and green; his shoulders were dusted with perpetual snow. I preferred his solemn sweetness to the other Santa Claus’ obtuse jolliness. I loved his wise Victorian manner; I loved the winter plants that wound around his forehead; I loved the cane with which he walked.
Of course we weren’t spared a single solitary incredible detail. How his leather boots were a bit charred, because he wore them too close to the fire. How he had a burn on his green velvet sleeve, from an accident with a bit of soot. How his brown satchel, tied up with brown twine, could hold enough presents for all the children in the world. And how, exactly, this sorcerer, this magical elf, possessed the powers that he did; and how Santa came to be.
My grandmother would have never been so silly as to try and pass off a department store Santa as the real Santa. We would never have fallen for that rouse; we saw their plastic boots and synthetic beards, and we couldn’t fathom how other children believed such nonsense. Those charlatans, we were told, were just men hired by the stores to pose as Santa Claus, to sell merchandise. We also knew that the slightly drunken fool that appeared at various holiday parties wasn’t Santa either. Santa was dressed in real velvet and fur and leather; and he was an elf. No taller than four feet. He wouldn’t look like a man, she explained. He would look like a mythical creature; something we’d never seen before.
But we would never see Santa.
When we would ask her how she knew for sure that none of those imposters were the real Santa, she explained it was because no one had ever seen the real Santa. He existed only in legends and stories; passed down by elves and Santa himself. Even if you tried, you’d never catch a glimpse of the real Santa, because the moment you opened your eyes to try and catch him, he’d disappear. And this mystery made it all the more spectacular.
Just as most of my friends were told, Santa came down the chimney and filled the stockings that the children had hung there on Christmas Eve. But in our house, Santa would come and bring them to our individual beds, and would lay them across our sleeping feet. Just knowing that Santa would be in my very bedroom that night was more excitement than my heart could stand.
But the oddest tradition we had, was there was absolutely no sign of Christmas in the house when we went to bed on Christmas Eve. There wasn’t a tree; there wasn’t as much as a wreath or poinsettia. There was nothing; not a stitch of anything that would remind anyone that it was Christmas Eve. And when we hung our stockings in the bare room on the night before Christmas, it was a simple and strange event; almost haunting and unreal. The anticipation of it all would make my heart beat so fast, I could hardly catch my breath.
But that was nothing compared to what it was like in the morning.
We’d awaken to feel the weight of our laden stockings, which had been laid across our ankles. With every slight movement we’d make with our legs, the stocking would shift, and the paper on the packages would rustle and crunch. I would always reach down first with my eyes closed; I liked to peruse the contents of my stocking first utterly blind, with only my fingertips. It didn’t much matter what was in those packages; only that a magical elf had visited me in the night and left them. And when at last I would open my eyes to see the colorfully wrapped packages in Christmas colors, it felt as though a little fairy dust had been sprinkled on my shoulders.
Then when all the presents were open, and I was sitting in bed surrounded by torn paper and presents, it was time to creep downstairs.
Of course the reality was I was being knocked over by my older brother and sister. My brother would step on me to get downstairs first. But in my own mind, I was silently creeping; slowly; almost too afraid to take it all in.
I was afraid to look, because as we slept, dreaming of sugar plums and the rest, something miraculous had happened. Something magical and unbelievable.
The naked house which was devoid of any Christmas spirit had been transformed overnight. By fairies. There was fairy dust in front of the fireplace. There was fairy dust on the stairwell. There was fairy dust on the presents.
A fully decorated tree had appeared as we slept, and was surrounded by every bit of garland, tinsel, trim, and Christmas joy that a child could possibly imagine. Everything sparkled and shimmied; lights danced everywhere, Christmas music filled the room, and the smell of mincemeat pie wafted from the kitchen. Santa had come. He’d really come. He’d really been here. And with the help of dozens of busy fairies, Christmas had come to our house.
I hardly remember any of the presents I ever got, only a few stand out in my mind. What lingers is that feeling; that thrilling and enchanting joy, where I knew for one day that all I needed to do was believe, and I would discover that the world was truly a magical place, filled with miracles.
Since that time, my life has taken many devilish turns. I wouldn’t say I’ve become jaded, but I’ve adopted a healthy wallop of cynicism over the years, and I am sometimes filled with doubt and mistrust. But when I see the first Christmas lights go up on my block, or when I sing Christmas carols or decorate the evergreen I just fetched in the cold, all of that goes away. I am suddenly that child again, with my nose pressed against the windowpane, staring into a snowy landscape of inexplicable joy. I am once again transported back to a time when I believed that life was both a marvel and a phenomenon; to a time when I trusted the world and everything and everyone in it.
And that is why I love Christmas.
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Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Gun To My Temple
I was fast asleep, dreaming the dreams of the innocent. I was 13 years old.
But something interrupted my dream. I awoke when I felt a cold metal object being shoved with some urgency into my temple.
It was a gun.
I have always been an extremely light sleeper. With even the slightest unwelcome sound, I can go from a dream state to completely alert in a flash. A simple sigh in the corner of my room can startle me. So feeling icy steel press against my temple awoke me with a start.
I had never seen a gun, much less felt one, but somehow I knew for certain that it was a gun being pressed against my head. I was utterly frozen with fear. I laid there with my eyes closed, my breathing was shallow. I tried not to swallow; I tried not to make a sound.
I heard the gun being cocked. I recognized the sound from television; that horrid lifeless click that readies the gun for release.
I opened my eye into an imperceptible slit, and I could see a man’s pinky finger hanging languidly next to my cheek. It was adorned with a bright gold ring that sported a jewel of some sort; possibly a diamond. It was a man’s hand, of that I was sure. I had never seen such a fancy ring on a man’s hand before. His other fingers were curled around a metal handle. I could see a finger on the trigger.
The steel was shoved harder into my temple. I could feel my heart beating in my throat; I was certain that my pulsing veins were visible. I prepared myself for death, or even worse; torture. I waited.
I had always been a weary child; I was terrified that one day I would be kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. I would run from a car if I saw a man driving it; and black cars especially terrified me, because that was the color of the car of a kidnapper who took a child in my neighborhood, when I was five. Black cars and strange men spoke to me of unspeakable horrors; and I vowed to do what ever I needed to do to never get caught in a predator’s web. Each day when I came home from school, I would check the entire house thoroughly; I would check behind the shower curtain, in every closet, and in every possible hiding place for an intruder. It was a ritual I did every day before I could settle down in my own home. It was as if I had always known a terrible time was coming, and here it was.
Suddenly the man bellowed with laughter. I sprung upright and leapt from my bed in an instant, and saw my sister’s boyfriend standing in my dark bedroom, a revolver in his hand. The gleam of the silver pistol looked luminous in the moonlight and only that and his teeth showed up in the dark. “What are you doing?” I choked. While I felt relieved that I knew my midnight intruder, I hardly felt safe. I didn’t trust this man, not even a little bit. He laughed again.
“Do you like my gun?” he asked me.
“No,” was all I said. I was shaking like a leaf.
He flicked on my bedroom light. “Check it out baby. It’s a Ruger Redhawk, cocked and ready. Pretty cool, huh?”
“No. You scared me.”
“And check out my new ring baby!” he said, wiggling his pinky in my direction. It was the same finger I had seen dangling near my cheek when he held the gun to my head. “That diamond must be a carat at least. Ever seen anything like it?”
“No. Where did you get it?”
“Get up! Get up!” he screamed excitedly, “You’ll want to see this.” And in a moment he was hollering and shouting and turning on all the lights in the house. He was bellowing for my sister to wake up; she was still fast asleep. Unlike me, my sister slept like the dead. He entered her room and started shaking her, while singing a Rolling Stones song as loud as he could. Finally I heard her sleepy voice, asking him what he was doing. He could hardly contain himself; he sounded like a little boy on Christmas morning, anxious for us to share in his bounty from Santa Claus.
It was only my sister and I in the house; there was no adult supervision. When I was close to being a teenager, my Dad decided he couldn’t tolerate living with two girls in their teens. “I know what goes on with girls your age,” he would often tell us, and frankly I didn’t know what he was talking about. It felt as though he was accusing me of doing something I wasn’t doing; it was as though we were suddenly bad girls, and he could no longer tolerate us. My father decided to build a new house for the family, but this time he built two houses; one for my mother and him, and the other for my sister and me. They were completely separate units, with a courtyard in the middle.
Our unit had no kitchen, but most everything else we might want. We each had our own room, and shared a living room and bathroom. It was the early 70’s, and the room had a water bed that served as a couch, a black and white television, and a good stereo. The rug was a thick white shag carpet; a popular look in the day, and we had a hanging wicker chair, and multitudes of hanging plants in macramé plant holders.
I never felt safe there. While I was only in 8th grade, my sister was a senior in High School, and once her friends caught wind that we had our own place, it became the hang out for seemingly every young person in a ten mile radius. Since we never locked our doors, the kids would gather there even if we weren’t home; and I would often come home from school to a living room filled with older kids, smoking marijuana and drinking beer. There were days I would long to come home to an empty house; perhaps turn on the television and have some cookies and milk. But instead I was faced daily by a rowdy scene; raucous music, drinking games, and unruly behavior.
One of their favorite things to do was to torture our pet rat. They began by blowing pot smoke into his cage, until he went insane; he would no longer stay in his cage and would roam the house looking for marijuana. If he found a bag, he’d eat right through the plastic baggy, seemingly addicted to the stuff. They also liked putting him in the freezer and leaving him in there almost too long, or putting him in a hanging plant, and twisting the macramé around and around until it was wound up tight, then releasing it and laughing as the rat went for a dizzying ride. I hated it. Even more, I hated that we had no parents present to stop some of the behavior, especially when it seemed dangerous to me. And it often did. But I never let on how afraid I was, and began partying with the older kids, which was much too soon.
My sister’s boyfriend had begun to have his fun with me on a daily basis. His favorite game was to lie in wait for me in the bathroom. Everyone knew that I got up several times in the night to use the bathroom, and he would hide in the shadows; usually behind the shower curtain. And when I’d come in sleepy with my eyes half shut, he would pounce on top of me, and would do everything he could to feel me up. His hands would be everywhere; down my pajama pants and up my shirt. If I were to complain, he’d shove me up against the wall and put his hand over my mouth. Then he’d whisper deep into my ear, and the sound would make me cringe. “You don’t want your sister to hear us, do you? Don’t you think it would hurt her feelings if she knew how much I wanted you?” He would hold me there until I nodded, and then he’d release me. Then he’d laugh silently and allow me return to my bed.
This became a nightly ritual. I was very developed for my age, and I began to wear bras and panties to bed, underneath my pajamas. I would do anything to create one more barrier between his wandering hands and me. But that didn’t stop him. Eventually I began to go into the back yard to go to the bathroom. But he was a light sleeper too, and the minute he heard movement in my bedroom, he’d find me. My sister, on the other hand, slept through anything.
One night I was sneaking out to go the bathroom. I opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I dashed into the night. I hovered in the darkness, looking for a corner of the yard in the shadows, when I felt his arm grab me by the neck. His breath was in my ear; it smelled of beer. “I love you, don’t you realize that yet?”
“Please, please, please leave me alone.”
“I can’t. You’re all I think about, night and day. I want you so bad. But you can’t tell your sister. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?”
“No. Please let me go back to bed. I won’t say anything. Please.”
He let me go.
He terrified me. So on the night he held a gun to my head, I really couldn’t be sure of what his intentions might be. And even by the time my sister finally awoke and crawled out of bed, my heart was still thumping loudly in my chest. I had never seen him as erratic as he was that night, turning on every light in the house, and yelling excitedly, as he began to move a large array of items through our front door. I walked into the living room and watched him; he had radios, stereos, jewelry, records; I can’t remember all that he had, but he began piling it into the center of the room, all the while talking excitedly.
“Look at this stereo, baby!” he said to me, patting its sides. “Is this a beautiful machine or what? Huh?”
My sister emerged from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and hardly conscious. It always took her forever to wake up and I could tell she wasn’t really registering what was going on. She finally asked, “What is all of this stuff?”
“We ripped off a house, baby, we ripped off a house! And we scored BIG time. Look at this ring; that’s a diamond. Check it out! Man, it was a rush. What a night! We cleaned those suckers OUT!”
My sister stared dumbfounded. Then she woke up. “ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU ROBBED A HOUSE?” She yelled this, and I felt relieved; she was the closest thing to an adult that I had. I needed some guidance; I needed a firm hand. I needed someone to yell.
“Yeah, baby, don’t get all uptight on me now,” he said, and then he went over and languidly kissed her neck.
She pushed him away. Hard. Unlike I could ever do.
“DON’T TOUCH ME,” she screamed. “And I want this stuff out of my house NOW.”
“Hey baby, where am I supposed to take it? My Dad is a COP,” he said laughing, appreciating the irony of the situation. “I have to stash it here for awhile.”
“NO!” my sister screamed, and her voice meant business. “YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK.”
“Taking what back?” he asked.
“YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK TO THE HOUSE WHERE YOU GOT IT FROM,” she said. By now she was fuming.
“But look at this stereo! Is that fine, or what? I was going to give it to you, baby!”
My sister walked over to where the stereo was lying in the middle of the floor. We both stared at it. It was stunningly beautiful; the owner had encased it in a striking wooden case, which had obviously been handcrafted. Each detail was perfect. My sister broke into tears.
“Someone made this!” she sobbed. “Someone made this wood case! Someone spent hours and hours on this! They made this with love! And you just go and STEAL it? YOU MAKE ME SICK. You take it all back or I don’t want to ever see you again!”
“How can I take it back?” he asked. “You want me to break in again? I was lucky I didn’t get caught the first time!”
“Then leave it on the porch. Leave it at the front door. I don’t care, but YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK RIGHT NOW.”
I had never seen him look so sheepish. And he did take it all back. In my life, I have often wondered what it must have been like for those people; to come home to find everything valuable they owned on their front porch.
I was mesmerized by how she handled the situation; she had a force that I did not have. She had a strength that I did not have. And that night after he returned from taking back his loot, I heard them arguing for hours in bed, and he doing everything in his power to charm his way back into her good grace. And eventually he did.
After that night, he seemed to change his tactics with me. While he still told me he loved me daily, he began to treat me more like a big brother might, or even a father; he began to pay an inordinate amount of attention to me. He would always ask me what was going on in my life; he would listen to me drone on and on about all of my problems, and he always seemed interested and willing to help. I never really trusted him, but I began to confide in him little by little, and just like my sister, he began to charm himself back into my good graces.
I was very much in love with a young boy in my class, named Barry. Our relationship was innocent and sweet; and even at that tender age he was romancing me. He brought me a dozen red roses to class one day, and had recently even bought me a gorgeous opal ring. Up until that point, I had never really trusted any man. But I trusted Barry with all of my heart, and although I wasn’t ready for anything too sexual yet, we had begun experimenting a little. My sister’s boyfriend would press me for details, and would warn me all about young boys and their hormones, and what they REALLY wanted. “He loves me,” I’d tell him. “He would never pressure me. Besides, neither of us is even CLOSE to ready.”
“Well, if he does pressure you, you come and tell me, okay? And I’ll put him in his place,” my sister’s boyfriend would say. I began to believe that he really might have my best interests at heart, and since my step-father never spoke to me in a protective way, I began to crave what I believed was love.
It was a few weeks later when we were all at a party a few blocks from home. Our friend Kim didn’t have much adult supervision either, and on this night a rather wild party was going on at her house. I was sitting in the backyard when my sister’s boyfriend came over and began talking to me.
We were joking and laughing, and he was trying to wrestle with me. I never enjoyed when he’d become physical with me; he was a huge boy and on the football team. But on this night, he wouldn’t stop.
Suddenly he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I laughingly asked him to put me down. But he didn’t. He headed out of the back yard and started walking down the dimly lit street. I kicked and screamed, still laughing, but as he continued his march down the street into the darkness, I became afraid. “Put me down,” I said sternly. “I mean it.” But my commentary was only met with silence, which filled me with dread.
“PUT ME DOWN, LET ME GO!” I wailed. But he was like an android, marching every forward, without ever acknowledging me at all.
The beach was only a block and a half away, and soon I could hear the crashing waves and feel the salt on my lips. He climbed over some rocks that blocked our entrance, all the while holding me in a tight grip, and not saying a word. When he reached the sand, he threw me down and climbed on top of me. I began to sob. “GET OFF ME; LET ME GO BACK TO THE PARTY.”
Still he said nothing. He put one beefy arm across my neck to hold me in place, and with the other hand ripped off my jeans with such force that he broke the zipper. I had borrowed the jeans from my sister that night, after much begging. “I don’t want you to wreck them,” she had told me.
“I won’t wreck them! Please!”
And this is the only thing that was going through my head as he began to rip at the rest of my clothes. I screamed as loud as I could, and he took his hand and covered my mouth. Then he raped me.
I don’t remember much that happened the rest of that evening. All I remember is going home, and going into my parents unit. My father wasn’t home, and my sister was in bed with my mother crying. And I got into bed with them and started crying too. I had assumed that somehow my sister knew; and it was too painful to talk about. But she really didn’t know. We never spoke about it again; not at least, for many years.
Then I went into my room and grabbed a pen and paper. Grabbing a pen and paper was something I did almost on a daily basis in those days; as I was constantly writing poetry. But as I stared at the blank sheet of paper, no poetry came. Only one sentence came to my mind, which I scribbled down. I wrote, “I am still a virgin.” I stared at it, and the words helped me somehow. This didn’t count, it couldn’t count. I wrote the words again. “I am still a virgin.” And then as tears streamed down my cheeks, I wrote it again and again and again. And soon enough I needed a second piece of paper, which I filled up with the same sentence, written ad nauseam.
I broke up with my boyfriend Barry the following morning. We had been whispering sweet nothings in each others ears for so long; we had decided we would lose our virginity together, sometime later down the road, and eventually we’d marry. That dream was now dead, and I couldn’t face him. I broke his heart.
My sister’s boyfriend continued to prey on me after that, always threatening to tell my sister if I ever told. I had decided it was my lot in life to do what he said, and to carry that shame. When I was 15, I fell in love and once my new boyfriend caught wind of it, he told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever laid a hand on me again, that he’d kill him. The abuse, finally, stopped. But it took me years to realize that none of it had been my fault. And even more years to realize that the gun he held at my head that night was symbolic of my entire relationship with him.
I was an adult before I connected to my sexuality again. To me, it was something you did like an actress on a stage, because that’s all it had ever been for me; a game of pretend. Instead of learning how to fight back, I learned instead how to take it. Men could hit me, men could lie to me, men could rape me; but they could never touch my soul. And whenever a man treated me badly, I’d rise above it, and I would say to myself, “go ahead and give it to me. This doesn’t hurt me. You can’t touch me. The only person this hurts is you.”
Of course that’s not true. It’s a defense mechanism we learn in order to cope. And I suppose I’ve developed many of those in my journey through life.
But the secret of shame is always stamped upon your soul; a faint, indelible watermark. My child will always be face down on the floor; a little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear, her face red with panic, her tiny fists bloody from pounding on a cement wall. The sheets still grow heavy with the thought of a lecher’s kiss; and the sin, the sin, flicks on and off like a nauseating fluorescent light, outside of the dive bar of my mind. There will always be a permanent smell.
I know life deals us blows. But I know that every morning when I wake up, I’m still singing. I’m still laughing. I’m still dancing. There is a place inside of each of us that is untouchable. It is where the angels swim, and the stars swim too. And sadly, where indifference swims as well.
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But something interrupted my dream. I awoke when I felt a cold metal object being shoved with some urgency into my temple.
It was a gun.
I have always been an extremely light sleeper. With even the slightest unwelcome sound, I can go from a dream state to completely alert in a flash. A simple sigh in the corner of my room can startle me. So feeling icy steel press against my temple awoke me with a start.
I had never seen a gun, much less felt one, but somehow I knew for certain that it was a gun being pressed against my head. I was utterly frozen with fear. I laid there with my eyes closed, my breathing was shallow. I tried not to swallow; I tried not to make a sound.
I heard the gun being cocked. I recognized the sound from television; that horrid lifeless click that readies the gun for release.
I opened my eye into an imperceptible slit, and I could see a man’s pinky finger hanging languidly next to my cheek. It was adorned with a bright gold ring that sported a jewel of some sort; possibly a diamond. It was a man’s hand, of that I was sure. I had never seen such a fancy ring on a man’s hand before. His other fingers were curled around a metal handle. I could see a finger on the trigger.
The steel was shoved harder into my temple. I could feel my heart beating in my throat; I was certain that my pulsing veins were visible. I prepared myself for death, or even worse; torture. I waited.
I had always been a weary child; I was terrified that one day I would be kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. I would run from a car if I saw a man driving it; and black cars especially terrified me, because that was the color of the car of a kidnapper who took a child in my neighborhood, when I was five. Black cars and strange men spoke to me of unspeakable horrors; and I vowed to do what ever I needed to do to never get caught in a predator’s web. Each day when I came home from school, I would check the entire house thoroughly; I would check behind the shower curtain, in every closet, and in every possible hiding place for an intruder. It was a ritual I did every day before I could settle down in my own home. It was as if I had always known a terrible time was coming, and here it was.
Suddenly the man bellowed with laughter. I sprung upright and leapt from my bed in an instant, and saw my sister’s boyfriend standing in my dark bedroom, a revolver in his hand. The gleam of the silver pistol looked luminous in the moonlight and only that and his teeth showed up in the dark. “What are you doing?” I choked. While I felt relieved that I knew my midnight intruder, I hardly felt safe. I didn’t trust this man, not even a little bit. He laughed again.
“Do you like my gun?” he asked me.
“No,” was all I said. I was shaking like a leaf.
He flicked on my bedroom light. “Check it out baby. It’s a Ruger Redhawk, cocked and ready. Pretty cool, huh?”
“No. You scared me.”
“And check out my new ring baby!” he said, wiggling his pinky in my direction. It was the same finger I had seen dangling near my cheek when he held the gun to my head. “That diamond must be a carat at least. Ever seen anything like it?”
“No. Where did you get it?”
“Get up! Get up!” he screamed excitedly, “You’ll want to see this.” And in a moment he was hollering and shouting and turning on all the lights in the house. He was bellowing for my sister to wake up; she was still fast asleep. Unlike me, my sister slept like the dead. He entered her room and started shaking her, while singing a Rolling Stones song as loud as he could. Finally I heard her sleepy voice, asking him what he was doing. He could hardly contain himself; he sounded like a little boy on Christmas morning, anxious for us to share in his bounty from Santa Claus.
It was only my sister and I in the house; there was no adult supervision. When I was close to being a teenager, my Dad decided he couldn’t tolerate living with two girls in their teens. “I know what goes on with girls your age,” he would often tell us, and frankly I didn’t know what he was talking about. It felt as though he was accusing me of doing something I wasn’t doing; it was as though we were suddenly bad girls, and he could no longer tolerate us. My father decided to build a new house for the family, but this time he built two houses; one for my mother and him, and the other for my sister and me. They were completely separate units, with a courtyard in the middle.
Our unit had no kitchen, but most everything else we might want. We each had our own room, and shared a living room and bathroom. It was the early 70’s, and the room had a water bed that served as a couch, a black and white television, and a good stereo. The rug was a thick white shag carpet; a popular look in the day, and we had a hanging wicker chair, and multitudes of hanging plants in macramé plant holders.
I never felt safe there. While I was only in 8th grade, my sister was a senior in High School, and once her friends caught wind that we had our own place, it became the hang out for seemingly every young person in a ten mile radius. Since we never locked our doors, the kids would gather there even if we weren’t home; and I would often come home from school to a living room filled with older kids, smoking marijuana and drinking beer. There were days I would long to come home to an empty house; perhaps turn on the television and have some cookies and milk. But instead I was faced daily by a rowdy scene; raucous music, drinking games, and unruly behavior.
One of their favorite things to do was to torture our pet rat. They began by blowing pot smoke into his cage, until he went insane; he would no longer stay in his cage and would roam the house looking for marijuana. If he found a bag, he’d eat right through the plastic baggy, seemingly addicted to the stuff. They also liked putting him in the freezer and leaving him in there almost too long, or putting him in a hanging plant, and twisting the macramé around and around until it was wound up tight, then releasing it and laughing as the rat went for a dizzying ride. I hated it. Even more, I hated that we had no parents present to stop some of the behavior, especially when it seemed dangerous to me. And it often did. But I never let on how afraid I was, and began partying with the older kids, which was much too soon.
My sister’s boyfriend had begun to have his fun with me on a daily basis. His favorite game was to lie in wait for me in the bathroom. Everyone knew that I got up several times in the night to use the bathroom, and he would hide in the shadows; usually behind the shower curtain. And when I’d come in sleepy with my eyes half shut, he would pounce on top of me, and would do everything he could to feel me up. His hands would be everywhere; down my pajama pants and up my shirt. If I were to complain, he’d shove me up against the wall and put his hand over my mouth. Then he’d whisper deep into my ear, and the sound would make me cringe. “You don’t want your sister to hear us, do you? Don’t you think it would hurt her feelings if she knew how much I wanted you?” He would hold me there until I nodded, and then he’d release me. Then he’d laugh silently and allow me return to my bed.
This became a nightly ritual. I was very developed for my age, and I began to wear bras and panties to bed, underneath my pajamas. I would do anything to create one more barrier between his wandering hands and me. But that didn’t stop him. Eventually I began to go into the back yard to go to the bathroom. But he was a light sleeper too, and the minute he heard movement in my bedroom, he’d find me. My sister, on the other hand, slept through anything.
One night I was sneaking out to go the bathroom. I opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I dashed into the night. I hovered in the darkness, looking for a corner of the yard in the shadows, when I felt his arm grab me by the neck. His breath was in my ear; it smelled of beer. “I love you, don’t you realize that yet?”
“Please, please, please leave me alone.”
“I can’t. You’re all I think about, night and day. I want you so bad. But you can’t tell your sister. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?”
“No. Please let me go back to bed. I won’t say anything. Please.”
He let me go.
He terrified me. So on the night he held a gun to my head, I really couldn’t be sure of what his intentions might be. And even by the time my sister finally awoke and crawled out of bed, my heart was still thumping loudly in my chest. I had never seen him as erratic as he was that night, turning on every light in the house, and yelling excitedly, as he began to move a large array of items through our front door. I walked into the living room and watched him; he had radios, stereos, jewelry, records; I can’t remember all that he had, but he began piling it into the center of the room, all the while talking excitedly.
“Look at this stereo, baby!” he said to me, patting its sides. “Is this a beautiful machine or what? Huh?”
My sister emerged from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and hardly conscious. It always took her forever to wake up and I could tell she wasn’t really registering what was going on. She finally asked, “What is all of this stuff?”
“We ripped off a house, baby, we ripped off a house! And we scored BIG time. Look at this ring; that’s a diamond. Check it out! Man, it was a rush. What a night! We cleaned those suckers OUT!”
My sister stared dumbfounded. Then she woke up. “ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU ROBBED A HOUSE?” She yelled this, and I felt relieved; she was the closest thing to an adult that I had. I needed some guidance; I needed a firm hand. I needed someone to yell.
“Yeah, baby, don’t get all uptight on me now,” he said, and then he went over and languidly kissed her neck.
She pushed him away. Hard. Unlike I could ever do.
“DON’T TOUCH ME,” she screamed. “And I want this stuff out of my house NOW.”
“Hey baby, where am I supposed to take it? My Dad is a COP,” he said laughing, appreciating the irony of the situation. “I have to stash it here for awhile.”
“NO!” my sister screamed, and her voice meant business. “YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK.”
“Taking what back?” he asked.
“YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK TO THE HOUSE WHERE YOU GOT IT FROM,” she said. By now she was fuming.
“But look at this stereo! Is that fine, or what? I was going to give it to you, baby!”
My sister walked over to where the stereo was lying in the middle of the floor. We both stared at it. It was stunningly beautiful; the owner had encased it in a striking wooden case, which had obviously been handcrafted. Each detail was perfect. My sister broke into tears.
“Someone made this!” she sobbed. “Someone made this wood case! Someone spent hours and hours on this! They made this with love! And you just go and STEAL it? YOU MAKE ME SICK. You take it all back or I don’t want to ever see you again!”
“How can I take it back?” he asked. “You want me to break in again? I was lucky I didn’t get caught the first time!”
“Then leave it on the porch. Leave it at the front door. I don’t care, but YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK RIGHT NOW.”
I had never seen him look so sheepish. And he did take it all back. In my life, I have often wondered what it must have been like for those people; to come home to find everything valuable they owned on their front porch.
I was mesmerized by how she handled the situation; she had a force that I did not have. She had a strength that I did not have. And that night after he returned from taking back his loot, I heard them arguing for hours in bed, and he doing everything in his power to charm his way back into her good grace. And eventually he did.
After that night, he seemed to change his tactics with me. While he still told me he loved me daily, he began to treat me more like a big brother might, or even a father; he began to pay an inordinate amount of attention to me. He would always ask me what was going on in my life; he would listen to me drone on and on about all of my problems, and he always seemed interested and willing to help. I never really trusted him, but I began to confide in him little by little, and just like my sister, he began to charm himself back into my good graces.
I was very much in love with a young boy in my class, named Barry. Our relationship was innocent and sweet; and even at that tender age he was romancing me. He brought me a dozen red roses to class one day, and had recently even bought me a gorgeous opal ring. Up until that point, I had never really trusted any man. But I trusted Barry with all of my heart, and although I wasn’t ready for anything too sexual yet, we had begun experimenting a little. My sister’s boyfriend would press me for details, and would warn me all about young boys and their hormones, and what they REALLY wanted. “He loves me,” I’d tell him. “He would never pressure me. Besides, neither of us is even CLOSE to ready.”
“Well, if he does pressure you, you come and tell me, okay? And I’ll put him in his place,” my sister’s boyfriend would say. I began to believe that he really might have my best interests at heart, and since my step-father never spoke to me in a protective way, I began to crave what I believed was love.
It was a few weeks later when we were all at a party a few blocks from home. Our friend Kim didn’t have much adult supervision either, and on this night a rather wild party was going on at her house. I was sitting in the backyard when my sister’s boyfriend came over and began talking to me.
We were joking and laughing, and he was trying to wrestle with me. I never enjoyed when he’d become physical with me; he was a huge boy and on the football team. But on this night, he wouldn’t stop.
Suddenly he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I laughingly asked him to put me down. But he didn’t. He headed out of the back yard and started walking down the dimly lit street. I kicked and screamed, still laughing, but as he continued his march down the street into the darkness, I became afraid. “Put me down,” I said sternly. “I mean it.” But my commentary was only met with silence, which filled me with dread.
“PUT ME DOWN, LET ME GO!” I wailed. But he was like an android, marching every forward, without ever acknowledging me at all.
The beach was only a block and a half away, and soon I could hear the crashing waves and feel the salt on my lips. He climbed over some rocks that blocked our entrance, all the while holding me in a tight grip, and not saying a word. When he reached the sand, he threw me down and climbed on top of me. I began to sob. “GET OFF ME; LET ME GO BACK TO THE PARTY.”
Still he said nothing. He put one beefy arm across my neck to hold me in place, and with the other hand ripped off my jeans with such force that he broke the zipper. I had borrowed the jeans from my sister that night, after much begging. “I don’t want you to wreck them,” she had told me.
“I won’t wreck them! Please!”
And this is the only thing that was going through my head as he began to rip at the rest of my clothes. I screamed as loud as I could, and he took his hand and covered my mouth. Then he raped me.
I don’t remember much that happened the rest of that evening. All I remember is going home, and going into my parents unit. My father wasn’t home, and my sister was in bed with my mother crying. And I got into bed with them and started crying too. I had assumed that somehow my sister knew; and it was too painful to talk about. But she really didn’t know. We never spoke about it again; not at least, for many years.
Then I went into my room and grabbed a pen and paper. Grabbing a pen and paper was something I did almost on a daily basis in those days; as I was constantly writing poetry. But as I stared at the blank sheet of paper, no poetry came. Only one sentence came to my mind, which I scribbled down. I wrote, “I am still a virgin.” I stared at it, and the words helped me somehow. This didn’t count, it couldn’t count. I wrote the words again. “I am still a virgin.” And then as tears streamed down my cheeks, I wrote it again and again and again. And soon enough I needed a second piece of paper, which I filled up with the same sentence, written ad nauseam.
I broke up with my boyfriend Barry the following morning. We had been whispering sweet nothings in each others ears for so long; we had decided we would lose our virginity together, sometime later down the road, and eventually we’d marry. That dream was now dead, and I couldn’t face him. I broke his heart.
My sister’s boyfriend continued to prey on me after that, always threatening to tell my sister if I ever told. I had decided it was my lot in life to do what he said, and to carry that shame. When I was 15, I fell in love and once my new boyfriend caught wind of it, he told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever laid a hand on me again, that he’d kill him. The abuse, finally, stopped. But it took me years to realize that none of it had been my fault. And even more years to realize that the gun he held at my head that night was symbolic of my entire relationship with him.
I was an adult before I connected to my sexuality again. To me, it was something you did like an actress on a stage, because that’s all it had ever been for me; a game of pretend. Instead of learning how to fight back, I learned instead how to take it. Men could hit me, men could lie to me, men could rape me; but they could never touch my soul. And whenever a man treated me badly, I’d rise above it, and I would say to myself, “go ahead and give it to me. This doesn’t hurt me. You can’t touch me. The only person this hurts is you.”
Of course that’s not true. It’s a defense mechanism we learn in order to cope. And I suppose I’ve developed many of those in my journey through life.
But the secret of shame is always stamped upon your soul; a faint, indelible watermark. My child will always be face down on the floor; a little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear, her face red with panic, her tiny fists bloody from pounding on a cement wall. The sheets still grow heavy with the thought of a lecher’s kiss; and the sin, the sin, flicks on and off like a nauseating fluorescent light, outside of the dive bar of my mind. There will always be a permanent smell.
I know life deals us blows. But I know that every morning when I wake up, I’m still singing. I’m still laughing. I’m still dancing. There is a place inside of each of us that is untouchable. It is where the angels swim, and the stars swim too. And sadly, where indifference swims as well.
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Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Homeless in Panty Hose
I was homeless, once. For six months. I was 24 years old.
I will understand if that statement causes you to have a particular image of me. I think most of us create a picture of what we perceive a homeless person to be; perhaps someone who is lazy, or simply chooses not to work or be productive. Perhaps you imagine frail, dispossessed bums sleeping under plastic bags in subways and doorways. Perhaps you imagine beggars who reach out a shaky hand for coins, or the insane screaming out profanities while searching through dumpsters. I suppose those are the obvious images. But I promise you that there are homeless who walk among us we would never recognize.
I was one of those. I thought of myself as homeless in panty hose.
I left my husband in the middle of the night. The truth had finally come out that I had fallen in love with another man, and my new relationship was controversial to say the least. Hardly anyone approved, and I was seemingly ostracized over night. It had been an exhausting weekend; my new lover and I met with parents, siblings and friends who screamed, shouted and cried about our choices, begging us to come to our senses. But there was no going back for either of us; we were in love.
This emotional spectacle culminated Sunday night when I went home to tell my husband. It was a draining marathon of heartache and arguing, and I was so exhausted from emotional stress that I wanted nothing more than to get into my marital bed and fall asleep. It was about midnight; I had come in earlier and awoke him to tell him my news. After hours of tears, my husband was still in our bed, covering his face with his hands. As much as I wanted to suggest that we continue the discussion in the morning, I knew that it would be cruel to prolong his agony. I opened the closet and pulled down a suitcase, hurriedly stuffed it with clothes and toiletries, zipped it shut, then softly said “Goodbye.” I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that none of it was his fault, but the words never came. I waited for a moment to see if he’d respond, but the room was quiet. I walked out the front door and never looked back.
I used a joint credit card to fill my tank with gas as I sped away from town. It was the last money I would use of the funds I shared with my husband; I left with only my clothes and nothing else. I never fought for 50% of our assets, and I signed off on property that we mutually owned. That night after I filled my gas tank, I cut all of our credit cards in two. Then I put my key in the ignition, and when the engine came to life, I felt I had sprouted wings, and that I was flying to freedom. I had no idea where I was going. But soon I had turned up the radio loud, and I was singing.
The future was unknown, and I was excited to begin a new life. The only problem was, I had nowhere to sleep and I had to be at work by 8:00 a.m. And I had no watch.
That first night of homelessness is as clear to me as any other memory of my life. I parked my car at a rest stop at the beach, and then sat for a long time on a chilly precipice, staring out over the ocean highlighted by a blue tinged moon. I had no idea the time, but I knew it was very late. If I wasn’t so exhausted that first night, I don’t think I would have ever fallen asleep. But I climbed into the backseat of my car, rolled some clothes into a ball to serve as a pillow, and covering myself with a jacket, I soon fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was daylight. I jumped out of the car and started going through my suitcase, hurriedly looking for my work clothes. Soon I was sitting on a rock; the sand blowing in my face, and the ocean crashing loudly beside me. It was cold and the wind was whipping through my hair. But I laughed as I realized what a comic sight I was. I was struggling to put on my panty hose; one foot at a time, and trying not to rip them as I stood on the rough terrain of the cliff.
In those days I wore skirts, hose and heels to work; it was what was considered to be appropriate business attire. I detested panty hose with a passion, and the heels would make my feet ache by the end of every day. But on this morning, it was more disturbing than usual, I remember, trying to crawl into them on the beach. I was homeless in panty hose.
I turned on my car engine and the radio, praying that they would announce the time so I had some idea as I slipped into a business suit. It was later than I had thought.
Needless to say, I was late for work that morning, as well as other mornings thereafter. The ironic thing was I had always been exceptionally prompt; but waking up in a car without a time piece made arriving at work on time somewhat difficult. When my boss called me in to his office to complain about my tardiness, I spat back that I was homeless and living on the beach. He was a lot more lenient after that. It was my first accounting job, and I worked in the Accounts Payable department. Earnings were meager, but I was saving every available penny I could toward first and last month’s rent for an apartment of my own.
Well, not every penny. I made a very important allowance. On weekends, I would meet my new lover at hotels. It was a big expenditure, but a necessary one, as it was the only time I was able to shower. It was also a reprieve from my every day existence, which was more than surreal. For two days I would have love, luxury and soap, and for that brief time I could distance myself from my cruel reality. But Monday morning would come too soon, and my new boyfriend would return to his family home, where he still lived with his parents. I would go off to work, and once again become the lonely waif sleeping in the salt air by night, and working at a job I despised by day.
My dinner routine was the same most evenings. Down the street from my office was an upscale bar and restaurant. They featured a fabulous happy hour, which featured a complete spread of delicious appetizers. I would order water with lime with a straw; so no one ever suspected I was eating for free. I realized that looking well dressed and coifed offered me many advantages that other homeless people did not have. And I took advantage of it whenever I could.
But that wasn’t the only way I got food. I remember one painful night when I spotted a group of patrons leaving a pizza parlor with nearly a half of a pie left on the table. I watched them through the open door of the restaurant, still certain that they would end up packing up the pie and taking it home, but they all got up from the table and just left it there. I wanted that pizza so badly; I think I could have done nearly anything to have a slice of it. I was literally salivating at the thought of a hot meal. It was a moment of truth; I knew I wouldn’t have long to take it before the waitress cleared the table; but doing what I was contemplating doing was mortifying. At the last possible moment I dashed in and scooped up as much pizza as I could in a napkin, and skulked out the door like a thief in the night. I disappeared into an alleyway to eat my score; and it was so hot and delicious I couldn’t eat it fast enough. At that moment I didn’t feel that different from the homeless that search the dumpsters. The only difference is that I had a camouflage, and could sneak into an establishment without raising an eyebrow. I think that was my first real lesson in compassion.
Although most of my family and friends had washed their hands of me and my choices during that period, I had a few friends that stepped up whenever they could. My best friend at the time was planning on going to Europe for a month and offered me her room in her flat in San Francisco. She lived with two roommates I had never met; both gay psychiatrists. It was a difficult decision for me, because she didn’t offer me her room for free; I would have to pay her share of the rent for that month, which would delay my saving up money for own apartment, which was a priority. But I was so desperate to have a bed, shower, and a kitchen, that I took her up on her offer.
The first night that I arrived, I was shown to my room by my new roommates. Being that they were both psychiatrists, I was excited to meet them; and I also felt it might be soothing to be in the bosom of trained professionals who would understand my stress, and maybe even help me. But I was wrong. “We know what is happening in your life, and frankly we don’t approve. So we know Sheila is your friend, and you’ll be here a month, but we want to see the least of you as possible. Tonight we’re having a party, and we don’t want you to come out of your room. So if you need to buy something for dinner, we suggest you buy it now. There’s a market across the street.” Their words stung me to my core.
“Is there a television I could borrow for the evening then?” I asked. I thought a television might make it somewhat tolerable. I felt on the verge of tears.
“No,” was all they said, and with that they turned a very effeminate heel toward the door. That evening was painful, as I sat on the bed trying to read some silly magazine I found in her room, with the sounds of frivolity right outside my door. I was starving and didn’t have fifty cents in my pocket. I wondered what delicious appetizers might be displayed in the next room. I would have loved nothing more than to have a cocktail and mingle with people and laugh and forget. But it wasn’t to be.
The first two weeks in that house were a nightmare. But it all changed the day my biological father called me there. He asked me what my address was, and after I gave it to him, he informed he was coming over to kill me.
I suppose on most levels, I knew he wasn’t going to kill me. He was a passionate Sicilian after all, and he was angry with me. But I still didn’t know him very well at that point, and there was a modicum of doubt that crept in my psyche. I burst into tears.
The two doctors overheard me, and for some unknown reason, they were suddenly gushing with empathy. They sat on either side of me on my temporary bed, and flung their arms around me; and they told me it would be okay. They urged me to open up about my side of the story; why I had left my husband, and the controversial relationship I was now involved with. Because my new relationship was unusual and rather taboo, they related their own experience of being chastised for being homosexual to mine; and we talked long about prejudice. And by the time the three of us heard a hard angry knock on the front door, we had become the best of friends. “We won’t let your father kill you!” they announced, and ran down the stairs to confront my father. They protected me like fierce kittens; and wouldn’t let my father inside the house until he agreed to behave himself.
I had two weeks more in that house, but after that, I was back on the street for several months in a row. I remember I had one delicious respite in all of that time, and that was the evening that my friend Linda offered me her beach house for one moonlit night. She and all of her roommates were leaving on an overnight trip; and she gave me the key to her house. It was a lovely sprawling home; sitting right on the cliff, with the ocean crashing against the enormous picture windows that lined the living room. She had left me a series of notes all over the house, leading me on a virtual treasure hunt of delights. My first note was on the dining room table next to a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and a glass. It read, “It’s time to kick off your shoes and transport yourself to a world of tranquility. Begin by enjoying this wine.” Next I was sent toward a group of candles and a box of matches. “Light these candles, sip on your wine, and listen to the ocean.” Following that, I was instructed to turn on the stereo, where my favorite artist was playing. My hunt then led me back to the kitchen where a gourmet meal was waiting for me. “Pop this in the oven at 350 degrees, and enjoy. There’s a salad in the fridge.” The last note led to my bed. I laughed when I entered the bedroom; I encountered an enormous bright pink velvet bed; something you might find in Cinderella’s castle. It was piled high with pink silk pillows. I felt like a fairy princess, and I didn’t much care where I’d left my glass slipper. The crashing of the waves sounded very different that night than they did when I slept on the beach, and I learned a lesson that night about gratitude. But when I awoke the next morning, my carriage had turned back into a pumpkin, and the only bed I had was the back seat of my car.
My last reprieve came after about five and a half months. Another friend had a room that had become vacant, and she said I could move in for awhile. For free.
I was thrilled with this opportunity. I was so close to saving up enough money for my own place, and this would give me the last push I needed. I decided I was going to be the best house guest ever; I would leave my room every day as if no one lived in it, with the bed made and my suitcase hidden in the closet. I would arise before my friend, have my coffee and leave no trace, and allow her the morning to herself. On weekends, I would disappear entirely, to spend time with my new lover. I behaved the way I would want a roommate to behave. As if they weren’t there.
But interestingly, she wasn’t pleased with me at all. She had wanted me to move in with her to be her girlfriend. She wanted a gal pal to drink coffee in the morning with, and to share our trials and tribulations. She wanted a friend with whom she could spend evenings cooking dinner and weekends hitting the bars.
I sensed that she was unhappy with me. But at this point, I had possibly saved enough money for first and last month rent for a place of my own. I knew I wanted to live in Mill Valley, about an hour away, and I scoured the Marin newspaper as often as I could.
That week, I came down with an illness; I was sick and dizzy and had a terrible sore throat. I was lying on her couch covered by a blanket, making phone call after phone call, answering want ads for apartments. At last I found something I could afford. It was a one-room “tree house,” or at least that is how the ad billed it. I was intrigued. Coughing and gasping, I talked to the landlord that evening. I told her I was very sick; could I come and see the apartment the following evening. She agreed.
But I never would wait until the following evening. My friend came home that night and said that her mother had been helping with her mortgage, and she had said that unless I left that evening, that she would cut her off. She apologized vehemently, and she felt even worse that I was sick, but I had to pack my bags immediately. I called the landlord up again and said I had to leave my current residence that evening, and would it be possible that I see the room that night, and hopefully rent it immediately. I think she took pity on me and agreed.
That night I packed up my suitcase for the last time, and armed only with a roll of toilet paper for my leaking nose, I thanked my friend and stumbled into the darkness, for a long hour drive toward my new home.
I’ll never forget climbing the stairs to my tree house that first night. It was difficult to see, and it looked like the stairs led straight up into a tree. She flung open the front door, and switched on a light. And there it was.
It was tiny. Much smaller than a hotel room. It had enough room for one double bed, but not much else. The kitchen went against one wall; and there was a separate bathroom and shower. But it was charming; all wooden and nestled in the trees; the kitchen cabinets were beveled decorated glass; and I found it to be very sweet. “I’ll take it.”
“The phone works,” she told me. “But it will be cut off this week, so get it transferred into your name immediately, okay?” I nodded.
When she left, I called my half sister. I told her I had found a place, and I was located only about a mile away from her. I was deathly sick; and I needed some comfort. “Could you bring me a blanket and a pillow?” I asked her. She agreed.
When she arrived, she was also carrying a bottle of wine. I had no glasses, so I remember us both guzzling it straight out of the bottle. That would be the start of many gatherings in the tree house, which we later dubbed the cubicle. I had a sign near the front door that read, “Cubicle sweet cubicle,” and I eventually got a free couch that folded out into a bed. When I was alone, I would leave the bed out; I could make a cup of tea in the kitchen while sitting on my bed. And when people came over, I’d turn the bed back into a couch, and we’d all sit on the floor, drinking wine and being perfectly happy in this little square that we could call our own. Being homeless had taught me that I would never need much in this world. And I’ve always been grateful for what I have.
I lived in my cubicle for three years, as I once again saved money for first and last on a larger home. I was grateful every day; for the warm bed, and the heater. My boyfriend stayed with me on the weekends, and I always felt like we had our own private haven, a sanctuary far from the noise of judgmental friends and family. I was happy.
I saved my money in a little box that was on the shelving that was built in on one wall of the tree house.
In retrospect, I realize it was very foolish to save money that way; I had a bank account; but I didn’t want to know exactly how much money I had saved. It was a little game I’d play with myself; shoving every spare dollar I had into that box; but never really knowing how much I’d saved. After a few months I’d count it and would be delighted with the results.
One night I came home and there was a note on my door from the landlord. “Your toilet broke and I had to let myself and the plumbers into your house today.”
My toilet wasn’t broken.
I immediately sensed that something wasn’t right. I walked into the cubicle and went directly to the bathroom. I kept a dizzying array of decorations on the back of my toilet, and I knew at first glance that my toilet hadn’t been touched. It would be impossible to work on it, and not disturb everything I had surrounding it. I felt something else in that room; something smelled of a lie. I immediately ran to my box on the shelf. I opened it. It was empty. The money was gone.
I took a deep breath. Every instinct I had told me that my landlord had stolen it. She had decided to snoop in my house when I was gone, came across the money and had created the plumbers as a diversion, and as the possible thieves.
I marched down to the main house and told her that my money was gone. She feigned sympathy; she was beside herself telling me what a terrible thing it was; and that it must have been the plumbers that stole it.
“May I have the name of the plumbers you called?”
She gave me every excuse under the sun as to why she couldn’t give me their number, but I wasn’t listening. Because I already knew there were no plumbers. I went back to the tree house and called the police.
I never did recover my money. But the police gave her an exceptionally rough time; I could hear her screaming and crying below. “Do not call me a thief in front of my kids!” I heard her cry, and I felt glad. The police told me that they believed it was her, but nothing could be done. I had been kicked back down to square one, with nothing to show for myself but an empty box.
The next chapter in my life wasn’t much easier than this one. But I embraced my hardships gladly, as I was living truthfully and following my passion. I no longer felt like a fraud. I was wildly in love, and that relationship would endure happily for sixteen years. And as I had always known, the difficulties made me more and more prolific; I was inspired to create poetry nearly daily. I had absolutely nothing. But I was still living my dream.
I had always known that suffering opens our minds. When things come easily, we only learn a fraction of what we learn when they don’t. I know that the more possessions we want, the less freedom we will have. I know that the more we can bear, the more fearless we become. And I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be a bald eagle surveying the countryside from the highest peak, and then I wanted to spread my wings, and to dive into freedom. I still feel that way.
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I will understand if that statement causes you to have a particular image of me. I think most of us create a picture of what we perceive a homeless person to be; perhaps someone who is lazy, or simply chooses not to work or be productive. Perhaps you imagine frail, dispossessed bums sleeping under plastic bags in subways and doorways. Perhaps you imagine beggars who reach out a shaky hand for coins, or the insane screaming out profanities while searching through dumpsters. I suppose those are the obvious images. But I promise you that there are homeless who walk among us we would never recognize.
I was one of those. I thought of myself as homeless in panty hose.
I left my husband in the middle of the night. The truth had finally come out that I had fallen in love with another man, and my new relationship was controversial to say the least. Hardly anyone approved, and I was seemingly ostracized over night. It had been an exhausting weekend; my new lover and I met with parents, siblings and friends who screamed, shouted and cried about our choices, begging us to come to our senses. But there was no going back for either of us; we were in love.
This emotional spectacle culminated Sunday night when I went home to tell my husband. It was a draining marathon of heartache and arguing, and I was so exhausted from emotional stress that I wanted nothing more than to get into my marital bed and fall asleep. It was about midnight; I had come in earlier and awoke him to tell him my news. After hours of tears, my husband was still in our bed, covering his face with his hands. As much as I wanted to suggest that we continue the discussion in the morning, I knew that it would be cruel to prolong his agony. I opened the closet and pulled down a suitcase, hurriedly stuffed it with clothes and toiletries, zipped it shut, then softly said “Goodbye.” I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that none of it was his fault, but the words never came. I waited for a moment to see if he’d respond, but the room was quiet. I walked out the front door and never looked back.
I used a joint credit card to fill my tank with gas as I sped away from town. It was the last money I would use of the funds I shared with my husband; I left with only my clothes and nothing else. I never fought for 50% of our assets, and I signed off on property that we mutually owned. That night after I filled my gas tank, I cut all of our credit cards in two. Then I put my key in the ignition, and when the engine came to life, I felt I had sprouted wings, and that I was flying to freedom. I had no idea where I was going. But soon I had turned up the radio loud, and I was singing.
The future was unknown, and I was excited to begin a new life. The only problem was, I had nowhere to sleep and I had to be at work by 8:00 a.m. And I had no watch.
That first night of homelessness is as clear to me as any other memory of my life. I parked my car at a rest stop at the beach, and then sat for a long time on a chilly precipice, staring out over the ocean highlighted by a blue tinged moon. I had no idea the time, but I knew it was very late. If I wasn’t so exhausted that first night, I don’t think I would have ever fallen asleep. But I climbed into the backseat of my car, rolled some clothes into a ball to serve as a pillow, and covering myself with a jacket, I soon fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was daylight. I jumped out of the car and started going through my suitcase, hurriedly looking for my work clothes. Soon I was sitting on a rock; the sand blowing in my face, and the ocean crashing loudly beside me. It was cold and the wind was whipping through my hair. But I laughed as I realized what a comic sight I was. I was struggling to put on my panty hose; one foot at a time, and trying not to rip them as I stood on the rough terrain of the cliff.
In those days I wore skirts, hose and heels to work; it was what was considered to be appropriate business attire. I detested panty hose with a passion, and the heels would make my feet ache by the end of every day. But on this morning, it was more disturbing than usual, I remember, trying to crawl into them on the beach. I was homeless in panty hose.
I turned on my car engine and the radio, praying that they would announce the time so I had some idea as I slipped into a business suit. It was later than I had thought.
Needless to say, I was late for work that morning, as well as other mornings thereafter. The ironic thing was I had always been exceptionally prompt; but waking up in a car without a time piece made arriving at work on time somewhat difficult. When my boss called me in to his office to complain about my tardiness, I spat back that I was homeless and living on the beach. He was a lot more lenient after that. It was my first accounting job, and I worked in the Accounts Payable department. Earnings were meager, but I was saving every available penny I could toward first and last month’s rent for an apartment of my own.
Well, not every penny. I made a very important allowance. On weekends, I would meet my new lover at hotels. It was a big expenditure, but a necessary one, as it was the only time I was able to shower. It was also a reprieve from my every day existence, which was more than surreal. For two days I would have love, luxury and soap, and for that brief time I could distance myself from my cruel reality. But Monday morning would come too soon, and my new boyfriend would return to his family home, where he still lived with his parents. I would go off to work, and once again become the lonely waif sleeping in the salt air by night, and working at a job I despised by day.
My dinner routine was the same most evenings. Down the street from my office was an upscale bar and restaurant. They featured a fabulous happy hour, which featured a complete spread of delicious appetizers. I would order water with lime with a straw; so no one ever suspected I was eating for free. I realized that looking well dressed and coifed offered me many advantages that other homeless people did not have. And I took advantage of it whenever I could.
But that wasn’t the only way I got food. I remember one painful night when I spotted a group of patrons leaving a pizza parlor with nearly a half of a pie left on the table. I watched them through the open door of the restaurant, still certain that they would end up packing up the pie and taking it home, but they all got up from the table and just left it there. I wanted that pizza so badly; I think I could have done nearly anything to have a slice of it. I was literally salivating at the thought of a hot meal. It was a moment of truth; I knew I wouldn’t have long to take it before the waitress cleared the table; but doing what I was contemplating doing was mortifying. At the last possible moment I dashed in and scooped up as much pizza as I could in a napkin, and skulked out the door like a thief in the night. I disappeared into an alleyway to eat my score; and it was so hot and delicious I couldn’t eat it fast enough. At that moment I didn’t feel that different from the homeless that search the dumpsters. The only difference is that I had a camouflage, and could sneak into an establishment without raising an eyebrow. I think that was my first real lesson in compassion.
Although most of my family and friends had washed their hands of me and my choices during that period, I had a few friends that stepped up whenever they could. My best friend at the time was planning on going to Europe for a month and offered me her room in her flat in San Francisco. She lived with two roommates I had never met; both gay psychiatrists. It was a difficult decision for me, because she didn’t offer me her room for free; I would have to pay her share of the rent for that month, which would delay my saving up money for own apartment, which was a priority. But I was so desperate to have a bed, shower, and a kitchen, that I took her up on her offer.
The first night that I arrived, I was shown to my room by my new roommates. Being that they were both psychiatrists, I was excited to meet them; and I also felt it might be soothing to be in the bosom of trained professionals who would understand my stress, and maybe even help me. But I was wrong. “We know what is happening in your life, and frankly we don’t approve. So we know Sheila is your friend, and you’ll be here a month, but we want to see the least of you as possible. Tonight we’re having a party, and we don’t want you to come out of your room. So if you need to buy something for dinner, we suggest you buy it now. There’s a market across the street.” Their words stung me to my core.
“Is there a television I could borrow for the evening then?” I asked. I thought a television might make it somewhat tolerable. I felt on the verge of tears.
“No,” was all they said, and with that they turned a very effeminate heel toward the door. That evening was painful, as I sat on the bed trying to read some silly magazine I found in her room, with the sounds of frivolity right outside my door. I was starving and didn’t have fifty cents in my pocket. I wondered what delicious appetizers might be displayed in the next room. I would have loved nothing more than to have a cocktail and mingle with people and laugh and forget. But it wasn’t to be.
The first two weeks in that house were a nightmare. But it all changed the day my biological father called me there. He asked me what my address was, and after I gave it to him, he informed he was coming over to kill me.
I suppose on most levels, I knew he wasn’t going to kill me. He was a passionate Sicilian after all, and he was angry with me. But I still didn’t know him very well at that point, and there was a modicum of doubt that crept in my psyche. I burst into tears.
The two doctors overheard me, and for some unknown reason, they were suddenly gushing with empathy. They sat on either side of me on my temporary bed, and flung their arms around me; and they told me it would be okay. They urged me to open up about my side of the story; why I had left my husband, and the controversial relationship I was now involved with. Because my new relationship was unusual and rather taboo, they related their own experience of being chastised for being homosexual to mine; and we talked long about prejudice. And by the time the three of us heard a hard angry knock on the front door, we had become the best of friends. “We won’t let your father kill you!” they announced, and ran down the stairs to confront my father. They protected me like fierce kittens; and wouldn’t let my father inside the house until he agreed to behave himself.
I had two weeks more in that house, but after that, I was back on the street for several months in a row. I remember I had one delicious respite in all of that time, and that was the evening that my friend Linda offered me her beach house for one moonlit night. She and all of her roommates were leaving on an overnight trip; and she gave me the key to her house. It was a lovely sprawling home; sitting right on the cliff, with the ocean crashing against the enormous picture windows that lined the living room. She had left me a series of notes all over the house, leading me on a virtual treasure hunt of delights. My first note was on the dining room table next to a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and a glass. It read, “It’s time to kick off your shoes and transport yourself to a world of tranquility. Begin by enjoying this wine.” Next I was sent toward a group of candles and a box of matches. “Light these candles, sip on your wine, and listen to the ocean.” Following that, I was instructed to turn on the stereo, where my favorite artist was playing. My hunt then led me back to the kitchen where a gourmet meal was waiting for me. “Pop this in the oven at 350 degrees, and enjoy. There’s a salad in the fridge.” The last note led to my bed. I laughed when I entered the bedroom; I encountered an enormous bright pink velvet bed; something you might find in Cinderella’s castle. It was piled high with pink silk pillows. I felt like a fairy princess, and I didn’t much care where I’d left my glass slipper. The crashing of the waves sounded very different that night than they did when I slept on the beach, and I learned a lesson that night about gratitude. But when I awoke the next morning, my carriage had turned back into a pumpkin, and the only bed I had was the back seat of my car.
My last reprieve came after about five and a half months. Another friend had a room that had become vacant, and she said I could move in for awhile. For free.
I was thrilled with this opportunity. I was so close to saving up enough money for my own place, and this would give me the last push I needed. I decided I was going to be the best house guest ever; I would leave my room every day as if no one lived in it, with the bed made and my suitcase hidden in the closet. I would arise before my friend, have my coffee and leave no trace, and allow her the morning to herself. On weekends, I would disappear entirely, to spend time with my new lover. I behaved the way I would want a roommate to behave. As if they weren’t there.
But interestingly, she wasn’t pleased with me at all. She had wanted me to move in with her to be her girlfriend. She wanted a gal pal to drink coffee in the morning with, and to share our trials and tribulations. She wanted a friend with whom she could spend evenings cooking dinner and weekends hitting the bars.
I sensed that she was unhappy with me. But at this point, I had possibly saved enough money for first and last month rent for a place of my own. I knew I wanted to live in Mill Valley, about an hour away, and I scoured the Marin newspaper as often as I could.
That week, I came down with an illness; I was sick and dizzy and had a terrible sore throat. I was lying on her couch covered by a blanket, making phone call after phone call, answering want ads for apartments. At last I found something I could afford. It was a one-room “tree house,” or at least that is how the ad billed it. I was intrigued. Coughing and gasping, I talked to the landlord that evening. I told her I was very sick; could I come and see the apartment the following evening. She agreed.
But I never would wait until the following evening. My friend came home that night and said that her mother had been helping with her mortgage, and she had said that unless I left that evening, that she would cut her off. She apologized vehemently, and she felt even worse that I was sick, but I had to pack my bags immediately. I called the landlord up again and said I had to leave my current residence that evening, and would it be possible that I see the room that night, and hopefully rent it immediately. I think she took pity on me and agreed.
That night I packed up my suitcase for the last time, and armed only with a roll of toilet paper for my leaking nose, I thanked my friend and stumbled into the darkness, for a long hour drive toward my new home.
I’ll never forget climbing the stairs to my tree house that first night. It was difficult to see, and it looked like the stairs led straight up into a tree. She flung open the front door, and switched on a light. And there it was.
It was tiny. Much smaller than a hotel room. It had enough room for one double bed, but not much else. The kitchen went against one wall; and there was a separate bathroom and shower. But it was charming; all wooden and nestled in the trees; the kitchen cabinets were beveled decorated glass; and I found it to be very sweet. “I’ll take it.”
“The phone works,” she told me. “But it will be cut off this week, so get it transferred into your name immediately, okay?” I nodded.
When she left, I called my half sister. I told her I had found a place, and I was located only about a mile away from her. I was deathly sick; and I needed some comfort. “Could you bring me a blanket and a pillow?” I asked her. She agreed.
When she arrived, she was also carrying a bottle of wine. I had no glasses, so I remember us both guzzling it straight out of the bottle. That would be the start of many gatherings in the tree house, which we later dubbed the cubicle. I had a sign near the front door that read, “Cubicle sweet cubicle,” and I eventually got a free couch that folded out into a bed. When I was alone, I would leave the bed out; I could make a cup of tea in the kitchen while sitting on my bed. And when people came over, I’d turn the bed back into a couch, and we’d all sit on the floor, drinking wine and being perfectly happy in this little square that we could call our own. Being homeless had taught me that I would never need much in this world. And I’ve always been grateful for what I have.
I lived in my cubicle for three years, as I once again saved money for first and last on a larger home. I was grateful every day; for the warm bed, and the heater. My boyfriend stayed with me on the weekends, and I always felt like we had our own private haven, a sanctuary far from the noise of judgmental friends and family. I was happy.
I saved my money in a little box that was on the shelving that was built in on one wall of the tree house.
In retrospect, I realize it was very foolish to save money that way; I had a bank account; but I didn’t want to know exactly how much money I had saved. It was a little game I’d play with myself; shoving every spare dollar I had into that box; but never really knowing how much I’d saved. After a few months I’d count it and would be delighted with the results.
One night I came home and there was a note on my door from the landlord. “Your toilet broke and I had to let myself and the plumbers into your house today.”
My toilet wasn’t broken.
I immediately sensed that something wasn’t right. I walked into the cubicle and went directly to the bathroom. I kept a dizzying array of decorations on the back of my toilet, and I knew at first glance that my toilet hadn’t been touched. It would be impossible to work on it, and not disturb everything I had surrounding it. I felt something else in that room; something smelled of a lie. I immediately ran to my box on the shelf. I opened it. It was empty. The money was gone.
I took a deep breath. Every instinct I had told me that my landlord had stolen it. She had decided to snoop in my house when I was gone, came across the money and had created the plumbers as a diversion, and as the possible thieves.
I marched down to the main house and told her that my money was gone. She feigned sympathy; she was beside herself telling me what a terrible thing it was; and that it must have been the plumbers that stole it.
“May I have the name of the plumbers you called?”
She gave me every excuse under the sun as to why she couldn’t give me their number, but I wasn’t listening. Because I already knew there were no plumbers. I went back to the tree house and called the police.
I never did recover my money. But the police gave her an exceptionally rough time; I could hear her screaming and crying below. “Do not call me a thief in front of my kids!” I heard her cry, and I felt glad. The police told me that they believed it was her, but nothing could be done. I had been kicked back down to square one, with nothing to show for myself but an empty box.
The next chapter in my life wasn’t much easier than this one. But I embraced my hardships gladly, as I was living truthfully and following my passion. I no longer felt like a fraud. I was wildly in love, and that relationship would endure happily for sixteen years. And as I had always known, the difficulties made me more and more prolific; I was inspired to create poetry nearly daily. I had absolutely nothing. But I was still living my dream.
I had always known that suffering opens our minds. When things come easily, we only learn a fraction of what we learn when they don’t. I know that the more possessions we want, the less freedom we will have. I know that the more we can bear, the more fearless we become. And I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be a bald eagle surveying the countryside from the highest peak, and then I wanted to spread my wings, and to dive into freedom. I still feel that way.
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Me in Kindergarten
