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Sunday, May 3rd, 2009
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10:05 pm - The Souvenir
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While Jerry was at the conference, Nadia strolled the streets of Beijing. She liked the fresh and nippy air of the early spring, but the wind was too harsh and the omnipresent smog made it hard to breathe. After a couple of hours, chilled to the bone and annoyed by her scratchy throat, Nadia escaped into one of those dumpling shops featuring at least thirty kinds of hot dumplings that, for foreigners, all seem about the same. The fare was as bland as the décor, but the dumplings and the weak tea had at least a warming effect on her. Nadia found a seat near the window and engaged in one of her favorite pastimes: people watching. Slim, elegant Chinese girls attracted most of her attention. She caught herself thinking of them as nothing but the owners of healthy, young eggs. Here is an egg in a mini-skirt; there’s another one in Capri pants; this egg with a ponytail has amazing porcelain skin.
Stop it already. Take your mind off it. I have to relax and not think about it. It, it, IT. If I could just relax, everything would be all right. I have to look at something else.
Nadia peeled her eyes off an elegant egg in stilettos and focused on a little cart across the street. ( Read more... )
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| Tuesday, February 17th, 2009
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8:42 pm - The Celio Vaccine
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Tina is slowly pushing the needle into my arm. I close my eyes. Fifty-fifty, they said. My chances of survival are 50 percent.
I barely remember hearing my first name as a child. Everybody addressed us as “you two” or “the brothers Celio.” We did everything together—raced on bikes and scooters all over the neighborhood, got into fights, escaped school to go to the movies, and built snow forts. Our homework was identical, we read the same books, and even shared the girls … nah, I don’t want to think about that now. Jason used to say we were one, a randomly divided single cell. We had to share everything, good and bad, praise and punishment, no matter what.
He always had to pay for my mistakes. Now it’s my turn.
***
“Jason’s tragic, untimely death is a silent reproach to all of us, a reminder that, no matter what happens to our society, whatever calamities strike us, we have to remain human. This horrible epidemic took millions of lives and will take millions more, but to add the names of healthy people to the list of those we lost is a terrible crime, an affront to humanity. We can’t let fear take over our souls, and we won’t let panic rule our lives!”
Dr. Dutt’s voice echoes through the room, thundering in my ears and bouncing off the back of my head. I adjust my mask. Why didn’t Jason wear a mask? Did he know something about this epidemic the rest of us didn’t? Did Dr. Dutt find a cure? I doubt it—all Jason’s co-workers came to the funeral in masks. Most likely he simply enjoyed the risk.
In fourth grade Jason decided to ride his bike along the top of a retaining wall that separated our yard from the neighboring one. We couldn’t wait for his cast to come off—we hated when people could tell us apart. Mom used to dress us in different color t-shirts and sweaters, but we switched clothes all the time so that nobody could ever tell which one of us was Jason and which was Ben.
As soon as the doctor took the cast off, Jason invented a roof-jumping competition, and our “sameness” was compromised again—people quickly figured out Jason was the one with a bummed knee while a large bruise on the forehead belonged to Ben.
We thought we had fifteen lives back then. And maybe we did, but they ran out. Jason is no longer here. Stupid, how incredibly stupid…. It’s one thing to ride a bike on the top of a wall or jump off a wall, but to go into a subway train without a mask when you are a specialist in these kinds of diseases and know everything there is to know about SuperFlu? Idiot. Now he left me alone in this world. How am I going to do it without Jason?
The doctor’s deep baritone detracts me from the sad thoughts.
“Jason was one of the most talented post-doctoral students who ever worked in my laboratory. The tragic irony of the whole situation is that his research focused on finding the SuperFlu vaccine. Fear turns people into animals. Blinded by panic, they destroyed the one person who could have saved them. I promise you—whatever happens, we will continue Jason’s work. When we find this vaccine—not if, when—we’ll name it after him, the Jason Celio Vaccine.”
I hate these exalted, pathetic speeches. The doctor’s words affected Mom though—she takes out a handkerchief and wipes her eyes. Her mask slides to the side and Dad quickly repositions it. Those sitting nearby nervously glance their way and ever so slightly turn away. I wonder how many of them are already infected. According to statisticians, about three percent. At least ten people in this room have the virus but don’t know about it yet. Within a week or two, they’ll develop high fevers and start throwing up. The body temperature will continue to rise, and vomiting won’t stop. Finally, their hearts will refuse to carry on. And nothing—absolutely noting—can be done about that. Nobody has ever recovered from SuperFlu. The nasty virus attacks most organs simultaneously, scorching people from within. What’s worse, it attaches itself to water molecules and flies all over the place. Our humidity doesn’t help.
The cemeteries are overflowing. Few people attend funerals anymore, save for family members of the departed. Everybody is terrified of large gatherings. Yet, at least three hundred people showed up for Jason’s memorial service and at least twice as many are standing outside. The story of his death is all over the news now. "What happened to us after only a few months of living with SuperFlu?" wail the newspapers. "Where is our society going?" scream the TV stations. We won’t all survive the epidemic, they declare, but if we don’t insist on remaining human, nobody will survive this. The civilization will just cease.
I think it crashed already. When a morning rush-hour crowd literally tears a guy apart for not wearing a mask, you can start playing a funeral march for the civilization.
Jason, what the hell? Why? I’d understand if you knew you were sick and had nothing to lose. But the doctors said you were healthy. They found absolutely nothing wrong with you. I love risk almost as much as you do, but this is not something you risk. To walk around without a mask in the middle of the deadliest epidemic since Bubonic Plague is plain crazy. Or suicidal. Or both. Even if those beasts didn’t lynch you, you’d be infected within a week. We all know your chances of picking up SuperFlu are at least 75% if you walk around without a mask. With a mask on it’s down to less than 20%. Mothers glue these masks to their children’s hair and tie them with the special knots the Navy people showed us on TV. Half of the kids no longer go to school—masks or no masks. But you, my brother, you were an adult, and a microbiologist at that. What were you thinking?
I can’t wait for all this droning to be over. Mom will faint if they don’t stop. Somebody already told her she’d always have a copy of Jason—me. People are stupid, not to mention tactless. Mom’s the only one who could tell us apart. Actually, that’s not true anymore—Tina mastered it too.
This brilliant idea first came to me in the middle of our junior year in high school. After scoring with Nancy Gilford, I offered Jason to swap with me and try it with her. We figured the worst outcome would be a slap on the face. She didn’t notice the switch. It turned out we were similar, if not identical, even in bed. Nancy was followed by Donna, then Denise, and after that it became a tradition—we always shared our girls. Not a single one knew the difference. We had to work out the kinks, of course, update each other on the details, and be careful about any slips, but with some preparation, it worked smoothly.
By the way, where is Tina? I scan the room. She is looking straight at me from the far left corner. I can’t hold her stare; those light green eyes remind me I am not the one.
Jason met Tina at one of his summer classes and hid her from me until the next spring. She was the first girl he refused to share. I was pissed. We always shared; it was a rule. Still, I could forgive him that. But his eight-month-long hiding game made me livid. Whatever happened to trust?
He was right not to trust me, of course. What can you do—we have identical tastes in women. One evening, after two months of suffering, I came to Tina’s apartment and pretended to be Jason. As soon as my hand started creeping up her thigh, she slapped my face. That son of a bitch taught her a code phrase he was supposed to say before reaching into her panties. The code was “I’m the one.” He changed the code often, but that phrase was the first. He was the one. I was not. We wanted nothing to do with each other after that and applied to different PhD programs—Jason decided to join Tina’s microbiology research team under Dr. Dutt while I focused on crystals.
Finally. The speeches are over. Mom needs some fresh air, and, frankly, so do I. I haven’t learned to live without my twin yet. That rift—the Tina debacle, as we later called it—lasted a few months and I almost lost my mind in the process. He had Tina; I had no one. I spent most of the time lying in my bed staring at the ceiling—didn’t even go to the final exams. I despised myself, lusted after Tina, hated Jason, and loathed the whole world.
One day I was lying on the couch, eating junk, and watching some crap on TV when I heard the postman drop something in the mailbox. I wondered if my magazine had arrived and reluctantly got off the couch. The mailbox was empty save for a single slim letter leaning against the wall and looking as forlorn in a large, black box as I was in my apartment. My graduate school transcript had arrived. Knowing what it contained, I opened the envelope on autopilot —I would have to repeat the last semester or leave the program, what else was new? I unfolded the transcript, glanced at it, and almost dropped the paper to the floor. Perfect A’s. Jason managed to pass all my exams.
I showered, put on my last clean pair of pants, and went to their apartment. Jason opened the door with a stern expression on his face and put his hand forward. I reached to shake it, and the next thing I remember we were hugging and crying. Tina said she had never seen identical twins crying at the same time. We laughed through the tears, admitted we couldn’t live without each other, and promised to never quarrel again. And we kept the promise. I behaved around Tina, although it wasn’t easy.
At some point she learned to tell us apart. I don’t really know how. All identical twins are at least slightly different. We were the exception. Sometimes I mistook Jason with a mirror; you’d have to use a magnifying glass to find any differences between the Celio twins. But Tina never confused us, not once.
Tina. They planned to get married soon….
“Ben, can I have a word?” Dr. Dutt touches my elbow. The doctor's usual haughty demeanor has melted off his face, the dark black circles weigh down his eyes, and the milk-chocolate complexion has turned ashen. Dr. Dutt looks as if Jason’s death affected him as much as it did me and Tina, as if he just lost his only son. He glares at me intently and without blinking—the same way Tina looked at me during the memorial service.
“Yes, of course.”
“You have to help us, Ben. Do it for Jason.”
I jump at Tina’s comment and turn around. She is standing right behind me. Her face is red and swollen from all the crying, but she looks very serious and grim. This woman is not falling apart, wallowing in self-pity, or even asking for any condolences; she demands attention. What do they want from me?
“You see, Ben,” continues Dr. Dutt after a pause, “you and Jason have the same genes. We need to conduct an experiment on you. You are our last hope.”
“An experiment? You conducted an experiment on Jason? Did he go into a subway train without a mask because of it? I don’t know what you did to Jason—and I fully intend to find out—but I am my mother’s only remaining child, and I have no desire to become your guinea pig.”
I think I've spoken too loudly. People are turning and staring.
“Tsss,” hisses Tina grabbing my arm and dragging me aside, “do you know why Jason went into subway without a mask? He had immunity.”
“What? You found a vaccine?” I can hardly believe my ears.
“I think you better sit down.” Dr. Dutt is showing me to a row of chairs at the end of the hall.
“No, thank you, I’d rather stand. I want to know what you did to Jason.”
“For God’s sake, Ben, we didn’t do anything to him; he did it to himself. SuperFlu was started because of him.” Tina covers her mouth and looks around to make sure nobody overheard.
Dr. Dutt is right—we better sit down. I lower myself into the nearest chair.
I always thought Jason and I would be doing the same thing. We both loved chemistry and biology and dreamt of a career in science. I still think were it not for Tina, Jason would have been in a different place right now—alive. Not that I blame her for anything. I wouldn’t share this girl either.
“Tina,” says the doctor, “I think you better tell Ben everything. He has the right to know—before he makes any decisions.”
“Okay.” She sighs. “Just please, Ben, don’t scream. Jason wanted to cure the common cold. It enraged him that people had almost cured cancer but couldn’t deal with simple colds and flus. He studied various viruses and set up a few experiments, but didn’t tell anyone about it. Later, when he almost found the solution, he told me about it. We both decided to tell Dr. Dutt. Dr. Dutt and I checked his data and were so excited—ecstatic almost. We couldn’t believe it. If the thing worked, Jason would have been a shoo-in for a Nobel Prize.”
“Tina, Tina,” interrupts Dr. Dutt, “it was a long way to a Nobel Prize. Jason made a very significant discovery, but it was in a test tube. He had years of animal and human trials ahead of him.”
“The problem was, he didn’t want to wait,” continues Tina. “He injected himself with the vaccine without telling anyone. He was sure it would work, and then he would be able to inject a few more people. Basically, he just wanted to jump over the ‘mice’ stage of the trials. And the vaccine worked, believe it or not. Exactly the way he expected. Theoretically he wasn’t supposed to get sick ever again as far as common viruses are concerned.”
“Why theoretically? And what did it have to do with SuperFlu?”
“The virus had mutated. But Jason didn’t know it. He got sick, but then recovered—a normal reaction to vaccination. He wasn’t even that sick…”
“If we were around at the time, we probably wouldn’t be here now.” Dr. Dutt sighs. “Tina and I went to a scientific conference in Cleveland for a week. Jason timed his experiment to our absence. He knew he’d get sick and didn’t want us to be suspicious.”
“He drove me to the airport on Sunday night,” continues Tina, “then went to the lab and injected himself with the virus. He was sick for a couple of days after that. On Wednesday he felt better though and went to a jazz festival.”
“He called me that day.” I suddenly remember. “Asked me to go with him. But I was busy.”
“Say your blessings. The first cases of SuperFlu were reported in people who attended the festival. But nobody knew why. Except me and Tina, of course. The vaccine turned a garden-variety cold virus into SuperFlu. Jason himself was safe, you understand? That’s why he walked around without a mask.”
“Wait, wait, Doctor, how did you find out? SuperFlu has been around for almost six months.”
“It took us a couple of months to tie it all together. Then we started some mice experiments but didn’t find anything worth mentioning.”
“The vaccine works,” says Tina. “But produces nothing like SuperFlu.”
“Now I am thoroughly confused. Sorry.” This is too much—and makes no sense. Tina looks sad and desperate. Desperately sad. Sadly desperate.
If she were mine, would Jason try the “twin trick” on her? He was more of a risk-taker and constantly invented new adventures. But come to think of it, when we were punished for something, it was usually my fault.
In the second grade we spent three hours in the principal’s office refusing to tell which one of us had smeared paint all over the class chairs. The teacher saw one of “the Celio brothers” leaving the classroom. That brother was me, and the whole paint episode was a stupid prank, an outlet for bad-grade frustration. I knew Jason would never say anything. The two of us together were usually punished less severely than any one would be—adults respected our steadfast support for each other. When I blew up some lab equipment in the seventh grade, they suspended us for a week and threatened us with expulsion unless we told the truth. We obliged—told them we did everything together. Nobody believed us, but a week later we were allowed to return to school. Teachers liked the Celio twins despite all the troublemaking, although they used to say unless we started behaving appropriately even our “remarkable brains” wouldn’t save us.
Somewhere deep in my soul I always knew Jason would never smear paint on chairs or ruin lab equipment. His idea of a mischief was jumping out of a window while I came up with things like sharing women. No, he wouldn’t try to seduce my girlfriend if I told him not to. And I would never inject myself with an unknown vaccine. We were not as similar as it seemed. But since we did everything together—even when we didn’t—nobody knew. I am not sure we knew it ourselves. I never admitted any of it to myself until today.
“Dr. Dutt, you have to tell him about your experiment. And about the other guys.” Tina says it so quietly I can barely make out the words.
Dr. Dutt clasps his hands together and sighs. “You see, Ben, I injected myself with the vaccine. Tina and Jason watched me. The vaccine worked. But the virus did not mutate.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So, Jason died at the hands, I mean, paws, of the animal he set free. But why are you wearing a mask if you have the immunity? Are you afraid to be torn apart like Jason?”
“You don’t understand. I don’t have the immunity against SuperFlu, only against common cold or flu viruses. SuperFlu is a creation of Jason’s organism, his body’s reaction to the vaccine. Well, not only his, but he was the one who survived.”
I feel a chill running down my spine and look at Tina. What did he just say? Tina avoids my eyes. The doctor puts a hand on my knee.
“A few of our doctorate students injected themselves with the vaccine. Voluntarily, of course. After Jason and I came out of it alive everybody decided the risk was minimal. Also, they had a chance to become immune to SuperFlu—it was all over the world at that point. Plus, we were hoping for a cure.”
“None of them survived.” Tina closes her eyes. “They all died of SuperFlu. I am alive only because Jason wouldn’t let me participate. He said we had to start with the guys. There are only two of us left in the lab now, Dr. Dutt and I.”
“Ben, listen….” says Dr. Dutt and quickly looks around, “everything that happened in our lab was completely illegal. I did not provide enough supervision for Jason; later, we all tried to find some solution to this situation and save millions of people at the same time. None of it should have happened. If anybody finds out, I’ll be in jail, and that would be the end of all our hopes. In any case, we would never be allowed to continue with the experiments. All we have now is you. Theoretically, the virus should mutate in your body the same way it did in Jason’s. We have to catch that moment of mutation and figure it out. Theoretically, all the dead guys could have been infected by the time they were injected. We didn’t test them beforehand—a very stupid omission, in retrospect, but we were in a rush. Once they were sick, the paramedics quickly took them into quarantine and then straight into morgue. We had no access to them. If you agree to remain in the lab, we’ll be able to observe you 24 hours a day. And we’ll test you beforehand to make sure you are healthy.”
“Thousands of scientists all over the world are working on this vaccine, Ben,” adds Tina. “But they don’t have the magic key. We do—we have you. You can save millions of lives. Think about it.”
“But … what are my chances of survival? Are you sure my body would react the same way Jason’s did?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
Here’s this word again—theoretically. I heard it more times today than in all my previous life.
“And practically? I am talking about reality.”
“Well, we don’t know whether this is 100 percent genetic or how big a role the environment plays, if any. I will be honest with you, Ben. Your chances are fifty-fifty. And I do remember you are the last remaining child of your parents. But we need the Celio vaccine.”
***
“Tina, you know, I’ve read about some twins once, one of them died during World War I, and the other wrote home that he was the one who died. He passed himself for his dead brother. And returned to his wife.”
Tina smiles and strokes my shoulder with her gloved hand.
“You have to rest. The next two days will not be easy whatever the outcome. By the way, I’ve already heard that story—from Jason. He told me about it two months before he died.”
I stare at her, unable to say a word.
“Do you know how I always told you apart, Ben?”
“Yes, I think I do. You were the only one, besides Mom, who saw the difference between us. Jason was the better twin, and I am more and more aware of it with each passing day. I'm one-on-one with this world now, and I'm not ready for it. I yearn for his … his spine. I miss his decision-making skills, his uncompromising stance on things, his courage, and his conscience. I know this sounds pathetic, but I'm scared of living without him. Jason would have handled this situation better. He always pulled for both of us. And in my place he wouldn’t have tried to get under your skirt.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Ben! A bad person wouldn’t have said what you just said. I never thought anything of the sort. And Jason said many times he would have done the exact same thing. I could tell you two apart only because you regarded me differently. Jason looked at me in this relaxed way, like you’d look at your live-in girlfriend or wife. You looked at me like…”
“Like a hungry dog looks at a juicy bone.”
“Well ... you said it.”
“I love it when you smile.”
“You get better, okay? Your parents need you, and so do I. Jason said if something happened to him he’d want us to be together.”
She reflectively tries to wipe off a tear but hits the thick glass of the face mask with her gloved hand.
“I did not want this experiment, Ben. I really didn’t.”
“Tina … just don’t cry, okay?”
“Hush. I'm all right. Thousands of people die every day. Let’s think about that. We’ll think about us later. We need the Celio vaccine.”
“The Jason Celio vaccine.’
“No, Ben. The Brothers Celio Vaccine. You two are one.”
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, February 6th, 2009
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12:38 pm - Sex, Lies, and Internet. Part IV.
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Women, if you recall our last discussion, almost never “swing alone,” yet tens of thousands of them happily engage in casual sex with virtual strangers as part of a couple. Baffling, isn’t it?
To better understand this phenomenon, let’s look at various types of “open” relationships. We’ve all heard about “free love” introduced by hippies in the 60’s and 70’s. Everybody screws everybody else—just come and get it. On the other end of this spectrum is polyamory—the ability to love, truly love, more than one person. Families of three or more partners are out there, and I am not talking about religious cults. Practitioners of polyamory live together voluntarily, and their rates of happiness are about the same as for the traditional families. You can read multiple articles and studies about them—it’s a well-known movement.
Swinging is entirely different from other non-monogamous lifestyles because in the midst of all this whirlwind sex you always have a couple, a man and a woman, in a long-term, stable relationship based on love and respect. Swingers are emotionally faithful to each other. For them, emotional fidelity has little to do with physical one. They enjoy watching their partners have sex with other people. It’s a game, like S&M or role playing (nurse-patient, teacher-student) for other couples.
Women need to love and be loved. With no-one to love, “screwing around” feels like plugging the wrong hole; no matter how you fill the other orifices, that empty spot in your souls remains. Men are not that different by the way—life without a loved one is not a happy affair.
Swingers don’t have that vacant spot in their hearts. What they do have is a loving, caring partner who happens to share their attitudes on what’s acceptable in bed as well as out of it. In such relationships, women feel emotionally safe to unleash their fantasies. Swingers are much happier than those couples where one partner desires sexual variety while the other is adamantly against it.
Constant suppression of sexual impulses (not to be confused with purely physical satisfaction) is akin to excluding an entire food group from your diet. Anybody who’s ever tried the Atkins plan would tell you they were not hungry. The Atkins diet meets all your caloric needs as well as most vitamin and mineral requirements. Some people manage to stay on it for a long time. The majority, however, starts daydreaming about bread and pasta after a relatively short period of time.
If you like role play, constantly fantasize about anal sex, or would love to watch your partner with another man or a woman, but your partner wouldn’t hear of it, sooner or later you would feel dissatisfied, and even three-times-a week-intercourse wouldn’t change that. Your “forbidden” fantasies play the role of lasagna for those on the Atkins diet. Obviously, some people can do without pasta or “simple carbs” altogether and some have enough willpower to resist the urges for the rest of their lives, but they are a minority.
Have you ever tried holding a ball under the water? How about doing it for years?
If you’re content with nothing but “traditional” sex, I am very happy for you. It does not, however, render you superior to those with unconventional sexual fantasies, although in most cases it does make you luckier, at least in the context of our society. Regardless of the amount and quality of conventional sex, if certain desires are unsatisfied for years on end, people slowly go crazy and start howling at the moon. We—all of us—are only truly happy when the sexual “makeup” of our partners matches that of our own.
God help everybody else. What are their choices? Trying to “break” somebody who is different and make them do things they disdain (or not do the things they desire) is the option least likely to succeed—and most likely to backfire. Divorce is another not-so-lovely alternative. How about a lifelong diet where you are not physically hungry but have to say good-bye to all the cakes and candy for the rest of your days? And then there’s cheating. Frankly, I don’t even know which option is worse here, and I refuse to judge anyone in this situation.
This brings me back to swingers. Instead of sneering, we should be happy for them. They do what they want, don’t lie to anybody, and enjoy themselves in the process. When conversations turn to swingers, somebody invariably points out they have their share of divorces, quarrels, and all sorts of family problems. But of course—what would you expect? They are human. The swinger community has its share of bastards and idiots. While swingers solve one major problem in their lives, they don’t solve the others. Their world is far from perfect, but I find it much more appealing than the one where people lie, cheat, wallow in guilt, or suffer from constant physical and/or psychological discontent. I hate diets—they don’t work.
***
So far we have discussed two very separate categories here—swinging couples and “single” men and women looking for casual sex on the Internet. These two groups have one thing in common—monogamy is not their cup of tea. It is time to bring them together and talk about why they are wired this way. (Please note that adultery in not the focus of this article. Most people who use the Internet to search for sexual partners are either single or do it with their spouse’s consent. Those looking to cheat did it long before the advent of the Internet. The issue here is sexual behavior, not social issues or morality.)
People can be roughly divided into those who easily “separate” their souls from their bodies (please don’t take this literally) and those unable to do so. For some in the latter group such separation is physically impossible (women from this category almost never survive rapes—they go insane, or even commit suicide). Most, however, are capable of taking their emotional and physical experiences apart, but feel unhappy during the process, not to mention miserable and guilty afterward. Those who spend a portion of their youth enjoying purely sensual pursuits feel emotionally hollowed after a while. The “united body and soul” people are happiest with a stable, monogamous partner and are not looking for anybody else when they have one. Moral convictions have nothing to do with it; for them swinging is a slow destruction of the soul from within. And they are the majority—especially among women.
The majority from the second category has a tough time understanding the minority from the first one. Having tried, at some point or another, sex for the sake of sex, they found it emotionally wanting and spiritually unsatisfying. They then conveniently extrapolated their findings to the rest of the population. According to them, people who “screw around” are empty-headed bimbos, hippie hedonists without any moral compass, or weirdoes with psychological problems.
Yet, thousands and thousands of people from all walks of life enjoy sexual encounters with those they find attractive, and don’t expect anything more from these rendezvous than pure, physical pleasure. A multitude of intelligent and productive members of society believe sex with three of four partners is quite all right. Moreover, they enjoy it not only on the physical, but also the emotional level. Why not act out whatever sexual fantasy you have? And no, most of them were not sexually abused in their childhood.
The minority from the first group doesn’t comprehend what soul’s got to do with any of it in the first place.
People have different attitudes toward sex. Often, these attitudes change over the years. As long as all the participants are consenting adults, most people agree there’s nothing wrong with whatever rocks your boat. However, “right” and “wrong” may not the best criteria here, especially not in this day and age. Maybe it’s time we look at swinging from a different angle and learn to hold our judgments. Besides not being “wrong,” it is also not corrupting or soul emptying. The soul is not between one’s legs—at least for those who choose not to put it there.
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, February 5th, 2009
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3:32 pm - Sex, Lies, and Internet. Part III.
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I found it much easier to deal with swinging couples than with “single” men. Couples often look for bisexual women to please both partners, so I could always say I tried it with a woman just the other day and realized bisexuality was not my cup of tea. These couples are sexually satisfied people at peace with themselves and the world around them, so they let you go without a hitch. Moreover, they gladly remain your friends and continue to divulge the secrets of the “trade.”
One of those secrets is private sex sites like altplayground.net. As an outsider, all you get is a “guided tour” that doesn’t reveal much. You have to pay up before you see any actual member profiles, and many of those sites are far from cheap. The insiders, however, claim the sites are worth it. People there are serious—no silly virtual jokers or spam loaders. Everybody knows almost everybody else (locally, of course), and most people have met at one sex party or another. Half of the participants have already had sex with the other half.
When I mentioned altplayground.net to one of my newfound friends, he unexpectedly offered to let me explore the site from his account and provided the username and password. I expressed genuine surprise at such generosity, but he said a single male like him didn’t get many hits anyway, and he was reasonably sure I wouldn’t hit on other people from his account. It was just a “window” into the site—how much harm could I possibly do? I already knew all about him from “that angle.”
Altplayground.net is a wilder version of the “free” sites. The users provide much more detailed and revealing information and pornography abounds—most swingers post photographs of themselves having intercourse with members of the same and/or opposite sex in every conceivable position. At a bare minimum, a profile is accompanied by a nude picture that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Since the site is closed to outsiders, members feel relaxed and unencumbered—they don't even black out the faces on the photographs.
How many people do you think are hanging out on paid, private swinger sites? Thousands upon thousands--most local chapters (we are talking about major cities of course) have hundreds of members. If you simply browse the membership pages, you’ll see a couple of new ones (pages, not members) every day. That means 20-30 singles or couples have joined since the last time you logged in. The site is filled with ads for swinger parties of various degrees of “involvement,” and private clubs are numerous.
When my new acquaintance had sex with 12 black men (see Part II), those weren’t some dudes from the street—the owner of a private club hand-picked them and even checked the references (I would love to see those references). The guys also had to bring a recent doctor’s note stating they were free of venereal diseases. Such niche enterprises are not hard to find—you want a gangbang, we’ll arrange you a gangbang. Safe and clean; satisfaction guaranteed! San Francisco alone has 22 swing clubs (data as of 2002), each welcoming around 200 people on “event nights.”
Swingers even have their own, closed, private resorts in places like Florida and Jamaica and hold twice-a-year conferences, each attended by more than four thousand people. They have contests, chat rooms, galleries, seminars, online stores… anything your heart desires. The sheer magnitude of the movement astounded me.
On most adult dating sites you can filter the members by their education levels. I tried looking for those with post-graduate degrees—Master’s or PhD—and found hundreds. One of the guys who wrote to me was a CEO of a sizable company with a PhD in molecular biology. We discussed the early diagnostics of cancer, international monetary policy, the price of the annual subscription to The Economist, and many other non-trivial topics. Another correspondent, a doctor from Virginia, specialized in a rather unique and difficult area of pediatrics. He spends one month out of each year working in various orphanages in Latin America (for free, of course) and speaks fluent Spanish.
These men are all married, mostly happily, and live in expensive enclaves of suburbia. They have interesting hobbies, give time and money to good causes, and are considered pillars of their communities. What they don’t have is a satisfying sex life and are suffocating without it. They were so genuinely happy to find an intelligent person on the other side of the screen—not another scam artist, prostitute, or an empty-head bimbo looking for a sugar daddy—that I almost felt bad disappointing them in the end.
***
I have only encountered a couple of single female swingers (“single” in this contest means swinging alone—about half of them are married). The bisexual women primarily look for couples, but some ladies simply want to find a decent sexual partner or two, without any major commitment. Such women are few and far between, one for every 100 or so male swingers, at the most. Because of that they are worth their weight in gold and rarely respond to "blind" online inquiries. They find their partners by recommendations, through clubs or private sites.
The vast difference between supply and demand (for free sex with reasonably decent women; we are not talking about prostitutes) leads to an interesting phenomena: tens of thousands of men are wandering around the world-wide web with big, red, virtual target marks on their backs and foreheads. A multitude of sites have cropped up, the likes of amateurmatch.com or iwantu.com, that boast of hundreds of female members—hot single chicks or equally hot bored housewives. Apparently, all these women just can’t wait for the right guy to snap them up.
My dear men, if you are browsing the Internet for the purpose of finding a lover (let it be our dirty, little secret) and have a Yahoo! ID, check this out:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/AdultDatingSiteScams/messages
This group was created for the sole purpose of exposing all kinds of fraud and creative money-making schemes aimed at people looking for “adult dates” on the web. I met the group’s founder, Steve, who told me same old story: hitting on women at work is out of the question, bars are useless, and mainstream dating sites are filled with women who want serious relationships. He is not ready for anything serious and does not want any heavy-duty romantic involvement. Like most men out there, he is looking for “friendships with benefits.” In the world of adult dating it’s called NSAR, a No Strings Attached Relationship.
Steve repeated what I already knew: the adult dating sites first entice men with free browsing (these sites are filled with pictures and profiles of beautiful women), then ask for a payment before they can access their e-mail accounts. And the moment their “free trial” is about to expire, the number of e-mails in their inbox usually triples, miraculously filling up with multiple letters from pretty, readily available women dying to meet them.
Our “target” obviously wants to read the messages—what if THE woman is indeed there, waiting for him? He pays and receives a small truckload of junk mail from spam robots, virtual fakes, prostitutes, porn site hosts, and so on. Man after man told me almost nobody ever receives letters from “real” women. Once they pay, the women disappear one by one. But they keep on paying.
There’s no such thing as free cheese.
Steve did recommend three sites:
1) craigslist.com is truly a free site. You don’t have to pay anything, ever. Most responses from women are as bogus as the ones on paid sites, but you can post your ads there for as long as you like—for years if you want. It doesn’t take much work and eventually something may materialize. (I do know a few craigslist success stories, so I heartily endorse this one.)
2) swinglifestyle.com is a paid site that offers a decent amount of free features. It is virtually spamless, so you are not likely to encounter ads from porn site hosts.
3) plentyoffish.com is another free—and spam-free—site. It is not branded as “adult”, but discussions there are engaging and lively, people communicate on all levels, and a guy who can string a sentence or two together has plenty of fishing opportunities in that pond.
Also, some swinger clubs advertise “single-men-welcome” nights, but those are nothing but another scam. Twenty or thirty guys show up, pay the entrance fee, and, at best, watch a cheap strip show. Swinging couples rarely, if ever, come to such events. At the end of the evening the organizers say something like, “Sorry, dudes, you are out of luck tonight—no swingers or single women showed up. They usually do but today… alas.”
***
Now let me try to answer the question on everyone’s mind: where are the women? There are lots of sexually frustrated women out there, both married and single, right?
( Read more... )
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| Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009
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8:18 pm - Sex, Lies, and Internet. Part II
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In the previous installment, I encountered the unfamiliar world of adult dating sites and decided to explore it. My first step was to place some ads on craigslist.
I wrote the first ad from the point of view of a lonely man looking to spend some quality time with the right woman--a nice, intelligent, and decent ad. The next day I posted a note from a married couple looking for a girl to have a threesome with them. Another one was from two men who also wanted a woman for a threesome, but the MFM kind—buy one, get one free. Feel free to substitute “buy” with your own verb. Finally, the last ad was from a married woman missing something in her marriage. She wanted to find a lover but craved more than sex—physical chemistry was important as well as the intellectual and spiritual connection. An suave, educated man in decent physical shape would be her dream date.
The single guy received zero replies. I posted the ad a few more times and tried varying the wording—it didn’t help.
Two hot stallions willing to please a brave lady received three replies on the first try and four on the second one. I didn’t know how “real” these women were and didn’t try to find out. Later, I found two men who also posted such ads and wrote to them. I told them about my investigation and politely asked for a number, only a number, of real-life success stories. They responded. ( Read more... )
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| Monday, February 2nd, 2009
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12:39 pm - Sex, Lies, and Internet. Part I.
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I was looking for a new a living room sofa and decided to check out craigslist.com. I am sure most of you are familiar with this site—it’s a helpful, well thought out, virtual bulletin board. Among other things, it has hundreds upon hundreds of sofas and couches, and those are only the ones listed in your area in the last 24 hours. Unlike eBay, craigslist does not display even tiny thumbnail pictures next to the listings on the main page, so in order to see the photographs you have to click on the link. Most sofas turned out to be ugly or simply not the kind I needed, and after two hours of “clicking on sofas,” I was ready to kill somebody.
To take my mind off furniture, I resolved to peruse other parts of the site and ended up in the “personals” section. Men like comedy clubs and barbeque, women prefer tall guys with a sense of humor, and romantics of both genders haven’t lost the hope of finding that special someone. Blah. Growing bored again, I clicked the Back button, and then saw it: Casual Encounters. You have to be 18 to enter. Okay, that might be mildly entertaining.
My hot wet mouth is ready for your…
Looking for a passionate plump Filipino girl to…
I am alone in bed this morning. Cum to my place and…
I love to watch – a handsome young man is looking for a couple to…
Yuck. I was just about to leave this page when I noticed a peculiar ad. It looked like an answer to something else:
The guys from “A Very Attractive Couple” ad should fuck the mirror.
It piqued my interest. What attractive couple? I went looking for the original ad and found it on the third page. It read something like this:
A very good-looking couple is searching for another couple to have some fun times together. She: a blindingly beautiful brunette with green eyes who turns heads and stops cars. Height: (average); weight: (quite low). He: also very handsome, although barely worthy of his gorgeous mate. Height: (rather tall); weight: (perfect). He is slim but muscular, and well-endowed.
We take very good care of ourselves and expect the same. We are looking for the attractive couples. If you are beginning to lose your hair or noticing a pouch on your belly, don’t bother replying — we won’t match. Because we’re so attractive ourselves, we are only seeking slender, beautiful couples.
We are gorgeous. Striking! Didn’t you get it? For the slow folks out there: WE ARE VERY BEAUTIFUL. Whoever wrote that joke about the mirror, he had a point….
While searching for the “Very Attractive Couple” ad, I perused several pages of these works of art. Most of the ads from women were obviously written by prostitutes—something along the lines of “an opulent lady with generous tits will give you oceans of pleasure” or “a slender 18-year-old girl is looking for her sugar daddy.” The ads from men, on the other hand, couldn’t be more different. Hot young stallions looking for immediate gratification competed for my attention with middle-aged men seeking discrete fun on the side; a bunch of hard-hat workers were wondering if, by any chance, a stray nymphomaniac was willing to come to their construction site right that minute and satisfy every single one of them (and no, I am not making this up); multiple clones of Don Juan wanted women, race, height, weight, and age unimportant, just provide two legs with a hole between them (give me some pills to alleviate greediness — more, more, MORE!); male specimens of all ages desired to join a couple or an orgy; finally, a variety of sexually dissatisfied guys hoped to find a woman (or women) with whom they could actually have a reasonably intelligent conversation—after having sex, of course.
I was peeking into a keyhole of a door that led to a vast, intriguing, previously unknown world. Who answers these ads? Does anyone answer them at all? Where are women, aside from prostitutes? Are there any other virtual places for these activities (after all, craigslist is a relatively tame site)?
I rolled up the sleeves and decided to play an investigative reporter. Wondering, for example, how many swingers walk the streets around us, I wanted to conduct some research on any relevant demographic patterns. I didn’t care about prostitution or serious dating; my goal was to explore casual encounters—voluntary, free sex that leads nowhere and exists for the sole purpose of physical and, indirectly, psychological satisfaction of the participants.
I confided my newfound interest to a few friends and every one of them invariably wondered why I wanted to get my hands dirty by digging into this…this filth. Well, I did. I wanted to learn something about this unfamiliar world.
I am not promoting casual sex here—or monogamy for that matter. This is by no means some salacious exploration of Internet smut. Hundreds of scientists with PhDs study human sexual behavior and write serious articles about it, including studies of swingers. Sexuality plays a central role in our lives; it’s a timeless topic, and one that interests millions. I yearned to explore its boundaries.
***
I tried answering a few ads, hoping to dig up some interesting information. It didn’t work out; everybody immediately asked for my photo and phone number. I panicked and cut off all correspondence. Then I changed my tactics. If a candidate made a good impression and strung a few coherent words together, I wrote back suggesting we spend some time communicating via e-mails first. I said I wasn’t quite ready to give them personal information—too many psychos out there.
I quickly learned why people don’t like sending lengthy e-mails to potential dates without first seeing their faces and/or hearing their voices. These sites have few—make that very few—“real” women. Most ladies are either for sale or busy luring the guys to some expensive websites. Many live abroad or stay here illegally—they throw themselves at any American man and offer eternal love right off the bat. Various automatic bots send generic replies to men to keep them hooked. Additionally, numerous homosexuals roam these sites pretending to be women in hopes of netting a guy or two (I am not sure what they are thinking, to be honest with you, but they are a dime a dozen out there).
Within a couple of weeks a few pen pals were reasonably assured of my “realness”—after all, neither bots nor prostitutes could or would write like this. I even sent a couple of them my head shots—my pictures were all over the internet anyway (case in point: fanstory.com).
However, sooner or later I had to admit I wasn’t about to jump into anyone’s bed and resorted to a white lie: a few people interested me more than that particular correspondent, but I wasn’t in any rush and was willing to continue our spirited e-mail exchanges, at least for the time being. Who knows, maybe later….
Two men agreed to my rules of engagement. Not any two, but a couple of highly educated, interesting and good-looking gentlemen. I even befriended one and we had lunch together. Although not my type, he turned out to be a nice guy and an enjoyable conversationalist. Both men had been looking for women over the Internet for quite a while, more than two years each, and knew a few more “brothers in misfortune” with whom they exchanged notes. As a result, I received detailed and often surprising answers to my “innocent” questions.
Say we have a married man. He is far from old, somewhere between early 30’s and late 40’s, intelligent, successful, and decent-looking. His wife is indifferent to sex. No matter what he tries, she either doesn’t give it to him or gives it to him once every two to three weeks. His libido raging, our hero turns to World Wide Web for relief.
Maybe our guy is not married but spends most of his time at work where sexual harassment laws chain his overabundant sexuality to the nearest cubicle wall. He's too busy to wander around the bars looking for random hookups and has met all the friends of his buddies’ girlfriends by now; it didn’t work out. What’s a man to do?
Yes, Internet is a dubious choice, but if you think the online sex sites are solely the domain of losers, think again. My “research” enabled me to meet some amazing people. I reside in the country’s capital, surrounded by the government offices, military institutions and private companies living off the government’s largesse. For example, one local organization takes our tax money and spreads it around the globe, building infrastructure here, cleaning the water supply there, and promoting education elsewhere. One senior manager, responsible for distributing billions of dollars of our country’s humanitarian aid to large parts of Asia and Africa, was the man with whom I went to lunch. Several times over the course of our peculiar friendship he would tell me he was too busy to talk—had to focus on a 30-million-dollar deal on his desk. He traveled the world and told me incredible stories about various countries; he fluently spoke several languages, wrote some of the most eloquent e-mails I had ever seen, and was phenomenally well read.
The other man worked for the State Department, had a top security clearance, and couldn’t say much about his particular line of work. Instead, he relayed multiple anecdotes about Condoleezza Rice, her habits and quirks, as well as about many curious events happening at the department.
I’ve corresponded with PhD’s in biochemistry from NIH, vice presidents of Fortune 500 firms, colonels of the US Army, and owners of sizable companies.
These men don't advertise their places of employment; to the contrary, they try to talk about it as little as possible. Anonymity is paramount—I still don’t know a single last name or address. The favorite word on the adult dating sites (not to be confused with porno sites, by the way) is not sex—it’s discretion. Everyone is looking for people who have something to lose, preferably professionals with families and children. Plus, when you start exchanging e-mails, you quickly learn what kind of a person you are dealing with. You can tell a lot about someone by the form and content of their writings. A good close-up photograph often adds quite a bit to the overall perception. After spending some time on the “swinger” sites, reading hundreds of profiles, looking at dozens of photographs, and directly communicating with many people, I’ve learned to pick the cream of the crop out of the slush pile after two or three e-mails.
Let’s return to our hypothetical hero. He starts hanging out on well-known, popular sites such as craigslist (the Casual Encounters section, not the sofa-bed-selling one) and reading the ads. Sooner or later he realizes “normal” and “live” women are hard to come by, and the few out there do not respond to his inquiries. His next step is to post his own ad. He gets… nothing.
One of the men I talked to had posted on craigslist for over two years but thus far had seen no results. He advised me to conduct an experiment: post several different ads and see for myself. I was game.
To be continued
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, November 23rd, 2008
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6:09 pm - The Vagina Monologues
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She's loud, she's opinionated (nothing in common with her owner, NOTHING), and now she's got a bully pulpit.
Tell me, my fellow vaginas, does size matter? No, please, don’t ask the guys whose sizes we are discussing here — their opinions are directly proportionate to their dimensions. I hope no wayward penis can hear our girls-only conversation. It’s you, my dear vaginas, who are creating all this confusion about the sizes, not them. Let’s get our act together first, so we can present a unified front to the perpetrators, pardon me, the penetrators…well, you know what I mean. Call that neighbor of yours, the clitoris, instead — we need him on this talk.
Face it, ladies; we’re all kind of the same. A vagina is a vagina is a vagina. It’s our owners who are dramatically different. After being around the block a few times and talking to many, many other vaginas in the locker rooms, I’ve come to a conclusion that women can be roughly divided into three broad categories. We’ll leave the biologically frigid ones as well as the crazy nymphomaniacs out of this though, okay? They are a tiny minority and they don’t make the weather. Let’s talk about the 95% in the middle.
A third of you belong to women who don’t care much about sex. Well, they do care, but more about the intimacy of it, the connection, the human touch. Admit it, girls, it’s the romance that gets you wet, not the actual action. Once the romance cools — not necessarily in a bad way — you lose interest. After ten years of marriage and a couple of kids you struggle to stay interested at all. Your owners have low libido, and there ain’t much anyone can do about it. Those of you who have such owners - you know who you are - tell me, do you care about penis sizes? Yes, you do. You don’t like them too big — it hurts. Other than that, it’s all about individuality, mood, setting… Your ideal penis is not large and doesn’t last long (get it over with!), but has a wonderful, romantic owner with a killer personality.
Hey, clits, are you still here? Snap to attention. Girls, are you jealous of these little fellows? (By the way, are they male or female? I suppose clits are transvestites.) Do they get all the fireworks while you feel mild pleasure at best and nothing at worst? Then your owners belong to the second group. They don’t have problems with their libido, but you, my fellow vaginas, are playing the second fiddle. You just can’t generate an orgasm. Do you care about penis sizes? Um, no. How many inches do you need to stimulate a clitoris? Methinks three-four inches will just about do it. Some women may like the look or feel of a bigger penis, but it’s not a deal breaker (and the mouth has told me the big ones are a bitch to suck).
This leaves the poor third group. Well, let me take this back. We are not poor—in fact, we are probably luckier than the rest. I am one happy vagina when I get the right penis to stimulate me. The key word here is “right.” You see, size does matter to us and it matters a great deal, especially after a couple of childbirths. Width is much more important than length, but they are usually closely related, so let’s focus on the overall size. The shape is also important — “mushrooms” are so much better than the penises tapered at the end. I see your broad vertical smiles — you know exactly what I am talking about. That ring… But I digress.
Why did I call us poor? Come on, girls, you know why. Penis sizes are not something our owners discuss on the first date, or on the third one for that matter. They don’t usually see the penis until they are in bed with no clothes on. By then it’s too late. You take one look at it and know it’s not going to work. It’ll take him at least 15 minutes to get you where a nice seven-incher would have gotten you in two. Most owners of smaller penises can’t even last long enough to give you a few good vaginal orgasms. But… your owner is not going to jump out of bed and shout, “Get out of here, Mr. Small Dick!” We don’t want to hurt their feelings, do we?
Then there are these other groups. Yes, you, don’t avert your eyes. Ooops, I am sorry, I forgot you don’t have eyes. It’s still your fault. You scream on every corner that size doesn’t matter - that it shouldn’t matter. You make us pleasure-seeking vaginas feel shallow, no pun intended. You make our owners feel shallow too. Can you just please speak for yourselves? We know what it’s like to be in a relationship with a penis that doesn’t do it for us. No matter what our owners try to tell us, no matter how nice the owner of that penis is, sooner or later we revolt. And it’s downhill from there. I don't know about you, but I hate faking orgasms. Leave it to the first group.
What’s my suggestion, you ask. It’s simple: let’s talk about it. Personality, shmersonality, but vaginas and penises (yes, clits, you too) have to live in peace. Your owners ask their potential mates what kind of music they like or where they prefer to spend vacations. Why don’t they ask about the penis size and reveal their preferences? A guy with a big dick and insatiable libido will not be happy with a girl from the first group. A small penis will not satisfy a woman from the third one. Many people think sexual compatibility is not very important as long as the heads and hearts are in agreement. They are fools. Tell them, girls.
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, November 20th, 2008
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10:30 pm - Protectionism vs. Globalization
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This time the rental company gave us Pontiac Grand Prix. We spent an entire week driving it and never stopped wondering, “How – but seriously, how – could a capitalist, free-market country produce this atrocity?” My husband put it simply: “A firm that made this should go out of business.” Everything was wrong with our rental car. In fact, I am hard-pressed to name anything that was right about it. The doors didn’t close well; the design was awkward; the motor had all the energy of an octogenarian, and the trunk curved under, which made it a magnet for the mud flying from under the wheels yet rendered it inaccessible to the cleaning powers of rain. Every time I tried to take a bag out of the trunk I ended up covered in dirt because the son-of-a-bitch didn’t open easily either. And this is by far not the complete list of our car’s “benefits”.
We spent the previous vacation at the wheels of a Buick — with similar results. Recently my Toyota needed some body work and the insurance company provided another rental car—a Ford. It was brand-spanking-new and not too bad. In fact, compared to all the Buicks and Pontiacs I had the displeasure to drive over the years, it could pass for a Mercedes. Still, it couldn’t even be compared to a Toyota, a Honda, or even a Mazda.
The analysts name the gas prices and the credit crunch as the main problems of the American automakers. On one hand it’s true. GM, Chrysler, and Ford all bet on gas-guzzling monsters, the mechanical equivalents of our gluttonous, obese population. Now all of a sudden nobody wants to buy these “cuties.” Also, the credit branches of these companies that loaned money to the potential buyers and made profits even during the tough times are now suffering from the banking crisis. Yet I would argue that these are not the main problems of our car manufacturers. Let’s face it: American cars, as a rule, are “uncool.” They are popular in those areas of the country that voted for John McCain — home to a significant minority of the American population, and a much poorer minority at that.
Take, for example, a Cadillac. ( Read more... )
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| Wednesday, October 29th, 2008
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10:21 am - Topsy-Turvy
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"So, you are into open relationships, huh?" He folds the pillow into two and tucks it under his left armpit.
"I am not into anything. I study open relationships and all aspects of cheating--mostly the social and psychological ones."
I roll my pillow too, and stuff it under my right arm. We are now facing each other, naked, sweaty, and grinning.
"Great. I have a story for you--about that 'psychological aspect', whatever it is."
"Go ahead. But trust me, I've heard them all."
"Don't rush to judgment, baby. The beginning is boring though, so bear with me."
All right, I'll listen to another one of those "he cheated, she suffered, or she cheated, he suffered" tales. Nothing Tolstoy and Shakespeare haven't told me already. But it's a lazy, hazy, crazy Sunday afternoon, so why not?
"I'll call these guys Jane and Tom, okay?"
"How original. Yeah, sure, okay."
"Jane and Tom met in college, fell in love, dated for a few years, and decided to get married. A couple of months before the wedding she found out Tom had cheated on her--screwed some common acquaintance after a party. The girl felt bad and told Jane. What do you think Jane did?"
"Are you expecting me to say she dumped him? Neh, I know this story. She decided to 'work it out', married him anyway and came to regret it. I told you, I've heard it all before."
"And I told you not to rush to judgment. Well, you are right on the 'work it out' account. Jane took Tom to a shrink. The counselor talked to both of them but wanted a couple of one-on-one sessions with each. After seeing Tom a few times, she called Jane and delivered the verdict. The shrink didn't think she could do all that much. Apparently, she specialized in this whole monogamy vs. open relationship issue--just like you--and felt Tom was not likely to remain monogamous. She told Jane some men don't just need sex--they need sexual variety. They want to bed different women and rarely manage to remain faithful to their spouses. It was possible, but she wouldn't bet on it. She saw these men every day and knew the breed."
"Are you trying to tell me Tom admitted all that?"
"Um, no. He felt sorry and was ready to swear he wouldn't do it again, ever. He said he'd change and believed what he said. He loved Jane and wanted to go on with the relationship. Jane was ready to believe him, of course, but the therapist was smarter. That's why she asked for a few one-on-one sessions with him. She felt certain Tom would stray again as soon as the 'hot' stage of the relationship was over, in a couple years' time, at the most."
"That's some daring therapist."
"Apparently, she knew what she was talking about and wanted to make sure Jane realized what she was getting into. By the way, she also told Jane that Tom loved her. He would make a good husband and father--overall, he was responsible and trustworthy. But ... he would occasionally want some sex on the side. Jane had to make her decision soon, before the wedding. Believe it or not, Jane decided that she loved Tom and still wanted to be his wife. She would agree to marry him, but the marriage would have to be open. He'd have to tell her about his 'adventures' on the side and, as long as it was just sex, she'd live with it. Oh, and she would tell him about hers. Jane didn't want to sleep with other men and had no plans to do so in the future, but an open marriage is an open marriage--they had to agree on these terms at least in theory. And they did."
"Listen, it's all good and well, and I am happy for Jane and Tom, but I study open marriages--such stories are a dime a dozen." I scoot closer and run my finger along his stomach. I can think of a few more interesting things to do than discuss the problems of Janes and Toms.
"No, wait, the most interesting part is still ahead. Give me five more minutes."
"Okay." I suppress a sigh.
"So, Jane and Tom lived together for a few years. He strayed almost every year, sometimes more than once. But he always confessed, and it was never anything more than sex. He just had to scratch an itch. They had a good life together, believe it or not. Tom loved Jane dearly and never hesitated to show it. She was his one and only, and she knew it. Over time she got used to his 'sexcapades'--she thought of them as bouts of some annoying but harmless disease, like the flu. 'Ah, Tom caught the bug again; it's okay, he'll recover in no time.' That kind of thing. After a while, it didn't even bother her. Then, one day, Jane felt like cashing that old check. You know, her bonds had matured."
"Huh?" I know exactly what he means. I just want him to stop throwing these financial terms around all the time.
"Oh, you know exactly what I am talking about, Miss Smiling Fox. Jane met some guy at a conference. She liked the man, but, more importantly, felt due for some fun of her own. Without hesitation, she jumped into bed with him and reported the incident to Tom as soon as she came home. Guess what? Tom didn't talk to her for three days. He looked ashen; his blood pressure shot up. He lost his appetite. The guy was a mess. Every time Jane tried talking to him, he barked back that he didn't want to discuss the matter. After three days he came to his senses and told Jane that, in theory, she had every right to do what she did. He couldn't argue with her or even tell her not to do it again--a deal's a deal. However, he didn't feel like touching her. Oh, I should mention that Tom and Jane had a sparkling sex life; it was one of the highlights of their marriage. They did it at least three times a week and they did it well. Now it all came to a screeching halt. After a month of sexual drought Jane lost almost 10 pounds. She was absolutely miserable without his touch. Tom finally had sex with her in a few weeks, and after a while things were back to normal. A few months later Tom cheated again and, as always, told Jane all about it. She tried to make a joke out of it. Like, she should just stop talking to him and refuse to have sex for a month. Tom looked annoyed and shot back that nobody forced her to talk to him. He won't rape her either. If she doesn't feel like it--fine. Jane bit her tongue. A conflict with a man she loved was not in her plans. Have I bored you yet?"
"No, this is actually interesting. Shakespeare is nervously smoking in the corner."
"See? I told you. Anyway, a few more years went by. Tom continued to stray, although not too often, and always admitted everything. He was also careful not to jump into some full-blown affair--he did love Jane and had no desire to cause problems. In fact, he was one of the best husbands around. He spoiled her. All was great until one day--"
"She did it again."
"You guessed it. Jane met some hot Latino guy at her girlfriend's beach house and couldn't resist. She told Tom as soon as she returned. The same thing happened, more or less. He could barely bring himself to look at her for a few days and didn't touch her for over a month. Jane offered another trip to a shrink, but Tom refused. He said there was no need. He knew Jane was right and he wasn't being fair; he just couldn't help it. He was all for equality between them, but every time he thought of Jane with another man, he turned into an animal, suffocating from jealousy and rage. He didn't even care whether it was 'just sex' or something more serious. It took all his willpower to restrain himself from choking Jane or killing that Latino guy."
"A typical man."
"Jane figured as much. She did some research on the Internet, read a few articles on the topic, and found out that males and females have different biological programming. The evolutionary forces compel men to impregnate as many females as possible. The same evolutionary forces coerce a woman to choose the best available man, someone who would not only have children with her but help her raise them. Men are programmed to be jealous because if a woman is unfaithful, they don't know who the father of their child is. Anyway, Jane realized it wasn't worth it. Equality and fairness were out--for biological reasons."
"Oh, give me a break." I can never keep my mouth shut when talk about fidelity jumps to biology and evolution. "Biology is the excuse for everything these days. Yes, lions may not be monogamous. But a lion doesn't tell his lioness he's out hunting only to go to the next safari and screw another lioness. You can't have it both ways--either act "biologically" and be honest about it, or accept the restraints of the modern society. You know, this Tom is not a very sympathetic figure. He annoys the hell out of me, and I am not even married to him."
"I don't disagree, but keep in mind that Jane accepted him like that. She played by his rules for years."
"That's true. People do whatever they can get away with. So, what happened next?"
"Jane believed everything she read and accepted the situation. However, when Tom strayed again, she got mad."
"No kidding."
"Yep. She was enraged; she felt powerless. Why could she put up with it while he couldn't? Biology be damned. So, she didn't talk to him for a couple of days and went to sleep in another room. She didn't last though--she loved him."
"Pfff. Okay, never mind. What did he do?"
"He didn't do anything. Tom's not stupid; he understood. He also knew Jane wouldn't be mad for long. Everything was back to normal in a few days. After that Tom stayed faithful for quite a while. Jane almost forgot about the whole ordeal."
"Forgot?"
"Well, it's not like your period--you don't expect it at a certain time. They had other things on their mind. First she lost her father, then Tom's brother went bankrupt.... Anyway, after about a year Jane accidentally found a hotel receipt in Tom's pocket while doing laundry. She immediately knew what happened. Tom picked up another girl and had a short fling with her but decided not to tell Jane about it. It was easier that way. Eventually, Jane cheated again too--and did everything in her power to prevent Tom from finding out."
"Wait, how do you know about all this?" The sweat has evaporated from the top of my body and I am suddenly cold.
"That last man she slept with is yours truly. We started talking about being discreet because, God-forbid, if our spouses found out.... I said if my wife knew, she'd leave me immediately, wouldn't even listen to any explanations. Jane responded that she wasn't worried about her husband leaving but didn't want to tax his nervous system. Naturally, I asked what she meant. She told me this story."
"Okay...." I pull the blanket to my shoulders. "So, how does this story end?"
"Nothing much happened after that. They are now like everyone else. They've a decent marriage and pretend they couldn't care less about other people. Their sex life is still pretty good--no complaints. She's pretty sure he sleeps with other women every once in a while but has no desire to know the details. We don't know what Tom thinks, but he doesn't ask questions. Maybe it's all for the better."
"So, you think lying is the best option."
"Who said anything about lying? If a monogamous relationship is not in the cards, the 'don't ask-don't tell' version is the second best. I don't lie to my wife; she's smart enough not to ask questions. Same with Jane and Tom. They had an open marriage, and they closed it. Did a smart thing, too, if you ask me."
"Are you still seeing Jane?"
"Yeah, every once in a while. Come on, I thought you were into open relationships." He winks and tosses away the pillow. "Let's have another round."
He tosses away the blanket and I find myself shivering.
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| Friday, June 13th, 2008
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7:00 pm - Mosaic
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Lucy would have never accepted this position were it not for the cat.
An attractive, personable administrative assistant typing over 100 words a minute could choose where she wanted to work even during the economic slowdown. Within a week of her company's announcing the plans to relocate to another state, Lucy had three interviews scheduled, back-to-back.
She considered the one with Dr. Sagal to be the least promising. The doctor had only one other person working in her office, and Lucy preferred large companies. Plus, she didn't trust shrinks. But the main problem was Dr. Sagal's specialty--she treated victims of childhood sexual traumas and needed a new secretary only because the Archdiocese of Boston put her on the list of approved therapists. After the clergy sex abuse scandal, the number of Dr. Sagal's patients increased dramatically. The Church required detailed documentation on each case and the phone rang non-stop; the overwhelmed office manager requested back up.
The scandal distressed Lucy. What she learned from the newspapers was enough to shake her faith--if not in God, then at least in the Catholic Church. Lucy yearned for the warm and cozy world of unshakable Faith and tried to forget the screaming headlines. She wanted, more than anything, to write off this ongoing nightmare as a mistake, a stand-alone sin committed by two or three deranged individuals. Her mind dithered, balancing on the razor-sharp edge separating conscience and facts. Deference to authority fought with rage, and rage often won, boiling over and threatening her sanity.
Lucy was petrified of meeting the victims of pedophile priests, not to mention seeing them daily. Her world was fragile, and Lucy had no desire to shake it. Nevertheless, Dr. Sagal's office was closest to her home; the hours were the most convenient and flexible, and the promised salary attractive. Lucy decided to go to the interview, in case the other two places turned out to be unacceptable for some reason or other.
Dr. Sagal was a slender redhead, with freckles covering her cute, round face. The upturned nose and plump, rosy cheeks were in sharp contrast to the melancholy, tired eyes, as if somebody mistakenly put a sad mime's eyes on Barbie's face.
She asked the usual questions about Lucy's previous job experience and talked about the responsibilities of the office administrator. Lucy answered politely, all the while thinking she'd take the job at the company where she had interviewed the day before. It was farther away and offered less money, but at least the bland insurance company posed no psychological problems or ethical dilemmas, and the potential boss seemed pleasant enough. Not that Dr. Sagal wasn't nice, but her wise, aching eyes saw through everything, attracting and scaring Lucy at the same time and making her feel like a schoolgirl called to answer a question she didn't know.
At the end of the interview Dr. Sagal offered to show Lucy around the office and introduce her to Jane, the office manager. As they stepped into the hall, a striking cat sauntered out of the bathroom next door. He was pitch-black from the tip of the ears to the base of his tail. The tail itself was bright orange. Lucy stopped.
"Oh my God, I thought I was hallucinating. Is he... naturally like that?"
"Yes, he was born like that. Lucy, meet Janus. He's the talisman of my office, if you will. I hope you're not allergic to cats."
"No, no, I don't have any allergies. Where did you find such a marvel?"
"In an animal shelter. He was a homeless kitty with no pedigree, but with quite a temper. Nobody wanted him. Once I saw him, I knew right away--he's my kind of animal."
"If you don't mind my asking, why did you think that? Did you like his color?"
"Well, probably.... I am like that myself, all black with a red tail." Dr. Sagal smiled, but her eyes remained cheerless.
Janus approached Lucy and rubbed his smooth, silky body against her leg.
"How interesting." Dr. Sagal's eyebrows flew up. "He's very suspicious of new people and rarely approaches strangers."
Dr. Sagal gave Lucy a long look. "I do hope you decide to work here, Lucy. I trust Janus."
Lucy considered her "colors." Was she red or black, white or striped? She concluded she was red with a black tail--the opposite of Janus and his owner. Yet, for some inexplicable reason she trusted that cat, too. Dr. Sagal's sad eyes looked encouraging and kind now--Lucy still felt like a schoolgirl under her gaze, but now she knew the answer to the question.
( Read more... )
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| Saturday, April 5th, 2008
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3:13 pm - I went on a two-week diet, and all I lost were 14 days of my life
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What I remember the most about my senior prom is that I don't remember it at all. I think people were impressed by my outfit. I recall being hungry and having difficulty breathing. That's about it. Everything is in a fog from the moment Mom zipped up the damn dress.
***
When Aunt Gayle emigrated to the United States, I was six years old. By then, it was already apparent that I looked more like Barbra Streisand than my own mother. I was a carbon copy of Dad on the first day of my life and every day thereafter. I doubt Aunt Gayle had forgotten this. My guess is she decided that familial similarities had to be distributed fairly--since my face looked like Dad's, my body had to resemble Mom's. After all, you can't tell much about the womanly curves of a six-year-old, and my teenage-era photographs were all from the neck up. Whatever my aunt's line of thinking was, it doesn't matter now, but in the end she sent me a size-six prom dress.
She did ask, by the way. She wrote to Mom a couple of times inquiring about my dress size, but Mom invariably answered, "Don't spend money on frivolous things." According to my mother, the new immigrants needed all the money they could get. Life in a foreign country was tough without having to worry about sending packages back home. Aunt Gayle countered that she had been living in the US for over ten years and had a much better life there than we did in the Soviet Union. The least she could do was send her niece a prom dress as a graduation present. Mom would have none of it: her daughter didn't need a fancy dress, and Aunt Gayle had to save for her retirement.
As far as pride and stubbornness are concerned, the only person who can give my mother a run for her money is her own sister. "The donkey tribe" is what my father called them. Dad should have been the last one making comments--I didn't get my ass from Mom, after all. Well, I did get it from Mom, but his, not mine. My own mother had always been slender. I remember her, in her mid-40's, strolling along a beach in a bikini and turning every male head.
My mother married my father when she was 28. Seventeen years later, when I turned 14, Mom pulled her wedding dress out of storage--she wanted to "modernize" the light pink sheath and give it to me as a birthday present. It still fit her, but it didn't fit me. Mom sighed, cut the skirt off, and used the material to enlarge the top part just enough to fit my rapidly growing bust. The result was a nice blouse, and I enjoyed wearing it for two years. By the time I turned 16, it was too small.
I should note, emphatically, that I never envied Mom's figure. In addition to inheriting Dad's looks, I got his happy-go-lucky personality and the ultimate gift of being comfortable in my own skin. My mesomorphic, muscular body with its large hips and D-cup breasts suited me just fine. I had the personality to go with it, and a skinny Sara wouldn't be the Sara everyone knew. Plus, I was a competitive cross-country skier in high school, and one can't be a good cross-country skier sans massive quads. Without an ounce of extra fat on my body, I wore size 8-10 clothes and appreciated my shape and my strength. That is, until the day I unpacked the damn prom dress.
"Why? Why couldn't you give Aunt Gayle my size?" I wailed upon laying my eyes on this marvel.
Since then, I've seen much more beautiful dresses. But in Moscow of the late 80's it was a treasure from the caves of Ali Baba, a miracle woven and sewn together to make my dream a reality, to turn me from Cinderella into a Princess with one wave of the American Godmother's credit card. Nobody in my class had anything even remotely like it. I had to fit into the dress, at any cost.
Grandma looked discouraged. "Your skeleton is not size six." She shook her head. "And it's a small size six, too--almost like a four. We can't make it bigger--they left nothing in the seams. Listen, forget it. You won't fit into it. We'll buy you another one. It's just a dress."
Oh no. I'd rather die, become a nun, or stay home from the prom. In that order.
For the first time in my life, I started dieting. Well, maybe "dieting" is a fancy term for starving myself, in this case. I passed the final exams on sheer willpower, feeling nauseous, lightheaded, and constantly hungry. But I did fit into the dress.
The whole family took part in zipping it up. Every seam was ready to burst with any careless movement. I was afraid to breathe. Grandma kept mumbling something about protruding vertebrae and sticking out ribs, all the while cursing Mom for her stubborn unwillingness to give Gayle the right size. Mom brushed her off with a snort and kept pulling the zipper. She anchored her right foot against the bed and used her entire body mass to perform the task, while saying many nice things about the women on Dad's side of the family, with their childbearing-ready hips, size-D boobs, and dominant genes.
"At least they are healthy," retorted Dad, holding the sides of the dress together to aid Mom in her zipping task.
"It's too late to argue about my body composition," I grumbled before taking one last full-chest breath and taking off, feeling like I was about to be blown off by the wind.
And that's all I remember. My brain, already weakened by lack of glucose, adamantly refused to function without oxygen. I didn't care about the prom. All I wanted was to go home, take the stupid dress off, and eat something. The desire grew as the hours progressed. Everyone went to some party afterwards, but I was home before midnight. I tore off the hated frock, stuffed myself with everything I could find in the fridge and went to bed.
My classmates, in their plain dresses, walked the streets of the city all night, sang songs, kissed, and saw the dawn over the Moscow River. They spent the next month telling me all about it. I spent the next month thinking about what might have been.
My senior prom is not a blank spot in my conscience. It's a gaping black hole, an emptiness I am acutely aware of because I can never fill it. This lack of memory is one of the most unforgettable things in my life. It's also memorable for one other reason--it started me on a dieting cycle. After the prom, I spent years trying to be that elusive size six again and fit some glossy magazine ideal. And every time, with each disappearing pound, I've lost a part of my life, a part I could have spent walking, laughing, watching, or writing--anything but counting calories and feeling hungry.
It took a lot of growing up to put two and two together and to refuse creating another black hole in my memory. I am still learning to appreciate my body. It can scale a black diamond slope (and leave the girls with skinny legs in snowy dust), run ten miles, have multiple orgasms or carry around a sick 45-pound kid. It pushed out two 8.5 lbs babies, each in less than five minutes. It almost never fails me. It's one of the healthiest and strongest bodies I know, and the fact that it refuses to weigh less than 145 lbs doesn't bother me anymore. All the Kate Mosses and Audrey Hepburns of this world can take their scrawny size-two frames and shove them. I am at the point of my life where whoever doesn't like the sight of my ass can look elsewhere. And yet, still, sometimes...
...sometimes I wish I could relive my senior prom.
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| Monday, March 10th, 2008
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11:16 am - Who's the fairest of them all?
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We used to love watching beauty contests, both American and world-wide. The whole family would gather around the TV and prepare for the spectacle. Yes, the whole family--the best part of watching a beauty pageant is discussing the contestants with others.
Miss Brazil is stunning. Miss South Carolina is absolutely gorgeous. Miss Cameroon is different, but in a good way. My favorite is Miss Nevada. Mine is Miss New Zealand. Oh, come on, you can't deny that Miss Ukraine is the most beautiful here!
Wait! You've got to be kidding me! None of them made the top ten! Are the judges nuts? Are they blind? Well, I have to admit, Miss India does look great, I just didn't pay attention to her before. But Miss Croatia? Please, she's not even conventionally pretty.
She made the top five! Can you believe this? I can think of five people in my immediate surroundings who are way prettier than that chick. OK, at least she is not in the top three. They've got some sense, thank heavens. And the winner is.... Come on, please, there is only one truly beautiful woman remaining, isn't it obvious? Who is judging this thing anyway?
Too bad we didn't pay attention when the host introduced the judges. The most important part, and we didn't care. Maybe judge #1 has a thing for Asians. Judge #2 prefers slender, waif-like blonds. Judge #3 will vote for Miss Idaho no matter what, because Miss Idaho wants to fight Hodgkin's disease, and the judge's brother is dying of it. Judge #4 thinks thin women project an unhealthy image and wants the winner to have curves. The French judge doesn't like Americans. The American judge doesn't want to support Hugo Chavez and won't vote for the Venezuelan beauty. Both dislike Lukashenka's Belorussian regime. Judge #5 is an Arab and won't vote for Miss Israel. Miss Vermont said something about Muslims that was deemed somewhat politically incorrect. And Russians just nationalized a company that belonged to Donald Trump, so, naturally, the Russian girl doesn't have a chance.
Everyone thinks Miss Virginia is drop-dead gorgeous. The problem is, she is a classical Southern Belle, blond and blue-eyed, and the look is outdated. Plus, Virginia has won three contests in the last seven years. Miss Rhode Island is Hispanic, and we've never had a Hispanic Miss America before, but Rhode Island won last year. An African Miss World would be great, but the most beautiful of them is from Sudan, and the last thing we want is to encourage the Sudanese government in any way.
Classical music and ballet always score top points. Pop music and circus acts are less worthy somehow. And God help you if your talent is writing or painting. God help you also if you are not artistic at all, even if you are the most beautiful, smartest, and most caring woman in the world.
No.... No! She's the runner-up. The imbeciles! Miss World is so ... blah. There were at least ten girls at the beginning who looked better. Except, it's not about beauty after all, is it? All these judges supported their own candidates and cancelled each other out. The winner is Miss Canada--nobody has any beef against her. Maybe she was number two or three on several ballots, but all number ones were way down at the bottom of the other judges' ballots. None of it makes sense, and none ever will. At least now we have something to discuss at the water cooler the next day .
***
What kept us coming back, year after year? For starters, they did get it right occasionally. Maybe in my personal opinion Miss Brazil looked better, but there was no denying that Miss India--Miss Universe--was a world-class beauty. We were happy; our faith in the fairness of the whole process was restored. Next year, they' mangle it again.
We forgave them. We always did. The spectacle itself was worth it, and watching the prettiest girls eliminated in favor of the more plain ones was a kind of perverse fun in itself. We laughed, we jeered, we patiently waited for the next time they get it right.
One year we missed a pageant. And another one. The next year we only watched one of them. Then we stopped altogether. It had nothing to do with how superficial the whole idea was or what the bathing suit competition said about the image of women in our society. The fickleness, the unpredictability, the sheer silliness of the whole judging process grated on our nerves. We didn't want to watch the trumped-up results of some behind-the-curtain power plays and political shenanigans--we wanted an honest beauty and talent contest. We didn't get it, so we took our time and money elsewhere and switched to sports, where the better player almost always wins.
P.S. This is inspired by the writing contests I've been entering. Seems like all contests are the same...
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| Sunday, February 17th, 2008
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10:56 pm - The Nail
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I wasn't familiar with the Christmas fairy tale of the American suburbs back then. We had arrived two weeks earlier, and after drab, gray Moscow of 1990, this little town North of Boston seemed like Disneyland.
Alternating hopping on one leg with limping on two, and wincing with pain, I still found the energy to look at the glowing snowmen and the generous garlands of colorful lights hanging off the roofs and trees. I marveled at the reindeer, pulling bright sleighs with blown-up Santas, the lit-up Nativity scenes, and even the rare menorahs in otherwise dark windows. The Christmas lights distracted from the pain, at least somewhat, and spared my husband the exasperating question, "Are we there yet?"
A brisk walk from our house to the nearest hospital would take at least half an hour on healthy legs, but on one leg and a promise it was at least an hour-long trudge.
What a silly ailment to have - an ingrown toenail. Could this get any more ridiculous? My toenails had nestled deep in my toes for as long as I could remember, and had grown right into the flesh since my early childhood. As a little girl, I learned to cut them out of there with the upmost care. Pick up the tip with some not-too-sharp-but-pointy tool, hold it there, and cut. Then hop around, pain free, for another two-three weeks, and repeat. I never had a problem with those toenails until about a week after coming to the US.
Maybe I hadn't washed the tools well, or had cut too deep, but the toe had swollen to about twice its size. At first, it was red, but then turned blue, and the pain went from annoying to "it's killing me" in a matter of days. Walking was torture. I kept waiting for the pain to go away. One day, two days, five days ... it wasn't getting any better. My husband and mother-in-law began to worry in earnest and insisted I visit a doctor.
What doctor? We were refugees and had just received our Medicaid cards, but didn't know what to do with them. After a couple of phone calls, I found out two things. One: the doctors who treat feet are called podiatrists here. Two: the country was in recession, and the health care funding had been cut. Medicaid no longer covered podiatrists. We didn't have any money.
I panicked and called my friends in Brighton, MA, to ask for advice. "Go to the closest ER," they said, "but in the evening, when the doctors' offices are closed. Tell them your pain is intolerable and you need urgent care. They'll do something, and Medicaid will pay for it."
Great advice, except Brighton is a part of Boston, and has trains and buses galore, as well as a few hospitals here and there. We, on the other hand, were in Medford, and the only bus that stopped anywhere near our house went in the opposite direction from the closest hospital. People drive around that town in their own cars--you can't live in the suburbs and not have a car. We would have a car, of course, we sure would, in another few months, but at the moment....
At the moment, howling and limping, I finally stumbled into the ER, elated to find warmth, not to mention a couch. It was approximately 8:30 in the evening.
The receptionist looked at me a bit strangely. An ingrown toenail? Medicaid? Have a seat. She didn't have to ask me twice. It was heaven--to sit down, lift the inflamed leg up, and rest the other one, tired from doing the double duty. My husband dropped on the couch next to me, exhausted. For most of the trip, I hung on to him for dear life. We tried not to think about going back home. In any case, I'd leave this place "fixed"--cured. Nothing else mattered. We melted into the warm cushions.
I didn't know at the time that Emergency Rooms often serve as sewers of the American Healthcare system. It's the last refuge of the poor who don't have health insurance and can't afford to go to a doctor. ER's of the major city hospitals can't or won't charge them, so off they go, en masse, to the nearest hospital, with any and all problems ranging from ear infections to gonorrhea. The city hospitals are long used to it--their ER waiting rooms are filled to the capacity almost every day, especially after dark.
Medford, however, is not part of the city. It's a middle-class town, filled with colonials, new cars, lit up snowmen, and manicured lawns. All faces in the ER that evening were white, prim, and ... different. I was an obvious outsider. I didn't care--it was warm, I had my couch, and the overhead TV set was showing something about the Soviet Union. Back then, I could only understand English if someone talked directly to me, preferably slowly, but comprehending an average CNN report was still out of the question. Fortunately, CNN repeated the same things over, and over, and over again. Watching CNN for hours turned out to be the best method of learning English. Whatever I didn't get at first became clear after several repetitions.
It only took four almost-identical news flashes to realize that Gorbachev had reshuffled his cabinet once again, and Shevardnadze was no longer the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He left for his home country of Georgia (where he would be President for many years to come). Did I get that right? If not, I hoped to understand it better when CNN returned to the topic.
They did come back to it, again and again. I was beginning to hear and comprehend every word, separately. The clock showed 10 p.m., then 11 p.m. People came and went; even those who arrived an hour or two after me were long gone.
After about three hours, we approached the receptionist again and politely inquired how long we still had to wait. She looked me over, head to toe, and said, "Well, you've probably been waiting enough. They'll call you soon." I understood every word, but didn't get the meaning.
"What did she mean by 'enough'?" I asked my husband when we returned to the couch.
"I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe if you have chest pains, ten minutes is enough, but for an ingrown toenail it's three hours."
"But the place is empty! There's no one else in the waiting room. In all the time we've been here, I saw three or four patients, and they've been gone for at least an hour."
"How am I supposed to know? She said 'enough'...."
They called me in another thirty minutes. The nurse, who immediately reminded me of Ratched from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," took my vital signs and left. I sat on the hospital bed for another hour. When a doctor finally showed up, it was well past midnight. The doctor took my toe between his thumb and forefinger and looked at it for about 30 seconds with an almost squeamish expression on his face.
"You have an inflammation of tissues around your nail, but there's no gangrene. You've no business being in an Emergency Room. Go home and see a podiatrist first thing in the morning."
"But ... I can't go home." I felt my heart jump to my throat. "I walked here. I barely made it. I can't go back."
"You have no business being in an Emergency Room," he repeated slowly as if I were deaf or dumb. "There is no 'emergency' here. It's something a podiatrist should address--a doctor who specializes in foot problems."
"I can't! I won't! I am not leaving!" I squealed. "I have Medicaid, and they don't cover podiatrists. I don't have a car; I can't walk. I was told you'd fix my toe. I won't leave. I won't go!"
I stopped to catch my breath. The expression on the doctor's well-groomed face turned from irritated to disgusted. The nurse's face reflected nothing but horror. I didn't give a damn--I wasn't leaving until they helped me.
"I will cut your toenail now, but please remember not to go to the ER with problems like this," the doctor said icily.
He left, but returned a few minutes later with a tray of instruments and a filled syringe. He took the syringe and plunged the needle into my toe, barely looking where or how he did it. I shrieked. After making me wait for that shot for over four hours, the doctor paused for less than ten minutes before proceeding to cut my nail--the anesthesia barely worked. I tried not to look at my foot and not to cry. Instead, I looked at my husband, at the nurse, at the doctor.... The expression of disgust never left his face. He took something that looked like huge pliers and quickly hacked half of my toenail. I couldn't help but scream. He then put some ointment on my wound, hastily dressed it, and got up.
"Don't come here again."
The door slammed shut.
By the time I hopped home, it was half past two. The anesthesia wore off and the foot was throbbing with pain. Swelling would subside a few days later, revealing a permanently mangled toe. The nail never "ingrew" at the tip again--it attacked my skin with its entire length, digging into the tender flesh on the left side. I had to cut it from the nail bed upward, lest it grew sideways and made walking all but impossible. It was hard to do this by myself, and the already-disfigured toe was now often inflamed. It would be years before I could afford a podiatrist.
However, that night I didn't know any of it. I dropped on the mattress--we didn't have a sofa--in front of our TV and turned it on. One of the public channels was showing Gone with the Wind. The foot hurt like crazy; we didn't have any medicine; we didn't have money to buy any medicine. I couldn't sleep anyway, so I started watching the movie. On the screen, starving Vivien Leigh was rabidly stuffing herself with food. Sated, but deeply unsatisfied with what and how she ate, she stood up, dirty and humiliated, and shook her fists at the skies. "I will never be hungry again!"
current mood:  nostalgic
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(18 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, December 17th, 2007
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3:24 pm - The Cemetery
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Fences around the plots
blocked the way
many were covered with weeds
fallen branches and trash
littered the paths
some gravestones had faded
beyond recognition
After three hours
my legs were scraped
bruised
stung
by overabundant nettles
People
people everywhere
They come in any weather
by buses and trains
from all over
carrying buckets and mops
to clean the graves of their loved ones
nobody else will
The Jewish section looks forlorn
The Jews are gone
perennial nomads
leaving our dead behind
The graves were not numbered
We only had the section number
We combed through the section
the size of a city block
time and again
but found no sign of the Grandpa's grave
After years of neglect
the gravestone had probably
sunk into the ground
like so many others around it
Then the weeds rushed in
American cemeteries
with their immaculate grounds
and clean gravestones
are ideal places
to quietly converse with the departed
to meditate
Easily accessed family history
like dusting off a photo album.
In Russia
I had to tear through
waist-high nettles and spider webs
bitching and moaning
while washing the stones
and weeding the plots
If I found them
The gravestones were screaming at me
calling
crying for attention
I hated to leave them again
But I had to go home
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3:19 pm - From Athens to Jerusalem
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A teacher I had in college once said that the whole body of Western Philosophy can be subdivided into two groups: materialists and materialists-plus. The former views the world as a collection of atoms in vacuum, a constellation of objects we can touch and forces we can measure. The members of the first group analyze the relationships between these objects as well as our perceptions of them. The latter faction sees our universe as pretty much the same thing, plus something we are accustomed to calling “God.” Their world is incomplete without a higher power, the omnipotent force, the intelligence we cannot fully grasp. God is a part of their worldview, an integral component of their philosophy, and the main focus of their writings. They start out by exploring the relationship between the material world and God; only afterwards, once this matter is resolved to their satisfaction, can they focus on examining the material world itself.
The first group sprang out of Athens, the second—out of Jerusalem.
Athens gave us secular science. This is not to say that science was invented there, but in Athens it finally took flight, became a respectable discipline, and flourished. Athenians were the first to systematically study the world outside of any religious reference. Athens also gave us Prometheus, a Titan who challenged the gods by stealing their fire and giving it to humans. Prometheus did not rise to the level of gods, but he came close. He knew he would be severely punished, but still did what he had to do.
The Ancient Greeks created a myth in which a mortal outsmarted the gods, defied them, and conquered the forces of nature. Arguably, the golden age of science was a direct result of this attitude toward the world: those who lived on Earth shook their fingers at the inhabitants of the skies.
Without Athens, there would be little or no scientific progress in the world--no electricity, no antibiotics, no space missions, and no river dams. "Athenians" never accept the sky as their limit and never explain anything in terms of creationism. If they don’t know the answer to a complex question--how our world was created, for example--they search for it instead of pacifying themselves with references to divinity. If they or their loved ones are dying from a terrible disease, they look for a cure rather than acquiesce to their fate as a part of God’s will. Often, they end up paying dearly for their defiance, but over and over again, the descendants of Athens challenge the status quo, human or divine, and steal the fire.
Jerusalem gave us humility, morality, spirituality, and the understanding of how little we know. Jerusalem gave us “The Book of Job”--one the greatest literary creations in the history of humanity. The man praised his God when he was healthy, wealthy, and happy. Job continued to praise God when he was a sick pauper, having lost everything he once had, everything that made his life worthwhile, including his family. He wailed, he cried, he complained, he asked questions, but he never challenged his Creator. Who am I to challenge God? I am nothing but a worm before my Master, and it’s not my place to tell him what to do with his lowly creations. If he punished me, there must have been a reason. God’s ways are unknown to man...
One doesn’t have to open the Bible to read the Book of Job. We read it on the Internet almost daily. I was molested as a child, beaten by my mother, hated by my family, and abused by my husband. I have an incurable neurological disease, and my only child just lost his leg in the war. But boy, DO I LOVE GOD! If I am poor and sick, I thank God for the love of my family. If I am lonely and miserable, I thank God for my health. If my loved one is ill, I pray for her health. If she is cured – thank God for performing this miracle! If not, God must have wanted her to be near him because she is such a wonderful person; I am sure she is happy up there. We’ll see each other soon anyway. If I have cancer, I pray and hope to be cured. If I am cured, I thank God for answering my prayers. If I learn that my situation is hopeless, I praise God for all he’s given me and for the love I’ve known. And if I die alone, poor, and miserable, I still thank God for...something. For the air I breathe. No matter how bad my life is, there is someone out there who is even more miserable. I have nothing, absolutely nothing, no health, no money, and no love in my life, but I still have my God.
Job lives on and will live on forever. He has many names, Hope, Faith, and Love among them. Job is humankind’s last rope to sanity as well as its eternal symbol of humility.
Like two snakes on a caduceus, the traditions of Athens and Jerusalem are intertwined in the history of Western Civilization--often tightly entangled, sometimes drifting apart, but never separating for long. Yet they influence more than our civilization as a whole—they form the core of each and every one of us. Any time I open a philosophy book, I first ask myself whether the author is from Athens or Jerusalem. It’s the key to one’s worldview. Tell me what city you are from, and I’ll tell you who you are.
One of the hardest tasks in life is learning to listen to those who came from a different city, to open our hearts and minds to their arguments. If we tried to put ourselves in the Job’s or Prometheus’ shoes, we could see what each tradition has to offer us as human beings. Otherwise, what’s the point of reading philosophy books? It’s easy—in theory.
I try, as hard as I can, to understand them. I know how much I still don’t know. No, wait, I don’t know, and can’t know, how much I don’t know. I listen to the arguments of the philosophers of the Jerusalem school again and again, and sometimes I even comprehend what they are saying. I walk, I creep, I crawl along this endless road from Athens to Jerusalem. I open my heart to the place that is supposed to be closer to me by birthright. I concentrate. It’s close—one more step, and I am there, in the ancient city of my ancestors.
But over and over again an invisible force returns me to Athens, to where I belong, to Prometheus—far, far, as far as possible from Job.
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| Friday, November 30th, 2007
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12:08 am - An Almost-Funny Story
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To all my Russian friends: you can skip the paragraphs at the beginning that go into what it was like to be Jewish/religious in the USSR. I put it there for the benefit of those who don't know. As it turned out, I did the right thing - most had no clue.
In the late 80's, an Orthodox Jewish man named Lenya organized a small private Hebrew study group in his apartment in Moscow. All ten of his students desperately wanted to leave the crumbling empire still called, at the time, the Soviet Union. Unsure of our emigration prospects, we considered Israel our most likely final destination and prepared ourselves for what lay ahead by learning the language.
The times were changing fast, but studying Hebrew was still a rather risky proposition. We never walked in groups of more than two or three, tried to keep our voices low during the classes, and made sure to carry our passports with us at all times. Soviet passports were de facto National ID cards. The infamous "fifth item" on the passport (after the first, middle, and last name as well as the date of birth) asked for one's ethnicity. Ours said, "Jew." This designation had nothing to do with Judaism--in fact, converting to Christianity would not matter one bit. You could be an Orthodox Christian priest or a devout atheist and a member of the Communist Party - once a Jew, always a Jew. I never set foot inside a synagogue growing up, yet I always knew which colleges would accept me and which wouldn't. Most good ones were in the latter category.
Still, our lives were a walk in the park compared to those of the religious--Orthodox--Jews. They existed outside of the system, surviving on whatever Western charities sent their way. A man with a kippah (yarmulke) on his head had no hope of finding a half-decent job or getting into a college or even a trade school. Kosher food was non-existent in the Soviet Union. If you were stuck somewhere far from home, you went hungry. Moreover, most Soviet schools and colleges had a six-day schedule--we studied every Saturday unless it was a holiday or an official break. Not attending the school on Saturdays was grounds for multiple disciplinary actions. Some once-a-week classes were held only on Saturdays, and missing all of them automatically meant failure.
Any openly religious person was an outcast, but Jews arguably bore the brunt of it. An upstanding citizen could lose everything overnight if a member of his or her immediate family decided to "get religious." Moreover, a religious child could ruin not only the careers of his or her parents, but the career prospects for all the siblings as well.
One day, our Hebrew teacher lost his voice and asked a friend to substitute for him. The friend, I'll call him Vlad, was an Orthodox Jew like Lenya and knew Hebrew very well. He was also highly articulate, funny, and engaging. We thoroughly enjoyed his lesson and almost wished he were our regular teacher.
A young man from our group had taken a keen interest in me early on in our studies and walked with me to the Metro station after every class. That day was no exception. We were strolling and talking about phenotypes when I said something about Vlad not looking the least bit Jewish - he had a typical Slavic face.
"He's not really Jewish," replied my friend. "Well, he is one quarter Jewish, to be exact."
"How do you know?" I was surprised.
"A friend of mine went to college with him. We have several common friends, actually."
"How did he get into Judaism?"
"Not sure. He met some religious guys while in college; I guess they had quite an influence on him. I don't know the details. I do know what it cost his family."
"What happened?"
In my then-eighteen years of living in the USSR, I had heard enough "woe is me" Jewish stories to last me a lifetime. Heck, my own father was a Holocaust survivor. But this one was different.
Vlad's maternal grandfather was a Jew. He left the family when his child could barely walk, and the jilted wife raised her daughter an ardent Anti-Semite, never missing a chance to call the guy who dumped her every name in the book, "that bloody kike" being the nicest of them.
Vlad's dad was a 100% Slavic man who worked for the KGB or some related organization. He didn't like Jews either, but was far less passionate about it than his wife.
Vlad grew up in a good family. His parents loved each other and were, by the Soviet standards, very financially secure. They had two wonderful children--a girl and a boy. First a precocious kid, then a promising young man, Vlad was easily accepted into one of the best colleges in Moscow--one that did not accept Jews. He excelled in all subjects and was one of the best students of his class. Smart, handsome, and easygoing, he was his parents' pride and joy.
No one could tell where and how he met the Orthodox Jews. Knowing what I know now, I have some suspicions, but the real story remains a mystery. Over time, Vlad grew more and more fascinated with Judaism. According to the Jewish law, he wasn't a Jew and had to go through ger tzedek--a very involved conversion procedure. Judaism is arguably the hardest of the major world religions to convert into--it takes months, if not years. Vlad had to learn Hebrew, Torah, and the Jewish law; he was a regular at the synagogue and active in various religious and Zionist organizations. Obviously, he also had to get circumcised--not an easy procedure for a twenty-year-old man. And he had to keep kosher--any food sold in Russian stores or served in Russian restaurants was now off limits.
Soon, the KGB took a keen interest in his activities. They offered to turn a blind eye on his lifestyle if he sold out his friends. He refused. They talked to him, and talked to him again, gradually progressing from reasoning to threats, but all to no avail. One day the college administrators simply kicked him out - in the middle of the senior year, with no hope of continuing his education elsewhere. Almost immediately, his father lost his job and his Communist Party membership. He suffered a heart attack and barely survived. Vlad's mother had a nervous breakdown and ended up in a hospital. His sister, who was finishing high school that year, lost all hope overnight of getting into the college of her dreams.
The proud firstborn broke all contacts with the family that didn't want anything to do with him at that point anyway, and went to live with his friends. He worked odd jobs when he could, ate whatever he could find, and stayed with whomever was willing to take him in that week.
Our walk was long over, but the conversation wasn't. We stood near the Metro entrance and kept talking about faith, about God, and about choice. What did it take to forego everything one knew and loved for His sake? How strong did a man have to be, how strong did his faith have to be? We felt sorry for Vlad, for his parents, as Anti-Semitic as they were, for his sister, and for all of us, forced to live in the inhumane monster of a country that condemned people to choosing between God and family, God and meaningful employment, God and normal life. Vlad's story reached to the very bottom of my soul and stayed there. For a while.
Fast forward to the summer of 1993. The guy who walked me to the Metro station had been my husband for over three years, and we had been living in the US for two and a half years. Now we were in Israel visiting some friends. We stood in front of a weird-looking ATM machine in Tel-Aviv trying to figure out which buttons to press in order to get some much-needed shekels out of the damn box.
"Hi," said somebody behind us. We turned and saw a curly-haired guy smiling ear to ear. I had no idea who he was - this man didn't resemble anyone I knew. After a few seconds, my husband suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, Vlad, hi!"
Vlad? What Vlad? I must have looked perplexed because my husband said, "Oh, come on, Sara, remember Vlad? He taught us Hebrew a couple of times when Lenya got sick."
Oh. I remembered Vlad. Except this guy still didn't look like anyone I knew. There was no kippah on his head. He wore shorts--short shorts. The man looked like an Orthodox Jew as much as I looked like an Indian Chief. The Vlad I recalled was a solemn, yet intense, guy with the millennia of Jewish suffering reflected in his sorrowful gaze. I wouldn't have recognized him if my life depended on it.
While I stood there, dumbstruck, my husband chatted with Vlad about this and that and told him about our plans for that evening--we were going to see some old college friends of his, the ones both men knew. As it turned out, they had invited Vlad, too, so we parted relatively quickly promising each other to catch up in a few hours.
And catch up we did. First we brought Vlad up to date on our lives. Then it was our turn to ask questions. When did he immigrate to Israel? How did he like it there? What was he doing, career-wise? Did he have a wife? Any children?
He left Russia as soon as he could, in 1989, found his new home country just great, worked for some private business, and flew to Europe on a regular basis. He was happy. No family though, and no intentions of acquiring one.
The hostess found some plausible excuse to take us aside.
"Don't ask Vlad about the family."
"Why?"
"You know he is gay, right?"
"He is WHAT?"
"What, what, he doesn't like girls, that's what. He has boyfriends, but changes them all the time. Don't ask me who he's with--we are pretty confused at this point. I think he dates a few at a time."
"Wait, what about religion?"
"Religion?" She laughed. "We haven't seen him in a kippah for years! He spends most of his free time in gay bars and leads a very ... how can I say it nicely ... unholy life. That is to say his way of life is anything but kosher."
We walked back in silence.
As far as I know, Vlad didn't stay in Israel for long. He went to live in Western Europe and completely forgot all things Jewish.
Somewhere in Moscow lives an elderly couple - a man with a very weak heart and a chronically depressed woman who pops pills like candy. They once had a son.
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| Saturday, November 17th, 2007
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11:14 pm - ***
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The watercolors
are unyielding
the brushstrokes look askew
it's no use
I try charcoal
then oils
they're gaudy
Instead
I trace
somebody else's contours
with a marker
my hands are shaking
they are tired
from climbing this
pigheaded learning curve
too steep for comfort
I'm writing poetry again
heart, canvas, 10X12
Unknown master
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11:11 pm - The Dragon
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By the time Peter Zaslav became the mayor of Grontsel, the town had been in decline for many years. The factory employing half of the workforce had moved to another state, and the service sector took a hit next. Aside from a pretty lake and a luscious forest, the area held no attractions.
Nobody remembered who first dredged up the dragon legend, but the idea to use it to attract tourists definitely belonged to Mayor Zaslav.
According to legend, a dragon who lived in the Grontsel forest five hundred years ago terrorized the town by taking a young virgin every month in exchange for peace. The girls disappeared without a trace, but the rest of the population lived without fear. Then, one day, the town ran out of young virgins and the king had to sacrifice his own daughter to the fire-breathing beast.
Fortunately for the princess, she was about to marry a knight from a neighboring kingdom. The brave knight refused to accept his bride's sad fate and started gearing up for the battle. He fought with the dragon and won, freeing the princess and ridding Grontsel of the monster.
Mayor Zaslav managed to extract so much profit from this trite medieval fable, that Grontsel rose like a Phoenix from the ashes, turning from an all-but-forgotten rural swamp into a vibrant tourist town, a regional gem. For several years, the town figured prominently on every tourist guide of note as one of the top places to visit.
Every summer, The Princess and the Dragon festival drew large crowds. A brave knight fought a fire-breathing dragon and pretty girls dressed in medieval costumes told of their tragic fate. The "Fearless Knight" pub sponsored sword-fighting tournaments on the central square of the town. The princess-led tours of the local museum were a big hit and inevitably ended inside the gift shop that offered everything from swords to knight armor to toy dragons and dolls dressed as princesses.
The mayor secured the rights to the Grontsel's version of events making sure nobody pirated the story and stole his thunder. He then sold these rights to Disney. The town spent the windfall on building a toy and souvenir factory as well as its own publishing house that printed tour guides and books about princesses and dragons.
The middle school students staged the famous fairy tale almost annually, wisely omitting the part about the virginity requirement. Every year, the town's schools held a writing contest for the best interpretation of the old story. The winning paper, always titled "The Princess and the Dragon", was prominently displayed at the museum.
The town lived and breathed its legend while the mayor won re-election after re-election by landslides. During the last election he finally met his match. Greg Opposs ran on the economy diversification platform, suggesting investing the resources into various industries rather than focusing the entire economy on one tired and overused legend. It made a lot of sense, but, as charming and business-friendly as he was, Opposs was still a gamble. The incumbent won, but by a much smaller margin than he was accustomed to.
***
Annie Zaslav disappeared on the second day of the annual festival. She wasn't the first girl who'd gone missing - Ellen Koch and Nancy Magruders vanished before her. Nobody worried about Ellen; she had always been nothing but trouble and must have run away. Even her parents assumed she'd be back as soon as she ran out of money and didn't attempt to search for the young woman. In Nancy's case, nobody doubted for a minute that her perpetually drunk, rabble-rousing stepfather killed the poor girl in a fit of rage. In fact, the neighbors had heard him yelling at her the night before and barraged the police with phone calls demanding they jail the old son of a bitch immediately.
However, nobody knew what to make of Annie's disappearance. She wasn't pretty or popular and spent most of her time buried in books. She had never gotten into trouble nor had she ever run away from home. She did not do or say anything unusual in the preceding months. To make matters worse, she was the mayor's daughter and lived in a well-secured mansion. Her younger brother, Peter, known to everyone as PJ, told the investigators that "a Batman" took his sister. Apparently some commotion outside woke PJ up; he got up, ran to the window, and saw a figure of a man with wings disappearing into the night sky.
PJ had an overactive imagination and was only six years old, so at first nobody took his story seriously. It took on a new meaning when a neighbor of Koch's told the police that he also saw a big human-like bird the night Ellen disappeared. He was smoking on the porch at the time. He thought himself hallucinating after having one beer too many the previous evening, and promptly forgot about the strange vision the next day. PJ's story brought the memory back.
Grontsel's Chief of Police, Mr. John Reiches, gave the mayor daily updates on the investigation progress. Three days after Annie's disappearance, he drove to his old friend's office and asked to talk to him one-on-one. Peter Zaslav looked ashen - he had not slept or eaten for over seventy-two hours. Still, he tried to keep his composure in front of John. He showed the Chief to his office and offered him a seat.
"Well? Do we have anything?"
"I am not sure how to bring this up, Peter..."
"Cut it out," interrupted the mayor. "Just say it. I've no time for courtesies."
"Okay. We talked to just about every kid in our high school as well as with the girls' personal physicians. It looks like all three were virgins. According to their classmates, the most optimistic scenario would suggest having one virgin per six to eight female high school students. You know how the young people are today."
"What are you saying, John?"
"I am saying that the chance of three young virgins disappearing in three months is slim to none. I mean, randomly disappearing. I mean, it's not random. Well, you know what I mean." The chief pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped sweat off his forehead.
"No, I have no idea what you mean, Chief. Are we dealing with some sexual pervert who likes virgins?" The mayor could not understand why John was sweating while he himself was chilled to the bone.
"No, Peter, that's not what I meant. You, of all people .... Don't you see? A virgin a month. Ellen disappeared on May 1st, Nancy - on June 1st, and Annie -- on July 1st. Add to it these weird batman sightings, and if I didn't at least entertain the idea of somebody trying to revive the whole dragon legend, I'd be a very bad cop."
"So, what is our next step?"
"For starters, we have to figure out who could profit from this dragon business."
***
"If you don't stop screaming, I'll leave you here all alone. You are a smart girl, aren't you? Come on, I am not going to hurt you. We can get along - the cave is big enough." He gave Annie a look that made her shudder. To her surprise, it also calmed her down.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Does it matter? You can call me Dragon."
"If you are a dragon, then I'm a fairy princess."
"Have you seen a live dragon? Have you seen a photograph of one?"
"Dragons are part of our mythology. You know that as well as I do. Anyway, if you like walking around in that idiotic getup, go ahead."
"It's not a getup, Annie. This is how I look. Mythology doesn't come out of nowhere - we appear every five hundred years. We are not responsible for the way we are pictured though. Would you rather I looked like that silly fire-breathing crocodile with wings you saw in your fairy tale books?" He smiled. His teeth were not sharp - just yellow.
"Go tell your tall tales to somebody else." Annie turned away from Dragon and folded her arms, but then reconsidered. "How long are you going to hold me here? I am sure you know that my father is the mayor of Grontsel. In fact, I suspect that's the reason I am here. How much do you want? Do you really think you can pull this off? I bet the police force is already looking for me. They'll comb the forest and find us, sooner or later. You are looking at fifteen to life. That is, if they don't kill you when you try to escape."
"They won't find us, trust me. We are invisible to them. And I can only be killed by those who love you - nobody else can see me. But they have to come to the forest by themselves and fight me. You can say they have to slay their inner dragon, he-he."
When Annie didn't respond, Dragon asked, "Do you have a ... what do they call them these days ... a boyfriend? Because I don't think your parents will go into the forest any time soon - they trust the police."
"No. I don't." Annie wanted to sit down, but there was no chair. This strange tall creature looked a bit like Batman, but the wings looked too real for comfort and the greenish-brown mask that covered his face had a skin-like texture. Suddenly, she saw the chair - it was right there, beside her. Why didn't she see it before?
"I didn't think so. These days, if a girl is still a virgin at eighteen, she is most likely single. It's a serious problem, by the way, although it's not my problem."
"What does virginity have to do with it? Are you going ...."
Annie screamed again.
"Shut up. SHUT UP!"
Something flashed in Dragon's eyes and Annie found herself unable to make a sound.
"Now, that's better." Dragon sat down, too. This time Annie was sure she hadn't seen the chair before. "Don't get hysterical on me. I am not going to do anything to you. We'll live here. You can cook for us, if you can -- I hate cooking. You can read, too, and even watch TV. If you behave yourself, you'll find me very easy to get along with."
"How long do I have to stay here?"
"You have a whole month. That's a long time. Let's hope somebody who loves you shows up here before it's over."
"What if he doesn't?"
"We'll talk about it in a month. It won't hurt, I promise."
"Wait, did Ellen and Nancy..." Annie covered her mouth with her hand.
"Yes, they were here before you. That's all I am going to say about it."
"Oh my God... Nobody was looking for them here..."
"Why, quite a few people came looking for Nancy. Actually, they were looking for her corpse. But only the police officers. Nobody who loved her came."
"Yeah, we modern virgins are a problem." Annie wanted to cry but the tears didn't come.
"Ha! You think it was better five hundred years ago? Ignorance ruled. People were afraid of me. They drew pictures of all those scary fire-breathing beasts with three heads to justify their fear. Nobody would go into the forest. Almost all of these girls had parents, brothers, even men they planned to marry, but only the fourteenth one made it out of here."
"The princess?"
"She wasn't a princess; that's your mythology, as you call it. Her parents owned some land. They weren't poor, but certainly not bluebloods. But the girl did have a knight who loved her. He didn't allow the fear to stop him - wouldn't listen to anyone. He ran into the forest with his sword drawn, and he won."
"I don't get it. You sound almost happy about it."
"Not almost - I am happy about it. You'll never understand. It's a curse. I am not enjoying it, but there is nothing I can do. I am happier in that other life, in my other form. But I can't get there until this form is killed. Then I have to repeat the whole thing in another five hundred years."
"So, you didn't even try to fight the knight?"
"Not really. It wouldn't matter anyway. I can't fight true love."
"I am confused now. We seem to be the ones cursed, not you."
"Very perceptive. The town is cursed, and I am that curse. But it could be much less painful for all of us. But noooo...." Dragon sighed. "It's the same story every time - you people don't change. It only takes one person. One! Somebody who really loves the girl, who can overcome the fear and fight the dragon. No need for armor, swords, guns - love is the best weapon there is. And this person would save not only you but all the other girls, too. But it looks like the brave knights are hard to come by. The only difference between now and then is that five hundred years ago they wouldn't venture into the forest at all; now they send helicopters and divers."
"There is no one righteous, not even one .... Where have I heard this before?"
"That's your mythology; I am not very familiar with it. Listen, if I were you, I'd try to think about people who love you. Anyone will do, but strong men are probably braver. Try to influence them from here. Use your willpower. I've heard there are people who can do that. Maybe you're one of them but don't know that."
"I doubt it. But I'll try."
"Good. Can you make a salad? What are you staring at? I like salad. And fruit. I don't eat people. Ufff.... Your stupid tales...."
***
The Police Chief insisted on interrogating Greg Opposs personally. Who else would benefit from turning the dragon legend into a nightmare? Already this year's festival was a failure. After the girls' disappearance, the schools cancelled all the performances and hired grievance counselors. The stories about the strange happenings in Grontsel filled the front pages of the local newspapers. The tourist business was way down; the citizens were unhappy. Days came and went with no new leads and no trace of the missing girls turning up. The FBI joined the investigation, but to no avail.
The police searched Greg's home, tapped his phone and went through his computer files. Despite the fact that they found nothing connecting him to either of the girls, the people started talking. Wasn't he the one who screamed on every corner that it was silly, if not suicidal, for the town to live off one legend and that it had to offer people something besides the dragon tales? Didn't Mr. Opposs promise unspecified bad outcomes from the one-trick-pony economy and suggest diversifying the school writing contest topics? Wasn't he the one who said nasty things about Peter Zaslav during the election debates?
People crossed the street as soon as they saw Greg. The children at school no longer wanted to play with the Opposs kids. Greg's electronics store took a serious hit, too - the citizens of Grontsel preferred traveling to a neighboring town rather than buying anything from him. For the first time in his life Greg Opposs seriously considered moving to another state. However, he knew how hard it would be to sell his business.
Without saying anything to their parents and afraid to admit believing in "those silly superstitions" even to themselves, the girls of Grontsel rushed to lose their virginity. It barely mattered how or with whom they did it. Many parents sent their young daughters elsewhere, suggesting it was about time to visit the grandparents.
The first of August was drawing closer and closer. The Chief of Police repeatedly asked people not to panic and promised to catch the "sick maniac" who was behind all this. Fathers and brothers of young women bought dozens of guns from the local weapons store and swore to stand guard in front of their daughters and sisters' doors and windows all night.
Despite his personal loss, Peter Zaslav went to work every day, talked to people on the streets, gave interviews, shook hands, and worked hard on bringing more tourists into the town. He was the most respected and admired person in Grontsel in these days of grief and fear. The mayor told everyone who would listen that he trusted Mr. Reiches completely and was confident the police did everything in their power to find Annie. People lit candles and put flowers in front of the photographs of the missing girls. The local church was filled with those praying for the safe return of Annie, Nancy, and Ellen.
***
Annie could never tell the time in the cave. Dragon appeared out of nowhere and brought her food and books. With a blink, he turned on the soft artificial light that allowed her to read and cook. He even brought a portable DVD player with a few latest movie releases. Dragon (she grew accustomed to calling him that) refused to answer any questions about time, but always told her she still had some. He also rejected any attempts to discuss her fate. Other than that, he was very nice, polite, and not without a sense of humor.
Annie found it futile to argue with him - Dragon could silence her with one spark of his eyes. Instead, they spent a lot of time discussing the changes that happened in the world over the past five hundred years. He also taught Annie how to cook his favorite dishes. After a meal and a chat, he shut off the light with a tired wave of his wing and went to bed. She followed. To her amazement, she found it very easy to fall asleep in the cave and was usually out within a few minutes. When she woke up, Dragon was no longer around.
The cave had no exit. Annie saw nothing but bare walls around her, yet the room could easily turn into a kitchen or a living room. The bed moved into the wall, and a stove or a sofa with an end table appeared in its place. Out of boredom, she experimented with things around her. She hugged a pillow from her bed and walked around the cave waiting for it to vanish. It didn't. Neither did spoons or books, as long as she held them in her hands. Only the things attached to the walls moved back into them. Annie could not control what she didn't hold.
Over time, she realized that while Dragon could control her moods, he held no physical power over her. She asked him about it.
Dragon shrugged. "I've never had it. I can fly, and take you up with me, but that's pure physical strength. I can fight, too, but I have to fight like a man - I know no magic tricks."
"So, aside from flying, physically you are just a weird-looking guy."
'Oh no." Dragon smiled. "I have complete power over things. I can lift this table up just by looking at it. I can make it disappear or move it to another place. And remember, I can be invisible. Well, frankly, I have little control over that one once I take a virgin and bring her here. But at other times I can choose to be invisible when I want to."
"What about the time when you have a virgin here?"
"We are both invisible, whether we like it or not. Except, you know...."
"The ones who love your captives can see you."
"Yes. They can always see me, even in the dark."
Annie looked at Dragon and saw in his eyes that she was running out of time. She sighed and continued cutting up the tomatoes. She wasn't afraid.
After all, if nobody loved a woman enough to even attempt to save her, what was the value of her life? Why live? For what? For whom? Mom always adored Jeff, her firstborn, her smart and handsome pride and joy. She also smothered the baby of the family, PJ, with enough love for five kids. Annie, on the other hand, was the easy and self-sufficient child - and an almost invisible one. Dad.... Dad loved his work above everything else. Well, that's not fair, he loved his kids, too, especially his sons. In fact, for Jeff he'd probably run into the Devil's pit, never mind the forest. Who would run here for her? PJ was too young and couldn't even leave the house on his own, never mind kill this strange creature. Jeff always found her a nuisance. Plus, Jeff was the kind of guy who cared only about himself. Funny how everyone loved this charismatic egotist to pieces.
Annie stopped what she was doing.
Could this be the key? Maybe everybody loved Jeff so much precisely because he knew how to love himself? Why couldn't she ever do it? She always found so many shortcomings in herself and waited for others to validate her worth; she always waited for her knight in shining armor.
She looked at Dragon. He was lying on the sofa reading a comic book about Batman and chuckling to himself. He felt her gaze and looked up.
"What?"
"No, nothing. I'm just tired."
"Well, finish that salad and let's eat soon. Would you like me to make something special for dinner tonight?"
"Yes. Can I have some steak? It just occurred to me that I shouldn't worry about my diet too much at this point. I want a huge t-bone steak. And some chocolate cake for dessert."
Annie lay in her bed and peered into the darkness. The cave was pitch-black; her eyes could never get used to it. She was very sleepy and had to keep herself awake by cutting the backs of her hands with the steak knife she hid in her sleeve after the dinner.
She turned her head. Dragon was sleeping a few feet away, his chest rising with each breath, the dark green wings fluttering lightly on exhalation. I can see him, she thought. I can always see him.
Her lids were getting heavy. Something about the air in this cave was making her docile and sleepy. Annie made another cut on her hand. She had to act. She jumped off the bed, went over to Dragon and quickly cut his throat. Her hands didn't shake. Just like a tomato, she thought.
***
On the morning of August 2nd, Peter Zaslav called the Police Chief.
"Well? I know yesterday was quiet. Anything happen overnight?"
"And good morning to you, Peter. As far as I can tell, no one is missing. We have men dispatched everywhere, and nobody reported any trouble. Maybe we scared that son of a bitch. Listen, I've got to go. I'll have a more detailed update for you later, but for now we are in the clear."
Later in the day, the mayor's secretary paged him. Several business and community leaders had called, wondering if the mayor had any plans to cancel or postpone today's meeting.
He didn't.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to start by expressing my sincere gratitude to all of you for the incredible outpouring of support during this terrible month. My family had yet another chance to realize what a great community we have here in Grontsel. Thank you. I am happy to inform you that, so far today, the police reported no trouble. It is possible that our fears were unfounded, or maybe we scared this criminal off. Either way, we have to keep our vigilance. I am confident that our excellent police department will do everything possible to solve this heinous crime. And I do hope to see my daughter unharmed sooner rather than later. I know I can count on your support, as I always have. Having said that, I propose we move to the task at hand. We are gathered here to start planning the next year's "The Princess And The Dragon" festival. It is crucial to our community that we revive it and bring back the tourists. Let's get rollin'."
***
Annie made sure Dragon was no longer breathing, wiped his blood off her face and walked out. She did not doubt for a second that she'd find the exit right where she expected.
It was still dark outside. Annie walked through the forest clutching the bloody knife to her chest. She finally realized she no longer needed it and threw it away. After two hours, she reached the road she knew led to Grontsel. Annie heard a car coming and hid behind a tree, suddenly becoming aware of blood smears all over her face and body and of multiple cuts on her hands. The driver was going in the opposite direction anyway, and wouldn't be able to give her a lift. Annie didn't want to cause a scene.
A large truck came around the bend. Annie thought she recognized the guy at the wheel. Wasn't he the chap who ran against her father in the previous election? He had the whole family in that truck, too - must be moving out of town. Annie sighed and started walking toward Grontsel, wondering whether she was going in the right direction and fighting a strange desire to turn around and follow that truck.
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| Friday, November 9th, 2007
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6:58 pm - Bostonian Rhapsody
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In a moment everything changed.
“This is Britt! My God, it’s Britt!” My husband jumped off the sofa and pointed his finger at the woman on the TV screen.
A minute ago we were watching another copycat edition of the evening news – local criminal chronicles interspersed with sports and weather. A well-known doctor was on trial for allegedly murdering his wife. She was the third woman killed in that rich suburban Boston neighborhood while walking around the local pond. Apparently, the doctor tried to mislead the investigators by making the crime look like the other two. However, things didn’t add up. While the police were investigating the other two crimes, they pinned the third one on the husband.
“Our special correspondent” droned on and on for almost ten minutes. Reporters can never get enough of the crimes committed by affluent, white people, and the doctor in question was a pillar of the community and a renowned specialist in his field. The prosecutor claimed that this man’s reputation was a fake, that he spent most of his free time soliciting sex on the Internet and used a stolen identity to pay for prostitutes. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” said the reporter.
My husband switched the channel.
“Mamaaaaaa, just killed the man,” bellowed Freddy Mercury from the screen. We laughed. No escaping murder on our television.
“Oh, for God’s sake, we’ll miss the weather report, go back,” I said.
We didn’t get the weather report. Instead, the correspondent started talking about the doctor’s children. All three had grown into fine upstanding citizens, and were 100% behind their father. They declared that he was a great man and loved their mother very much. Few things in life are scarier than watching your father stand trial for your mother’s murder. They seemed to handle it well though, especially the younger two.
We had been hearing about this case for weeks, and this soap opera was beginning to grate on my nerves. Would they just tell us tomorrow’s weather prognosis, for crying out loud? I barely paid attention at that point.
Meanwhile, they showed us the middle daughter who was trying to comfort her sobbing sister. The camera focused on her face, and ….
“Britt? The one who taught spinning in your class?”
“Yes, that’s her! I can’t believe it….”
“Oh my God…”
Suddenly, we cared. We dropped everything we were doing and concentrated all our attention on the screen. Too late, now they were talking about a car accident in West Roxbury.
*****
My husband has an iron will and judges everyone by his standards. For him to praise a woman’s physique and willpower, she’d have to be a superwoman. Usually, he reserves this degree of admiration for the sports heroes, people like Tiger Woods or Lance Armstrong. The real-life folks don’t stand a chance. So, when he came home one day and said that his new spinning instructor was an incredible woman with a willpower that surpassed his own, I thought that some Olympic champion decided to join his gym.
Britt had her own successful business and worked very long days. That didn’t stop her from competing in multiple duathlons, triathlons and running marathons on a regular basis. She trained herself to the point of physical and mental collapse, then came to the spinning class the next morning and made mincemeat out of all the tough guys there. She never got off the seat to “check the form” of the other riders - she pushed as hard as they did, even harder. My husband, who openly laughed at other instructors and usually increased the resistance they prescribed by at least 30%, could barely keep up with her. Only serious athletes dared to come to Britt’s classes -- to turn into quivering puddles of sweat afterwards.
“You don’t understand,” my husband said to me, “such a woman could only by raised in a great, tightly-knit family. She has the foundation, the inner stability. You can’t fake that.”
“And that tells you her father is innocent?”
“I know Britt. And she knows her father. If she says he is incapable of it, then he is not. I trust her.”
“Why didn’t you notice anything? Her mother was murdered several months ago. All this time she was teaching the classes, and you saw no trace of distress on her face?”
“Now that you’ve brought it up, I think I remember that she’s been paler than usual and looked kind of off kilter, but I thought she'd just overtrained.”
“And what about now?”
“She left a month ago. We tried to bring her back, even wrote a letter to the management, but they couldn’t do anything. Now I know why.”
*****
Is this the real life,
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide,
No escape from reality
Dirk Greineder came here from Germany to study medicine and became a US citizen several years later. This tall, striking man had a charming wife, a gorgeous house in one of the most exclusive suburbs of Boston, and three children. Britt was the middle child. The oldest daughter was a happily married graduate of Harvard Medical School. The youngest boy was finishing Yale Medical School. By all accounts, this brilliant allergist's life was exemplary.
On October 31, 1999, Mabel and Dirk Greineder went for a walk in the nearby park. According to the doctor, they were playing fetch with their dog when Mabel complained of a backache and decided to go back to the car. Dirk wanted to walk for a little while longer and suggested that he meet his wife in the parking lot a bit later. Then came that infamous 911 call we heard so many times on Court TV, followed by Dirk’s unsuccessful attempts to revive his wife. “Another victim of the Welleseley maniac!” screamed the newspapers.
The children hung on. They still had their father, their pillar of strength. He held the family together during those terrible first weeks; he didn’t let them fall apart or get entangled in their own private grief. His authority was unquestionable – Greineders were a family as long as Dirk was at the helm.
When the police arrested their father, the Greineder children were beside themselves. They knew this man better than anyone else. He would not hurt a fly. He never raised his voice at any member of his family. In fact, their parents loved and cared for each other deeply. All Dirk’s patients had only the best things to say about him. Here was a caring, kind man who never uttered a mean thing about their mother, even behind her back. The idea that he could have murdered Mabel was inconceivable.
The police couldn’t solve a murder, so they blamed the husband. It was the easy way out. Two women died in the same park recently in exactly the same way. Why wasn’t anyone looking for the maniac, for the actual killer? The Greineder children felt the system failed them, and tramped over their lives.
***
So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye…
Meanwhile, the myth of Dirk Greineder, the ideal husband, was showing the first cracks. He had spent an exorbitant amount of money on prostitutes and phone sex, searched the Internet all night long for women willing to engage in casual sex with him, prescribed himself Viagra, and obtained a credit card in the name of a college friend, Tom Young.
In medical school, Tom was everything Dirk wasn’t; next to the perfect and pedantic-to-a-fault German, Tom was a carefree gigolo. He knew how to have a good time, preferably with some girls around. And he didn’t hesitate to make fun of his pure and reserved classmate. The fact that Dirk chose Tom’s name for his fake identity spoke volumes for his long-dormant complexes. However, this was fodder for shrinks, not police officers.
The victim, known to her friends as May, had lost interest in sex after menopause and after encountering some medical problems. She complained of pain and discomfort and refused her husband’s advances more and more often. Over time, their intimate relationship dwindled to nothing.
Dirk was less than happy with this turn of events--he was still in perfect physical form. He started looking for women and even couples for casual, often group, sex. If the net he cast came up empty, he could always hire a prostitute as a last resort. As it turned out, Dirk went to a prostitute on the day his wife was murdered – afterward.
Still, none of it meant he killed Mabel Greineder.
*****
We didn’t usually care about TV court dramas, but this time we argued until we were hoarse. In the very first row of the courtroom, never taking her eyes off Dr. Greineder, sat Britt, the iron lady who tried very hard to appear composed, but was periodically reduced to tears. Something about the case made us uneasy.
My husband maintained the doctor’s guilt was not proven beyond a reasonable doubt. It was his official way of saying, “Dirk’s innocent.” He trusted Britt; if she said that her father could not do it, then he couldn’t. End of story. Prostitutes and pornography proved nothing. He raged against the “tight-assed puritans” who considered watching pornography and engaging in casual sex to be one step removed from committing a violent crime.
“We are not like these people,” he said repeatedly. “Why would you believe them, but not the doctor? The man is fifty-seven years old, and he is in great shape. He is still in the prime of his life. He needs sex. Girls don’t run after fifty-something-year-old men, so he looked for casual sex through the Internet and hired prostitutes. What's so difficult to understand? The guy watched some porn. Big deal.”
I thought that Dr. Greineder was guilty. Obviously, I was making judgments based on what the TV and newspapers were feeding me. I did not know the truth, but something in me wanted that man to be guilty. The media wrote many nice things about the late May Greineder. Apparently, she was deeply unhappy about the chill in their relationship. May kept in shape and even had plastic surgery to keep herself attractive for her husband. She loved him.
I felt sorry for her, disgusted with him, and scared of growing old. The attempts to understand his motives terrified me, and I was looking for the easy way out, even if subconsciously. If he killed Mabel, it explained everything. Yet, it explained nothing…. Would it be easier to believe in his innocence like my husband? For some reason, I couldn’t.
Soon, our conversations turned from the court case to the intimate details of the lives of the Greineder family, which were generously supplied by the media. No, we did not enjoy scouring somebody’s dirty laundry. Rather, we realized that these people were only thirty to thirty-five years our senior and were similar to us in many ways, including the education levels, lifestyle choices and value systems. Worst of all, their problems were very real and quite common.
One spouse lost interest in sex due to some health issues while the other was not ready to write off his or her sexuality. They both had a long life ahead of them. What was the next step?
Did he have a right to live the way he did? Was he supposed to bury himself alive, to sacrifice himself on the altar of family and morality while living out his days next to a frigid wife? Maybe not, but he could find himself a steady lover and see her quietly on a regular basis – there was no need for orgies and prostitutes. What if he couldn’t find a steady lover?
Still, what was his motive to kill May? He could continue enjoying his wild lifestyle behind her back. Maybe she found out everything and asked for a divorce. Mabel would probably forgive him a discreet affair, but could not live with a man who was slowly descending into hell. She couldn’t and she didn’t want to. A divorce, in their case, would mean losing an enormous amount of money and moving from a Welleseley mansion into a townhouse in a more humble neighborhood. It would also damage their social status. That was a plausible murder motive.
However, this was not the image of the man Britt worshipped. To kill a loving and caring wife and the mother of his children for the opportunity to go wild with prostitutes was not something Britt’s father was capable of doing.
Or was he? How did she know who her father truly was? He led a double life for several years, and nobody had a clue. He was a very good actor. The Greineders were famous for hiding their emotions, after all.
If someone had told the children their exemplary father, the luminary of the local medical community, ran around with prostitutes and spent hours on the Internet looking for group sex opportunities, they probably would've laughed in their face. Nobody knew the true character of the doctor, and the children’s claims to the contrary seemed unfounded.
We ran around in circles. We searched for answers. We didn’t find any. As was always the case, everyone believed what he or she wanted to believe. My husband wanted to believe in Dirk’s innocence because he personally knew his daughter and wished her only the best. He could not imagine what the knowledge of her father killing her mother would do to her psyche. He sincerely hoped it would all turn out to be a bad dream, that Britt would come back and teach spinning, and that everything would return to its original–and proper--place.
Moreover, he longed for the police to stumble in this case. He wanted everyone to see there was no direct causation between a porn hobby and a willingness to murder somebody. The police needed to learn a lesson and stop immediately suspecting the murdered women’s husbands, regardless of the circumstances.
I, too, wished all the best for Britt. I respected her tremendously and wanted her to be happy. At the same time, I had to admit to myself that I did not want Dr. Greineder to be acquitted. It was so much easier to see this man as a devil. The proof of his guilt would dot every “i”, cross every “t”, and make everything simple and one-dimensional.
****
Bismillah! No, we will not let you go - let him go
Bismillah! We will not let you go - let him go
Bismillah! We will not let you go - let me go
Will not let you go - let me go
Will not let you go let me go
No, no, no, no, no, no, no
The press reported that a portrait of Dirk’s father, who was a doctor in Hitler’s army, hung prominently in the Greineder’s living room. The painting showed the elder Greineder in full Nazi uniform. The investigators also found “Mein Kempf” in Dirk’s library.
Aha! He WAS a devil, after all.
“Nonsense,” said my husband. “What does that have to do with anything? He is not accused of killing a Jew, but of his own Aryan wife. The judge should toss it.”
The judge apparently felt the same way and strictly forbade the jurors to pay any attention to the whole Nazi memorabilia issue.
It didn’t help Dirk. The police found a towel with traces of both his and his wife’s blood in his car. His windbreaker and sneakers were also splattered with blood, and the forensic experts claimed the blood patterns did not match those they would expect to see after a resuscitation attempt. Then the investigators found Dirk’s glove, along with a knife and a hammer, on the other side of the park. The glove had blood on it, yet the doctor’s hands were clean, despite assertions that he tried to resuscitate his wife for a long time.
But it was the timeline that worked against him in the end. For his story to make sense, he had to cover a certain distance in the allotted time, and he was five minutes off according to even the most generous and forgiving calculations. Considering Dirk was no speed walker, the difference was closer to ten minutes. The jury members cited this fact as the most damning evidence against Dr. Greineder. Dirk’s bizarre accounts of the events did not help. For example, he explained the blood on the towel by the fact that both (!) he and his wife had had nosebleeds that day.
Dirk Greineder was found guilty of first-degree murder. His children stood by him until the end, firmly believing in his innocence. They did not waver after hearing the verdict and insisted it had all been a terrible mistake.
For weeks after learning the verdict, my husband looked gloomy. He felt sorry for Britt and was incensed over the media circus around her family’s private life. In the eyes of an average citizen, the whole story validated the logical construct pornography-->prostitutes-->complete moral degradation-->murder. “Marvelous logic, isn’t it?” he fumed.
I wasn’t upset about the ruling, but wasn’t relieved either. I kept thinking about the button controversy.
It happened when I was studying at Simmons College. After a lecture, I approached the professor to ask him a question. He was talking to another student, so I stood behind her and waited for my turn. The woman’s backpack was completely covered by buttons such as “We asked God and SHE is pro-choice,” or “Radical Feminist Lesbian and Proud of It” - one more extremist than another. Right in the middle of all this splendor, she pinned a huge round button that said, “SIMMONS COLLEGE” in huge bold letters.
When the woman finished talking to the professor and turned around, I politely told her that one of the buttons on her backpack really bothered me.
“And which one would that be?” she asked, eager to defend her point of view on any of the hot-button (pun intended) issues.
“The one that says ‘Simmons College,’” I answered and walked away, having completely forgotten about the question I was about to ask our professor.
Throughout the entire Greineder trial, sex played the role of the Simmons College button on that backpack. Not only my husband, but also most of our male acquaintances cheered for Dr. Greineder, hoping that he turned out to be not guilty, not the monster he proved to be in the end. After all, the logical construct cited by my husband was not in the least logical - one didn’t follow from the other. But it only took one student with a button-covered backpack to convince everyone that “they were all the same”.
Britt never came back. I still wonder what became of her.
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality…
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| Saturday, November 3rd, 2007
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3:10 am
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the syncopated sadness of our knotty life
it gallops through your graceful fingers
like perturbations of our souls
pour out of my melancholic writings
this jazzy puppy-eyed muzAk is tiring
play If I Were a Rich Man to this crowd
of heavily made up matrons from Brooklyn
accompanied by bald tired men
whose bodies can't resist the pull of gravity
another nephew who just turned thirteen
this fair of vanity and sweat is called Bar Mitzva
and you are playing this same-old-same-old
mind-numbing shmaltz repertoire again
the spineless tunes they must have played in Noah's Ark
too keep hyenas smiling at the hippos
you ain't Ray Charles and you're doomed
to weekly dosages of Hava Nagila
accompanied by thumping of the heels
at yet another Russian ghetto gathering
but still you smile you nod and you play on
it's not their fault you'd rather play Chopin
I like your eyes no bitterness in them
let's have a drink man you deserve a break
it sure is hard to tame your inspiration
and channel talent into weekly gigs
no I can't play the piano please believe me
I'm tone deaf or something of the sort
but I was once consumed by heady dreams
it's just like playing concert halls you know
without a piano but with pens and paper
as for my writing well it's not too bad
I score my gigs and play Hava Nagila
and If I Were a Rich Man
and Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
some other tunes appropriate for dancing
or even munching how do you play
when they're all eating talking laughing farting
comb their hair yelling oy veiz mir
no idea what the heck it means
it's something like my God in Yiddish
our two wine glasses touch and loudly clank
over this shiny black reflective surface
your piano it might also dream
of fame and concert halls and Dvorzhak
it's funny how we understand each other
since you could never write to save your life
and I could never carry any tune
but we both thought we moved like Bishops
on the chessboard that's called art or life
we're pawns my friend your break is over sorry
go play to screams of Mazel Tov
and smile
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