c



 


The only white faces on the street belonged to me and my companions. All of the other faces
were black. They smiled at us from behind their paintbrushes as they painted broad brightly
colored murals on the storefronts. They leered at us as if we were a curiosity they had never
really seen before. They nodded at us with shy respect as if they thought us brave to visit their
neighborhood at all. But mostly they just smiled.

The only other white faces were on tourist busses that rolled up and down the street, carrying
drivers who described Harlem culture over loud speakers. The white faces peered out of the
glass in long rows. Their eyes were both probing and inquisitive, yet they told of fear. It was as
if they were on an African Safari, and wouldn͛t dream of getting out of the vehicle to join the
natives and wild animals in their habitat. They preferred the safety of something on wheels.

I could only laugh. I had always wanted to go to Harlem. I had long imagined it like a brightly
woven tapestry of culture. From the art, to the gospel, to the jazz, I had always been intrigued
by this jewel of Manhattan.

I was intrigued by the Apollo Theater which had featured jazz legends such as Billie Holiday,
Miles Davis, and John Coltrane, as well as reputedly being a hangout for Malcolm X.

I was intrigued by the restaurants, spilling out the smells of Soul Food into the gritty streets. I
could imagine cooks boasting of hot ribs which fell right off the bone, and pork chops that
induced finger licking. I heard the black eyed peas sizzling in bacon fat. I could smell the sweet
potato pie, and the Rum and coconut cakes baking on every corner.

I was intrigued by the churches. And I was intrigued by the art; the murals of their culture
painted on every storefront. All of it spoke to me. And I wanted to go.

My family didn͛t think it a very good idea.

I remember that when I expressed my desire to go to Harlem to my family, many of them

discouraged me from going. I had been born into a family of left wing liberals, open minded and
intellectual folk who fought against racism at every turn, and I could hardly believe my ears.
͞We͛re just afraid for your safety,͟ they told us. ͞It͛s a fact that Harlem is full of crime.͟ I
believed they had succumbed to the fear mongers who exaggerated stories to create drama for
their news shows. I was not deterred in the slightest.
In fact, I made the pilgrimage to Harlem twice, and both trips were unforgettable journeys.

I remember attending a gospel service at a downtown Baptist Church one Sunday. My

companion and I were the only white faces in the church that Sunday morning, and as the
Ladies arrived, I had never seen in my life such a dizzying array of costumes. They wore every
color of the rainbow; one might be dressed head to toe in orange, with an enormous orange
hat perched on their head and orange right down to their orange shoes. Another would be in
lime green, and the third in purple. Each hat was more outrageous than the next; reminding me
of Beach Blanket Babylon in San Francisco. I noticed there were very few men, only women and
children. They preached hard about the black men abandoning their families. But mostly they
just made music. The band made you want to jump out of your seat and dance in the aisles,
which most of us did. And the singers raised the roof.

I remember visiting the Apollo. I touched the walls as if to soak in the history. I remember
buying street art from street vendors. I treasured that art for years to come.

But the best moment of all was the night we went to the Cotton Club.

The Cotton Club called me like no other place in Harlem. Even the name evoked romantic
feelings inside of me, and I could almost taste the history when I said the name of the Club out
loud.

The Cotton Club.

Since its inception in 1923, The Cotton Club has gained worldwide notoriety for booking the
finest musical entertainment in the country. It has been home to numerous legendary greats,
including Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Ethel Waters and Lena Horne. I found that the thought
of going was irresistible.

But even the locals warned us we might not want to hang out in Harlem at night. ͞You͛re fine
during the day,͟ our new friends would tell us. ͞But after dark is another matter.͟

But it didn͛t stop us. We were determined to go. And that night, we jumped in a cab and
entered the Cotton Club just after eight o͛ clock in the evening. It was already packed.

A few eyebrows rose as we found our way to our table. It was apparent that the regular patrons
were a little surprised to see a group of white folk enter their club, but mostly, all I remember
were smiles. Smile after smile. A sea of smiles.
͞Excuse me,͟ I said to the cocktail waitress. ͞I hear it is not at all uncommon for some big
names to wander in here on any given Saturday night.͟

She smiled big. ͞Well, you͛re in for a treat. Rumor has it that James Brown and his entourage is
coming in tonight.͟

We were all stunned. Our eyes got as wide as saucers. ͞THE James Brown?͟

She laughed. ͞Yeah, yeah, that͛s what they͛re sayin͛. I͛ll keep you posted.͟

But she didn͛t need to update us. When James Brown entered the Club, he would have been
pretty hard to miss. His presence alone filled the room with energy. His black cape made a
dramatic twist to his velvet suit.

Standing beside him was the Reverend Al Sharpton. Beside the Reverend stood the X Mrs.
Sharpton.
Behind him stood a half a dozen body guards, all sporting black suits and sunglasses.

Behind the guards we spotted the actress Clarice Taylor, who played Anna Huxtable, the
grandmother on the Cosby Show.

The cocktail waitresses fell all over this tribe of Greats, and ushered them to the very front row
of the Club, directly in front of the stage. But they weren͛t far from us, and I watched James
Brown like an eagle hunting it͛s prey; I was glued on every move he made. I was literally
bubbling over with excitement.

The band called Rev. Al Sharpton͛s wife to the stage almost immediately. I really didn͛t know
much about her at the time, but she turned out to be funny and engaging, and she had a
powerful singing voice. She wowed the crowd with a James Brown song, and as she performed,
the crowd went wild.

But I don͛t think anyone went as wild as I did.

I was beside myself, singing at the top of my lungs, dancing on my seat. I was swept over by a
passion I can hardly explain.

When Mrs. Sharpton finished her song, she pointed in my direction, and said loudly into her
mic, ͞Yo sho look like you͛re having one hell of a good time!͟

The crowd at the Club burst into laughter. I looked to my left, and then to my right, wondering
who she was talking about.

͞I͛m talkin͛ to YOU!͟ She said, pointing directly at me.

͞Me?͟ I whispered pointing to my chest.

͞Yes, YOU. You got the spirit in you TONIGHT! You sound GOOD. You know any James Brown
songs? Why don͛t you get up here on stage and sing him one.͟

Suddenly, my reality snapped out of focus. I was dreaming, certainly, and Mrs. Sharpton͛s voice
started sounding as if it were underwater. This surely couldn͛t be happening. My cheeks were
hot.

My friends all started shoving at my shoulders, pushing me out of my chair. ͞They want you to
sing,͟ they͛re all whispering. ͞Go.͟

͞But why?͟

͞JUST GO.͟

It was one of the craziest moments of my life.

To this day, I can͛t remember which James Brown song I sang. I was in some sort of delirious
auto pilot as I took my place on the stage and told the band the song I would like to sing. The
music started in earnest, and I found my way to the mic.

But what gave me chills was seeing James Brown himself, seated directly in front of me. He
removed his sunglasses and stared me down, eyeball to eyeball. And then he winked.

And I began to sing. I was in Harlem, New York at the Cotton Club. I was singing a James Brown
song to James Brown himself. And when James Brown got up to sing after me, I realized that in
a way, I had just opened for James Brown. It was an ethereal moment. I can͛t remember finding
my way back to my seat. I was utterly limp.

I often think that people who live their lives in fear miss out on all of the best stuff.
I can still hear the pianist tickling the ivory and doing a tap dance up a ladder of sound. I can still
feel the saxophone blowing kisses on the back of my neck as I cried the blues to the moon. I can
still smell the sugar on the streets of Harlem. They smelled like cinnamon buns. Hot and sticky.

I can still remember that hot summer evening in Harlem. It smelled like caramel.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ö



Even after they knew she was dead, they continued to shove birthday cake into her open mouth. It͛s an
image that will forever haunt me. But that͛s not how it started.

My friend Siobhan was a personal chef to Alice Kent, a wealthy living legend with a history that could fill
volumes of gold gilded manuscripts with fascinating tales. Kentfield, a quixotic little town in Marin
County, California, was actually named after her family. She was born both wealthy and powerful, and
lived a life that most of us only dream about. Her husband, Roger Kent, was a powerful attorney, who
had Richard Nixon as his client. And Alice, a staunch democrat, was known for rubbing shoulders with
Jimmy Carter. They knew artists and writers and famous people from around the globe. And they had
lived the glamorous life that only a few, and very rich, can even imagine.

But by the time my friend was hired on as her personal chef, Alice was approaching the final days of her
life. Alice was old, and her husband was dead. She had long ago given up her mansion and most of her
belongings, and moved to a modest condominium in Kentfield. She used her money to surround herself
with a variety of talent; she hired astrologers, masseuses, psychiatrists, writers, Professors, and live-in
caretakers to fill her days. And my friend Siobhan cooked for her; filling her mouth with every delectable
treat that she might have a yen for. ͞This morning, only a raspberry scone seems palatable,͟ she might
say. And soon the kitchen filled with the sounds of Siobhan͛s laughter, and the smells of rising yeast and
butter.

Siobhan mentioned to me that Alice was looking for a writer, and I applied immediately. All of my life,
I͛ve dreamed of making my living as a writer. Of course, for the most part, this was just a pipe dream,
imagined by a little girl who believed she would always have a mountain of opportunities at her feet.
Life never turned out that way for me, and it seems I͛ve always struggled in a career I detested. But
occasionally, because I enjoyed writing so much, opportunities came my way. With my friend͛s
wonderful references, I was hired.

When I met Alice, I realized her body was on its last legs. She was so hunched over, I don͛t think she
stood over four feet tall, if she could stand at all. For the most part, she got around in a wheel chair, and
for much of the day was hooked up to an oxygen tank. Her day was scheduled and regimented; a
reflexologist might come to massage her feet at 9:00 a.m., and a holistic healer might be scheduled to
give her nutritional recommendations at 10:00. But while her body was withering, her mind was sharp,
and she had stories to tell. She asked me to help her tell those stories.

So my days at my new job began.

My shift was 6 hours, which took up most of Alice͛s day. Certainly we might break for one of Siobhan͛s
exquisite luncheons, or to take tea on the veranda. But for the most part, my instructions were simple.
She wanted me to talk with her. She wanted me to converse with her for hours and hours, while all the
while I would be taping the discourse. Then using a transcriber with a sticky pedal, and her archaic apple
computer, I would transcribe our entire conversation.

Following that, I would turn her words into prose.

I loved this job. Alice Kent was a fascinating spirit. She regaled me with stories about the Kennedys,
rejoicing in little quips about what Jack or Bobby might have done as children, recounting her memories
of the First Family with a wistful look in her eye. She captivated my attention as she told how she helped
to start the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. ͞I had a vision, it was that simple,͟ Alice told me in her no
nonsense way. ͞So I set out to create that vision. I͛ve always had money.͟ She had met the Beatniks,
including Jack Kerouac himself. ͞He was devilishly handsome,͟ I remember her telling me, her eyes
lifting in a flirtatious way. I was mesmerized by her stories, and was always egging her on to go deeper
and deeper into her rich history. I was fishing for golden material that I could use later that day when I
turned her stories into living fairy tales.

In the mornings we would talk about anything and everything, from her Jungian Therapy work to her
belief in astrology. Sometimes we͛d have other guests, from Theology Professors to Historians, sitting in
on our chats. It was always a far more difficult job to transcribe conversations when there were more
than two people talking. I can still hear the whir of the tape and the clicking of the pedals, as I stepped
on them rewinding and forwarding and rewinding again, to catch every phrase and nuance. Sometimes I
would take a little respite and sneak into the kitchen to giggle with Siobhan, and poke a spoon into her
aromatic concoctions. Then, in the afternoons, as Alice was having her massage, I would sit at the dusty
Apple, turning her words into paragraphs and then into chapters, creating until it was time for me to go
home for the day. I felt happy.

I hardly noticed the months passing, or how rapidly Alice͛s health was deteriorating. She began to take
to her bed more and more, and we began to have our taped conversations while she lay flat on her
back, staring at the ceiling. She became incontinent, and our conversations often took an unpleasant
turn to her urine concerns. Soon, a little potty was set up right next to my work station; and as I tried to
create paragraphs of lyrical prose, I was treated to the sight of a bowl filled with yellow liquid, that
didn͛t have a particularly good smell. The condominium became more like a hospital to me as time went
on, and it became more difficult to find my inspiration.

One cold winter morning in December, I arrived at work to find her alert and sitting up in her wheel
chair. ͞Good morning, Alice,͟ I started. ͞You look well.͟
͞We need to talk,͟ she said gravely. ͞Please wheel me into the parlor. Siobhan is preparing our tea.͟

I did as she asked, and was soon seated directly in front of her on a pink French Chintz chair. Siobhan
came in and served us tea, and she and I exchanged a meaningful giggle as we always did. ͞Enough
carrying on,͟ Alice warned us sharply. ͞I need some privacy with Cathy please.͟ Alice͛s live-in caretaker
ushered Siobhan from the room.

Alice didn͛t waste any time. ͞I am about to die,͟ she told me. The words hung in the air as if they were
heavier than most. As if they were incapable of dissolving.

͞Of course you͛re not,͟ I quickly assured her, the way we do even when we know we͛re lying. ͞Look at
you today! You look well.͟

͞I will be dead, in my estimation, in approximately a fortnight. In fourteen days, give or take a day or
two. I͛m not sure of the exact day,͟ she said, sipping on her tea and looking placidly out of the window.

I saw no sense in arguing with her. ͞In that case, I͛ll miss you.͟

͞I know you͛ll be flying to Washington D.C. next month for Bill Clinton͛s inauguration. I should have
really done this sooner, but I have arranged for you and your companion to have a special invitation into
the Presidential Ball, and two tickets to sit in the V.I.P. section when the President is sworn in. These are
highly coveted tickets, and worth a mint. They͛ll be arriving by mail.͟

I was both overjoyed and touched, and I fell all over myself trying to thank her properly.

͞Thank you so much, Alice. You͛re too kind.͟

͞There͛s more.͟ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. With great
difficulty, and with her fingers shaking, she unfolded it, and then held it out toward me. I put down my
tea and reached over to fetch the paper she was holding. It was a check. And for a pretty healthy
amount of money.

͞What is this for?͟ I asked, astounded.

͞I wanted you to have that. It͛s too late to put you in my will, and my family would battle you for the
money for years. Just take that and use it for something that would help you in your writing. Perhaps a
magical trip somewhere. Perhaps a writer͛s retreat. Whatever you think best. Perfect your gift. Hone
your craft. Follow your passion.͟

I was stunned. ͞I don͛t know what to say. Thank you.͟

͞You͛re very welcome,͟ she said quietly. ͞But you mustn͛t tell anyone. For instance, I am not leaving
anything to any of the staff. And that includes Siobhan.͟

This hurt me to my core. ͞But I don͛t understand. Why not?͟ Siobhan had worked for her for years,
while I͛d barely completed thirteen months. Not to mention, she͛d gotten me the job.
͞As liberal as you know me to be, this might come as a shock to you. But the way I grew up, the cooks
were merely servants. Your services are on another scale. You are an artist, and your efforts must be
supported. You are not my employee. I am commissioning you for your talent. Do you see the
difference?͟

͞Not really,͟ I told her. ͞Siobhan is an artist. She is a chef. What she creates in the kitchen is mind
blowing.͟

͞And I agree with you,͟ she told me. ͞It͛s just not the way I was raised to believe. I hope you don͛t think
less of me, and that you use this money to further your craft.͟

͞I will,͟ I said, folding the check and putting it in my pocket. ͞Thank you.͟

͞Because I can͛t pinpoint my exact moment of death, it is impossible for me to know if I will die on your
shift or not. It could be in the middle of the night, while you͛re sleeping at home. But if at all possible, I
would like you to be here.͟

͞I hope I will be.͟

͞Thank you. And once I͛m gone, I͛d like you to publish this book you͛ve been working on for me. This is
the legacy I want to leave behind. I͛m certain my family will try and prevent it. I hope you͛ll persevere.
Promise me.͟

͞I promise.͟

͞Good,͟ she said loudly clapping her hands together. ͞Then let͛s get busy. We have a lot of work to do.
We need to come up with a viable ending for this story that has become my life. Go grab the tape
recorder. I am ready.͟

For the next two weeks, Alice and I worked tirelessly, my six hour shift stretching to eight or ten hours
per day. In the evenings I would type away next to her bowl of urine, working as quickly as I could to
write my conclusions to her life story. Time was running out, and Alice wanted to make sure it was
completed.

The last day I saw Alice, it was her birthday.

She had been doing well during her last few weeks of her life. But when I arrived at work that day, I
found her stretched out in her bed, moaning into her oxygen tank.

͞Happy Birthday, Alice,͟ I said softly, as I stood at her bedside.

Alice took the oxygen tube out of her mouth for a moment, as if she was struggling to say something to
me. I waited, but no words came. She put the tube back into her mouth, and began breathing slowly and
methodically. The sound reminded me of snorkeling under water.

͞Are you up to doing any work today?͟ I asked.

She shook her head vehemently, indicating that she was not. Then she took out her tube and spoke.

͞You finish.͟ She said in a labored way. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask if I understood. I nodded. ͞I
will lie here and listen to you type. I love the sound. It sounds like rain.͟ It took her several moments to
get those three short sentences out. I didn͛t want to tire her, so I took my place on the computer and
began to write.

I wrote for hours, with the slow labored sounds of her breathing my only company. Once in awhile I͛d
look over and smile at her and she would only nod, as if to say, ͞Keep working.͟

The afternoon slipped by, and by the day͛s end, I felt as though I finally had a finished draft. ͞Alice, I
think we have a book!͟ I shouted excitedly. ͞Would you like me to read you the end?͟

She struggled to take the oxygen tube out of her mouth. ͞No,͟ she almost choked. ͞I. Trust. You.͟

I smiled. ͞My shift is over .Would you like me to go home?͟

͞Not. Yet.͟ She struggled over every syllable. ͞Sit. With. Me.͟

I pulled a chair near her bedside and took her hand. ͞Funny we finished the book on your birthday,͟ I
said.

͞Yes.͟ She tried to laugh. ͞And. My. Death. Day.͟

I didn͛t argue; I just held her hand tighter. We sat in silence for at least fifteen minutes.

͞You. Go. Home,͟ she said at last. Her breath had become even shallower.

͞Are you sure?͟

͞Good. Bye. Good. Luck.͟

͞You sure you don͛t want me to stay?͟

She shook her head again, although this time it seemed a bit sad. I grabbed my purse and leaned over to
kiss her on the forehead. The last words she said to me, as if with a sudden burst of energy, were ͞Do
you hear the sounds of the birds singing?͟

I strained my ears, but there were no birds. It was utterly silent. I nodded yes, and then left.

Alice died later that night.

After I left, her children came over and joined Siobhan for what was supposed to be a birthday
celebration. Siobhan had just put the finishing touches on Alice͛s birthday cake as the family arrived. But
when the family went in to say hello to Alice, they realized it was only a matter of time.
They gathered around her bedside, and held hands with Alice, in a complete circle. Siobhan recounted
later that they had called her in to join them. ͞It͛s any minute now,͟ they had told her. ͞Come join our
circle and say good-bye to mother.͟

Siobhan wasn͛t sure what to do with the birthday cake, but she wasn͛t a chef that would allow one of
her stellar creations to go to waste. With shaking hands, she put candles in the cake and lit them. Then
she brought in the flaming dessert to Alice͛s bedside. She was singing ͞Happy Birthday.͟ The family
joined in, and they all serenaded her as Alice slipped away.

A final gasp was heard before she passed over to the other side. The family, along with Siobhan,
continued to sing; they blessed her spirit as it filled the room, and just as quickly vanished.

To this day, Siobhan isn͛t sure why she did this. But she broke off a piece of the birthday cake, and
opened Alice͛s mouth and laid it on her tongue. Of course I joked with her later that she was too
conceited over her creation for Alice to die without even tasting it. But the real reason is a mystery to us
all. All I know is that she continued to shove bits of birthday cake in Alice͛s mouth as she lay dead, and as
her children continued to sing. Soon the mouth was too full, and crumbs began falling into the crevices
of her neck. It is an image that has always haunted me.

By the time I went to Clinton͛s inauguration that winter, the VIP tickets and invitations she had promised
me hadn͛t arrived, and I left to D.C. without them. But when I returned home, I found them in my mail.
Sadly, Alice had procrastinated a little too long in getting them to me on time, but I still treasured them.
I framed them, and hung them on my wall as a remembrance.

A few days later, a funeral and wake was held in Alice͛s honor. Both Siobhan and I attended this event,
and felt quite honored to be there. The guest list was long and distinguished; from politicians to
actresses to writers. The event was featured on the Society Page.

At the wake, I pulled aside Alice͛s son to tell him how sorry I was to lose her, and how much she had
taught me. He met my smile with reproach, and ignored my offers of sympathy. Instead, he told me that
he had heard of my ͞little endowment,͟ as he called it. ͞I hope you didn͛t take advantage of my mother
and her money,͟ is what he told me. ͞In her diminished state, I͛m sure you could have convinced her of
anything.͟

I was hurt and offended. ͞I never asked anything of Alice, except my paycheck. She offered me that
money.͟

͞If you say so,͟ was his sharp reply. Then he scoffed. ͞Enjoy it.͟

͞Her only request was that I finish and publish the book the two of us have been working on.͟

He laughed and tipped back his glass of champagne, letting the last few drops of expensive effervescent
bubbles fall onto his tongue. ͞There will be no book,͟ is what he said, wiping his mouth and wearing too
big of a grin.
͞That was her last wish.͟

͞Let me make this clear,͟ he told me. ͞I͛m an attorney. There will be no book.͟ And with that, he turned
on his heel and left me standing there.

And there was no book. I contacted the rest of the family following the funeral with parts of the
manuscript, and her dying wish to have it published. I was ignored, rebuffed and even threatened. I
eventually dropped the idea.

But I think of Alice and her stories often. I͛ve always wondered what birds Alice heard that winter day
when there were no birds. All I know is that she heard them.

I, too, often hear birds that aren͛t there. They are the sounds of ultimate peace. And with them I am
able to pull an entire blanket of stars over my shoulders like a blanket, and for just one minute, I am
reminded how things never really die. And how if we listen very carefully, the birds are always singing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------







It was almost Valentine͛s Day, 2001, and I wanted a man. In fact, I was positively hungry for one. I
wanted something steamy and romantic for the day of hearts and roses. And I was intent on making it
happen.

I had just ended an insane relationship with a crazy man, and I wanted to wipe all memory of him out of
my brain stem. I wanted to replace him with a masculine distraction. I had barely been dabbling in
meeting men at bars, but these chance encounters had yielded some frightening results. So I thought I
might try my hand at finding a man on the Internet.

I liked the idea of putting what I wanted in a man out into cyberspace, and then sitting tight while they
pursued me. And in the end, I would have the power to choose among them. I felt powerful.

So I set out to go about it. But before I began, I made a decision that I would meet two men. No more,
no less. And if neither worked, I͛d drop the idea for good.

I knew that I didn͛t want to spend the money to join an official dating sight, so instead I placed an ad on
Craig͛s list, which was absolutely free, and the ad length had no limitations. In other words, you could
wax poetic about yourself for a couple of pages, if you so desired.

And I did desire. I wanted to say as much as possible about myself, in an effort to really show the
potential candidates who I was and what I wanted. I was as honest as I could possibly be, and I put it all
out there for anyone to read. I had no idea if I͛d get a response or if anyone would even read it.

The next day I turned on my computer, and I was utterly shocked to see that I had hundreds of
responses. And the next day, this was followed by hundreds more. At first I was rather happy about it,
until I realized how much time it took to look at them all. I remember remarking to friends that weeding
through the responses was like a part-time job. It would have been one thing if I were dazzled by the
countless emails I received, but it was quite the contrary; I disliked every single response I got! I was
horrified, and let almost all of them dangle, without even a word from me.

Reading them all was arduous. I learned quickly how to identify the spam responsesͶand those had
been simply cut and pasted and distributed by lonely hearts to every single available ad. Those were first
to be deleted.

But the other responses were hideous as well. I had mentioned the word ͞boyish͟ in my list of attributes
that I appreciated about the opposite sex. What I meant by this more than anything else was a man͛s
physical appearance; I had never gone for the rugged Marlboro man kind of guy...I went for the cute
ones with a big mop of hair. Although I think Paul Neuman is unbelievably handsome, I͛d take Paul
McCartney over him hands down. It͛s their appearance, but it͛s also a quality too. Sort of playful and full
of life.

But the responses I received around this one little innocuous word sent my head spinning. The way men
interpreted that response was far and wide, and to me, a little shocking. Men would tell me that they
still lived with their mother, and were relieved to find someone that would finally appreciate their
͞boyishness.͟ Many interpreted the word to mean that it was okay if they were out of work, and not
financially responsible. Some very young men responded, looking for an older woman. ͞I͛m VERY
boyish,͟ I would read. ͞I͛m 20 years old!͟ The interpretations about what I meant were far ranging and
funny. But what was worse, was that it seemed to attract countless dolts, the uneducated and ignorant.
I also found that countless men would respond without a picture, and wouldn͛t forward one if I
requested it. This was blind dating enough; at least I needed some sort of visual to proceed.

I was tearing my hair out, but I didn͛t give up. After all, I had promised that I would date two men, and
this is what I would do. The entire occurrence was a tremendous learning experience, and I learned
slowly that I needed to be even more specific than I thought I already was. I decided to edit my ad. I
removed the word ͞boyish͟ from the text, and I added at the end ͞PhD͛s ONLY.͟ I still laugh when I think
back to it. Finally, I said ͞Do NOT respond without a picture.͟

When I published the edited ad, I felt content. I was sure that this would bring me better responses, and
I was right. The next batch was far more reasonable. I still had a lot of work to do, reading all of the
emails, conversing with the possible candidates, and blocking the stalkers. But after weeks of work, I
finally weeded all of them down to two men. And I must say, I was pretty excited about both of them.

One of them was an impossibly good looking bicyclist from San Francisco. Italian with ͞boyish͟ good
looks, he was also obviously intelligent. He graduated with an English Literature degree just as I had, and
enjoyed literatureͶsomething that was a big plus for me. In fact, he enjoyed many of the same things I
didͶthe Beatniks, and espresso, and Italian food... poetry, The Beatles, and Independent films. We
conversed for weeks, and finally I agreed to meet him in person.
The second was wildly intelligent, and every letter to me was so wonderfully crafted, that I felt as if I was
talking to a fellow writer. It was his words that kept me coming back to him, because damn it, he͛d
broken one of my rules. He never sent a picture.

But I couldn͛t stop talking with him. And soon letters turned to phone calls. He was so witty; he͛d have
me bent over laughing every time we talked. He was so intelligent he would wow me with his angles. I
loved his voice; I found it so sexy my stomach would do flip flops every time I heard it on the other end.

I was certain that he would be the second man that I would choose to meet in person. But when he͛d
ask me to make a date, I͛d say, ͞Not until you send a picture!͟

͞Oh come on,͟ he͛d complain. I don͛t have one! If I had one, I͛d send it. Look, I told you I͛ve dated
models right? I mean, how homely could I be?͟ I didn͛t really like his comments about dating models, I
found it pretentious. Not to mention, I was certainly no model. And I found the fact that he couldn͛t find
a single picture of himself to send a bit strange. Still, with his charm, he eventually wore me down, and I
agreed to meet him.

Both of these gentlemen lived in San Francisco. I have never enjoyed driving around the city by myself; I
prefer to be driven. I get lost very easily, and driving there by myself has always seemed like a challenge.
On the other hand, I really didn͛t want either one of them to know where I lived. So I agreed to meet
them in the city.

But there was a kicker. I agreed to meet them both on the same night. I had one date at 7:00 p.m. and
the second date set up for 10:00. These dates were to take place on Valentine͛s Day, of all days. It was a
little surreal.

I didn͛t feel at all bad making both dates on the same night, although others might find that a bit rude.
First of all, it would save me from driving to the city twice, and I believed that first dates that are blind
dates should be kept somewhat short. I believe one knows in the first five seconds of meeting someone
if there is even a chance of it continuing. So why prolong the potential horror for an entire night? I
thought I was being smart about it.

But where I wasn͛t smart, I suppose, is that I agreed to meet them both in their apartments. Internet
dating was still fairly new at that time, and there wasn͛t the protocol that has since been developed--
advice like meeting your date in a public arena, like a coffee shop. I was a little nervous about it, but felt
I had talked to both of them enough to rule out either being a serial killer at least.

I spent the afternoon bathing and luxuriating and getting ready the proper way. Then I set out for San
Francisco that Saturday night, feeling nervous, but hopeful. I really believed either man could be a real
candidate for my next significant other, although secretly it was my second date that I felt had the most
potential. The one that claimed he didn͛t have a picture.

I had difficulty finding the first man͛s apartment. But I felt proud of myself when at last I found it, and
even found a parking place. I smoked a quick cigarette; knowing I would want one, but having already
decided I wouldn͛t smoke on this first meeting. Following that, I took a deep breath, and with a
muttered, ͞You can do this, girl,͟ I marched myself up two flights of stairs in a beautiful Victorian
apartment building.

He swung open the door before I even reached the landing. He was smiling a huge grin, and I couldn͛t
help but smile back. He was every bit as handsome as his picture depicted, and he had that boyish
quality that I found irresistible. ͞Hi,͟ he said, and quickly kissed me on the cheek. From behind his back,
he pulled out a rose. ͞Happy Valentine͛s Day.͟

I loved it. ͞Thank you. A blind date on Valentine͛s day, imagine that,͟ I quipped. It felt a little romantic.

͞Do you like espresso? I can make you a cappuccino.͟

͞I would love one, thank you.͟ I thought a little caffeine might be just the thing I needed, especially with
a second date later that night.

I entered his apartment and I was impressed. It was quite adult, nicely decorated, and had beautifully
framed prints on the walls. He had a picture of Charles Bukowski; a poet I had long admired, on top of
his stereo. It was the perfect opening conversation, to share our love of the poet and of literature. And
soon we were sipping our coffees on the couch talking easily and animatedly, and I almost wished I
didn͛t have to leave so soon for my second date.

͞Excuse me for a minute, will you? I have to hit the restroom,͟ he said, standing up. Being a bicyclist, he
had a beautiful build. I nodded happily as he disappeared down the hall.

A few minutes later I heard a door open and knew he was returning. I stared at the hall entrance with a
big grin on my face, waiting for him to come into view.

When he did, he was stark naked.

He saw my look of shock and dismay, and tried to deflate the situation, as if this were possible. ͞I know, I
know,͟ he said coming toward me with his hand up as if to stop me from talking. ͞I know this seems a
little odd, but please don͛t freak out or anything. Give me a few moments to explain.͟

I could hardly believe what I was seeing. My first thought was to find my car keys and sprint toward the
door. My second thought was one of curiosity, wondering what on earth this man planned to say. ͞What
are you doing?͟ is all I could think of to say.

He took a seat beside me on the couch. ͞Listen to me for a minute,͟ he started. ͞For spiritual reasons,
and for artistic reasons, I have been celibate for four years. I have been taking a sexual coaching course,
and we learn how we give away our power and our creativity through ejaculation. Not only must we
endure a period of celibacy, we are not allowed to have an orgasm by our own hand either. We are
allowed to masturbate, and are even encouraged to do so, but we learn how to stop it just before the
moment of fruition. This practice, over time, gives us our power back. Do you understand?͟
I couldn͛t even respond. I was in utter shock. What on earth was this speech all about? ͞I understand,
but I don͛t care,͟ I finally spit out exasperated. ͞Is this supposed to be some sort of justification for this
behavior? I͛m going to leave.͟

͞Don͛t leave,͟ he said grabbing my arm. ͞When you came in tonight, I realized that it was time for me to
break this fast. I had never planned on being celibate forever, or never having an orgasm. Tonight is the
night I want to be reborn again, and I want to be reborn with you.͟

I looked behind his naked body and noticed a fire escape outside of the window. I grabbed a cigarette
and a lighter, and climbed out the window and lit my cigarette. He scampered after me and kneeled in
front of the window. ͞Oh,͟ he said. ͞I didn͛t know you smoked.͟

͞And I didn͛t know you were going to be naked. I guess we͛re both surprised,͟ I answered.

͞Please come back in.͟

͞If you go get dressed, I͛ll come back in.͟

͞Don͛t send me away. I see you as my future wife!͟

͞That͛s not going to happen,͟ I said as I rubbed my cigarette butt against the metal to put it out. ͞In fact,
I have to get going. I have another date. Put your clothes on.͟

͞You made another date on the same night we made a date? I don͛t think you realize how much
potential I think the two of us have. Let me explain. All of my life I͛ve been a real Mama͛s boy. Every girl
I͛ve dated I͛ve told them the same thing. I͛ll never get married as long as my Mama is alive. But once she
dies, I͛ll want to marry whatever woman I͛m with, because it would be too lonely to be single. My Mama
is very ill.͟

͞Sorry to hear that,͟ I said, crawling back through the window. I grabbed my purse off from the couch
and fished its contents for my keys. ͞Thanks for the coffee. It͛s been an interesting night,͟ and with that
I ran toward the door, imagining him trying to block my escape. Thankfully he did not.

With my ears burning I ran into the night and to the safety of my car. It was quarter to ten, and time for
my second date. My stomach was in knots and I felt so anxious. I hadn͛t yet recovered from my first
date, and didn͛t know how emotionally ready I was for a second. I was frightened to go to this other
man͛s apartment, so late at night. But the plan was for me to call from my car once I arrived in the city,
and he͛d talk me through the directions as I drove to his house.

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed his number. ͞Hi it͛s me. I͛m on Geary Street. Where to?͟

The minute I heard his voice, I relaxed. He took charge, and seemed to know the city like the back of his
hand. Surely, this was going to be better, I thought to myself. And really, this was the date I was looking
forward to the most. ͞Okay,͟ he said, ͞so you must be in front of a pink building now, do you see it?͟ He
knew every street and every landmark that I passed as if he were in the car with me. But he was also
making me laugh uproariously as he always did. I hardly noticed where I was going as I was whizzed
through the streets easily, guided by my human GPS. And soon I was led safely and easily right to his
apartment building. ͞I think I͛m here!͟ I said as I hovered in the middle of the street.

͞Yes, I can see you. Park right in front of the green truck. I͛m on the third floor. I͛ll buzz you in.͟

͞What apartment number?͟ I asked.

͞Oh, don͛t worry. You can follow the sound of my voice,͟ he said laughing, and then hung up the phone.

It felt eerie that he could see me and I couldn͛t see him. Not to mention he had seen countless photos of
me, and I had never seen a single snapshot of him. I imagined him watching me as I got out of my car
and crossed the street. I glanced upwards at the apartment building, wondering if I might get a glimpse
of him. The windows looked dark.

When I reached the stoop, the door was already buzzing. I ran to push it open, and I entered the dimly
lit foyer. The door slammed behind me. I stood in the quiet.

͞Helloooooooooooo,͟ I heard from high above my head. ͞Follow my voice.͟ It echoed strangely in the
muted dusk of the hall.

I began climbing the steps, and I surprised myself to feel myself smiling. This man and I had been having
the best rapport for weeks, and I was excited. Even though I had no idea what he looked like, I mused,
how bad could it be? As I climbed the second set of stairs, I fantasized about finally seeing him, and how
we would fall into each other͛s arms for a passionate kiss.

I climbed the third set of steps. ͞Down here,͟ came his voice. ͞Walk toward me.͟ I did as I was told.
͞Turn the corner and here I am.͟

I turned the corner.

And there he was.

I͛ve never been one to be overly shallow about a person͛s appearance. I find beauty in most people. But
there are very few individuals I find so repulsive that I actually recoil in their presence. This was one such
person.

His bald head was large, and seemed to sit on top of folds of loose flesh that served as his neck. His skin
was so white that it was translucent, and I could see blue veins in his neck, cheeks, and arms. His body
was huge and shapeless, and he looked more like a ball with a bowling pin on top. When he saw me he
laughed, and his entire body undulated in a blubbery orgasm.

He was dressed in beige from head to foot. He wore beige conservative slacks and a beige conventional
shirt. He had beige socks.

We exchanged a glance. I smiled weakly. The idea of kissing him flew away as if it had wings.
He opened the door wide for me to enter. His living room was beige with wall to wall beige carpets, and
a beige couch. There was not one piece of art anywhere. The walls were blank. The coffee table was
empty. The only thing in the room were bookshelves upon bookshelves of VCR tapes, all labeled. ͞What
are these?͟ I asked.

͞Tapes of my lectures. I͛m a Professor, remember?͟

I just nodded. I looked out the window to see if I might see a second fire escape I might crawl down. But
I was distracted when the mood suddenly took a sudden, almost violent detour.

͞See this wine?͟ he said, pointing to a bottle on the counter. ͞This is the best there is. This bottle cost
hundreds of dollars. HUNDREDS. And I bought it for you.͟

͞That͛s very nice of you. I͛d love a glass,͟ I told him.

͞Well, you don͛t get a glass. You can have some water.͟

͞Excuse me?͟ I said laughing, thinking he surely must be joking.

͞I͛m not going to open this wine for you. Don͛t you think I saw your face when you saw me? You looked
as if you might vomit. Am I really that hideous? The only reason you even came inside was to be polite.
Why would I share something so expensive with someone who will never give me a second date?͟

I was so stunned, I couldn͛t respond. He lumbered over to the beige couch, and with great effort, fell
into it. Then he lay down, as if he were ready for a nap. ͞I could turn on the T.V,͟ he said dryly.

I might have just turned on my heel at that moment, and walked out. But I didn͛t.

To this day, I really don͛t know why. A part of me felt sorry for him; I had never intended to be so
obvious about my distaste, although the truth would have reared it͛s ugly head soon enough. There was
also a part of me that really liked him; I had been enjoying his mind for weeks. But more than anything, I
was so angry at him I plunked myself down and started yelling at him.

͞Do you know what a rude ass you are?͟ I said. ͞I drove all the way into the city to meet you.͟

͞Pity I turned out to be such a hideous monster, isn͛t it? I have no interest in anyone as shallow as you.͟

This conversation would end up continuing until 2 in the morning. He might not be my cup of tea in the
romantic department, but he was a potent adversary and could throw a mean intellectual debate. I can͛t
say that I didn͛t enjoy that evening on some level.

When I climbed into my car that morning, dazed and exhausted, I decided I would never venture into
the world of blind dating ever again. And I kept that promise. But a week later, I went back to trying to
meet men in bars. I met a dandy of a man my first time out, or so I thought. I followed him to his lovely
home and took me outside to show me the view from the deck. He disappeared for a moment, he
claimed, to open a bottle of wine. When he returned, he was stark naked.
Men really seem like a different species at times.

I could only start laughing, thinking back to my blind date on Valentine͛s Day. My laughter embarrassed
him, I was sure of that. I poked his nude body with a giggle, on my way out the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Ö






I still remember the phone call that changed my life; the call which set off a flurry of unfortunate events
and sent my life into a tailspin. It was my friend Tommy on the other line, and by the breathless way he
was talking, I knew he had big news for me.

͞I͛m getting married,͟ he told me. I could envision him literally beaming through the phone lines. ͞And I
want you to be my Maid of Honor.͟

͞I͛d be honored to be your Maid of Honor!͟ I answered him laughing. ͞Brent is a lucky man.͟

Tom was gay and single. He was the 7th member of our tiny troupe of friends, and he had always been
the odd man out; the third wheel as it were. The rest of the six were in pairs. Tom had been searching
for love since I met him, but he could never find the right guy. I was thrilled to see him so happy.

We had all met his betrothed, of course. Young, handsome and boyish, Brent was the life of the party.
He loved to drink, he loved to laugh, and he loved to shock. Our first impressions of him were pretty
good; he wasn͛t shy in the slightest, and had us all in stitches in the first hour that we met him. He was
loud, flamboyant, and quick witted. I thought they made a good pair.

Brent asked my boyfriend to stand up for him as Best Man. He had only just met him, of course, but he
explained that all of his friends were on the other side of the country. He had come to San Francisco on
a vacation; he had long been curious about the Castro District of San Francisco, and he came out for a
fortnight and an adventure. But he would never use his return ticket home, as it turned out, because
when he met Tommy in a gay bar one night, it was love at first sight. And least that͛s the story they
loved to tell, while holding hands and smiling. They ended up framing his return ticket and later hung it
in their marital home.

The marriage took place on Twin Peaks. A perch high above the ivory buildings of San Francisco, it has a
panoramic view that rivals any other place in the city. On a clear day, which their wedding day was, it
can be positively magical.

I wore a black sequin gown and white orchids. Brent was very insistent as to what I should wear, and as I
got to know him more, it seemed he was always trying to dress me. He loved picking out clothes for me,
but he often went with six inch high heels and a dress befitting a Diva. His choices were never really my
style, but when I was with him, it always felt like I was playing, and when it came to clothes, I felt as
though I were playing dress up. When he wanted black sequins on his wedding day, I didn͛t even blink,
and bought the dress he asked me to buy. I was sipping on cold champagne, staring out into the view
when the first sequin fell off of that dress. By days end it would have completely disintegrated right off
of my body.

The wedding went well. Brent and Tom wore white tuxedos with purple orchid leis. They wrote their
own vows and both shed tears as they made promises to each other that should have lasted a lifetime.
My boyfriend and I stood at their sides, while the rest of the wedding party fanned out in front of us.

I remember a tourist bus pulling into the parking lot. In a moment we could hear feverish shouts from its
inhabitants; ͞It͛s a gay wedding! Oh my GOD! We ARE in San Francisco,͟ they bellowed, when suddenly
dozens of flash bulbs began blinding us. When I stared out into the sea of faces watching, all I could see
were cameras everywhere. I felt for a moment as if we were movie stars surrounded by the paparazzi.

Following the ceremony, we bid our adieus. Brent and Tom had rented a limousine for the rest of the
day, and Brent had made it clear to everyone that the Newlyweds wanted to leave directly after the
wedding with only my boyfriend and me, for an afternoon and night of drinking and revelry. ͞I just want
the four of us,͟ Brent said over and over as others tried to join our fun. And in a moment we had made
our getaway, and the four of us were speeding down the hill toward the city, pouring champagne and
laughing.

Our first stop was the Top of the Mark, the famous restaurant and bar that turns slowly like a planet on
its axis, for stunning and ever changing 360 degree views. When I got out of the limo at that first stop, I
noticed the seat was covered in sequins. ͞I think my dress is falling apart,͟ I said laughing. But that didn͛t
stop me at the Mark, nor did it stop me at the half a dozen or so bars we visited after.

Our last stop was to be the Castro, for a drink at the very bar where Tom and Brent met. When I climbed
out of the limo, the seat was covered in sequins. The driver was incensed; he began sweeping the shiny
circles from the back with a noticeable grumble. ͞Damn it,͟ he mumbled under his breath, shooting
dagger looks in my direction. ͞You͛re making a mess,͟ he told me.

͞My dear,͟ Brent said in his lowest baritone, ͞your entire rear end is now exposed.͟ And it was true.
There was nothing left of my dress behind me except a few bare threads. ͞Thank god I͛m wearing
underwear,͟ I said as I laughed out of sheer embarrassment. Brent immediately wrapped me in his
tuxedo jacket, and told the limo to rush us to his house. There he gave me a pair of jeans, and let me to
continue to wear the tuxedo jacket. It seemed he always wanted to take care of me. And soon the party
made its way to Uncle Bert͛s Saloon, in the heart of the Castro District.

Brent and Tom were the toast of the town that night in the gay district of San Francisco. They seemed to
epitomize the dreams of many a lonely gay man in that town; men that were sick of the rather sordid
and prolific sexual encounters that many of them enjoyed; one night stands that went on nightly into
infinity, without the love and commitment they craved. Tom and Brent were happy and healthy; robust
and obviously in love, and their union seemed to give hope to so many. I was welcomed into their
community with open arms; and it was a neighborhood I would end up spending a lot of time in.

We had a grand time on their wedding day. I still remember the moment when Brent left the bar briefly
and when he returned, he had roses for me. This was a gesture that he would repeat many times in the
future; whenever we were all out together he͛d leave and bring me back flowers and gifts. ͞Are you
trying to make me look bad?͟ my boyfriend would joke, who didn͛t make these gestures toward me
nearly often enough. And in truth, it did make him look bad, because I so obviously enjoyed the
attention. But all of it was in good fun. No one at first raised so much of an eyebrow of Brent͛s fondness
of me. He was gay, after all, and we were nothing more than friends.

The wedding day came and went, but Brent͛s gestures toward me didn͛t stop with flowers and gifts; he
worked overtime to befriend me. He would call me constantly, and he continually suggested we spend a
day alone together. I didn͛t feel I knew him well enough at first, and I resisted his many requests, but
slowly he wore me down.

At the time, I had every Tuesday off from work, and it eventually became our ritual to spend that day
together. I would drive into the city, pick Brent up at their Twin Peaks apartment, and we͛d spend the
day in the Castro at the bars.

I really had no idea that Brent was an alcoholic at the time. I knew he drank a lot, and it took me a long
while to get used to the idea of plunking myself on a bar stool at nine in the morning and ordering my
first drink. But I followed his lead, and this is what we would do; we͛d do shots of hard liquor and we
would drink all day and all night, roaming from bar to bar, and getting ourselves in all kinds of trouble.

The community loved me. I was known everywhere by name, and they͛d call out my name when I͛d
enter a venue and holler with joy. The two of us had become the life of the party; we would dance, sing,
engage with everyone, and fully participate in their worlds. At one place, they named a sandwich after
us. At another they͛d have our drinks made before we even ordered them. The lesbians wanted to kiss
me, and the boys wanted to do my hair. I can͛t tell you how many times I sat in one of those bars, my
hair all rolled up in curlers, with several boys fussing around me with brushes and bobby pins. We had
become quite popular.

Tuesdays seemed endless, and for good reason. Our days together would stretch out into nearly 24 hour
marathons of drinking, misbehaving, and carousing. We would find ourselves in all sorts of dastardly
situations; we found ourselves in the middle of sex, drugs, and just about everything in between. Some
of the things I saw at that time in my life I couldn͛t possibly repeat here, but it all fascinated me. Our
times together became increasingly wilder, and we͛d stay up later and later. Eventually, we͛d crawl back
to Brent͛s house at dawn, still giggling and carrying on.

Tom would just shake his head when he͛d see us walking in at 5 in the morning. ͞I͛m getting up for
work,͟ he would say to us as we stumbled in the door. ͞Instead of me making up a bed for Cathy, why
don͛t you both just sleep in our bed for a few hours?͟ he would suggest.
And that is what we would do. We would get into bed together and sleep for an hour or two, before I͛d
jump up and head off to work.

My boyfriend became increasingly annoyed by this growing alliance between Brent and me. I would
write off his concerns as hogwash; there was nothing to be jealous of, the man was gay for goodness
sake. I would tell him he was being ridiculous, and I͛d look forward to the next Tuesday with increasing
anticipation.

Brent kissed everyone, so when he began kissing me, I didn͛t think much of it. Fueled by alcohol and fun,
we would often kiss; sometimes even driving up to Twin Peaks where their wedding took place to
smooch. I was kissing a gay man after all; a man who would kiss strangers right in front of his husband.
Tom never seemed to care; he would only laugh at his antics. I believed it all was perfectly innocent.

Months later, the four of us decided to take a trip together to Vermont, to Brent͛s home town. It wasn͛t
until that trip that I began to wonder if Brent͛s flirtations toward me meant much more than I had
thought. His friends and family treated me more like his wife than they treated Tom like his husband. It
was as if they all knew that I was going to be Brent͛s next victim, even before I did. Because they knew
him, and they knew his patterns; and they knew he͛d chosen me to circle like a hungry hawk after its
prey.

But my life didn͛t fall apart until we returned to California.

Tom and Brent had a party at their house, which my boyfriend and I attended. The party began to thin
out, one by one as parties do, but we were having such a good time, I didn͛t want to leave. Tom
suggested we stay the night, and eventually both Tom and my boyfriend took to their beds, leaving only
Brent and I up and alone.

We didn͛t do anything bad that night. I have a vague recollection of us playing horsey. We were both
wearing bathrobes and Brent took the rope of his robe and wrapped it around my neck, like a halter. He
was standing up with his robe untied, and I was on my hands and knees in front of him, with the rope
around my neck, when my boyfriend came into the room.

He didn͛t say a word. He got dressed, and with a slam of the door, left me there.

Not for even a minute did I really believe this was the end of our relationship. I loved my boyfriend more
than I could possibly love anyone; what we had was rich and deep. This alliance with Brent was just for
laughs; it was a distraction and nothing more. Besides, my boyfriend and I had been together more than
16 years, and when you reach those kinds of milestones you know it͛s for life. I believed it was for life
with all of my heart. But shockingly my relationship did end that night.

There were phone calls and tears; promises and regrets. But he left the key to my house on my kitchen
table, and he told me it was over. I don͛t think it really would have been, but I believed it at the time. I
was so distraught, I asked Brent to run off to Mexico with me.
Within three hours of making the decision, Brent and I were sitting in an airplane awaiting take-off to
Cabo San Lucas for 18 days. We didn͛t tell a single soul we were going, except for my boss whom I called
from the airport.

If I hadn͛t run off to Mexico, I͛m sure my boyfriend and I would have found our way back to each other.
But that little trip sealed the deal. No one knew where we had gone; Tom came home, discovered Brent
gone, and being the sleuth that he is, he hit redial on the last number we called from their phone. It was
Mexican Airlines. When no one had seen or heard from either of us for days, word spread like wildfire
that we͛d gone off to Mexico.

When I think back to that trip, I can still smell our cheap hotel; I can still hear the thump of the music
playing; I can still smell the odor of enchiladas, tequila, and exhaust fumes. I can still remember the
horror as it dawned on me at last that Brent was a raging alcoholic.

Brent went on a bender for 18 days, the likes of which no one has ever seen. We would take a boat
every morning to a bar that was on an island, and the bar owners would scream ͞Borracho͟ as he got off
the boat and headed toward the bar. Borracho means ͚drunk͛ but Brent was proud of his title and began
referring to himself that way.

When we returned from Mexico, Brent moved in with me. Tom didn͛t want him back, and I had broken
my boyfriend͛s heart. It felt as though we had no one but each other, and out of need more than
anything else, we became a couple. I began to wake up in a nightmare that would last six years.

I͛ll never forget our first visit to Uncle Bert͛s, our favorite bar in the Castro. We approached the door,
chatting happily, when the bartender came out from around the bar and ran up to the door. He shoved
his hand in my face. ͞Brent can go in,͟ he told me. ͞But you͛ll have to wait here.͟

͞What are you talking about?͟ I said, still laughing, and pushing his hand down. I assumed he was joking
and tried to go around him. He grabbed both of my shoulders and pushed me backwards. ͞What are you
doing?͟ I said, growing angry.

I looked behind him and noticed something had changed about the dart board that I had seen so many
times hanging above the bar. I squinted in its direction, trying to make out an image that had been
placed in the center of the dart board.

The picture on the dartboard was me.

As of that day, I was blacklisted from the community. Brent would argue with them loudly, saying that if
anyone should understand prejudice, it should be the gay community. And aren͛t they now ostracizing
us because we͛re straight? We had many heated discussions on the streets of the Castro, but I was no
longer welcome there. It took me years to be able to return and not be noticed.

From that point onward, my life only endured. The idea of saddling up to a bar and drinking all day
sickened me. I found myself living with a full-fledged alcoholic, which is a story unto itself.
It is interesting to me how we can look back on our lives and see the precise moment we went around a
bad corner. I never got back what I lost that summer, but my life moved on from there. It was a chapter
where everything that I knew I trusted blew apart in smithereens, as though hit by a bomb.

For years, I felt that episode had been the biggest mistake of my life. I had made so many mistakes; my
behavior was selfish and I hurt so many people. But whenever I͛d share the sad saga with people I met,
they weren͛t interested in my pain or my regrets. They weren't interested in the pain I caused, or what
I had learned. They were really only interested in one thing.

It always began the same; they͛d stare at me as if I had some kind of magical power; as if I were a Siren
of unbelievable proportions. I would begin to feel they were no longer listening to my story; they only
had one thing on their minds. And staring at me with a creepy look of admiration and awe, they͛d bring
the entire relationship down to one question. ͞What͛s your secret?͟ they would titter.

͞My secret?͟ I͛d ask.

͞How did you turn a gay man straight?͟ they͛d ask me. I would only smile in response and stare down at
the ground.






Ö 

It had been a great New Years, and I faced the prospect of returning to work with my usual dread. My
thoughts were still wrapped up in tinsel; my memories were lit up with party hats and noise makers, and
it felt nearly impossible to leave the brilliant fireworks of the season behind me. January is always a
tough month for those who do accounting work, and each New Year I would find myself despising the
ledgers that called me back and extinguished the festive lights of the holidays. And this January was no
different.

As I headed to work that morning, I felt depressed. But the last thing I expected on that winter dawn
was that death was coming to my day. But death was indeed coming; with its bony fingers, it was
scratching the back of my neck, warning me of its presence.

I found an empty space in front of my office and parked, and then I looked up at my office window and
sighed. Because while January is a time I most wanted to hibernate in the comfort of my heaters and
quilts, it was also the busiest time for me at work. The year had ended, and it was time to send out
W4͛s, 1099͛s, and begin the arduous task of closing out the fiscal year. There were accounts to close,
journal transactions to be entered, and new books to open. And that morning as I arrived at work, I felt
like I was a helium balloon that had just been popped, and all of my joy was hissing out like a sorrowful
gas. It was Monday morning.

I got straight to work. It has always been my goal to get out W2͛s and 1099͛s as soon as humanly
possible. It has also been my belief that employees have the right to know, once the year ends, what
their prior year earnings were so that they might plan for their taxes. But I have also always done them
first thing for selfish reasons. I had learned over the years that the longer I would delay this task, the
more phone calls and questions I would receive from my co-workers. So, in part, I cranked out the forms
quickly as a way to give myself a little more peace; as a way to keep the hoards of curious and anxious
employees at a distance.

It was a busy morning. I spent hours that day reconciling the 1099 accounts and I finally began printing
the forms out on the printer. This particular task always filled me with stress; because if the forms
moved even a millimeter, they would print incorrectly and render the rest useless. I stood by the printer,
my heart in my throat, and watched the forms like a hungry cat; I pawed at them from time to time to
guide them in the right direction, and I was ready to pounce on them should something go terribly awry.
But on that morning, I had few problems, and soon enough I was stuffing the forms into envelopes and
was ready to distribute them.

At the time I worked for a Real Estate office, and most of the employees were Independent Contractors,
who worked strictly on the commissions they received from selling homes. Only the office workers were
on payroll, so when I produced the 1099͛s that morning, the vast majority of them were for people I
worked with every day. My office was on the second floor, and I had a little balcony, and if I peered over
I could see the entire ground floor of the office and an overview of all of the agents in their cubicles.
Rather than wasting money on stamps, I began passing the 1099 forms to my co-workers as I spotted
them, running up and down the stairs to bring them their envelope. I felt like the Grim Reaper; because
although people wanted these forms as quickly as possible, they didn͛t like receiving them. As the
Accountant, I have always noticed the looks on faces as I hand out the forms; it͛s a pinched, barely
discernable expression of scorn and dread.

Directly below my balcony sat a nice man named Rob. Since his office was squarely below mine, I often
would stare at the various pictures and things that he hung on the walls of his cubicle. He had children,
of that I was sure; as I often saw childish scrawls in bright colors tacked beside his computer. And I
would also peruse his photographs and the bits and scraps that made up his life. He seemed like a kind
fellow; a sentimental fellow. He was always supremely polite to me.

On this morning as I was staring down, I saw Rob scurry by, and rush into his cubicle. I watched him as
he hurriedly removed his coat and I noticed he looked unusually anxious to begin his day. He might have
just sold a house, I mused to myself, because he looked particularly harried.

͞Happy New Year Rob,͟ I yelled down from my perch.

He looked up like a skittish rat, obviously unnerved by my outcry. ͞Yes,͟ he said, slowly smiling. ͞Happy
New Year to you too.͟

͞Morning. I finished the 1099͛s,͟ I called back. ͞I͛m going to toss it down there; are you ready to catch
it?͟

I saw his face fill with a slight twinge of pain. ͞Those are what we need to file taxes, right?͟ he asked me.
My face scrunched up without my even realizing it. I was frankly a bit surprised that he didn͛t seem to
know what a 1099 was. ͞Yes,͟ I called down. ͞Let me know if you need any help deciphering it,͟ I
finished, smiling. He nodded, and I flew the envelope toward him like a paper plane.

He didn͛t thank me. They never thanked me. They unknowingly treated me more like I was a cop
handing out speeding tickets. At best, they seemed to accept my New Years gifts with polite loathing.

He caught the envelope and looked up and nodded. I smiled then returned to my work.

I don͛t know how many hours had passed, but I had been working steadily all day, completing one
dreaded task after another, going as fast as I could so that I might be finished with it. But when I looked
up, the sky out of my office window had gone from light to the darkest black. It was winter, and the days
were shorter, but I suddenly felt as though it were the middle of the night. I looked over my balcony,
and noticed that Rob͛s cubicle was empty, and then as I allowed my eyes to wander around the entire
ground floor, I noticed that most of the agents had gone home for the day, and only a few lamps were
burning. I had decided it was time to pack it up and head home, just as my phone began to ring.

I answered with my usual nonchalant greeting; the name of the company followed by my own name. I
was tired, and didn͛t feel like dealing with anything more that day. ͞May I help you?͟

͞Hey, this is Rob,͟ the voice on the other end said. He sounded frantic and hurried, and he was strangely
out of breath. It alarmed me a bit.

͞Evening Rob,͟ I said, listening with only half an ear. I was busy turning off my computer and shutting
everything down for the night. I was ready to go home.

͞Okay, can you explain this 1099 to me? What exactly is it.͟ His voice was rough; accusatory.

͞Well,͟ I said, stopping to grab a pen and begin doodling, ͞it͛s a report of your gross income for the year.
When you do your taxes, you͛ll take this number, and depending on many factors, such as dependents
and deductions, you will use it to determine what taxes you owe. I assume you͛ve been paying
quarterly?͟

There was a pause. ͞Paying WHAT quarterly.͟ He almost yelled it, and his voice scared me a little.

͞Your taxes? It depends on your income, but most Independent Contractors have to pay their taxes
quarterly.͟

͞And how in the hell am I supposed to know that?͟ he asked me. He was getting angrier. ͞Why didn͛t
you mention this to me before now?͟

I didn͛t like his tone, and I pushed back. ͞Listen Rob, I͛m not in charge of your income taxes. I͛m in
charge of the company͛s income taxes. Your income taxes are your responsibility. What did you do last
year? Is this your first year as an Independent Contractor?͟
He let out a long seething sigh. ͞Yes. My taxes have always been taken out in the past. I thought you
were taking my taxes out.͟

͞No, that͛s not how it works with commission,͟ I answered him. ͞You pay your own taxes. You͛re not
technically an employee. You get all of your money gross.͟

There was a pause. ͞GOD DAMN IT,͟ he screamed into the phone.

͞Excuse me?͟

͞IF I HAVE TO PAY TAXES ON THIS, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH GOD DAMN TAX I OWE? I DON͛T HAVE
THIS KIND OF MONEY. I͛VE USED THE MONEY I͛VE EARNED HERE TO PUT GOD DAMN FOOD ON MY
TABLE. I DON͛T HAVE ANY SAVINGS. I THOUGHT I WAS PAYING MY GOD DAMN TAXES. GOD DAMN
YOU!͟

I was becoming increasingly annoyed by his attitude. ͞Rob, this isn͛t MY fault,͟ I said softly, trying to
steady my voice. ͞I͛m sorry this came as a surprise to you.͟ I noticed my hands were shaking.

͞OH WHY DON͛T YOU JUST GO DIE,͟ he screamed in the phone, and then I heard a deafening click as he
hung up on me.

I sat there for a moment dumbfounded as his voice still rang in my ears. When I looked down, I saw the
doodles I had created while talking to Rob; I had pushed the pen so hard that I had made holes in the
paper. My doodles were overly dark and angry. The way he had talked to me had shaken me to the core,
and as I gathered up my belongings and shut off my lamp, my heart filled to the brim with nagging
sorrow. I knew that I wanted to cry. I knew I hated my job. I knew that I hated January. And that night as
I got into bed, I tossed and turned for hours, going over every last word that he said to me, wondering
how I would face him the following morning.

But I wouldn͛t have to face Rob.

When I awoke the next dawn, I dreaded going to work even more than I usually did. I decided that I
would give myself a little treat so that I would feel better, so I went in a little early so that I could enjoy a
cappuccino before work at the coffee shop across the street. On this morning it was bustling with
patrons, and I spotted at least five of my co-workers talking excitedly in the corner, their eyes dancing
wildly, their voices frenzied.

I smiled hello and walked toward the counter to get my coffee. But the group waved me over; it was
apparent they had something urgent to talk with me about.

͞What͛s going on?͟ I asked as I approached them.

͞Did you hear about Rob?͟ they asked, almost in unison.

I felt a black shadow pass over my heart. ͞What about Rob?͟ I asked.

͞He killed himself last night,͟ was the answer.

It was one of those moments that time seems to stand still. It was difficult to believe what I was hearing;
I almost felt as if I were dreaming. I was stunned into silence, and couldn͛t speak. The group of agents
continued to talk. ͞Apparently he left the office last night and killed himself. He never spoke to anyone
after leaving here last night.͟

I didn͛t want to say it, but I had to say it. ͞Yes, he did. I talked to him last night.͟

The group of agents stared at me, their collective eyes as wide as saucers. I heard a gasp. They wanted
every detail; every last word that was uttered. But I didn͛t want to talk about it; it felt strangely private. I
knew now that I was the one who had witnessed his grief; his final hour. I knew what I had heard on the
phone the previous night was his last good-bye.

But I also felt a horrific sense of guilt creeping over my extremities. I felt somehow responsible, as
though it could have been my words, and my actions, which pushed him over the edge. Or at the very
least, I knew that in those final seconds before he took his life, it was me who he blamed.

I felt connected to him, and strangely protective of him. My throat was dry. But the group continued to
hound me for details. ͞The family will want to know what he said to you,͟ they scolded me, trying to
coerce the truth out of me. ͞And probably the police too. Because if you have a clue as to why he did
this, you have to tell. So you might as well tell us. What did he say? Come on. It͛s important.͟

Their voices were shrill, like cackling hens.

Nosey bitches.

I felt sick.

But I couldn͛t get the words out that cold January morning. For just a few more hours I was going to
allow this man his privacy. I was going to allow him to rest in peace.

Instead, I was treated to a diatribe of what had occurred.

He must have been at home when he called me. There were no cell phones back then.

After he spoke with me he gathered several necessary items from his house, and then packed them into
his car. He drove for over an hour, to a remote cabin that his family owned.

But he didn͛t park in the driveway of the cabin. He parked about a mile away, and left his car hidden in a
grove of trees. His car couldn͛t be spotted on the road; he made sure that no one driving by could see
that he was there, and surprise him.

He walked a mile to the cabin. And once inside, he gave himself the triple cocktail of death. First he
swallowed a bottle of pills. Then he covered his head with a plastic bag. And if that wasn͛t enough, he
took a gun and blew his brains all over the gnarled walls of his family log cabin.

There would be no mistake. He took every possible precaution. This wasn͛t a cry for help, a dramatic
gesture; a plea for someone to find him. He made sure he would die. Triple sure.
When my co-workers finished telling me the story, I could taste the poison. I could feel the plastic
sticking to my sweating face. I could smell the gun powder.

I was not self-absorbed enough to believe I caused this man to take his life that evening. Nor did I think
his suicide was my fault. But I do believe I might have been the final straw that snapped the back of the
proverbial camel. And for that reason, I have always felt connected to him; it has always felt as though
my left hand holds his, six feet under the damp earth, and I touch his corpse with compassion.

On a cold January evening, when the year was brand new again and ripe with possibilities, and when
smiling people were still wishing each other a Happy New Year as they passed by on the street, this man
let a monetary reality determine the value of his life.

I am still saddened that he felt that the numbers on that form were of greater value than his own soul.
Because I am assured that whatever that number was, it was only a fraction of his worth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




 

When I was 14, I worked in a convalescent hospital.

I was too young to legally work, but the word about town was that St. Catherine͛s was so desperate for
Candy Stripers that they would look the other way. All of my friends jumped on this opportunity, and the
best part of that job was that we were all together.

I remember the staff asking me for my social security number, and I had no idea what that was. ͞I͛ll have
to call you back,͟ I told them, then ran to ask my big sister. ͞Just make it up,͟ she counseled me. ͞It͛s
three numbers, then two, then four.͟ Her words were reassuring, and I got the job.

My friends were all hired as Candy Stripers, and wore red and white striped pinafores, like candy canes.
Candy Stripers were underage girls hired to attend to all of the patient͛s needs. To me, the name ͞Candy
Striper͟ and the duties they performed had a ring of prostitution about it, and I didn͛t like the idea at all.
Not to mention, I have always been squeamish about nursing. I don͛t have that nurture bone that makes
it palatable to clean up feces and sponge bodies; and I knew I wouldn͛t be able to do it.

So instead, I asked if I could work in the kitchen. And I was the only person who did.

I͛ll never forget my first day of work. I was met at the door with a time card, and was shown how to
͞punch in.͟ It was very mechanical; the whir of the machine as it spit out my card with a blue ink time
stamp upon it. It felt robotic. I felt robotic.

The smell was overwhelming. It was a noxious odor that was a combination of medicine and vomit;
cleanser and urine. I was led down the hall to sign my paperwork, and I was suddenly accosted by a
patient; an elderly lady who was sneering and hissing at me as I walked by. Suddenly she grabbed the
back of my collar and pulled me toward her. She stood there posed like a fragile gorilla; arms
outstretched as if about to pounce, exposed white legs covered in blue veins, her mouth angry. ͞For
you, my dear,͟ she said in a guttural malevolent way, and then she squatted over my shoes and
urinated.

I͛m not sure if I was more horrified or terrified.

͞The bathroom is right there,͟ said the nurse who was leading me toward my destination. ͞You can
clean your shoes.͟ She was so matter-of-fact, that I wanted to scream, is that all I get? That woman
peed on me! I wanted sympathy; but there would be none of that.

I rounded the corner to the bathroom and was stopped by another elderly woman in the hallway. ͞Last
payment on the welfare check,͟ she told me. I nodded impatiently, and she continued. ͞Yep, it͛s the
very last payment. The LAST payment of the welfare check.͟ In the coming months, I would learn that
this was all she said. Over and over. All day long.

Once my shoes were clean and my paperwork signed, which included my false social security number, I
was led to the kitchen. I was introduced to my boss; a very tidy woman, with pert lips and a perpetually
tight neck. She was a nutritionist; and she went on to instruct me on how to prepare the food. Before
each meal, the carts would be wheeled into the kitchen, which were bright silver and all metal. The carts
were bunk bed style, and came with about fifty trays per cart in rows which went about as high as I
could reach. On each tray was a patient͛s name, their food requests, requirements and restrictions. Each
meal I would aid her in preparation; the regular patients got things like meatloaf, mash potatoes and
frozen peas. A few could even request wine with their dinner, which was served in tiny wine bottles with
a plastic wine glass. But many patients couldn͛t eat this or that, and we had to prepare a variety of
dishes. The worst were the Mechanical Soft patients, who could only drink liquid. For those patients, I
would normally just throw the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas in a blender and serve it to them as
a meaty milkshake.

My other job was to wash the dishes. I would stand before the industrialized size stainless steel sinks,
and a steady stream of trays would come toward me, moving on a conveyer belt. Each plate was capped
off with a white marbled plastic lid. I would remove the lid, wash that and the plate under hot water,
and then put it into a big washer that would slide it through like a car wash. It was hot, and I would
always sweat as I performed this particular task. I didn͛t so much mind doing the dishes, but the patients
would often leave me little surprises under the white marbled lids. A pile of feces was their favorite gift
to me. But a pool of vomit was an equally popular donation.

When I finished with the dishes, I would have to count all the trays, and if I was short, I͛d have to roam
the hospital and look for them. I remember entering one woman͛s room, and I was pleased when I
spotted the one missing tray and the white marbled lid on her bed stand. ͞Good evening Mrs. Wilson,͟ I
said, as I walked in to retrieve it.

͞Good evening,͟ she said in a wicked voice that made me shudder. Then she pulled up her white
nightgown, and began extracting bits of salad from her vagina and tossing it in my direction. She was
screaming pejoratives as she did this; it was like a scene from the Exorcist. I ran from that room as if I
was a soldier running from shrapnel, ducking the pellets that were flung toward my head and the few
that landed square on my cheek.

I thought of it like an insane asylum. And I hated every single second of every single day there.

But I had it easy compared to my friends, who were forced to deal with the patients all day long, as well
as wash the bodies of the dead, and prepare them for pick up. My best friend begged me to stay in the
room with her the first time she did it; as she was so frightened. I͛ll never forget the thud as she turned
the dead man over to wash him, and revealed his back which looked like raw red meat, and was covered
in bruises, scabs and blood. ͞HE͛S ROTTING!͟ I almost choked. The smell was putrid. ͞WHAT IS THAT?͟ I
screamed. But she knew what it was, as part of her job was to give sponge baths, and had seen them
regularly.

͞Bed sores,͟ she whispered. I was often educated during my tenure there. And the sound of ambulances
in the parking lot was the lullaby by which I worked.

There were three levels of patients there. Group One consisted of patients who were almost comatose;
sitting in wheel chairs or lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and without any recognition of the world
around them. We rarely needed to tend to them at all; only the doctors and nurses fed and bathed
them. Group Two were the patients that the Candy Stripers and I would deal with the most; the ones
who hid salad in their crotch and like to urinate on young girl͛s shoes. They were by far the most
difficult, and it was a regular occurrence to see one of the Candy Stripers in the lunch room in tears.

But it was Group Three that broke my heart every single day.

The patients in Group Three, to me, didn͛t look as if they belonged there. They looked like someone͛s
jolly grandmother or grandfather; wise and lucid, laughing with crinkly eyes that would light up anyone͛s
soul. Whether it would through circumstance or poverty, the reason they lived there I never knew. And
most disturbing to me, was that few of them ever had visitors from the outside; and it would always be
a big deal if they did. ͞Mrs. White is having her daughter here today,͟ I would be told. ͞Put some flowers
on her tray, would you?͟ It always made me happy when the visitors came, but these occasions were
rare.

Group Three would dine in the dining hall, which was right outside the kitchen where I spent most of my
day.

It was Christmas Eve and I͛d been forced to work. I remember being resentful, and I had done everything
humanly possible to be excused. I would need to work until 9 p.m., and would miss many of the festive
Eve traditions that my family would do at home. But the management made it clear; either work that
day, or lose my job. So I went.
I remember that the dinner was a little more special that evening. The nutritionist and I roasted many
turkeys in the gigantic ovens, and I was busy preparing stuffing and cranberry sauce. They had piped
Christmas Carols through the entire building, and I was singing as I worked; and I was determined to still
find my spirit in a situation that was less than optimal for me. We had dozens of pecan pies ordered; and
they came in piles in big pink boxes. This wouldn͛t be so bad, I thought to myself.

I remember swinging open the two sided kitchen doors and running into the dining room to set the
table. I saw around the corner the community room, and I smiled to myself as I took in a moment to
drink in the Christmas tree that the staff had put there. But it wasn͛t the tree that kept my attention;
rather it was the sight I saw below the tree.

I saw two of the Group Three patients sitting in their wheel chairs in front of the tree, holding hands. I
had never seen any physical interaction between the patients whatsoever; and the sight of it held me
spellbound and curious.

I dropped the pile of napkins I was carrying and walked over to where they sat. They were both smiling
broadly; their eyes crinkling like Santa Claus; and they were holding hands so tight that their fingers
were red.

͞Merry Christmas,͟ I said, tapping the man quickly on his hand.

͞Merry Christmas, my dear!͟ he answered enthusiastically. ͞And what a magical night it is!͟ I looked
around at the gray room, and breathed in the familiar rancid smell, and could barely muster a smile. I
couldn͛t fathom how this man could be happy; not in the situation that he was in.

͞Yes, it is,͟ I answered weakly.

͞And I͛ve got my best girl at my side,͟ he said, squeezing and shaking the woman͛s hand in the air. ͞And
she͛s my Christmas Sugar Plum.͟ With all of his might, he struggled and leaned toward her and kissed
her on the lips. He was shaking almost violently as he did so. She giggled like a girl and laid her head on
his shoulder. ͞Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to sit next to Mrs. Roth at supper,͟ he continued.
͞And it was love at first sight, I tell you. Love at first sight.͟

͞Oh, you do go on, Mr. Jenkins,͟ the woman giggled, snuggling into his white issued nightgown.

͞I͛ll shout it to the rooftops Mrs. Roth!͟ he yelled, and then laughed so robust he could have been Santa
Claus himself. I smiled but neither of them were looking at me; they only had eyes for each other.
Without a sound, I went back into the dining room and continued setting the table.

But it wasn͛t the last I͛d hear from Mr. Jenkins that evening.

I was preparing the trays for Group Three which be served in the dining room that evening. I always had
to check each patient͛s card, which spelled out their meal requests and restrictions, to make certain
they were given what they wanted, and were not given what they couldn͛t have. On Mr. Jenkins card,
under the category for alcohol, he had circled the word ͞wine͟ in thick red felt pen, about a dozen
times, until the circle of urgent red took up half the card. And as if that wasn͛t enough, there was a big
red arrow pointing to the circle. Just to make sure I wouldn͛t miss it. It made me laugh.

But I was sad, too, as Mr. Jenkins was not allowed any alcohol in his diet. ͞Mr. Jenkins is requesting wine
tonight,͟ I said to the nutritionist.

͞Well, he knows he͛s not allowed alcohol. That is the worst possible thing for his condition. Go out and
tell him that he can͛t have any,͟ she instructed me.

I walked despondently out of the kitchen and back to the Christmas tree where the happy couple still
sat. I didn͛t want to interrupt them again.

͞Mr. Jenkins,͟ I said. ͞Sorry to disturb you. But you requested wine tonight and that is not on your diet. I
just wanted to let you know we can͛t give it to you.͟

I never expected what came next.

He lingered for a few seconds more on his lady͛s blushing face, and then turned to me with a look that
meant business.

͞I want you to listen to me, dear, are you listening?͟ he said. His eyes pierced into mine.

͞Yes.͟

͞I͛m 86 years old. I have no living family or children. It is Christmas Eve. I am dying. I am in love. Are you
listening?͟

͞Yes.͟

Then he motioned for me to come closer. He beckoned me with one bony finger, and continued to
beckon me until my ear was right to his mouth. ͞So, if I want some god damn wine, I͛ll have some god
damn wine, do you hear me?͟

͞I understand,͟ I answered. ͞But I͛m not allowed. I can͛t.͟

He took his hand and gripped my arm as tight as he could. ͞You CAN,͟ he said sternly. There was a
pause. Then he whispered, with as much passion as I͛ve ever heard in my life, ͞Please.͟ I stood up and
stared into his eyes for several seconds. There was a world of conversation held captive in that stare; a
monument of understanding.

That night, I told my boss that Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins had requested to eat in the courtyard alone,
rather than dine with the other patients in the Dining Hall. ͞They͛ll freeze,͟ my boss said, in an annoyed
tone. ͞But I don͛t have time to argue. Take a couple of T.V. trays, will you, and wheel them out?͟

I nodded.
Her annoyance at this request was like looking in a mirror, and my soul filled with guilt and remorse at
how I had felt about these people since I began work there. They weren͛t people to me. They were just
problems.

I chastised myself for my heartlessness. But just as quickly, I began to forgive myself. I knew I had
distanced myself from feeling compassion, because down deep the entire place was more depressing
than I had tools to bear. It wasn͛t that I couldn͛t feel; the problem was, I felt too much. And it was time
to give myself permission to feel.

That night I wheeled Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins to the chilly courtyard, which was strung up with

Christmas lights. ͞You two will have dinner out here tonight, okay?͟ I said as I grabbed several blankets
from the linen closet and draped them over both of them, so they were snuggled in together. They
nodded enthusiastically.

Then I brought them their trays and their roast turkey. I had carried the trays right from the kitchen, so
there was no wine on the trays. When I put the trays down, Mr. Jenkins just stared at them. His
disappointment was so palatable that it brought a lump to my throat. He looked up at me with eyes that
screamed his anguish; eyes which asked me why. ͞I͛ll be right back Mr. Jenkins,͟ was all I needed to say.
I gave him a knowing look. He didn͛t need to speak, he only nodded and smiled.

I went back to the dining room and grabbed a full carafe of wine off one of the tables, along with two
plastic wine glasses.

I hurried down the hall, as if I was a burglar escaping the scene of a crime. My heart was in my throat as I
rushed past the nurse͛s station, carrying the carafe as low as I could so no one would see.

When I reached the courtyard, they were kissing. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I waited for them to
finish. I placed the wine carafe and glasses between the wheel chairs, beneath the blankets. ͞My shift is
over, I͛m going home. I hope you have a merry evening,͟ I said, winking at Mr. Jenkins.

͞Indeed we shall,͟ he said winking back. And then in a whisper he mouthed the words, ͞thank you.͟

When I walked out that evening, I worried for a moment, wondering what would happen when the
inevitable discovery of the wine carafe occurred later that evening. I tried to comfort myself with the
notion that perhaps it wouldn͛t be noticed; that it would just be swept up with the rest of the dirty
dishes, and carried into the kitchen without raising an eyebrow. But I also worried that when the wine
carafe was found, I would be found out as well, and I would lose my job. But the worry only lasted a
moment.

I walked out of the hospital and stared into a night sky filled with Christmas stars. And suddenly I didn͛t
care. It had all been worth it.

It was a Silent Night that night. All was calm, and all was very bright.

 

|
During the summer between my Kindergarten year and First Grade, my mother moved my sister and me
to a rural town called Half Moon Bay, an isolated hamlet which hugged the Pacific Coast and a bay the
shape of a crescent moon. We were moving in with my step-father Ray, a man my Mom planned on
marrying. He had found us a cottage near the beach, and rent was only $60 per month.

It was a house that is difficult to forget, as each room was painted a bright vivid jewel tone. Living there
was like living inside of a Kaleidoscope, and I would roam from a purple room to an orange one, through
a yellow one and into the green. It was the 60͛s and the house only matched the hues of an era, where
love and peace had taken on new meaning. But the coast side seemed far from the revolution that was
happening in San Francisco only 30 miles away. Remote, inaccessible and secluded, the town felt more
like an island, with a low moaning fog horn as our only reminder that we were a part of the world.

That summer I only had cypress trees and the succulent plants which lined the bluffs to keep me
company. For the most part, my sister and I stayed indoors and played records; she was determined to
teach me all of the latest dances before I started ͞real school.͟ I remember long afternoons where I
struggled to learn The Twist, or The Jerk, watching my sister͛s white go-go boots teach me the tempo.
But that summer isn͛t a joyful memory for me; I remember feeling scared. The world outside of those
fluorescent walls seemed ominous to me. I was certain there would be death or dismemberment if I
explored the town too thoroughly. The farmers in their tractors, the fields of artichokes and Brussels
sprouts, the hermit crabs in the tide pools all intrigued me. But I felt frozen with fear. I dreamed of the
suburban street where we had just moved from, where lawns were all identical and there was a sense of
order in a neighborhood. But Half Moon Bay felt more like chaos to me; I saw ghosts everywhere, from
the haunted trees to the rusty boats in the harbor.

That summer seemed endless, the way that summers do when you͛re very young. I was painfully lonely,
and I began to look forward to the first day of school with excited anticipation. I wanted to make friends.
While I enjoyed spending time with my sister, we were too far apart in age to be fit companions, and I
needed someone who spoke my language. I chose a very proper dress for my first day, a red knit dress
my grandmother had made which sported a big yellow school bell over the heart. I felt very grown up as
I walked into a brand new school that morning. But my excitement turned into anxiety almost
immediately.

I saw a huge girl in the corner. She was at least twice the size of any of us, maybe even more. She looked
out of place, and it took me some time to realize that she was both retarded and older than the rest of
us, even though she was in our class. She was pleasant enough in an awkward way, and I found her to be
more of an oddity than anything else. But the other children teased her, calling her ͞Pickle Nose,͟ and
taunting and bullying her. I thought it was horrible what they were doing to her, and it filled me with
profound grief.

I was too afraid to try and befriend her. Not that I wanted to pal about with the big girl, I only wanted to
say something nice, to soothe her somehow. She was often in the corner crying, but I didn͛t dare
approach her to pat her comfortingly on the arm. I couldn͛t go against the crowd. It was a pack
mentality, and I didn͛t want them to know I didn͛t agree with them.

It was then that I noticed a girl named Linda. Linda wasn͛t afraid to go against the crowd at all; she
walked right up to Pickle Nose and asked her to be her friend. I was startled by her bravery, and her
maturity. I wished I could be so brave. But I knew the consequences of taking such a stand.

Within a matter of days, the children had turned on Linda for befriending the big retarded girl. And now
it was this brave girl named Linda who was being called Pickle Nose. In fact, they hardly bothered the
original Pickle Nose anymore. They͛d found a new victim. And they were relentless in trying to make
every day a living hell for her.

I admired Linda for the way she seemed to brush it off. Where I would have been terrified, she just went
about her day as if the taunting children didn͛t exist. She would spend her days with the original Pickle
Nose, or would spend time by herself. I often noticed her. And it seemed that she noticed me as well.
And one day, she had come up to me and introduced herself. ͞I͛m Linda, do you want to be friends?͟

I wasn͛t sure how to respond at first, if I were willing to link arms with the girl who had cooties. I looked
around to make sure that the other kids weren͛t watching. I wasn͛t sure what might happen to me if
they spotted me talking with her. But it was then that I noticed the red ball in her hands.

I learned almost the first day of school that in order to be cool, you had to have a Super Ball. A small red
rubber ball with a dramatic bounce was all the rage that year, and I begged my parents to buy me one. I,
like all of the kids, would take our super ball out at recess and play a variety of games. But I noticed the
ball that Linda was holding didn͛t look like all the rest. ͞That͛s not a Super Ball, is it?͟ was how I
responded to her request.

͞My Mom told me she didn͛t have any money to buy a Super Ball. But I found this, and it͛s close
enough.͟

Well, it wasn͛t nearly close enough, I thought. In a time when everyone had to be exactly the same or
face being ostracized, her huge red rubber ball didn͛t fit in. Just like the original Pickle Nose, it was at
least twice the size of all the others. It seemed to me she was breaking all the rules.

She threw it on the ground to show me, and I watched it hit the pavement like a bag of rocks. She
laughed, knowing how ridiculous it looked.

͞But it doesn͛t even bounce,͟ I said laughing.

It was then that the ball rolled over to reveal a face. I didn͛t believe what I was seeing at first, and bent
down to retrieve the ball so I could study it more closely. On one side of the ball, she had carefully glued
two eyes, a nose and a mouth that she had drawn on paper and glued. And then she had glued real hair
to form a mustache and a beard. She took the ball from my hand and started squeezing it, and making a
funny voice. ͞It doesn͛t bounce,͟ Linda said, ͞but it talks. Watch.͟ Soon the ball was talking a mile a
minute, making me laugh as loud as I could.
I was mesmerized with Linda and this ball. ͞Yes,͟ I said. ͞I would like to be your friend.͟ And so it began.

But I wasn͛t brave enough to befriend Linda in the open. I carefully explained to her that because she
was so intensely disliked at the school, that our friendship would have to remain private. We couldn͛t let
the children know we were friends, or else I would have to face the same ridicule as she did. She said
she understood, but I always remember the pain in her eyes. And while we played together every day
after school, and began sleeping over at each other͛s houses almost nightly, we pretended not to know
each other during the school day.

Every day at lunch Linda and I would sneak into the girl͛s bathroom. We would take turns standing on
the toilet so that only one pair of legs was visible underneath the door, should someone peek beneath
to check for occupancy. We would eat our lunches that way, whispering and giggling, until we heard the
bathroom door swing open and we͛d eat in silence until the intruder left. We maintained our
relationship like this for a long while.

Each day as we drove the big yellow school bus home, Linda and I would sit separately. I would fight
back tears watching Linda when it was her stop. She would always begin to get out of her seat before
the bus came to a complete halt; she was intent on getting a head start. Because once the big door
swung open and Linda sprinted down the street toward home, she͛d be chased by a gaggle of twits who
would scream pejoratives and hurl insults toward her. The bus driver never did a thing about it. I would
watch her until she turned the corner and I couldn͛t see her anymore, praying every day she wouldn͛t be
hurt. But more important, I was struggling with my conscience.

It took me a long time to have the strength to face my guilt and make some changes. I͛ll never forget the
day when lunchtime came, and I said to Linda, ͞Let͛s eat at the picnic bench today.͟ I remember the
look of surprise and relief in her eyes. I remember how wonderful it felt to sit in the sunshine, laughing
and eating peanut butter sandwiches together, while the kids surrounded us with looks of shock on their
face. And I͛ll never forget returning to the classroom that day after lunch and being pelted with chalk
board erasers by all of the children, and the vicious screams of ͞Pickle Nose͟ in my direction.

But that was the end of it. I was well-liked, and my boyfriend was a popular boy who told the kids to
shut up. And no one tormented me, or Linda, or the Original Pickle Nose ever again.

Years later Linda admitted to me that she resented me during the period when I hid our friendship
behind a bathroom door of shame. And I told her how sorry I was, and that I did the best I could at the
time. I͛m still sorry it wasn͛t enough. But despite that, Linda͛s and my friendship has endured for forty-
five years.

She didn͛t invite me to her last birthday, for the first time in our lives. And she has spoken with me in
soft tones how our lives have taken different directions. While we͛re not estranged, it feels as if we are,
as if I͛m losing another sister.
I can still hear our laughter echoing over the rocks near our favorite blow hole at the beach. I can still
hear the whir of my bicycle wheels as I chased her bike through the hay fields and through the cypress
trees. I can still feel the sting of the salt air on my throat as I tipped it back to let out a roar of joy.

I had thought I was being a hero. But I only added to her shame and humiliation. Linda was the real
hero. She had strength in the face of adversity that I͛ve never forgotten. And she taught me to never
hide how I feel just because it͛s different. And I never have again.

To this day, I cannot look at a pickle without hearing those vicious taunts. While I try and enjoy this crisp
cold snack, pickles will forever remind me of hatred and prejudice, of injustice and small minds. But
worse, and a pickle reminds me of my own failures. And I choke on it.