Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (17 page)

Then there was The Hand Washer.
A pleasant enough guy from
Westlake
, he came over to the apartment.
We lay on the floor for awhile
(recall the lack of furniture),
then got down to business.
The strange thing was that
before
every act, he got up to wash his hands.
I started to feel unclean, like the lepers in
Ben Hur.
Was I really such a disease
magnet
?
Or was
he
a Howard Hughes
germa
phobe
?
Pleasure was lost in wondering:
when will he disinfect next?
The amazing coda to this one:
he wanted a return performance!
By that time, my career as a slut was over, but you have to wonder:
what was he getting out of this?
W
as he
a
stock
holder in Johnson and Johnson?

There was the fat Jewish guy in Ventura:
a
lively
conversationalist, but sex with him
was like mounting
a
Hoppy
Ball
.
You had to
say there was a lot of ballast
-- all
that cushioning nearly shot me through the roof.

There was the fat Jewish guy in Tarzana:
he took one look at me, through the gate of his building,
and
told me “I wasn’t his type.”
No biggie:
there were plenty more where he came from.
The lonely engineer whose wife was cheating on him:
he was nice enough, but looked like Wally Cox, and even I couldn't
sink
that low.
The aging musician in Woodland Hills who wasn’t as cute as his picture
:
he tried to thrust
into
my ass, but I, an anal virgin, only grimaced in pain,
perhaps not the biggest turn
-
on for a badly hungover partner.
Again, I
found my socks,
picked up my clothes and exit
ed
as fast as I could
. This time
I felt some
self-
disgust.
But not enough to stop.

Finally, I hooked up with a Jewish guy from
_____
(not fat)
who became a steady partner.
He was married, with two small kids.
ADULTERER
!
you scream.
How could you?
– from the wives.
The truth was, I could and I did.
There had been a time,
in another universe
, when
I’d
cared about things like
morality
and
ethics.
Being
The Other Woman was as real to me as being abducted by
Grey aliens
.
I had been a moral prig –
sterner than a Salem judge
.
But when you lose it all – when you plunge below the ground floor on the elevator – you don’t care if the
air
runs out and the firemen never
come
.
As far as this guy – let’s call him Shlomo ben Israel – if it hadn’t been me, it would have been
some other
slut
.
His wife was great in all areas – except
,
I guess
,
the bedroom.
W
e would meet in my apartment, midday, when he could creep away from his office, and have some really bang-up sex.
Shlomo was the only one
who
could
make me come twice.
He really liked having his cock sucked, and
I
, an inveterate researcher, had learn
t
all the tricks from
the Web
.
We did have some connection:
we were both Jews from the Valley, and unlike all the others, he would ask how I was doing; email between trysts; even kiss me during the act.
Yet, like all the others,
he
followed
the L.A. gardener’s
motto:
Mow, Blow, and Go. A
fter he
did his business
, he’d clean up and was gone.

Still, that was OK by me.
I wasn’t looking for romance.
So this was the next best thing:
to use the time I had -- and there was a lot of it --
to explore my sexuality, to understand
fellow
humans who couldn't live without sex.
I don’t regret my adventures.
They were
part of
an
evolution.
A way of acknowledging that hey – despite my near-perfect SATs
, I was the same as everyone else.
All my life, I had devoted myself to The M
ind:
it was nice
for
The Body
to
take over,
to
let it have
some
fun for
a change.

This phase was a true anomaly
for me, and even now, I have a hard time believing it
happened.
Was that really me?
Did I invite a stranger into my room, take off my clothes, and have sex with him while barely exchanging a word?
Yup.
It was an antidote to
my
life’s
trials
: a
balm
for troubled
times.

After Thanksgiving
spent apart,
and a protracted silence,
Rachel and I
exchanged a
tense
series of
emails. In a move toward conciliation, one of hers contained the line:
“S
orry you’ve b
een going through a tough time.”
I responded:

"Tough" does not begin to describe this.
I assume you had full knowledge of what was going on.
Regardless of whether you loved or hated me, or judged or disapproved of me, I feel that as a sister, you should have been there
–
you should have looked beyond yourself and found some human compassion.
I'd like to know what your perspective has been during the last month.
Right no
w, it's a complete enigma to me.

Her
answer
:

You talk about homelessness and that you have $25 to your name.
At some point in your life you are going to have to take accountability for the choices you have made and the situation you are in.
You have no one else to blame but yourself.
You had a good job, a high paying job and you squandered the money away and borrowed money continuously to cover your bad decisions.
I kept thinking that you would learn from your mistakes, that you would start to save money and make hard choices to cover yourself when the next emergency came up.
I tried to tell you this endless times.
I asked you what you were going to do if there was an emergency or you lost your job again or if A
urora
needed help.
You made the choice to keep your horses, spend money on discretionary things and be in complete denial.
You made this choice…no one else did…You made the choice.

She also recommended some state agencies I could turn to
, and asked me to see things from
her
perspective.
I had always been afraid of
my sister, at least in our adult life.
She
hadn’t
been
that daunting in bangs and a little pink sundress.
But for years, she’d been in the power position.
Everyone owed her obeisance: her employees; her household staff; her kids; Miles; and my parents (whom she was supporting). She would not brook any dissent, since I was the only one in her life, theoretically at least, who could still tell her “No.”
Still, our discourse had become numbingly superficial.
I
wanted to stop skating on the surface of the ice, dig
in a
toe pick
, and break through to the
currents below.
Now, as with sex
, my
reservoir
of
reserve
melted
,
and I
wrote
:

This is just what I thought.
You are too busy judging me and upholding your own view of yourself as perfect to break through your own
 
bubble.

I find it incredible that Mom & Dad did not communicate to you about my situation, part
icularly when you were up there
(in Lake Arrowhead)
.
They are not exactly close-mouthed people.

You put a moratorium on communication; therefore I could not tell you directly.
You chose to "work on your relationship" with me just as I was
losing my job
for the 2nd time this year.
And I've got news for you:
if I had put away $50k, it would be gone by now.
This is the consequence of working sporadic freelance, supporting two households, living on unemployment.
Something you know NOTHING about, because you are guaranteed a Job For Life and you have never had tragedy
–
in any appreciable form
–
touch you.
Therefore, you have no real empathy.
Everything you do, you do grudgingly, with constant reminders.
Contrast this with Tanya, who knew what was going on and, without being
prompted, sent me a check for $7
00.00.
As a gift.
As I would do for her.
Or you, if you ever needed anything but of course you never do.

The other issue is that I am not alone in my situation.
There is a 14 year old involved.
Who has barely had money to eat lunch and take the bus.
Who has seen me on the verge of suicide at least 3 times now, and was concerned enough to tell our
Encino
landlord.
If you were starving in the street with
[my nephew]
,
I wouldn't care if you were a drug addict, in the gutter, or had gambled away everything in Vegas.
I would still help you.
As it happens, I look for jobs from 8-10
hours
a day, and
came very close with Megalith
in a near-impossible leapfrog over their own people.
I am not exactly a derelict.

But you have been naval-gazing while all this has been going on.
You have absented yourself while the walls around me are closing in, leading to despair and no options.
I have a perspective:
a millionaire sits in her 7
,
2
00 sq
uare-
foot house while her only sister goes on food stamps.
Not hyperbole:
fact.

I want nothing from you and I expect nothing.
In case Mom and Dad continue their silence,
Megalith
decided not to fill that position
.
[another one]

I actually can't bear the thought of even looking at you at this point.
So you can continue your silence forever.

This was as real as it had ever gotten between us.
No more
featherweight pleasantries
; no more
making
Mom happy
b
y
pretending to get along.
I was so
angry
I really didn’t care if I never
saw
her again
.
This was a huge step for me, since, above all others, my sister was the one I most wanted to please.
The
main
reason I
plotted
suicide
was to make her feel bad and responsible
.
Childish
,
I know, but depression is age-agnostic
.

Radio silence
continued for a week. I went about my
l
ife
of poverty, as assiduous as
St. Francis
. One
day I came home and there was a Fed Ex package waiting, letter-sized and bulging.
I saw it was from Rachel.
For a
second
, I thought she might be subpoenaing me for
having the
chutzpah
to oppose
her.