One More Stop (3 page)

‘What is the number one question you ask yourself?’

‘What am I doing here? Why did my cousins die?’

‘What if anything do you believe in?’

‘I’m a devout Christian. Christ.’

Uh oh, another literate born-again.

‘I believe God is with me always.’

Time’s up!

Sophia readies her pencil. She begins to grill me. ‘Are you gay?’

‘What?!’

‘Are you gay?’

I am speechless. Ultimately, I do speak. ‘Why do you ask?’ Why am I embarrassed by the answer? Why is this truth so hard?

‘Well, you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

She is twelve after all. Maybe I should introduce her to Ryan. Together, they could wile away the hours, scoping out each and every fourth-finger left hand, only to discover that
everyone
is either gay or catting around … ‘Next question please.’

‘Do you live with someone?’

‘Yes.’ Where the hell is Simone. Never calls. Why don’t I call her? Don’t know what to say? ‘
I miss you
’ would be a nice opener.

‘Are you faithful?’

Why didn’t I ask her if she’s fucking anyone? ‘I am now.’

‘What does that mean?’

It means that I’m lying. ‘I’m not.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Look, I don’t want you to think that everyone’s fooling around, that love doesn’t exist, that there’s absolutely no future in commitment or …’

‘I don’t think that.’

‘Maybe I do. And that’s my problem not yours. You don’t need to know why I fuck around. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say the f word.’

‘I say it.’

‘Do you do it?’

She sighs. ‘I’m interviewing you, right?’

‘Absolutely. You’re in charge.’

Spring of ’84. Lothar left New York … quickly. Started a fire with a sage wand in his West End Avenue apartment. The Board threw him out. He moved to Los Angeles, where I lived. Took complete control of my life. Whenever I felt depressed, I would pick up the phone, dial his number (now committed to memory), place the earpiece against my neck, and say, ‘Music.’ I could hear him doing something or another on the other end of the line. For all I knew, he might have been masturbating. But more likely, he was making the sign of the holy cross or sending energetic plasma through the phone into my neck.

During this period, my dear friend Tanya kept an
overprotective
eye on me. She was a major player in the ‘Music’ cult. Her specialty was apparition observation. She could
identify
whether ghosts were floating, flying, or caught between the astral planes. She also identified when I needed to place a demon-releasing phone call. That girl was crazy as a loon trapped beneath a frozen lake. How could she not be? She, like myself and all of his followers, were surviving on the nutritious egg-whites-and-sugar diet.

‘How’s your blood sugar, hon?’ she would regularly ask me.

Word came through Tanya that it was time to enter the next
phase of commitment. Lothar was to inform us of our new and even greater responsibilities in the war against evil. We were summoned to a rococo mansion in the Hollywood Hills.

Thirty some zombies seated on yellow and blue tie-dyed furniture, three huge unbathed Afghan dogs lying on top of each other at the foot of a winding staircase, enough lavender verbena incense to smoke out any terrorist group, and a full moon … Wasn’t it a full moon when my mother died?

It was my turn to go upstairs. There he sat on a pink
nau-gahyde
throne, looking more like Beelzebub than ever. His sinister, sunken, blue-eyed gaze made me feel like a helpless animal on the way to slaughter.

He whispered, ‘How are you, Loli?’

‘Not so good.’

‘No? I thought we were doing so well.’

‘It’s not working. I’m scared, I cry all the time, I can’t sleep, and the egg whites aren’t enough anymore. I’ve been eating real food.’

‘You have? I’m terribly disappointed.’

‘I had some nova two days ago. I’m so hungry.’

‘No, Loli, the demons are hungry.’

He sidled up alongside of me. His hot breath penetrated through my crawling skin. He pressed his bony fingers deep into my jugular. I wanted to throw up. Silence … All of a sudden, he yanked my hair. My head ached. I was in the
maniac
’s
clutches. Somehow, he managed to get me in a half, no, this was a full nelson, I could no longer breathe.

‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me!!!’

‘I’m killing them. Now you will be released forever!’

I writhed, undulated, slid sideways off the pink throne. The madman dove over the throne, pounced on top of me. I was
totally entangled in his grip. My heart raced. It felt like the Kentucky Derby at the finish line …
‘And the winner
…
by a neck
…
is
…’

Somehow I got free, lunged for the door, opened it, slammed it in his face, grabbed onto the banister, stumbled down the stairs, fell headfirst onto the living-room floor, sobbing.

Finally, I took a deep breath, pulling myself up, tripping over the tie-dyed furniture. I was still alive. I looked around the room. The zombies had not moved. I heard a strange
piercing
sound in the kitchen. Tanya was blending another
egg-white
-and-sugar special. I shouted, ‘HE’S CRAZY! He tried to kill me! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE? Don’t you get it?! HE’S A FRAUD!’

Tanya entered, egg-white sin fizz in hand, three Afghans by her side. She strolled over to the front door, opened it with mindful conviction.

‘Get out! You are not welcome here. Your polluted ego is in control of you. You are no longer protected by the light of the group’s energy. You’re on your own, hon.’

I wept my way toward my car. I looked back … No! Mustn’t do that. The lights faded in the rococo house. I tripped, fell, picked myself up, opened the car door, parked my ass in my moonlit silver BMW convertible. Took off. Demons followed me. Demons sang a hideous Gregorian chant in my ear.

‘You will die,

You will die.’

I drove down one dark canyon road and up another. Some force greater than myself guided me home. The raging demons screamed louder:

‘You will die!

You will die!

You will die!’

I ran into the house, opened the refrigerator door, grabbed all the eggs, dumped them one by one down the garbage
disposal
until they swirled out of this world. I shoved a piece of nova deep into my throat, opened cupboards, found a
two-year
-old jar of Planters peanuts, flipped open the lid, chug-
a-lugged
the rancid nuts as fast as I could.

In the bedroom … The demons. Gray slime slid along the hardwood hall floors. Smoke filled the air. Voices screamed: ‘
You will die
…
you will die
…
you will die
’… I am dying. I wanted to die.

Door slammed … mind split. I reached for the Valium in the medicine chest … five … ten … fifteen milligrams. Is this how my mother felt? Is this how she died? I sat in a hot bathtub filled with lavender bath salts. I sweated, screamed, sobbed until completely empty, crawled into bed. Shaking. At four a.m. I reached for the telephone to call my old psychiatrist, Dr Guttman. The answering service picked up.

‘Hello, this is Dr Guttman’s exchange.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Doctor Guttman will be away until August 29th.’

It was August 2nd. ‘My name’s Loli Greene. I need to speak to him right away! Please?’

‘I’m sorry, but Dr Guttman left strict instructions. He is not to be disturbed, unless it is an absolute emergency.’

‘Is suicide enough of an emergency? Is it?! I swear on my … I swear to God I will kill myself if you don’t get him on the phone. I mean it!’

Pause. ‘Hold please.’ Centuries went by…

‘Loli?’

‘Dr Guttman?’

‘Loli, it is four a.m. in California. What seems to be the problem?’

‘I’m losing my … The demons … If I take too much Valium, I’ll die like my mother did … Please. Please come back now. Please.’

‘Now listen to me, Loli. Calm down. Listen to me. I can’t come back, but I can call up one of my colleagues, Dr Dot. He will get you through this crisis. Just calm down. Breathe. Take another five milligrams of Valium, a hot lavender bath …’

‘I already did that.’

‘Do it again. Go to the medicine cabinet, take a Valium, run the bath, and breathe.’

‘They’re after me.’

‘Nothing is after you. You are going to be fine. Hang up the phone so that I can call Dr Dot. Remember, breathe and bathe.’

‘Breathe and bathe.’

‘You’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll see you in September. Until then, I think it would be wise if you saw Dr Dot on an everyday basis.’

‘Are you sure that his office will remember to call?’

‘I’m positive. Now hang up, Loli. Good night.’

‘Good night, Dr Guttman.’ Click.

The one and only reason August is a wicked month is that all of the finest psychiatrists in America gather on Cape Cod. They play Frisbee and frolic near the water’s edge while psychotic patients spend thirty-one days anxiously awaiting their return. On August 1st at 12:01 a.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time, a severe and sudden agitation develops in the astral planes, because millions of helpless, hopeless Americans cannot deal
with their psychiatric withdrawal. Nothing can be done about this, unless one is willing to throw oneself, one’s angst, and all of one’s hysteria into the psychiatric arms of an inept stranger.

Dr Dot was my inept stranger. For the longest twenty-nine days of our lives, we were thrown together, while Dr Guttman rode the waves on old Cape Cod.

Because I was so eager to get myself to Beatrice, I was thwarted by Cedar Falls, twin town to Waterloo (telling name), Iowa. The twin towns were located in the middle of a middle state in the middle of nowhere. I was beginning to feel and look like my red rolling bag.

By March of 2003, NASDAQ has lost approximately
seventy
-eight per cent of its market value. The S&P 500 has lost forty-nine per cent of its net worth. I am interested in these financial facts because, unfortunately, I am my father’s
daughter
. He was a stockbroker. There had been cutbacks, shutdowns, kickbacks for the rich, and all kinds of costly shenanigans. The arts are not a priority with our present administration.

No, this is the ‘not one child will be left behind’
administration
. No child will be left behind but not one theater, music, art, or dance program will be left alive. The young adult will have the thrill of struggling through ‘How to take a test’. He might never understand the content of the test, but he will learn the tricks to passing it, so he can forge ahead, making his community and country proud when he enlists in the marines and learns about life and death while fighting for his country under fire. He will never learn about the likes of Picasso, Eugene O’Neill, Sarah Bernhardt, Nijinsky, Copeland, Bach
or even Pink Floyd. He will learn math and science. He will add, but art will be subtracted from his life …

Because of the situation in schools around the country, I have a job. Because of the massive budget cuts at the already bankrupt theater company is why, on March 3rd at seven p.m. I ended up at the Pennysaver Motel. Behind the dilapidated desk sat Becky (name tag pinned over her Pennysaver pocket), a rotund perky person, eating a bag of pork rinds and drinking a Pepsi Light. Slowly she turned:

‘Hi. You must be Loli Greene?’

‘How’d you know that?’

‘It’s mostly hunters and truckers stay here. You’re the only girl to walk through that door in days … ’cept me. Name’s Becky.’

‘Hi Becky.’ I notice the many deer heads on the wall, one of which is missing an eye. Can’t stop staring at the eye hole.

‘Bullet went right through its eye.’ I cringe. ‘Amazing huh? We gotta great jacuzzi. You’re gonna love it. Sign right here. You’re in room sixty-nine. Don’t you just love that number?’ I am speechless. ‘You have to carry your bags down those stairs. It’s real quiet down there.’

Apprehensively, I look at the red metal stairwell. ‘It’s below ground level?’

‘Oh yeah. It’s underground. Stuart Manly said you wanted a quiet room for meditating. I do TM every day. You’re right near the jacuzzi. Might be a couple of truckers in there tonight.’

Thank you, Stuart. ‘My bag’s in the car.’

‘Park right in front of the office. Those are the basement stairs.’ She points at the stairwell.

I drag
the
red bag downstairs. At the end of the basement corridor, I see a whale-like flotilla. Two drunken, tattooed truckers romping in the bubbles.

‘Come on in, honey.’

‘This is great for all that ails you.’

‘Thanks guys, but I’ve got a date with a bed.’ Better get into the room pronto.

‘It’s only seven thirty. Don’t you wanna party? Come on, hon. It’s party time.’

Flashbacks to Tanya and Lothar. Hon! I don’t like that word.

I am now underground in my Pennysaver suite. There is a miniature casement window above my bed right below the beige ceiling. I climb up onto my bed, look out of my window … Oh. A bulldozer. Construction site. Good night. Where is the Valium?

‘Sweet dreams, dear.’

Bulldozing begins at seven thirty the next morning. Fortunately, I am on my way out the door. I enter the hallowed halls of education. The walls are cracked, floors strewn with school debris: bottles, cans, candy wrappers. Smells like a urinal.
Beechwood
High didn’t look like this. Great place. Great town. Almost perfect. Almost. I look for, but can’t find the principal’s office. Open a door, stumble into a pitch-black auditorium. It might as well be a morgue; not an ounce of life or art in this crypt.

Reach for a crumpled piece of paper in my pocket. Room sixty-nine. Laugh at the numbers, find the room, enter. I see teenagers seated at desks too small for their bodies, teenagers with sad eyes that look up to me for some assurance that this hour will be worthwhile. Here is a room full of poor, deprived children, the children whose parents collect unemployment checks, welfare checks, disability checks. There are no checks and balances in the lives of these abandoned faces … These kids don’t have a prayer. All they can hope for is one day to get out of town.

‘Write about or write to someone who has influenced you.’ Vacant stares. ‘Someone who has been a pioneer, an influence, who has changed your life. Tell them what you want them to know about you. What do you want to say to them? What do you
need
to tell them?’ Give them time … more time. Christ. Most of them look so old. Weary. Without future.

‘Time’s up! Okay. Who wants to start?’

A beautiful black girl in the front row stands tall. She looks so alive, so grown up, like a whole grown person. Escape! Get out now. Leave this town before it kills your spirit.

‘Harriet Tubman.’

‘If you don’t mind, could you tell the rest of class who she is.’

‘She was a runaway slave who became a conductor on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. She helped other slaves get free.’

A voice from the back of the room. ‘She was the first real freedom fighter.’

‘Adolf Hitler!’ The blond male mall rat stands up. ‘I like Hitler. That dude is my hero because he almost got rid of all those dirty Jews. Harriet Tubman didn’t do anything compared to Adolf Hitler,’ says the blond mall rat. Peals of laughter in the schoolroom.

Don’t tell him that you are a Jewish, gay, liberal woman from the east coast. They are looking at me. They know everything about me. Where does all this hatred come from? Parents. Somewhere at home is a soul-sucking, right-wing fascist …

‘
Honey. It’s okay. Believe me. Everything is just fine
.’

No, it’s not! ‘Since the beginning of time,’ I say … That beautiful black girl in the front row, she understands
forgiveness
. That wee young boy in the third row, who looks like he
wants to say something, I bet he loves his father and mother, they love him, even though they are destitute, and he’s on the school lunch program. I bet he understands forgiveness.

‘There’s no mill here no more. But we stay ’cause it’s home,’ says the wee boy.

What railroad are you gonna jump on to get away from here? Let me take you away from your suffering. Please. There is a place, a divine place. We can get there together … She sits front row center. Looks through me. I feel her inside me. Again.

Later that afternoon, I walk 4.8 miles through a snow-covered wheat field in Cedar Falls, Iowa. The field and I can’t wait for spring. I scream to the future and to the past. ‘Please forgive me, even if I can’t forgive myself.’

Later that evening, in my underground mole motel room, I pick up the cracked black telephone, dial forty-three digits so that I might have the privilege of getting an outside line. I place the receiver to my ear (not my neck) and await my sister Dina’s lovely voice on the other end of man’s vast web of telecommunication.

It is now eight fifteen p.m. in New York City. She will be readying herself for sleep. I have at least fifteen minutes before her curfew is in effect. Hopefully, we will have an adult, sisterly conversation.

Sound of phone dropping on floor. She picks it up. ‘Ouch. Hello.’

‘You all right?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Cedar Falls, Iowa.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Somewhere in the middle of the country.’

‘Why are you there?’

‘Why are
you
there?’

‘I live here.’

‘I know that. But, why are any of us anywhere?’

‘You sound depressed.’

‘What’s new?’

‘Ralph has shingles.’

‘Oh shit. How’s he doing?’

‘He read in some science book somewhere that if it develops near the eye, the cornea can be affected and blindness might occur.’

‘Is it near his eyes?’

‘No, it’s right under his ribs in the front down near his belly button.’

‘Then why’s he worried?’

‘It’s Ralph.’

‘Right. How’s business.’

‘He’s got shingles. That’s how’s business.’

‘I thought it’s from chicken pox?’

‘It is. But he’s nervous. Doesn’t help things.’

‘How are you?’

‘Let’s see. Sara, your niece, is sleeping with a
forty-two-year-old
pre-med student recently returned from germ-filled darkest Africa after serving in the Peace Corps. He will be fifty when he becomes a resident. And boy does he have big plans. He hopes to specialize in environmental pediatric medicine back in his hometown of Topeka, Kansas. By the time he hits sixty, if he’s still standing and she’s off Prozac, they want to adopt a couple of wonderful Bosnian children.’

‘At last, a doctor in the family.’

‘He’s too old to be a doctor. And, at the age of twenty-seven, she, your niece, has decided to go back to school and finally get her diploma … in photojournalism … which she’s never studied. You are so fortunate that you never had children. I wish I were gay.’

Simone must have given her that idea. Got to call her. When does she leave for Zurich? ‘How’s my nephew?’

‘Charlie, your nephew, has recently informed his father and his mother that he has all intentions of moving to Shanghai. American food no longer agrees with his newly acquired Asian palate and his yen for Asian studies.’ I try to get a word in edgewise. ‘He has also informed his parents that Asian women have more body and luster to their hair. American hair is not turning him on anymore. But Asian hair turns him on a great deal. I’m so glad he spent a year abroad.’

‘Prell.’

‘Prell? The shampoo?’ She yawns. ‘Didn’t I use Prell? I have terrible hair. You have the great hair. You got our mother’s hair and nails.’

‘That’s not all I got. I’m quitting.’

‘No, you’re not. You love those little cherubs in Indiana.’

‘Iowa! I had a Nazi in my eleventh-grade class today.’

‘How do you know he was a Nazi?’

‘He stood up and told the class that Hitler was his hero.’

‘He didn’t know what he was talking about. He lives in Iowa.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m trying to cheer you up. When everything feels like it’s falling apart, someone has to …’

I hear my mother’s voice. ‘
Sat on a wall

Had a great fall

cannot put … cannot put
…

together … again

together … again.’

‘I am depressed.’

Dina pauses: ‘Look, my friend Ruby, the part-time pilates teacher in my office, gave me the name of a therapist. Her name is Mary Michelin.’

‘Like the tire?’

‘What tire?’

‘The one on your Mercedes.’

‘Oh. (She laughs). Like the tire. She’s your kind of therapist – a present-lives regressionist.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Past lives maybe. Present lives is not possible.’

‘Mary Michelin believes that the present life is the only life, and in it are all of our past lives. She takes her patients back to their childhood by downloading or offloading or
devolving
back with some Jungian Kabbalistic techniques. Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?’ I yawn. ‘She works with a lot of artists. You should see her when you get back from … where are you again?’

‘Iowa. But I’m going to Nebraska next.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. I like to know where you are.’

‘You wouldn’t believe where I am.’

‘You’re in Iowa. I was listening.’

‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

‘Send my love to the kids. Tell Ralph not to worry about going blind. I read in my nutritional healing book that a
secondary infection brought on by shingles can cause death if the bacteria isn’t treated. Let him worry about that.’

‘I can’t tell him that. He’ll believe it.’

‘It’s true.’

‘I better go make sure that he’s all right. Give me your number. I’ll call you from the office.’

‘You can’t reach me. There’s no switchboard.’

‘Where have they got you this time?’

‘The Pennysaver Motel.’ We howl as we hang up. I do love my sister.

‘Your sister loves you almost as much as you know who. Go to sleep, my angel.’