by Gigi Anders
“You practically hit that baby deer!” I yelled as we screeched past yellow-and-black horse-rider and deer-crossing road signs. “Animals live in the park! Are ya gonna try for a pony next?”
“Fohk dem,” Mami said, exhaling her Kool smoke. “Deyr not endanger-ed. But joo are. Oh an’ by de way, CHOHT UP. Joo are grounded. Joo don’ get to talk.”
“Bitch, I can smell your tires burning,” I said.
“Well guess what?” Mami said. “CHOHT UP.”
To teach me a REAL lesson, Mami hit me where it would hurt most: She confiscated my fabulous stolen eyeshadow compact, the one whose pastel palette I’d used to coordinate with my Bat Mitzvah dress. That was cruel. But, whatever. The suspensions only temporarily suspended my amour fou for talking, nicotine, makeup (I was amassing a private stockpile), and anti-Quaker haute couture. In terms of a fear factor, punitive techniques didn’t work; they only made me more mutinous. I’d cut more classes, feel madder at the punishers and more aloof about consequences. Mrs. Katharine “Kate” Henry (B.A., University of Reading; L. es L., University of Dijon), my veddy British English teacher, once observed, “Gigi, you are so veddy unbalanced!” I said, “Indeed, m’lady, I quite agree with thee. But what do we DO about it?” She just shook her hoary Dickensian head.
There it was: Observation astute, solution nonexistent. Concept: Since my intellect wasn’t at issue, how about exploring other possibilities, like, oh I don’t know, how about…MAYBE THE JUBANA-ANASTASIA REFUGEE PRINCESS IS FUCKING DEPRESSED IN HER HOME AND SCHOOL ENVIRONMENTS AND NEEDS TO SEE SOMEONE AND POSSIBLY MAKE SOME CHANGES. Maybe something along the lines of a really good adolescent psychiatrist. I’d have never been in this mess in the first place if only those black parents in Southwest had adopted me as I begged, cajoled, and wheedled them to. But no. And the therapeutic support option just never occurred to anyone. Sorry, but you can’t expect a kid to think of everything, even a kid like moi—that’s what teachers and parents are supposedly for. Back in the dark ages of 1972, though, depression was stigmatized. I remember feeling more depressed than usual when George McGovern dumped his Democratic presidential running mate Thomas Eagleton (whose sweet towheaded son Terry was a schoolmate and friend) because he’d had electric shock therapy and had been hospitalized for depression and bipolar disorder. That July I was on Tío Bernardo’s motorboat. As we bounced through the choppy, foamy blue waters of Biscayne Bay, Tío kept hollering, at no one in particular, “MAHK-GOH-VERN! MAHK-GOH-VERN!”—that is, until MAHK-GOH-VERN made Eagleton VAH-MOOS. (Tío’s battled his own depressive demons, so who could blame him?) During Jimmy Carter’s administration, Tío Nano was Carter’s lead negotiator in el diálogo, the dialogue, with Fidel Castro to free thirty-six hundred political prisoners. Tío made fifty secret trips to and from Cuber to discuss the deets with El Caballo, whom Tío considered a despicable asshole. Hence, no standing on ceremony. Cubans rarely do. Tío Nano remembers it vividly:
FIDEL CASTRO: (using the formal tense, usted): ¿Cómo está, Benes?
TÍO NANO: (using the familiar tense, tu): ¿Cómo estás, Fidel?
F.C.: ¿Qué?
T.N.: Free the thirty-six hundred political prisoners. Let them reunite with their families in Miami.
F.C.: ¿Qué?
T.N.: You don’t give a shit about them, so do it. Besides, it will make people admire you. Like a pharaoh.
F.C.: ¿Qué?
T.N.: Moses is my hero. I align myself with him. You once said, “History will absolve me.” Prove it.
F.C.: ¿Qué?
T.N.: And while we’re at it, you owe me one million American dollars.
F.C.: ¿¡QUÉ?!?
T.N.: That was the net worth of my father Boris Benes’s business, Camisetas Perro, when you stole it in 1960. Oh, and I’ll take a check, although I’d prefer cash. Then we’ll understand each other better.
F. C.: ¡Adios, cabrón!
Castro never did cough up Zeide’s purloined business—quelle surprise—but he did the prisoners, who were tearfully welcomed back into the arms of their Miami kin. You’d think the Cuban Americans would all be grateful, right? Oh please. Tío Nano’s life was practically ruined. He had so many death threats by fellow Cuban Americans that he took to wearing a bulletproof vest to work every day for years—while he still had a job to go to, that is—and was accompanied by a bodyguard. Tía Ricky was at risk. The kids—my cousins Joel, Lishka, and Edgar—were derided at school every day. All because certain members of the exile community could not “forgive” my uncle for committing the ultimate exile sin: talking to the dictator. I’m sorry, but that is fucked up. And it hurt me, too. Whenever the Post sent me down to Miami on assignment, I could never meet publicly with Tío Nano—on whom I relied for background and sources—because he was such a bête noire.
“I’m persona non grata here,” Tío told me. “Eef dey see us at Versailles [restaurant], nobody weel talk to joo. Deyl theenk joor een bed weeth de dehveel. Joor life might even be een danger.”
We stuck to phoners after that.
Hence, back at Frenzy and barring an expander, I’d just hop the 30 bus and go down Wisconsin Avenue to Georgetown for lunch at Maison des Crêpes, which I fondly called Maison des Craps, and hot pink and lime-green espadrille perusal at Pappagallo (very Palm Beach)—or up Wisconsin Avenue to Friendship Heights to grab a bite at Booeymonger’s for preshopping sustenance and then hit Woodies department store. On those days I’d instruct Tiny in the morning to pick me up wherever I was on that given afternoon. She always went along with it. Sometimes my platonic Frenzy boyfriends Rob and Peter would join me on those extracurricular excursions, and if we had the money we’d eat chef’s salads with gallons of Thousand Island dressing and sweet little corncakes with butter on the side at HH (Hamburger Hamlet). Then I’d hit Woodies, with or without them. My father had given me a credit card “for emergencies only,” which had to be a joke since I didn’t even have a legal driver’s license yet (not that that had ever stopped me from taking my illicit joyrides), and Papi’s technical definition of “emergencies” precluded anything short of engine failure. My “emergencies,” however, were pretty much all retail. Mami didn’t buy me enough clothes, that was all there was to it. She didn’t enjoy going shopping with me because we always ended up fighting. Our styles and approaches were incompatible. She was Loehmann’s, sales, quantity, earth colors, amassing. I was Ann Taylor, full-price, high-quality, happy colors, minimalist (not really, but at least my nickname was never Imelda).
For his part, Papi would do anything to preserve the domestic peace and status quo and avoid any confrontations whatsoever. So when he reviewed the credit card statements every month he never said a word, even if I had gone berserk. My semierroneous interpretation: There were no limits to what we could afford; I could only ever depend on Papi, not Mami, for financial aid; Papi felt guilty for doting on and preferring my brothers, whom he regarded with moist-eyed hero worship, so allowing me to charge myself into a Jubanique stupor on his dime was his way of paying me back for that lack (although my routinely doing so would advance and deepen his resentment toward me for “using” him); having a budget, sticking to it, and openly discussing money is boring, taboo, threatening, and vulgar; life has no real cost if you have Papi for a dad; and it will all go on and on like this eternally because unlike mere mortals, Jubanos are too Ju-ttractive and Ju-special to ever get sick, incapacitated, old, or die. Max out one credit card, open a new one.
Repeat.
Forever.
It was a rude shock—to Mami as much as to me—to discover how brief Forever is. After Papi’s second surgery for a brain tumor, when Mami took over the family finances, we realized how much strain we’d both put on Papi’s bank balance.
We’d discuss at length the relative merits of Herbal Essence shampoo over Flex (Rob and Peter both had long, straight, thick hair that retained the shampoos’ smells better than mine; my Agua de Violetas may have contributed), and Rob dished the dirt on Cher, his ido
l, with his customary Robin Williams manic delivery. Peter regaled me with stories of weekends at Camp David, where he and Rob went with Peter’s dad, H. R. Haldeman, Peter’s mom, Joanne, known as Jo, and President Nixon. (We never discussed politics. I don’t ever remember Peter saying “Watergate.”)
Jo always told the boys, “You cannot go to Nixon’s cabin, there’s Secret Service all around it.” Now, Peter was brilliant, hysterically funny, and gorgeous. He had probably the prettiest face I’d ever seen on a boy. Huge hazel eyes with very thick, long, black eyelashes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and that perfect, naturally streaked blond-brunette hair. He could have been a Leonardo cherubino. But Peter, who favored navy-blue Chuck Taylor All-Star Converse canvas oxford low-rise sneakers, was a provocateur with an edge and really strange mood swings. This one time, Peter talked Rob (who could be talked into anything, a key part of his charm), into a golf cart in the middle of the night. Peter started driving a thousand miles an hour to the presidential cabin; everybody stayed in separate cabins, whereas I’d always imagined Camp David as a kind of ski lodge situation. He told a terrified Rob to “just follow my lead, darling.” They charged right up to Nixon’s cabin and sirens went off and two dozen guns were suddenly trained on their heads.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” a security agent barked.
“I’m Peter Haldeman,” Peter said, nonchalantly. “H. R. Haldeman is my father. We’re here to see the president.”
“YOU CAN’T MEET HIM!” the guy said.
“Sir, I really feel terrible about bothering you at this late hour,” Peter continued, dabbing faux tears and sniffles away, “but my friend here, he doesn’t have much time to live. [Whispering.] Terminal cancer. [Pause.] And all he’s ever wanted is to see where the president of the United States stays in Camp David. [Whispering.] Dying wish.”
“Sorry about your friend. Really. BUT YOU CAN’T MEET THE PRESIDENT!”
In the morning, Jo confronted Peter, who actually took pleasure in seeing if he could get out of these things: “It was late, Mother. We got lost. I could have SWORN it was our cabin. I got mixed up and turned around. I feel just terrible about compromising dad.” And H.R., who was one scary mutha to begin with—that buzz cut alone—would EXPLODE. Peter knew this was not proper. Going to Nixon’s cabin during the day would’ve made more sense. But Peter was just like that.
Another time there, Peter and Jo were playing doubles against H.R. and Rob. There was a telephone on the tennis court. It rang and H.R. told Peter to pick it up since it was on Peter’s side.
“It’s DICK for dad!” Peter shrieked, not covering the receiver. “Dad, it’s DICK. DICK wants you—NOW!”
Jo fainted, Rob bit his lip, H.R. sighed, and Peter threw his head back and guffawed his trademark “AH-hahahahaha.”
Peter left Frenzy in April 1973, tenth grade, one month before H.R. was forced to resign over Watergate, one year before H.R. was indicted, not quite two years before H.R. was convicted and sent to a federal slam for eighteen months. The Haldemans moved back to California, where they were from. Nobody at school knew what really happened. I saw Peter and his parents in the maroon and gray upper-school hallway by the headmaster’s office, all looking very grave, and that was it. There were lots of rumors. I got a card from Peter later on, with a color photograph of him with H.R. (buzz cut grown out), Jo, and Peter’s three attractive siblings, Susan, Hank, and Ann. Except for H.R.—who’s off to one side inspecting what appears to be a camera, slide projector, or tape recorder—the family’s standing around a yellow touring bike in the yard of the Haldemans’ house. Peter’s leaning on the upright bike, looking down at Hank, who’s on the ground checking the rear tire. The environs were ordinary yet lush, a lush life “where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life / To get the feel of life…” Three pots of red chrysanthemums are lining the brick porch, with lots of sun shining on the flora. I wrote Peter back but we lost touch after that. I always adored him, though. At Frenzy, Peter made me look normal.
After recording the day’s events on my Valerie typewriter, I’d get in my pajammies, sprinkle Agua de Violetas in my hair, refresh my body with Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche Eau de Toilette spray, and pore covetously over my latest FBS catalogue—my kind of nighttime poetry and porn—with the pages folded into neat triangles on the outfits I desired. I always got tons of fashion catalogues in the mail but I really lived for FBS. The letters stood for French Boot Shop, an upscale, hyper-trendy boutique in exotic, far-flung New Rochelle, New York. (That’s where I bought my Corkies, those fabulous pigskin crisscross sandals with a cork wedge heel that I scuffed on that psychotic plane ride from Mexico City to Oaxaca with the ’rents when I was sixteen.) If the Sex and the City gals were catalogue shopping in the seventies and eighties, FBS would have been their fashion mecca. (Of course, they would have lived in Manhattan, so why would they have bothered?)
Living in Washington, D.C., an excruciatingly conservative, government-and politics-obsessed, culture-and style-starved city of streets named after states and granite monuments and mausoleums, presented serious sartorial challenges. So I was forced to shop outside the federal box, as it were. FBS transcended my fashion magazines because unlike the mags, you could actually order the clothes in the photographs. FBS showed me the girlishly unexpected and lavishly quirky that somehow just worked: a mustard-yellow Norma Kamali fleece pullover dress in the shape of an inverted triangle with an exaggerated funnel turtleneck and Velcro’d shoulder pads, worn with opaque black tights and red suede Joan & David pumps. A poofy Esprit khaki flight suit feminized at the waist with a wide cinched floral embroidered belt, and worn sans socks and with copper metallic Joan & David flats. A lemon-yellow Betsey Johnson halter tube dress scattered with tiny pink rosebuds, with a shirred, gathered bodice and a full skirt, worn with high-heeled wooden slides whose straps were clear plastic panels decorated with lemon-yellow and rosebud-pink sequined butterflies.
Those images, those wonderful clothes, most of which I could never afford (Papi didn’t give me a hard figure limit but I sort of intuited how far I could push it) or wear to school or anywhere else I was likely to go, conjured up correspondingly fantastic situations. I’d cut out the images and glue them to the back of my bedroom door, creating an intricately layered, overlapping collage, and stare at them. That was one way to acquire the attire. Pin down the outfit and the occasion will present itself, that’s my motto. For instance, if I only owned that icy pale blue cashmere bathrobe wrap coat and those Victorian pearl earrings the color of brushed button mushroom caps, I’d surely wear them (with a ton of red lipstick) over the olive-green quilted satin pullover bomber-style sweatshirt and ash-gray silk cigarette pants and blue suede stilettos—to see my French lover who looks like Jeremy Irons. Wet autumn leaves on the New York City sidewalk, last night’s rain running along gutters, moi scurrying along in the cold, shawl collar turned up, cheeks flushed, loosely piled-up hair juuust beginning to come undone like Meryl Streep’s in Manhattan or The French Lieutenant’s Woman. And Jeremy would embrace me in my coat that faintly smelled of him and of Coco perfume and he’d make my hair come undone…Afterward, I’d look like Carly Simon on the cover of Boys in the Trees—feminine, soft, romantic, suggestively sexy, languorously European, wearing a pale peach satin slip and pulling up a sheer silk stocking, and not like Carly on Playing Possum—open-mouthed and kneeling in a hard-core black lace teddy and black leather boots. My friend Amy, whom I met in Paris during my college junior year abroad, used to say, “Carly tries to sing like it’s from her soul but it’s really from her beaver.”
Either way, what an orgasmic dream life can be!
CHAPTER TEN
The New Algebra
Our mutually bespectacled eyes met across the huevos a la Malagueña. He was cute-ugly in a Jewish, left-wing liberal, blond balding hippie, late Elvis sideburns, communist-pornographer kind of way. Let’s call him by the initials T.P.—or Teepee—to keep it uncluttered. You’ll see why. Trust me. Mam
i worked with him at St. Elizabeths. I was a fourteen-year-old ninth grader struggling—to put it mildly—with algebra. He was older and, true to his generation, wearing purple hip-hugger wide-wale cords on that Sunday afternoon in late May, a batik-y dashiki, and thick glasses with round gold metal frames as he introduced himself to me at brunch at our house and I introduced him to huevos a la Malagueña. Sizing him up, I knew his type instantly. Anything un-American was good, even Mami’s half-assed huevos, of which Teepee enthusiastically ate two helpings. He probably loved—gag—Indian food, too.
“These huevos are just delicious,” Teepee said, sitting next to me in the living room as I cleared away 893 stolen tchotchkes from the coffee table to make room for our plates and glasses. There were about twenty other non-Cuban guests who appeared to agree with Teepee’s inane huevos assessment. “I’ve had Spanish omelets before, of course. With potatoes. But these are really good.”
“What you’re eating is Spanish,” I said, biting into a sesame bagel with cream cheese. Pretty soon I would have to go upstairs and sneak a cigarette. I’d begun smoking regularly. I liked True Blues, liked the recessed filter, liked the ritual of lighting a cigarette after meals and the relaxed-full way it made me feel. I loved it, actually.