by Izzy Ezagui
Now, I'm not a complete novice with girls. I lost my V-card nearly four years ago in my Mini Cooper. We were parked a block away from her house in Miami when the magical moment began. Everything went great. That is, until the time came to say “See ya later.” Like a total douche canoe, I had left the AC running during the act, and now the Cooper wouldn't cough back to life. I would have been dead, too, if my friend—a real pal—hadn't reluctantly and groggily dragged himself out of bed and arrived with his jumper cables before dawn. Her father would've crushed my head with his bare fists when he came outside for his Sunday paper.
Anyway, to call me confident with the ladies would be like calling me Enrique Iglesias. Sounds cool, but just isn't true.
When I was thirteen, I got the only birds-and-bees talk that was forthcoming. This occurred just days after I saw my first nude human-female-person. I was walking home alone from synagogue in my penguin suit, not yet officially a man, according to Jewish doctrine. The entrance to my complex in Aventura Lakes had a bridge, and lining the water on each side of said bridge were the backsides of all the houses on our block. I was in the habit of glancing into our living-room window as I crossed the bridge, just to see what I should expect when I walked in the door.
But on this night, I couldn't help but notice movement on the second floor of the house to the left of ours. That's where Spanish Princess lived. I called her that because I had no idea what her name was, nor she mine. She was nineteen at least, I figured, and would never in a million years deign to consort with a pisher like me. It was her in the window—definitely her. I removed my Borsalino hat, holding it to my beating chest as if in prayer. She was walking around her bedroom wearing nothing but a towel. Then the towel dropped—prayer answered. Spanish Princess was completely naked behind the plate glass. I could have performed my first magic trick if I'd dropped the hat a foot and held it up still with no hands. It was the show of my life. If I were Superman, I'd never save the city. I'd be too busy X-ray-visioning.
So, a couple of days later, my father and I were in our garage. He was helping me fix my bike. I was daydreaming about that absent towel next door. My dad was always the epitome of genuineness and caring—if not particularly good with words—and I'd expect no less in his counsel about girls. He said, “If you just ‘fool around’ with a girl, you'll hurt her. Women are fragile that way.” End of subject. I remember thinking it was so simple, but profound. Yes, archaic, too, and kind of sexist—but not necessarily in a bad way.
A few minutes later, our hands greasy with the chain, he said, “Do you have any questions?” I said no. With that one sentence, he set up how I would consider women for the rest of my life. Of course, more often than not, I'm the one in considerably more danger of getting attached and/or destroyed. Yet my father's advice stuck with me. It doesn't hurt that I'm terrified to talk to women, especially when I'm interested in pursuing them, especially when I'm not socially lubricated to the brim.
Most of the aforementioned encounters occur in a bar or club setting. Almost all of them happen when I'm drunk. I don't know why, but it's the only way I find any measure of confidence. I don't know what it is. I know I'm not hideous per se. But the truth is, I can't blame the average woman for holding her nose around Sober Izzy. Inside, I generally feel about as useless as tits on a bull. You can try to fake it, but that kind of self-loathing seeps out and fogs like a fart in a stalled Mini Cooper.
Which is why I'm so appreciative that Katya doesn't push this issue. Katya is my super-hot, super-smart, super-blunt therapist at Sheba. The mission of getting me to agree to see a therapist was a lot like Sergeant Soprano's slab-hauling tasks at B'kaot—thankless and grueling, with a good possibility of a vital appendage getting crushed. For obvious reasons, it's a requirement that every wounded vet meet with a shrink. “But I'm going back to combat, so this rule doesn't really apply to me. I don't need a therapist.”
“Yes, well, how about you just humor me,” says Zivner, trying not to sound impatient with his patient. “Meet Katya. She's a med student doing her dissertation on—what are the odds—amputee soldiers from abroad, trying to return to combat. You could wind up the star of her paper. Nurse—would you call Katya in, please?”
And in walked Katya. And, OK, maybe I do need a therapist. Yeah, I definitely need a therapist. What was I thinking, not wanting a therapist after such a traumatic incident? But Katya was so much more than a pretty face. Soon enough, she got me talking. Over the next many months, we talked about life in general (not terrible); my fears (crippling); my tendency to see the world as black-and-white (“helpful”?); and my many, many problems talking to human-female-persons (thinking about writing a ten-volume tome, are you, Katya?).
“You're talking to me right now, aren't you, Izzy?”
“Yeah, but I mean, attractive fe—I mean, women I'm attracted to. Not that I'm not—Please shut me up. This is exactly what I'm talking about. Besides, you're married.”
“Izzy, what do you want, when it comes to women? I mean, imagine your dream life, where you're perfectly adept at expressing your wishes. And tell me.”
It's been changing.
I'm thirteen and Orthodox, studying at a Chabad yeshiva at the edge of the Tucson Mountains. Despite the heat, I wear a black hat and suit, as is the custom. All around me are black-clad men, mean-spirited cacti, majestic mares, and little else. I already know how everything turns out: Family. Life. The afterlife. I'll be married shortly after my eighteenth birthday—that's only five years off. My wife will be far more pious than I am—just like my mother and father. She'll cover her knees and elbows, her hair—and still pull off sexy with ease. We'll have six or eight children—all boys—with long, loopy sideburns and IQs of 130. They'll all have an enthusiasm for Torah study far exceeding mine, which will give their mother and me tremendous naches—lots of pride.
I'm nineteen, secular, and stationed at the foot of a mountain in the Negev desert. Despite the cold, I wear nothing but my combat vest and olive-green fatigues. All around me are cardboard targets, spent bullet casings, and little else. I already know how everything turns out: Family. Life. The afterlife. I'll be married shortly after my twenty-fourth birthday. That's only five years off. My wife will be far smarter than I am. She'll wear a tank top and faded skinny jeans and still pull off modesty with ease. We'll have three or four children—all boys—with boundless energy, and muscular, athletic frames. They'll each insist on serving in a combat unit like their father, which will give their mother and me tremendous koved—lots of honor.
“And when you're twenty-four? Can you project that far ahead?”
“God, no.” All I can see is the military. And Katya's green eyes…
“Tell me more about dreams—your sleeping dreams.”
“Are you planning an X-rated thesis?”
“Those aren't your only dreams. What else?”
“Well. I had this one crazy dream a few weeks ago. I was back in combat. Armed to the teeth. I was leading a squad of soldiers through Judea and Samaria, on a hunt for a certain terrorist. I was a tough-as-nails commander, getting stuff done. My men looked to me, trusted me. When I woke up, I could feel my blood pumping in my temples.”
“A precognition of your future?”
Marry me, Katya. Marry me, too.
It's not until a day or so later that I realize I'd had my first one-armed dream. And I rocked.
Then, one afternoon, the woman of my dreams goes away. I'm told Katya's term with me has ended. She breaks my heart, just like the rest of them. Someone tells me I was her first…well, patient. For all I know, I was her only patient. They send me down to “the dungeon,” a floor below rehab, to meet her replacement. I knock on the door timidly. A squat, middle-aged troglodyte looks up from her egg-salad sandwich. I take one look at her hairy knuckles, say, “Oops. Wrong office,” and bolt back upstairs. I'll be faithful to Katya. She was my first. I want her to be my only before I return to combat.
I replace Katya with CAREN. S
heba's Computer Assisted Rehabilitation Environment is awesome, and I immediately fall for her. She's a real-time, multi-purpose, multi-sensory system for diagnosis, rehabilitation, evaluation, and recording of a patient's ability to balance and control his own movements. In other words, a live-action, virtual-reality video game. Sign me up.
CAREN consists of a movable floor you stand on. As the system manipulates the platform, a sophisticated motion-capture routine measures and logs your movements. She's taken me surfing atop killer ocean waves during vicious thunderstorms. She's taken me dune-buggying down steep desert cliffs. CAREN requires my full attention, my full concentration, as well as a complete awareness of my stability, balance, and movement. I'm at the center of a feedback loop that I can influence, predict, and conquer. Best of all, I get to compete against myself.
But, just like the old days with my Wii and my PlayStation, I'm still playing with myself. Alone in a room. When real life is somewhere out there. I prefer this virtual reality. But I find that at the CAREN station, my mood is as unstable as it is in my room. My mood still swings like the jewels Benny lost. Back and forth, or “black-and-white,” as Katya rightly diagnosed before she left me for her husband. From happy, dopey, jokester to vampire emo-boy. She taught me these are both me. Always have been. And, truth is, the whole me is itching to get out of this place, to launch my first foray back into the real world. Only, I'm still afraid of what I'll find out there.
YOU GOTTA HAND IT TO THE GENERAL
Late March 2009, about 9:30 p.m., Sheba Hospital rehab ward. The night I first meet General Galant—“call me Yoav”—is a white night. That is, according to the black/white binary Katya diagnosed me with. I'm in a tremendous mood, feeling dumb and high—basically punch-drunk on pain and the meds meant to deflect it. We got word that a special visitor would be making the rounds tonight. I hear the Hebrew words “Aluf Pikud Darom,” which mean nothing to me. All I know is that I'm feeling silly. Benny is cracking me up, he looks so nervous about the visit. He climbs into his wheelchair and does his best to sit at attention, which isn't a thing. My no-legged roommate sitting so upright, all serious, gets me giggling. By the time General Galant walks in with his entourage of underlings and direct reports, I'm so loose that I open with “Hey, man, what's up?”
I see Benny nearly poops himself again, yet somehow manages to sit up even straighter. An officer nervously thumbs through a folder. He soon introduces me by name. The general looks at me a second. Everyone behind him is quiet. And then he breaks into a smile. Everyone behind him sighs and gets comfortable. “Tell me, what's up with you, Izzy?”
“I want to get back into combat, sir. Can you help me with that?”
He pauses a long while, doesn't lose the smile. “Sure. If that's what you want.”
What? Did he just…What?
“I'm not just asking to return to the military, sir. You understand? I'm talking about active duty, about combat.”
“Yes. If it's possible, you and I will make it happen together. And call me Yoav.”
Once he leaves, Benny tells me this Yoav is the officer in charge of all the Southern Command. He's a former military secretary to the prime minister. Cast Lead was his charge, and he was here visiting the soldiers who were hurt by turning his battle plan from maps and strategy to a win in the field. He looked us each in the eye, knowing our lives would be difficult, knowing he would have to continue making such decisions. But it was obvious how much he cared. Not only because he visited but also because he engaged with us on a human level and spoke with us so plainly. We'd had visits from various higher-ups, and some came just to tick off the task on a checklist of stuff they were supposed to do. Not this guy, though. This guy's special.
He returns to our room at the end of his tour and asks what I'm doing for Passover in two weeks. I tell him, “Season two of How I Met Your Mother. Right here in rehab.”
“No,” he says. “You're coming with me on a tour of the bases. We'll spend the holiday with the soldiers protecting the border. Good?”
He leaves, and one of his logistical officers asks me for my number. I give it to her, look at the others, and then say, “Really? You're the only one who wants my number? No other takers?”
Even Phantom's thrown off. Izzy, what da heck?
She gives me the kind of smile you give a twenty-year-old American who is stoned on painkillers, and also very, very dumb.
What a lost boy. But I have an overwhelming, awesome feeling that with this one conversation, I've found my Tinker Bell. I've got the fairy dust I need to see my mission through. No Captain Hook. No new villains in the brig to muck up the works.
CAPTAIN HOOK TAKES A WHIZ
Early March 2009. For the first time in twenty years, I feel claustrophobia setting in. I'm in a seedy Tel Aviv club with streams of sweat pouring down my forehead, penetrating the eye patch that covers the whole left quadrant of my face. The sting of it's got my right eye squinting, blind as if from pepper spray.
I resort to a cliché, self-motivating shtick: “C'mon, Izzy. You got this.”
No. I do not. The smell of other people's vomit overawes my nostrils. Urine, bright yellow from ravers’ dehydration, lies in acrid puddles, covering most of the TP-littered floor. Think about all that planning you did to get here, Izzy. Why panic now? For the love of Jor-El, it's just a frickin’ button…Why can't I—?
Outside, I can hear the girls knocking on the door, wanting to know if I'm OK.
Izzy, you are pretty damn far from OK, my friend. “Fine! Almost done,” I say.
Minnie and Annie, two British girls I came to call pals after a couple of friendly hospital visits, informed me of their plans for Purim a few days prior to tonight's execution. I loved it. We put in a serious effort, at least a good hour of scheming. For someone as stoned and distracted as I am, that's nothing to sneeze at.
Soon, we acquired the proper garb—people dress up for Purim, a lot like Halloween. It's surprisingly easy to find both an eye patch and a prosthetic hook in a rehab hospital. Boots, too, were easy to come by. Straight-laced, of course—I borrowed them from Benny. And a flowing shirt from some Titan of a guy who took a sniper bullet to the knee. I hijacked enough pillows from Benny and others to build a believable Izzy-shaped lump for my bed. For several nights, I covertly memorized the routine of the nightshift nurses who walked the Sheba halls.
The only time I risked blowing operational cover was for the sake of veteran safety—my own. The morning of the mission arrived, and with it, the doctor responsible for the day's rounds. I'd never seen the grizzled guy before, and figured that meant I wasn't likely to see him again. Besides, I decided, I had no choice. I needed to know the possible repercussions before undertaking this risk I'd been plotting for my prison break. “Hey, Doc,” I chirped. “Good morning.”
“Mornink,” he muttered back without looking up, his pen scribbling madly on my chart, his eyebrows dancing. So he was Russian.
“Say, Doc, if I were to have, I don't know, maybe…a drink or two. What, uh, would happen, you know, given my condition?”
The scribbling stopped, and he maneuvered the top of his pen up to his square glasses, pushed them higher on his nose. “Wodka?” he inquired, hopefully.
“Sure. Let's say, Vodka.”
He glanced down at my chart, studied the plethora of drugs listed there. He flipped a page. Another page. Another. And just when I thought he'd nix the very idea of mixing alcohol with all of my meds, he looked back up at me, nodding. “Two wodkas never kill nobody.” I smiled. “Really, three-four wodkas never kill nobody neither.” I got the vibe that he'd personally conducted meticulous research into this area. “No five.”
“No five?”
“Five wodkas maybe kill you.” And he made his way to Benny.
I didn't tell him that pirates don't mingle with wodka, that they prefer rum once they've escaped their chains below deck. Or maybe scotch. Probably both. In any case, the doctor's prescription was clear: I could drink again.
So night arrived. I lay, costumed, beneath my bed sheets, with my stack of pillows hidden on the floor beside me. Once the nurse scanned my room to her satisfaction—Izzy, sleeping. Benny, sleeping—I got up and remade the bed with the feather-based me as stand-in. Or lie-in. Now shift one pillow this way for the missing arm, et voilà.
“Smooth sailing, Captain,” whispers Benny, giving me a wink.
Out I sneaked through the quiet halls, through the back door of the orthopedic ward, and out the side entrance to an idling taxi. I opened the back door and cried out when Minnie yanked me inside by my puffy shirt. Minnie and Annie, both dressed in costume as well, were giggling with excitement. Likely with wodka, too. “You're free,” Annie shouted.
“Time to party,” yelled Minnie.
If I had known during that ride how rapidly my freedom would turn to torture, I'd have given anything to swap places with the pillows resting soundly in my bed.
Now concentrating on the task at hand inside the cramped stall becomes nearly impossible. For one thing, Phantom's on the toilet, crapping, so the place stinks like roadkill. And the constant, impatient rattling of the door handle, along with the fists slamming on the thin barrier wall, don't help either.