On My Knees

by Periel Aschenbrand

  Uncle Bark, who is charming under pretty much any circumstance, was mildly intoxicated from his white wine spritzer when we got there and was as amusing as ever. The second we walked in, Uncle Bark came over and started talking to us in broken Hebrew. But the person Guy got along with more than anyone was my father. My father, whom you usually have to beat over the head to get him to talk, was in the corner with Guy, chatting away for the better part of an hour. After a while I sidled up to them to investigate what they were going on about. What else? Sports. Or more to the point, sportswear. Specifically, sneakers. My father, who has been playing paddleball (like handball, but more street) religiously since he was in his twenties, is completely obsessed with sneakers. Because my father has an obsessive personality, the man owns more sneakers than even Shaquille O’Neal would need for a lifetime. I’m talking in the hundreds. In Israel, which is a tiny country the size of Rhode Island, huge sporting goods stores don’t exist. So when Guy discovered them in New York, it was like a dream come true. When my father then offered to take Guy to Modell’s, the biggest sneaker store on the planet, I knew it was all over.

  My mother eventually made her way over and started talking our ears off. She asked Guy, “So, what’s your favorite thing about New York?”

  Guy said, wholly and without reservation, “Periel.”

  Between that and his newly found best friend in my father, my mom was totally sold.

  After we left, Guy took my hand, and was like, “Where did you come from? Your parents are so nice and you’re, well, such a . . . little monster.”

  One of my favorite things about Guy was that he says what he means and he means what he says. That and he always does what he says he is going to do. You can also always count on him to say what he thinks. This I could sometimes do without. This may have been a cultural phenomena, but whatever it was, Guy had no filter.

  Once, for example, right after we had sex doggy style, he said, “You are very sexy and I love you but the hair in your ass is so long I could braid it.”

  Who says that?

  A girl less self-confident than I am would have probably never had sex again. And while it was true that maybe I had gone a bit more au naturel, I wasn’t sure about the braiding part. Beyond that, Guy wasn’t a gorilla but he certainly had his fair share of fur.

  I was as mortified as I was amused. I was like, “You are such a misogynist.”

  Guy said, “A what?”

  I was like, “Never mind. Hang on.”

  I hopped off the bed and bent over in front of the mirror to investigate my anus. He actually wasn’t that far off. I was like, “Well, whatever. I may have some hair in my butt but I’ve never had any complaints and before you start talking about my ass, you should look at your own!”

  Guy said, “I’m a man. I’m supposed to have hair on my body.”

  I said, “That is a social construct that you’ve been brainwashed to think is the natural order.”

  Then it took me an hour to explain to Guy what misogyny and social constructs and the natural order were. And if you think that’s a task for the faint of heart, you are sadly mistaken. Finally he got it but still maintained that he felt like he was having sex with a goat.

  Later, I found a shoe box on my desk with a Post-it on top and thought, How cute, a gift. Guy had taken to leaving me Post-it notes all over the apartment—little notes that said “I love you” or whatever and I thought this was a more sophisticated version of that. When I got closer, I noticed that instead of saying “I love you,” the Post-it said “ASS KIT.”

  When I opened the box, there was a can of hairspray, a brush, and a hair dryer.

  (Of course I didn’t tell him this, but I thought this was hands-down one of the most brilliant things I had ever seen in my life.)

  On the flip side, I knew I could always count on him to tell me the truth—which, as my grandmother used to say, is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, I appreciated his sense of humor. I could tell him anything and we always had a great time together. Other than the fact that he lived in the Middle East and I lived in North America, everything was perfect. Or, perhaps, everything was perfect precisely because he lived in the Middle East and I lived in North America.

  We went back and forth like this—I would go to Israel; he would come to New York—for about a year. At which point things changed. The complete abandon had been replaced with caution. Things were getting serious and the reality that we lived on different continents had sunk in. Of course, the reality that I had fallen in love with him had also begun to sink in. Summer was coming and it was time to put on my big-girl pants and make some decisions.

  I had always wanted to live in Israel and now seemed like as good a time as ever. I knew that no one ever accomplished anything in this world without taking a chance. But knowing something and actually doing something are two very different animals. I had just spent the better part of the year building my little nest. Was I really going to put all my stuff in storage and sublet my apartment? And what about work? I came up with a million scenarios. On the other hand, was I really going to not do something I had been dying to do for my whole life so I could sit in New York and babysit my pink couch? What it came down to was the only reason not to go to Israel for the summer was because I was scared.

  That sealed the deal. Making decisions out of fear was not only the worst way to make decisions; it was also pathetic. And I may have been a lot of things, but pathetic was no longer one of them.

  Plus, in the scheme of things, what was three months?

  I thought Guy would be thrilled when I told him I was coming to Israel for the summer, but instead he sounded concerned. Guy, who as a general rule was much more practical than I was, started going through a list of “what ifs.”

  What would I do all day while he was at work?

  What if I didn’t like living in Israel?

  What if I didn’t like him?

  What if things didn’t work out?

  What would I do on Monday nights when he played soccer?

  On and on it went. But the underlying concern was clear. How would this relationship ever really work when we lived on separate continents? And furthermore, what if it didn’t?

  As far as I was concerned, I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn’t give it a shot. But I understood Guy’s position as well. A relationship with me was way out of left field for him. He may have been well traveled and well educated and sophisticated in a certain way—he appreciated fine food and fine wine and film and music and art—but for the most part he was a much more conventional and practical person than I was. He was more responsible than I was. He was less reactionary. He had a good job. He saved money. He visited his parents every Friday. He played soccer every Monday. He played poker every Thursday. He didn’t drive if he drank. If he took a trip, he planned it. He used a condom. I mean not with me, but whatever. Naturally, some of this was just pure common sense. But the point is that when Guy made decisions, he thought them through.

  I was more like a caveman—far from practical, totally unconventional and entirely self-indulgent. I made decisions on a whim. I spent more money than I had. I decided everything at the very last minute. I mean I wasn’t an idiot but I was much less measured. In short, Guy’s superego was in charge of his life and my id was in charge of mine. And although he was madly in love with me, this aspect of my personality scared the shit out of him.

  He told me he needed a couple of days to think about it.

  This simultaneously totally freaked me out and made me completely irate. I toyed with the idea of holding out for his “decision.” Then, at like two in the morning, I decided that I had zero interest in waiting a couple of days or, frankly, even a couple of hours. So I wrote him an e-mail. I briefly considered the possibility that perhaps I should stop writing letters to men who want nothing to do with me trying to convince them otherwise.


  Then I hit SEND.

  Guy,

  There are no guarantees in life. It doesn’t matter how long you take to think or how much you try to plan, you have no way of knowing how our relationship is going to work out and neither do I.

  This summer things may be wonderful. Or they may not. There are a million other things that could happen, too. You can’t figure out the future.

  I understand your concerns but you are NOT responsible for my choices. I make my own decisions and I live with what happens. You are NOT responsible if things don’t work out between us.

  I know you’re scared. It’s okay. Life can be scary.

  You can live your life not taking risks and making decisions out of fear but I don’t think that really protects you from anything.

  I will say this: I want to be with someone who KNOWS they want to be with me. I want to be with someone who is THRILLED to see me, not with someone who is not sure. And when you say you need a couple of days to think about it, it makes me think that you’re not sure.

  And so in a way, I only need one answer from you: do you want to see me?

  Yes or no.

  A lot of things are not black-and-white, but this is.

  You are either willing to walk away from this and risk never seeing me again because you are scared or you’re willing to take a chance. It’s the summer, honey. It’s not a huge deal. It is supposed to be fun and exciting and wonderful. And maybe a little bit scary and maybe even a little bit boring.

  We can figure out what we want to do after when the summer is over. We can’t figure it out now. But if I don’t come, we will never know. I don’t want to do that. I’m not willing to live my life never taking risks because I’m scared. Are you?

  Another thing that is black-and-white is this: I love you.

  And then I went to sleep.

  When I woke up the next morning, which also happened to be Guy’s birthday, I rolled out of bed to check my e-mail and braced myself.

  Guy had e-mailed me back, which was a good sign. It was a short e-mail, written in Hebrew, so it took me a few minutes to read it.

  It said:

  You coming to Israel for the summer would be the best birthday present I could have ever hoped for. I love you.

  By nightfall, I had purchased a ticket to Israel, sublet my apartment, and spent hours online looking for a place to live in Tel Aviv. Since I was planning to spend the majority of my time writing, I had several requirements: the apartment had to be walking distance from the beach and it had to have a balcony. On Craigslist of all places, I found an American expat from New York City named Maya Silver, who had just moved in with her boyfriend. She had a one-bedroom apartment, dead smack in the center of the city, two blocks from the beach, with a balcony.

  I was thrilled. I called Guy to tell him and I thought he would be thrilled as well. Wrong again. The way he saw it, if I were coming to Israel, in essence to be with him, I should be staying with him. The way I saw it, this was the worst idea I had ever heard in my life. I explained to him that hanging out with someone on your own terms is fun but that living with someone is a nightmare. I also said that given the fact that your primary concern is that you don’t want to be responsible for me, I’m pretty certain that moving in together more or less guarantees a disaster. Plus, I told him, no offense but I don’t want to live with you. It’s too much pressure.

  He begrudgingly accepted this but I could tell his macho Middle Eastern ego was bruised.

  I closed the deal with Maya Silver and leased her apartment for two months. Then I called to break the news to my mother.

  I was like, “Hi, Mommy, I just want to let you know that I’m going to Israel for the summer.”

  To which my mother replied: “I just read an article in the New York Times. No one wants to get into a relationship with someone who is not financially stable. The article says it’s not a good way to start a relationship.”

  Me: “Well, living over five thousand miles apart is not a good way to start a relationship either. Did you ever think of that? And really! Do you always have to be so negative!?”

  My mother: “I am not negative. I am very optimistic, but unlike you I don’t live in a fantasy world.”

  Me: “I don’t know why you can’t say something normal, like ‘have a nice trip.’ ”

  My mother: “And make sure you wear cotton clothing on the flight.”

  Me, now screaming: “Mommy, what the fuck are you talking about? What kind of a thing is that to tell me?”

  My mother: “Language, Peri! Language!”

  Me: “Seriously, are you insane? Who do you work for the FAA?”

  My mother: “Cotton is less flammable than polyester so if something happens, it’s much safer.”

  Me: “I am hanging up now. Please don’t ever call me again.”

  This scared the living shit out me. I hate flying to begin with and if there is anything that I hate more than flying it is people who tell you scary stories about flying.

  Within moments, I received this e-mail:

  You don’t know how lucky you are to be leaving shortly for Israel.

  You must enjoy the melodramatic insane yelling that is becoming a habit with you. I was repeating constructive advice that was broadcast on national television from SURVIVORS of plane crashes. They were not hurt because they knew exactly where the emergency doors were and they wore natural fiber clothing.

  And don’t tell me that I was wrong because you are afraid. If you were not in denial and mature you would stop smoking. Statistics show how much more hazardous smoking, driving, and just walking are than flying.

  You make up your own rules and treat me as if I am an imbecile. Grow up and be respectful and responsible; it’s about time you act as a mature adult and not a teenager.

  If you think this is harsh criticism, then believe me when I tell you that if you were not going on a trip it would be much more, so consider yourself lucky.

  And if this has to do with your PMS, then we need to address that also.

  I have to make a lunar calendar of your mood swings.

  Love,

  Mommy

  Lucky for me, I got to Israel safely and my flight did not catch on fire. Also lucky for me is that the apartment I rented from Maya Silver was large and airy and two blocks from the beach. It was a bit filthy though, and Guy cleaned the entire thing the second he saw it. And when I say cleaned, I mean, like, with a mop.

  I was like, “I don’t know why we’re not calling a cleaning lady. Just so you know, I don’t do manual labor.”

  Guy sneered at me, finished mopping, and lectured me on how if I’d asked before I rented the apartment whether it was going to be cleaned, I wouldn’t have problems like these. The way I saw it, the only problem I had was that Guy was being a fucking asshole. He was obviously still pissed I wouldn’t move in with him and he was also obviously still conflicted about the fact that I was there at all.

  As the days and weeks went on, it became more and more apparent that he was still apprehensive about the whole thing. His apprehension made me reticent to put myself too much on the line, so I became guarded and buried myself in my writing. And when he called, I often didn’t answer and would only call him back hours later. I wasn’t trying to play games as much as I was trying to be cautious. If he didn’t want to be responsible for me that was fine, but I certainly wasn’t going to be at his disposal. As a result, a rift grew between us.

  In the midst of this, Hanna came to visit for a week. Her trip to India had inspired her to travel more and I was thrilled to see her. We gallivanted around Israel, we took a trip to Jordan, and we even rode a camel. I barely saw Guy at all while Hanna was there. The day after she left, I had plans with him. We spent the evening together and then, later that night, while we were in bed, I said to him, “You know, I’ve been here for almost three w
eeks and you haven’t told me once that you’re happy that I’m here.”

  Guy said, “I am happy you’re here, but . . .”

  I was like, “But what?”

  Guy said, “Well, I’m just not sure.”

  I bolted out of bed and started getting dressed.

  He said, “Where are you going?”

  I go, “You’re not sure? You’re not sure and you’re asking me where I’m going? Where do you think I’m going? I’m going home. Do you really think I’m going to spend one single solitary second with someone who is not sure if they want to be with me!”

  As I stormed out of his apartment, he handed me my makeup bag and said, “You forgot this.”

  I slammed the door. I was so livid I was seething. With the exception of my little “I’m not that girl” tantrum with Nico, which had provided me with sufficient humiliation for a lifetime, I had never stormed out like that on anyone before. I walked to the street and at one in the morning, I hailed a taxi back to my apartment and called Hanna, who had literally just arrived back in New York.

  I told her what just happened and I was like, “I’m getting the fuck out of here. I can’t believe what a moron I am. I’m getting on the next plane to JFK.”

  Hanna: “P, you know you will never forgive yourself if you do that.”

  Me, ranting: “He’s not sure? He’s not fucking sure? He can go fuck himself if he’s not sure. I am not going to fucking be with someone who is not sure!”

  Hanna: “Slow down for a second. Can I ask you a question?”

  Me: “What?”

  Hanna: “Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent positive?”

  Me, meekly: “Well, no. Of course not.”

  Hanna: “Well then.”

  Me: “Well then, what?”

  Hanna: “Well then you need to go back.”

  Me: “Go back? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Hanna: “You have to go back and apologize. You’re being insane.”