by Lois Walden
‘I am?’ Then why do I feel like shit?
‘Yes, you are.’ Silence. He stares right through me. I shiver. He cocks his head like a dog having its first idea. ‘Come back next week. In the meantime, if you feel the demons return, feel free to call me at this number.’ He hands me a black and white checkered vinyl refrigerator magnet card. ‘Place the phone on your neck and say the word “music” out loud three times. I will be able to release them over the phone. Now don’t forget to call. If I’m in session, just wait by the phone. I’ll get back to you right away. Are you clear on the procedure?’
‘Absolutely.’ Place phone on neck, say the word music three times, and let demons be demons. Look, Ma, I’m free …
‘My ass, you are, little girl … You’ll never be free. You’re my little girl.’
After Oxford, Mississippi, I wend my way via United, coach class, last row, no oxygen, to Chicago. I am one stop closer to teaching in my mother’s town … Beatrice. ‘Patience is a virtue.’
Lovely advice from the departed.
O’Hare airport is to flying what Forest Lawn is to dying … large and lonely except for the bodies. It is snowing again … We land two and one half hours later than our ETA. After sitting in between a four-hundred-and-fifty pound computer suiter playing Nintendo and a seventeen-year-old Hispanic transvestite listening to syncopated salsa, I can’t wait to deplane. I sprint to baggage, like Jim Thorpe in his heyday, wait forty-five minutes until my ruined, red, torn bag arrives.
The bellman ushers me up into my brown room. Brown couch, brown rug, brown curtains, brown bedspread, brown bureau, and drip … drip … brown tap water.
‘I can’t do this room!’
‘Is something wrong, miss?’
‘It’s brown. The entire room is brown. I’ll die in here. Don’t you have any other color room in this hotel?’
‘The hotel is being renovated. Some of our new rooms are beige.’
‘Are there any beige rooms available?’
‘Oh no, miss, the renovation won’t be completed until next fall.’
I tip the doorman, bolt out the door. On Rush Street I spot a massive Marriott Hotel. I roll my bag right into the revolving door. With all of his brute strength, the doorman stops the door so that my bag and I squeeze neatly between the glass panels. He maneuvers the door. It moves. I move with it. He is not impressed with me or my rolling.
I’m in the lobby … a successful transition. Next stop front desk! ‘How much is a … look, just give me a room whatever it costs.’ Ryan (his name tag pinned neatly over his Marriott pocket) is more than Midwesternly courteous.
I drag myself into the mirrored Marriott elevator, stumble toward the room. The plastic key slides right into the slot. The room is four by four, the size of my sister Dina’s SUV, which is parked in her Park Avenue garage. I sit down on the edge of the miniature bed, pick up the phone to chat with young Ryan.
‘I need more space. I’m a yogi. I can’t even stand in mountain pose in this room.’
I make one more stop at the front desk. Young Ryan hands me the new holographic plastic key for room 711. ‘Thank you.’
My new upgraded room is adjacent to the elevator. I can do yoga, I can lie down on the floor, but I can’t hear myself think.
I reappear at the front desk. Ryan acts as if he truly cares about the noise problem.
He hands me the key to room 1956. He promises that I will be exceedingly happy…1956 …
The year of my birth. The gala event, I am told by my sister Dina, went something like this. Granny was sleeping in the easy chair in the living room. At six a.m. my sister appeared, bewildered. She awakened Granny, asked her why her mother and father weren’t in the bedroom.
‘Your mother, thank God, is at the hospital. Your father is with her. You have a brand new baby sister. Isn’t that just wonderful?’ No reply… ‘Her name is Loli. You just wait and see. It’s all going to be different.’
My sister went back to bed, possibly suspecting that her position as the focus of absolute adoration was in jeopardy.
Ryan ushers me into my birthday room. He opens the door and very slowly strolls with me around the ten by ten space. I listen for noise. A hum … It’s the florescent light in the bathroom. I’ll close the door at night. This is turning out to be a good day after all.
I hand Ryan a five-dollar bill. He refuses. Instead, he stands there, sinks his hands deep into his pockets. He gazes longingly into my eyes. Don’t tell me … Here it comes …
‘May I come back later? After my shift is over.’
Does he want to help me unpack? ‘Why?’ He moves closer. Should have slept in the elevator.
‘I thought …’
‘Ryan, I’m old enough to be your mother.’
‘So?’
Wonder what it would be like with this pretty windy city boy who hardly knows he is a man? Probably like not worth it at all. ‘I … I’m sorry, but …’ Think fast … much faster than this. ‘I’m married.’
‘You’re not wearing a ring.’
Why not just fuck him. A front desk clerk at a Marriott Hotel?! You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.
‘Look, Ryan, I’m exhausted.’
‘I love my mother.’
‘I loved mine too but … but …’ Stand perfectly still. Wait for the next move. He looks down at the floor, rocks from side to side. He’s waiting. I could let him fondle my breasts? Not tonight.
I open the door. He looks so forlorn. Men are such boys, such babies. Maybe that’s why we love them. As he exits, my clitoris quivers at the thought of what might have been.
I unpack, shower, get into bed, and masturbate. I imagine young Ryan writhing underneath me, pounding his organ into my private property. Imagination is a wonderful thing.
… The next day: another school day on the road.
‘Come on boys and girls.
Everybody sing along with the Mouseketeers
M- i- c- k- e- y- m- o- u- s- e.’
Welcome to the Walt Disney school or duck and cover in Chicago.
(Don’t forget about the five-year-olds.)
The road is an unpredictable place, especially when you are working for a bankrupt theatre company. I am almost always met with unexpected surprises: six a.m. wake-up call (always difficult for a nocturnal menopausal woman); seven a.m. shower (after a brief visit to my yoga mat and an even briefer visit to my mindful meditation); seven forty a.m. leave hotel (green tea in hand), eight a.m. arrive school …
Nobody is at school … absolutely nobody. How is that possible? How? Why, it’s the road. I walk around the Mickey Mouse school compound three times, sit on a stone-cold, almost-shovelled school stoop, stare at my bold red tightly woven Nikes. They are still with me. That is a comfort. They are soaked. That is not a comfort.
I yell to an obese, elderly woman trying to shovel her car out of a snow bank. ‘Miss, oh miss! Why no school?’ She shovels with a vengeance. Pays no attention to me. ‘Miss!’
She stops. Catches her breath. ‘Holiday, holiday, Poloski Polish day!’ She mutters, ‘Idiot.’ Continues the dig out, as if I weren’t there.
Not a Polish holiday? Another Stuart Manly travel blunder. I want to go home so badly.
My father always said that I was a quitter. Damn him! I’ll show that bastard a thing or two.
‘Oh baby, your father loves you so much. He only wants the best for you. Why can’t you try to understand? He had nothing when he was growing up. Poor like dirt. You have so much, so much. He works so hard for all of us. Tell him that you’re sorry. Please, for me.’
All right, I will return. Just for you, Pop.
‘What about me?’
You too.
‘Thank you, honey. That’s my baby girl.’
The following morning, there I am, administering in a thirty-minute duck and cover drill; K through 12. After much ado, the five-year-olds with their teeny hands on their tiny littl
e heads face the wall. They look like multicolored marshmallows with arms. They look frightened, as if the drill is a reality.
Back when I was their age, during any drill, I was convinced that my mother could protect me from anything. Even though she didn’t make my breakfast, fill my lunch box, or send me off to school. She was a p.m. kind of mom. Night-time was our time together. We both loved the moon. During my early years, I believed that she hung the moon.
My third day in Mouseketeerville. I am having a nervous breakdown teaching eighth graders. This is not my chosen grade. I remember specifically telling Stuart Manly: ‘Stuart, I don’t do eighth grade. I do tenth, eleventh and twelth.’ … As a last-ditch effort to reach the unreachable eighth graders, I decide to risk my life. I will teach the interview technique … but how? Engage … Encourage … Energize.
‘Let’s form a circle.’ Could they move any slower? ‘We don’t have a lot of time.’ After ten minutes, they have formed the perfect circle. I pull up a chair, squeeze myself between two sleepy boys; eyes closed, foreheads on desks. I turn to the cherub on my right. ‘What’s your name?’
He turns his sleepy head in my direction. ‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘Phillip.’
‘Nice to meet you, Phillip.’
Phil is stunned by my tactics. Lifts head, looks into my eyes, replies, ‘Nice meeting you too.’ Forehead returns to desk.
Begin. ‘Sometimes, when I’m stuck … working on a particular character in a script, I’ll interview the character as if he or she were a total stranger. Are you with me?’ Heads nod. ‘Good. What happens can be absolutely fantastic.’ I am fired up here. Think I’ll stand. ‘So, what we’re going to do in this class is pair up and interview each other … Ask questions … probe … listen to what your partner has to say. Write it down. Let one question stimulate the next question. Think of yourself as a cub reporter who’s trying to uncover something that you genuinely want to know about your classmate … your friend … even your enemy.’ Phil’s up! Paper in hand. Unbelieveable. He’s writing. Way to go, Phil … ‘There is always something we don’t know about a person. We think we know each other so well. But, people are full of surprises.’ Damn! Do I have to answer a question now? ‘Yes.’
Shy girl with braces, pigtails and a zillion freckles asks, ‘What if we don’t want to do the exercise?’
Never fails. ‘In my class, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But you might want to try this exercise … You can have a lot of fun working with each other. Honest.’
‘Maybe I’ll try.’ She smiles. Her braces glisten.
‘Great … Be sensitive. If your partner doesn’t want to answer the question, move on to another question. And remember, you want the truth. The truth is what matters … Let’s go … Pick your partner, write down your questions, five minutes each interview. And most important of all, have a good time.’ Look at them move. Yes! They get it!!!
During the final interview exercise, Sophia is without a partner. I volunteer.
The Interview
‘Name?’
‘Sophia’
‘Age?’
‘12’
‘What event has changed your life?’
‘9/11 … I lost two cousins. I realized that life is fragile.’ She turns away, wipes her eyes. So young. She’s so young. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be … What do you love to do?’
She looks at me as if no one has ever asked her a question before. ‘Write poetry. Read.’ She thinks for an extended moment. ‘I love to observe the world around me.’
‘Tell me about your family?’
‘My mother’s a single mom. My father lives in Verona, Italy. I don’t speak to him. My mom’s a lawyer. I have one brother. He’s older. I don’t like him much. Men are stupid. Women have all the power.’
This girl is twelve? ‘What’s your worst trait?’
‘I don’t forgive. Oh yeah, and I have a short temper.’
‘Do you like school?’
‘It’s fine. But, people are jealous of me because I’m a good student. I’m different from most of the kids.’
‘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.’
Crack Up
’84
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 Beelzebu
b 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.