by Amy Sohn
ARIEL STEINER YANKS CHAIN, p. 28
I put my hands to my head and tore out a few clumps of hair. Once my parents saw that banner they’d be certain to read the column—and it would be too disgusting for them to handle. At least my other ones had involved intercourse. Sex was conventional, but phone sex and an outdoor hand job were far more tawdry.
When I got to the building, my mom and dad were packing the rental car (they don’t own one because my dad can’t drive) and Zach was sitting in the backseat. As I put my suitcase in the trunk, I eyed them suspiciously. But they were total poker from brow to chin. I didn’t know if it meant they’d read it and didn’t care, or were so upset they couldn’t speak.
They didn’t give any more clues over the hour-and-a-half drive to Philly. The whole ride there, neither they nor Zach mentioned a word about it. I had requested their silence, but now that I was getting it, it bugged me. I wanted to know what they really thought. Were they telling themselves it was all fiction? Did they think I was losing my mind, or exaggerating? Several times over the course of the ride, I heard the words “How ‘bout that jerk-off?” forming on my tongue, but somehow, I couldn’t spit them out.
When we pulled up to my grandparents’ house, my mom and dad got out of the car to unload our bags. Zach started to get out too, but I tugged on his arm and whispered, “Do you know if they read it this week?”
“Dad and I did, but mom didn’t. He doesn’t bring home the ones he thinks will upset her.”
“She doesn’t go into Manhattan to look them up herself?”
“No. She says if he doesn’t show them to her, there must be a good reason.”
“What did you think of it?”
“That phone sex stuff was hot. I was reading it on the train home from school and I got a boner, and then I was like, Whoa. My sister wrote this, and I have a boner, and it wigged me out.”
We followed my parents into the house and as soon as I made it inside the door, my uncle Paul shouted, “Hey, Ariel, how’s your sex life?”
I raced past him into the bathroom to escape, but on the way there I ran into a group of my mom’s cousins, and they hit me with an onslaught of jibes so idiotic it was scarcely to be believed: “Why don’t you ever send us any of your columns?” “I hear you’re shocking the city!” “Little Ariel’s not so little anymore,” and on and on. I grinned like I had a sense of humor, but I wanted to tell them all to leave me the fuck alone, at least I liked my job, at least I wasn’t a teacher like all of them.
My mom was raised a secular humanistic Jew, so most of her relatives are hippyish and easygoing. The men all wear Clark Wallabees and have beards, and the women wear loose dresses from crafts fairs and lots of pewter jewelry. Everyone is quick with the one-liners, and in general I think they’re pretty funny. But not this time. I almost wished I was a topless dancer or something. Then no one would have said a word—because it would have been too upsetting to talk about. But since my career was on the cusp of respectability, they felt they had a right to make fun of me as much as they wanted.
On Thanksgiving afternoon we played the family football game, the Toilet Bowl, in a field across from my grandparents’ house. The family has been playing it since 1945. We’re the Jewish Kennedys. Until the late sixties, it was the Fathers versus the Sons, but then, in the seventies, the daughters wanted to play, so now it’s the Parents versus the Kids. I hate the Toilet Bowl for two reasons: (1) I suck at football and (2) I can’t stand doing anything I suck at. But I play every year anyway because I don’t want to lend credence to the stereotype of girls hating sports.
Unfortunately, my decision to play turned out to be a lousy idea. My team wound up losing—and it was mostly due to me. I accidentally ran the wrong way with the ball and on the next down, the Parents scored what became the winning touchdown. On the way back to the house after the game, my cousin Eddie said, “Maybe you should stick to the writing.”
After Thanksgiving dinner (turkey, matzoh kugel, yams), we gathered in the living room for the entertainment segment. My little cousin Reva did gymnastics, Zach played “Layla” on the guitar, and my thirteen-year-old cousin Sam played violin. When he was done, everyone applauded enthusiastically. After the applause faded there was one of those awkward-crowd moments where no one can think of anything to say. The room suddenly got silent and then my grandmother said, “Why don’t all the kids go around the room and tell us what they’re up to? It’s so hard to keep track nowadays.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said.
But all the old folks shouted, “Come on! Come on!” and before I knew it, my cousin Nessa was explaining how much she was enjoying her job at the Department of Energy and her sister, Rachel, was going on about her job teaching inner-city kids in Chicago. I stared down at the carpet, awaiting my turn in dread. After Rachel came Eddie, who was a sportscaster in Bergen County, and then it was my turn. The room got hushed and everyone smirked excitedly, like they couldn’t wait to see what kind of spin I was going to come up with.
“Um . . . I’m a temp,” I said. “And I write this newspaper column.”
“We hear it’s very racy!” shouted my aunt Vivian, and everyone immediately erupted in raucous laughter. The gales went on uninterrupted for a full minute. It was like a collective orgasm—they’d been waiting all day for a chance to ridicule me in unison, and now they’d finally gotten it. The only ones who weren’t laughing were my parents. They just held hands tightly and looked around the room with twin winces.
In twenty years my relatives had gone from applauding my naked dance to guffawing at my unconventional career choice. They were mocking the same exhibitionistic spirit they had once adored. I wished I was two again.
•
All Friday morning I kept checking my machine, in the hopes that I’d get a message that would bring me back to the city. Around noon, I did. It was from an AM talk-radio producer named Jack Dunleavy. “I got your number from Bill Turner,” he said. “I produce The Norman Klein Show on WTLK and we’re wondering if you’re free to come on tonight from eleven to midnight, to talk about your column. The other guest will be the performance artist Fran McLaine.”
I’d never heard of Klein, but McLaine was notorious. She was the one who smeared Carnation instant breakfast all over her asshole at one of her shows, then got on the blacklist of the conservative Southern senator Tyrone Welts. I was honored to be asked to appear with such a controversial figure, and plus, there was no way my parents could hear the show in Philly. So I called Dunleavy back, told him I’d do it, and took the Amtrak train home.
•
The show had already started when I got to the radio station. Fran and Norman, this gray-haired guy in his fifties, were sitting in the studio with headphones on. Next to the studio was an engineering room, where a heavy, bald guy in his sixties was sitting in front of a control board and a skinny guy in his thirties was answering a phone.
Through the sound monitor, I could hear a caller giving Fran flak about the instant breakfast incident. “You’re filthy and depraved,” he was saying.
“Thanks,” she said.
I looked at her through the window and tried to picture her naked in front of lots of people. It wasn’t easy. She looked more like a soccer mom than a performance artist.
They broke for a commercial and Norman beckoned me in. He shook my hand and said he was a very big fan. “What do you do?” asked Fran.
“I’m a columnist for the City Week.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said.
“It’s distributed in green boxes on every corner in downtown Manhattan,” I said.
“I don’t live in the city. My husband and I moved to Scarsdale once we had our second child.”
Norman passed me a set of headphones and I put them on. When we came back on live, he said, “Ariel Steiner has just joined us in the studio. Ariel is the author of the City Week column ‘Run Catch Kiss.’ She seeks out the most disgusting and unsuit
able mates she can find and then writes about them. You could say Ariel and Fran have something in common: Fran’s a performance artist, and Ariel’s entire life is performance art.”
I wasn’t totally sure I agreed, but this was talk radio and you can’t go objecting to the premise of your visit. There was a screen by the ceiling with a display of all the callers’ names who were waiting to go on the air. As soon as Norman introduced me, the monitor began blinking like crazy. I’d had no idea I was so well known. But all the callers wanted to talk to Fran. For half an hour I sat there silently as she fielded obnoxious calls from conservative idiots. Thanksgiving with my family was starting to look pretty appealing.
Finally Fran left because she had to get home to her kids. “Fran has gone home,” Norman said into the mike. The monitor went blank. “But Ariel Steiner, author of the City Week column ‘Run Catch Kiss,’ is still here.” I glanced up at the monitor. Still blank. I looked at Norman. His forehead was shining.
I had always assumed I had thousands of readers, but judging by caller response, maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the only people who read me were the ones who wrote in to the paper. My delusions of grandeur were finally getting the better of me. Not a single person would call, Norman would have to make up his own questions to compensate for the empty phone lines, and everyone out there in radio land would know I was a last-minute guest, a nobody, a pale imitator of the famous Fran McLaine.
“In your column, Ariel,” said Norman, “you’ve written about going out with junkies, cross-dressers, and socialists, and this week you wrote about jerking a guy off at a party. What I’d like to know is, is everything you write really true?”
There was no way I was going to tell him I’d made up the part about coming from sex. Or that Evan had dumped me, not the other way around. I had to be the raunch queen people expected me to be.
“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Every single thing. Especially”—I thought for a second—“especially the parts that make you hard.”
“Wow,” said Norman, blushing. “I feel like we’re on Howard here.”
“Look at you, Norman,” I said. “Your face is so red, it’s adorable. You’re pretty sexy.” I didn’t think so at all, but I had to get people calling in. “Would you go on a date with me sometime?”
“I’m not sure. It’s kind of a scary thought, actually. What if you wrote about me?”
“You shouldn’t be afraid of that prospect. You should delight in it. Wouldn’t it be an ego trip to have our date put up for public consumption? Isn’t there a part of you that would enjoy being fodder for my fictive world?” I didn’t know what the hell I was saying, but it sounded good, so I kept talking. “It’s a voyeuristic culture we live in. We live through tale telling and I’m asking you to be in my tale.”
“You make it sound sort of appealing. It’s an interesting predicament. I’d be upset if you wrote about me in a way I didn’t find flattering, but at the same time I’d be upset if you didn’t write about me at all.”
“Aha! So you do want to go out with me! Oh, Norman, I can’t wait! You know, I’ve always had a fetish for older men.” He reddened again. “I’d like to bring out the dirty side of you. I bet there’s a naughty boy aching to get out of your old-fogy exterior.”
“Old fogy? Am I supposed to be flattered by that?”
“I’m just being honest. I can’t wait to be alone with a hot-blooded man like you.”
“Boy, we oughta open a window in here. Should I go out with Ariel? Call in and voice your opinion. The lines are open. We’ll be right back after these station messages.” I looked up at the monitor. It was starting to fill up.
“You’ve got quite a mouth,” he said, taking off his headphones.
“I just want to make good radio. I hope you don’t mind my kidding around.”
“Not at all. This stuff is terrific. Usually we just talk about politics.” He put his headphones back on. We listened to the commercials and stared at the walls.
“OK—we’re back on WTLK with Ariel Steiner, author of the City Week column ‘Run Catch Kiss.’ Let’s go to Teddy in Rego Park. Teddy, you’re on the air.”
A high-pitched man’s voice came on. “Yeah, I’ve been listening to this show for a while now and I just want to say that I think Ariel is a well-spoken, intelligent young woman.”
“Thank you, Teddy,” I said.
“And she’s so nasty. I love it.” Now I was the one blushing. But it was a good blush. They were eating me up.
“Thanks for calling, Teddy,” said Norman. “Bert in Queens, you’re on the air.”
“Yeah, hi,” said Bert. “It seems like what these girls—Fran and Ariel—are talking about, the topic of the evening, what it all comes down to, is empowerment of women.” It was quiet.
“And?” Norman asked. “Is that all you wanted to say?”
“Well, yeah. Some men are afraid to see women get empowered. They’re scared of chicks like Fran and Ariel.”
“You’re not, though, are you, Bert?” I asked.
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you’re not. I like you, Bert. I like you very much. You’re not afraid of empowered women. That is so appealing. You know what they say. A man of quality is not threatened by a woman for equality.”
He chuckled. “How’d you like to come over my house after the show, Ariel?”
I looked at Norman nervously. “I . . .”
“I wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t even touch you. I would just sit on the couch with a bowl of Cheetos in my lap, and you could take off your clothes, put a lamp shade on your head, and stand there, completely still. I’d eat the Cheetos and look at your body. Where’s the studio? I’ll pick you up.”
Norman cut in. “I’m sorry, Bert,” he said, giving me a worried glance, “I can’t tell you that. John in Washington Heights, you’re on WTLK.”
“Ariel, have you ever gotten it on with a woman?”
Now this was an interesting question. The truth was, no. The furthest I’d gone with chicks was kissing, and you could hardly count that. It was three times, with three different women at Brown, and each time I’d been drunk and stoned and they had too. But there was no way I could admit to my limited experience. After all, I had a bad reputation to protect.
“Of course I have, John,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” But I didn’t know what to say next. There was a full second of dead air. If I didn’t come up with something soon, he’d know I was lying. I had to think of a steamy chick story. And since I didn’t have any of my own, I figured the next best thing was to borrow someone else’s. “Oh yeah,” I said. “Some of my earliest sexual experiences were with other girls. When I was eight my friends and I used to make out together at slumber parties.”
“For real?” asked Norman.
“Very for real. We’d make our Barbies play out little sex scenarios with each other. Then we’d take off our shirts and touch tongues. And sometimes we’d lay in our sleeping bags and hump our stuffed animals until we came.”
“Wow,” said John. “That’s . . . something else.”
“But that was just the tip of my lesbian iceberg! When I was fourteen I hooked up with my best friend. Dana. She was sleeping over my house one night and we were talking about how we liked boys to kiss us, when she leaned right in and Frenched me. At first I was weirded out, but then we started fooling around and I was amazed at how much more she knew about my body than the boys did. From then on, every time she slept over we’d hook up. The greatest thing about it was that my parents never suspected a thing.” I didn’t know if this stuff sounded even vaguely believable, but it was late-night AM radio and I didn’t expect the callers to be astute enough to know I was lying.
“Would you be interested in getting it on with me and my girlfriend sometime?” asked John.
“Sure. Leave your name with the engineer and maybe I’ll give you two a call.”
“Frank in Ozone Park
, you’re on WTLK.”
“Ariel, would you say you’re looking for a long-term relationship?”
What could I say? “Of course I want one, but since my boyfriend dumped me three years ago, I haven’t been able to get a guy to stick around longer than his third ejaculation”? I’d come off like a total loser. I wanted to sound in control, like a happy-go-lucky single chick who preferred promiscuity to monogamy, who was alone by choice, not by default.
“Looking for a relationship?” I said. “No way in hell! I’m categorically opposed to monogamy. It reins in people’s freedom.”
“You really think so?” said Frank.
“Oh yeah! There’s nothing worse than seeing two people who are together only out of fear! I’d rather be on my own than be with the wrong guy. And the best part about being single is, I can do whatever I want with whoever I want, whenever I want.” Hoo-ah! My improv skills were coming in handy.
“Would you call yourself a slut?” asked Frank.
“Absolutely!” I shouted.
“And you’re not ashamed to say that?” asked Norman.
“Why should I be ashamed? I’m proud of my sluttishness. Why let only one guy have my body when I can share it with the whole wide world?”
“Can I leave my number with the engineer too?”
I’d done it. He’d fallen for my act. Like Bukowski had said, “Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools.” No one listening to talk radio at eleven-thirty at night wanted to hear about someone else’s loneliness. I had given them what they were looking for. I had made them think there was a woman out there who wouldn’t ask anything of them, who wasn’t looking for commitment. I’d invented a dream girl.
“Edna in the Bronx,” said Norman, “you’re on the air.”
She was a middle-aged woman with a whiny voice. “Norman, I like your show very much. But I don’t like your guest one bit. She’s a cheap girl, Norman, a very cheap girl. What do you look like, Ariel?”
“Why?” I asked. I had a feeling I knew what was coming.
“I’ll tell you why. Some women, like Brad Pitt’s ex, for example—”
