The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  I never was allowed to own a record or tape player, though I did sneak off to a girlfriend’s house once to listen to Madonna. (How shocking!) We did have a radio, but it could only be tuned to a religious station.

  I wasn’t allowed to get a learner’s permit when I turned 16. Out of the question, I was told. Of course, my older brother Michael had been permitted to drive at 16. Daddy proudly drove younger brother Brian down to get his permit the morning of his birthday. Then a high school senior, I cried my eyes out.

  Actually, by that point I was going a little crazy. You simply can’t do to a kid what my parents were trying to do to me. I remember one scene when my parents took me out for my 18th birthday, though we had to keep the tab very small. After all, people were starving all over the world. What would God think of us overspending on food while His children starved? So on the one hand I was allowed a treat, but then made to feel guilty. Some birthday celebration, huh?

  So we went out to some cheap diner, just me and my parents. I tried to order a lemonade. Dad instead told the waitress to bring me water with a lemon in it. Then Dad ordered one cup of coffee. When it was served, Mom and Dad passed it back and forth, alternating sips. Then Dad announced to our server that the bill couldn’t go above $20, and she wouldn’t be getting a tip, because such things were sinful.

  I threw a fit, right there in the restaurant, flinging my lemon-flavored water across the table. What the fuck is wrong with you! I screamed in Dad’s face. My parents hustled me out of there, locking me in my room back home.

  I didn’t go to school for three days, ranting and raving like a lunatic. On the fourth day, the school began calling with some hard questions for my parents. Where was Sophia? There were rumors floating around that she’d become upset in a diner, that her parents seemed a little rough. This brought up some sticky legal issues. Unfortunately, if Ms. Danton wasn’t in class again tomorrow, they’d have no choice but to inform the police.

  Thankfully, the assistant principal wasn’t put off by Mom’s wailing or Dad’s blustery talk of God and sin. Either I showed up tomorrow, or The Man would come knocking on our door.

  Here, at last, was the inevitable showdown between my parents and the world-at-large. They wanted their eldest daughter to remain totally within their control, my obvious maturity and burgeoning sexuality safely caged. They were even willing to impose actual physical imprisonment in achieving their goal. Yet legal sanctions now loomed unless they relented. Something had to give.

  That evening, as I sat balled in a corner of my room, pristine walls free of sinful posters, bookshelves filled with nothing but religious tomes, my parents came to speak with me. We had all, they said, failed the Lord. Atonement was necessary. I would return to school tomorrow, but then we would all meet with the parish priest after church on Sunday. Nodding my assent, my mother and father then left me alone once more in the dark.

  But that weekend, after church, an amazing thing happened. A younger priest was filling in for the old relic usually in our pulpit. Responding to my father’s urgent request for an audience, this kindly man then listened for an hour as my parents bewailed their daughter’s “behavior.” It was humiliating, of course, and utterly unfair. I had tried my best to be the daughter they wanted, idealistically pure and free of sin. And actually, the “behavior” they spoke of was nothing more than a teenage girl trying to be normal. The priest immediately saw this, yet let Mom and Dad get it all out of their system.

  Then the priest asked what my plans were for future education. Why, the local community college, of course, where I would still be within their dominion. Nodding sagely, this wonderful priest then firmly suggested I be allowed to go away to school.

  At this, my heart nearly leapt from my chest. To go away, to live a normal life? It hardly seemed possible. Priest or no, I could have kissed him. Thoughtfully, we all went back home.

  To this day I’m still amazed they took the priest’s advice. My father, who owned the biggest cab company in Westchester County, could have afforded any college in the world, yet they insisted I go to a less expensive New York State school. Looking at a map I immediately choose SUNY Buffalo, it being the farthest distance from Scarsdale.

  In light of what soon happened, my parents have claimed allowing me to go to Buffalo was the biggest mistake they ever made. Considering my father’s subsequent behavior, that’s quite a statement.

  But it was the kindest, bravest thing they could have done for me, and I’ll always be grateful. And despite my parents’ fears, anger, and bitter disappointment, I’ve remained their pure little girl. Perhaps not in the way they intended, but I have nonetheless.

  You know what? I’m glad Steve asked me to do his Life Project. Of all the people I’ve ever met, he really helped me sort through all this. Somehow he understood, at least in his own way.

  Like I’ve said, I don’t deal in regrets and what-could-have-been. But Steve, just know you were more important to me than I maybe let on at the time. I was just…well, that was my crazy time. Sorry.

  By the way, Prayer, by Disturbed, is another perfect song for physical intimacy. It’s Been A While by Staind is also good for certain moods and situations.

  Well, since we wouldn’t want Steve getting a bigger head than he already has, I’ll hold onto this entry, and send it to him last. After all, a lot of time has passed, and he might get the wrong impression. I’ll just number them (this would be my fifth piece) so he can eventually put them together in the right order.

  DAVE MILLER

  The reality of being pregnant hit Jen the next day like a bomb. She called me at seven o’clock in the morning, screaming and crying. We spent hours talking over options, but Jen had trouble focusing on specifics. She was afraid to call her parents with the news, insisting her mother would be supportive, but her father would hit the roof. Complicating matters even further was an order from the school, following her academic expulsion, for Jen to vacate the dorms within three days.

  Steve and I talked over the whole thing that night in our shared apartment. “So you’re giving her the Dave-Bone good and regular, and she messes up the birth control?”

  “You got it.”

  “Which makes this a 100% whoops baby, right?” he asked.

  “Of course it is! I mean, we didn’t fucking plan this!”

  “And she still wants to have it?”

  “I don’t know!” Running a hand through my hair, I stared out the window. “Right now, she’s just worried about how to tell her parents. I don’t know if it’s all even sunk in.”

  “How old is she? Eighteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Look, Dave, having a baby with a mental patient is very bad.” Leaning forward, Steve dislodged Marauder from his lap. The huge black feline rolled onto the couch, glaring in disgust. “But don’t do anything really stupid.”

  “Like what?” I leaned back in the tenth-hand, dirty green easy chair. “Trusting Jen to take the pill?”

  “Well, no, you shouldn’t have done that,” Steve agreed, poking around in last night’s pizza box for the final slice.

  Hopping to the floor, Marauder made a point of kicking the now empty pizza box across the room, glowered at myself and Steve in turn, and then stalked off. Named for a powered spacesuit in a Heinlein novel, Marauder was a polydactyl cat, meaning he had huge mitts for front paws, each containing a thumb-like extra toe. Black polydactyls were bigger, more emotional, and had greater intelligence than other cats. It was kind of like living with a small panther.

  “Anyway,” Steve continued, idly flipping open the latest lingerie catalogue still being delivered for our apartment’s previous female tenants, “just don’t be a tool and marry her.”

  “Isn’t that the right thing to do?” I asked. That was a phrase I’d been hearing a lot of lately, most notably from Jen herself.

  “No, it isn’t,” Steve said. “That would most-definitely qualify as the wrong thing to do.”

  The next day Jen cal
led her mother and broke the news. In a panic, Mrs. Canton drove up to Buffalo from Rockland County. Not knowing Jen’s mom was there, I walked into her dorm room, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Mother and daughter were sitting on the bed. Half-packed boxes littered the floor.

  “Hi, Dave,” Jen sniffed, dabbing at her face. She’d been crying almost continually for two days. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Dave Miller, my boyfriend.”

  “Oh. Hi.” Smiling idiotically, I kind of waved at them with the flowers. “Nice to meet you.”

  A moment of sickening silence ensued, Mrs. Canton’s gaze boring deep into my soul. “So,” she finally seethed. “This is the young man in question?”

  “That’s Dave, Mom. He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Well.” Standing, Mrs. Canton smoothed her skirt. “Isn’t that nice?” She then stalked past me out the door.

  And that was the easy part. Two weeks later Jen and I drove down to formally meet both her parents in their Pearl River home. I can still remember, like it was yesterday, cruising down the New York State Thruway, Jen moodily staring out the window. Her stuff had already been shipped down. Since having to leave the dorm, she’d been staying in my apartment with Steve and Marauder.

  Though I wasn’t so keen on the idea myself, we’d talked about an abortion. But Jen’s mom had a friend whose cousin had an abortion and, well, she’d regretted it for the rest of her life. Jen definitely didn’t want to regret anything for the rest of her life, so an abortion was out.

  A few years later Jen’s mom admitted she’d made this story up, but since the “feel” of the situation was real, and since she “could well have known someone who had such an experience,” it wasn’t really lying.

  So we once again went over our narrowing list of options, again discussing adoption. “Well, it’s a possibility,” I lamely offered.

  “No,” Jen sighed. “My mother knows a woman who gave her child up for adoption, and she’s always regretted it. I don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Mom did say she knows a woman who’d gotten herself in my situation years ago.” Scrunching up in the passenger seat, Jen propped her feet up on the dash. “She and her boyfriend did the right thing. They got married and had the baby. Now they have three kids and live in a nice house. They’re very happy.”

  I’ll say one thing for Mrs. Canton. She sure as hell knew how to manipulate her daughter.

  “Of course,” Jen continued, “the guy was a musician or something, but when his girlfriend, my mom’s friend, got pregnant, he gave that all up and got a corporate job. That way he could make a lot of money to support his new family.”

  “Is that so?” For a moment I just stared at the woods and fields, punctuated by the occasional silo and herd of cows, flashing by on either side of the road.

  “Yeah. Mom says they’re really happy they did the right thing.”

  “Well, so am I.” We didn’t say much else for the rest of the trip.

  Upon leaving the highway and asking Jen for directions home, she simply shrugged. “How the hell should I know how to get there?”

  “Well, it’s your house. You grew up there. I assume you must have found it once or twice.”

  Jen pondered for a moment. “I think you drive down some roads. And then you make some turns. And then it’s like around the bend from another house. You know what I mean?”

  “You just gave me directions to every house in America, you know that?”

  “Look,” she snapped. “I can get there from the mall, all right? Just find me the mall and I can get us home!”

  And we did pass the mall, but Jen still couldn’t find her own home. (“I’m not a human road map, all right!”) We finally made it to the Cantons, but had to stop at a pay phone and call her father for directions.

  When we finally did arrive Mrs. Canton yanked open the front door, rushing out to hug her daughter. “Oh, Jen! My baby! Are you all right?” Anxiously she pulled back, scanning Jen’s face.

  “Oh, Mom! It’s all been so…so horrible…” Trailing off, Jen now began crying, her mother grasping her even more tightly. For about a half-minute the two of them stood there bawling.

  “All right, what’s going on here?” Bustling through the front door, Mr. Canton gave his daughter a peck on the cheek.

  “Oh, Daddy!” Jen wailed, now hugging him. “It’s so horrible!”

  “I know, dear.” Mr. Canton glared at me over his daughter’s shoulder. “So this must be the young man in question, then?”

  The three of them then turned and stared at me, each parent with a protective arm around their progeny.

  “Hi. Yes, well, I’m Dave Miller,” I said, sticking out my hand. With great reluctance, Mr. Canton took it.

  “You know, Daddy, like the beer,” Jen sniffed. Her parents said nothing, just staring at me in utter disgust.

  Once inside, Jen wanted to speak to her father privately, but he shushed her. “No, no, my dear. They’ll be time enough for talking later. Let’s eat first.”

  So we wound up at the dinner table, set as if for a fancy occasion. To say it was all very awkward would be the understatement of the century. After a few delusory comments about the weather, Mrs. Canton then turned to Jen. “So dear, tell us what you’ve been doing the last few weeks.”

  Thus prompted, Jen went into a rant about her “horrible” time in my apartment. “They have this huge cat that liked to steal my panties! I couldn’t believe it!”

  Becoming very still, Mr. Canton bestowed me with a withering stare. “Is that so?” Clearly, an explanation was in order.

  “The cat’s name is Marauder,” I began.

  “Marauder!” Mrs. Canton put a hand to her chest. “How horrible!”

  “No. I mean, it’s all right. He’s actually a good cat.” Coughing, I reached for another roll. “Anyway, Marauder likes to poke around in people’s things, you know, to get familiar with them. So when Jen chased him out of her drawer, he responded by grabbing her panties and running off.”

  “You’re saying this animal is a thief?” Mrs. Canton demanded.

  “No. I wouldn’t say he’s a thief,” I laughed. “I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. I got the panties back, safe and sound.”

  Actually, it had taken both Steve and me ten minutes to chase Marauder down and wrestle the panties away. Torn and chewed, Jen had been forced to throw them out. Since then Marauder had snuck into Jen’s panty drawer whenever he could, leaving long black cat hairs on her underclothes.

  “So, you got my daughter’s panties, did you Dave?” With barely concealed disgust, Jen’s father took a bite of chicken. “In light of our current circumstances, I’m glad you find this all so amusing.”

  Oh, boy. “No, no, Mr. Canton, you don’t understand.” I paused to take a drink of water. “We’re talking about a cat. A cat that was just playing around, that’s all.”

  “Still, it sounds like a dangerous animal!” Mrs. Canton declared, trying to soothe Jen’s father with a pat on the shoulder.

  “It is,” Jen mumbled. “I hate that cat. And Dave’s apartment-mate is a pervert, too.”

  “What?” Aghast, Mrs. Canton first looked to her husband for support, then back to me. “Is this true, David?”

  “No,” I replied, sighing. “Not really, anyway.”

  Two days after moving in, Jen had found Steve idly flipping through a lingerie catalogue. Upon asking if he was shopping for a gift for some woman, Steve rolled his eyes.

  “Hell no,” he said, continuing to inspect each glossy picture. “I’m looking for nipple shots.”

  “Nipple shots! What are you talking about!”

  “Look at this one.” Holding up the publication, Steve pointed to a beautiful blonde lounging on a screened-in porch in a tropical setting. A gaudy parrot sat on a wicker table, staring into the model’s dreamy eyes. “You can see the outline of her nipple right here.” Helpfully, Steve pointed out said nipple beneath her tight shirt. “I mean, isn’t that cool?�
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  Stunned, Jen stared first at the picture, then Steve. “Are you telling me you sit around this apartment all day with that creepy cat staring at women’s nipples?”

  “Sometimes.” Steve paused, first glancing up at Jen and then back at the magazine. “Then I try to imagine what color their nipples are.”

  “What! You’re sick!”

  “For example, this one has light pink lips.” Turning the page, Steve indicated another blonde petting a pony. For some reason, she was wandering around a corral in nothing but panties and a bra. “That’s a giveaway. I would think her nipples are a similar shade. I mean, you wouldn’t expect her to have dark nipples and light lips, now would you?”

  “I don’t care what color her nipples are!” Standing back, Jen folded her arms. “And you’ll never know if you’re right. She wouldn’t give you the time of day! I guarantee you, Steve, that you will never, ever, see that girl’s nipples for real!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he breezily replied, turning to yet another picture. In some monstrous fuck-up, a picture had actually been published showing the same model leaning forward in a man’s dress shirt. Her naked nipple could be clearly seen between buttons. “Look! Bare fucking nipple. And I was right! The exact same shade of pink!”

  Of course, Jen didn’t appreciate Steve’s sense of humor. Not many people did on first exposure. It was an acquired taste.

  So I assured Mrs. Canton that Steve Levine was not a pervert, glad Jen didn’t contradict me with any sordid details. For the remainder of dinner the conversation steered to safer ground. Afterwards, Mr. Canton asked to see me alone.

  Entering his study, Jen’s father firmly closed the door behind me. “Please, Dave. Sit.” Grandly indicating the wooden seat before his desk, Mr. Canton eased down into the plush chair on the other side. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

  Like some sacrificial lamb I perched on the offered chair. “First of all, Mr. Canton, let me just say…”

  “No, no, no, Dave. Let me talk.” Though still smiling congenially, Mr. Canton’s eyebrows noticeably lowered. “After all, you’ve done plenty of talking tonight already, haven’t you? Wonderful stories about cats, and my daughter’s underclothes, and all sorts of tom foolery.”