by Phil Stern
The brief exchange also conveyed an utter confidence in her ultimate legal outcome. There was nothing these mere mortals could do to her. Our kind was too powerful. She’d gotten careless and been caught, but never again. After this case was resolved, the enchantress would never reveal herself in public again.
And she didn’t. While her older boyfriend wound up doing a dime in the state slam, the young Catholic princess cut a deal involving a misdemeanor plea and a year of community service. She’s married now with a family of her own, serving on several boards and committees throughout the Hartford area.
The other event happened about a month ago. I was doing a routine piece on health care and nursing homes. My crew and I stopped at a Philadelphia-area facility to interview the Director and a few patients, just some vague tape to round out the story.
In one of the sitting rooms a senior couple was holding hands, joined by another older woman. The couple appeared ancient, babbling away about their youth together and time living on some farm. The other woman, who appeared some 7-8 years younger, sat nearby, smiling and nodding. Clearly she was in better mental shape than the other two, who seemed to have escaped almost completely to some alternate world.
Assuming the other woman to be a relative or close friend, I asked if we could do an interview about the care her “relatives” were receiving at the facility. Perhaps we could even do a short biographical piece on the happy couple, obviously enjoying what little time they had left together at the nursing home? Appearing disturbed for a moment, the woman then motioned me out into the hallway.
“Listen, dear. There’s something you don’t understand.” Her name was Edith, a sweet grandmother-type with rosy cheeks and a warm smile. “Those two only met a week ago. They’re not married. At least, not to one another.”
“I…I don’t understand.” I began sensing a tremendous screw-up in the making. “But from what they’re saying…”
“That man, George Smith, is my husband,” Edith said. “We’ve been married for over fifty years.”
“Your husband?” I still didn’t get it. “But why is your husband sitting with that other woman talking of their life together?”
“My dear, George is suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease. It’s destroyed his memory.” Pausing, Edith gathered herself. “He’s just spouting nonsense concocted by his confused brain.”
I looked around the corner again at George, holding hands and smiling at a strange woman he’d convinced himself was his wife, then back at Edith. “Oh my God.”
“Yes. Well, there it is.” Edith now sighed. “But he’s happy now, and that’s the main thing.”
“But how can you just sit there and watch your husband…” Catching myself, I took a deep breath. “I mean, isn’t it strange…”
Edith laid a hand on my arm. “Dear, for six months I watched my George decline before my eyes, becoming forgetful and afraid, knowing what was happening to him, yet powerless to change anything.”
“Yes, but…”
“This is actually better.” Firmly cutting me off, Edith gave a tight smile. “He’ll be happy at the end, and that’s what counts. And really…” and here she almost broke down, patting my hand for support. “Really, dear, the man I knew, my husband of fifty years, is gone already. This is just…well, the final stage, I guess.”
That older generation, the ones who got married early on and stuck it out through thick and thin…there’s something about them I greatly admire. Sure, today we have more choices, more opportunities, especially for women, I guess, and that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t want to go back in time, and the future may hold possibilities we can only dream of today.
But still, there’s a certain beauty in George and Edith, and the millions of others like them. Because throughout it all, rich and poor, happy and sad, loyal and wandering, they had each other. And they were there at the end.
And you know what? In the grand scheme of the universe, that has to count for something.
STEVE LEVINE
Years ago I heard a story about a program in some southwest town for “treating” men who frequent prostitutes. I just can’t get it out my mind.
In short, the johns would have to attend a class where they were “educated” on how to masturbate and otherwise excite themselves. The theory being, of course, that if these guys could get themselves off they wouldn’t have to go to some street whore.
First things first. I think a legitimate case could probably be made for legalizing prostitution (tax revenue, legal protection for the girls, health standards and tests, etc.). And as of now, sex is virtually unique in that it’s perfectly legal to do it for free, but somehow becomes a crime when money is involved. When you think about it, that doesn’t really add up.
But here’s what I really want to know. Who are these fucking tools who don’t know how to jerk off? For Christ’s sake, can’t some people figure out anything on their own?
Let’s take this one step further. Reflecting back on my own life, there have been times when just about everything has fallen apart, with the exception of my own autoerotic abilities. To be honest, there may have even been occasions when the thought of running home at the end of the day and just rubbing one out was the only thing that kept me going.
Now try to imagine a guy who’s apparently so bad at masturbating he’d actually risk public humiliation, not to mention jail time, for the dubious privilege of having utterly impersonal sex with some street level, crack-addicted, disease-ridden, oddly-transsexual, vaguely mammalian hooker. I mean, if you offered me two hundred bucks to fuck these freak shows I’d run the other way screaming, desperately shielding my beloved nut sack.
I mean, just think about that! Imagine how bad, how mind-numbingly ineffective, a guy must be at jerking off to even consider such a thing? That just blows my mind.
Now the high-class girls, the Grade A types, the one’s who get a thousand bucks an hour? I might consider it, given the right situation. Though unlike a certain esteemed former governor and some Hollywood types in recent years, I’d be smart enough to pay cash and maybe not get caught.
But the street level hookers? Are there guys out there who are so desperate they find those kind of women attractive? That’s some hard core shit. I mean, wow.
Which brings us to Masturbation 101, this class they teach in the southwestern town. Just stay with me here. I really need to figure this out.
First off, who do they bring in to teach MAS101? Does one have to possess a jerk off degree, maybe a JO, to go along with BA’s, MA’s, and PhD’s? (Imagine that conversation in the faculty lounge.) Does one have to actually demonstrate their masturbatory skills before a committee in order to get the position? Possibly there are generally-accepted criteria for such things, like being able to achieve X number of auto-orgasms within Y hours? I just don’t know.
Perhaps there are a series of jerk off challenges, like being able to shoot your load onto a huge picture of an attacking octopus? Maybe they’re required to sneak into a nursing home and quietly choke their chickens while granny snores and mumbles about the Great Depression? You gotta admit, that wouldn’t be easy.
Are there qualitative standards for such things? Maybe the certifying committee places electrodes on the guy’s head (both of them) during the event itself, with some mathematical formula applied to the raw brain waves and orgasmic surges thus registered? Possibly there’s some kind of index for pass/fail. Maybe anything between 80-100 means you’re qualified as a JO, while 79 and under simply means you’re a stupid, horny bastard like the rest of us?
I don’t know. But it must be some kind of scene, let me tell you.
I bet there’s even some edu-lingo involved. For example, one would never “jerk off” (that being what novices do) or even “masturbate.” A professional, I’m sure, would have an “Auto-Erotic Experience,” or “AEE.”
Are there certain jokes within the profession? Perhaps promising masturbation teachers are known as “up and cumers?” P
ossibly when an esteemed JO is waiting to hear back from the hiring committee, it’s known as being “jerked around?” There must be some really clever stuff going around that industry.
By the way, speaking of college, I was thinking this morning about dropping Megan off for her freshman year at Syracuse. It was the summer I was 14, on the verge of entering high school myself.
Since Mom was upset at the idea of her 18-year-old “baby” daughter leaving home for the wilds of Central New York, Dad decided we would all see Megan off to school. So he planned an end-of-summer vacation up to the Thousand Islands, with Megan to be deposited at her new dorm on the way back down to Long Island.
Mom, however, decided to turn this otherwise happy occasion into something akin to a funeral dirge. During meals at our Canadian resort she’d cry and grasp Megan’s hand, blubbering about her “baby” leaving us. (There were even times when other vacationers would begin crying as well, assuming Megan had some incurable disease.) She often refused to let Megan go out boating or swimming, insisting she remain back in the room for “quality” time with Mom. This, of course, led to fighting and bickering. Mom even began declaring that since Megan clearly wasn’t “mature” enough to go away to college, they should all just go home. Boy, that was some fun, let me tell you.
In retrospect, Mom simply couldn’t conceive of life after the family unit began breaking up. Like so many women of her generation, she’d been raised to believe being a mother was everything life had to offer, and her value to the world suffered accordingly once that role ended.
But here’s what I remember the most. After finally leaving Megan with her dorm mates, Mom sobbed in the front passenger seat during the entire six-hour drive home. I swear, she never let up. You would have thought we’d left Megan at Auschwitz or something the way Mom carried on.
And you know what? I finally began crying as well. The constant tension, fear, and fighting of the past ten days finally got to me, so I began buying into Mom’s emotional nonsense. Remember, I was only 14 myself. There must be some reason Mom’s so upset, right?
But at the first sound of distress from the back seat Dad began yelling and screaming his head off. Apparently he couldn’t unload on Mom for her self-absorbed bullshit, but I was an easy target. So the last hour of our trip, down through lower Westchester, the Bronx, over the Throgs Neck Bridge and back onto the Island, consisted of Mom sobbing and Dad yelling. I think I remained huddled up against the cushions with my hands over my ears.
You know, I don’t have any kids, and I don’t think I ever will. But if by some strange combination of circumstances I do have any, I’d never treat them the way I was so long ago. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.
DAVE MILLER
When I was 32, seven years after leaving the advertising agency and about a year after my new band broke up, I went out to Portland to be with my father as he died.
I hadn’t heard anything from Dad since his letter right after getting out of the mental hospital. I’d long since sent back his money, with interest. My check was never cashed. I sent him another check six months later, along with a note demanding he accept it. That check was deposited in a bank in Portland and I thought it the end of the matter.
Then, five years later, I received a letter from my step-mother, telling me Dad was dying of cancer. He wasn’t expected to live much longer and wanted to see me.
I’ll spare you the details of my angst over whether to go or not. But a week later I was sitting in a Portland hospital room with my dying father. He looked pretty bad, a far cry from the robust man of my youth.
“So, Dave,” he began. “You look good. How are things?”
How are things? I don’t know, Dad. I just walked into a hospital room to see you for the first time in years with plastic tubes stuck up your nose, emaciated as hell, obviously dying. “Things are fine.”
“That’s good. I was a little worried about you there for a time.”
“I’m sorry you’re not doing well.” Sitting several feet away, I tried to smile. “This must be tough.”
“Yes, son, it is.” Sighing, he tried to sit up. “But listen, there are obviously things we have to talk about, and I don’t know how much time I have.” Coughing harshly, he reached a shaky hand out for a glass of water.
Wow. My father was dying. Despite all my rage and indignation over how he’d acted years ago, I found myself welling up. “Dad, listen. I don’t know…”
“No, son. Please. Let me do the talking first.” Obviously in pain, he carefully replaced the water glass. “You must be furious with me over what happened, with me leaving you and your mother in Troy. It must have caused you a great deal of pain over the years. I’m more sorry for that than you could possibly know.”
“More sorry than I could know?” Stunned, I found myself almost falling down through my chair, the very substance of the world dissolving around me. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I had no choice.” He said it simply, as if a fact beyond dispute.
“Bullshit.” I jumped up, pointing an accusatory finger. “Everyone has a choice! You just ran out on us, you selfish prick!” I must have looked pretty silly right then, yelling at a dying man in a hospital bed.
“Son, I understand. And you’re right, I was a selfish prick. But not in the way you think.” Instead of matching my anger, Dad gave a tired smile. “Please, sit down and let me explain.”
And so he did. Over the next fifteen minutes this old man, who vaguely resembled the father I remembered, told me of getting into massive gambling debts. Mom had pleaded with him to not risk his paycheck every week. But Dad, lost in a drunken haze, first ran through all their current money and then a small savings account, finally running up a sizable tab with the local bookies. Finally, the bookies had demanded payment.
“They told me,” Dad concluded, eyes lost in the past, “that if I didn’t pay up, they would hurt you and your mother.”
Amid the beeps and buzzes of all the medical monitors, I contemplated our family’s unknown predicament. “So you chose to run.”
“Dave, it was the only choice.” Dad shrugged. “I had no money to pay them. If I stayed they might have carried through on their threat. About you and Mom, I mean.”
“But if you left…”
“If I left,” he firmly interjected, the old fire coming back into his eye. “If I left, you’d be safe.”
“How the hell could you know that, Dad?” Rubbing my forehead, I sat back. “They might have hurt Mom and me out of frustration! Or to get you to come back.”
“That’s why I left a note with a local cop I knew, and sent a copy to the bookies before I left,” Dad said. “It told everything, the trouble I’d gotten into and the threats they’d made. My cop friend was only to open the letter in the event of some accident to you or your mother.”
I thought on that a long moment. “So why leave town if you covered yourself?”
“Because then they would have just come after me, and no one would have given a shit.” Racked by a coughing fit, Dad took another sip of water. “The cops wouldn’t have tolerated anyone hurting my family. But me? They wouldn’t have cared. Hell, they might have helped out.”
“What? Dad, you’re not making sense…”
“Look, Dave, there’s things about my past you don’t even know. Let’s just leave it at that, all right?”
Dad and I stared at one another. “You mean, like a criminal record?” Somehow the idea didn’t surprise me.
“Yeah.” A spasm of pain sent his head reeling back onto the pillow. “Something like that.”
We sat like that for several moments, Dad trying to regain his strength. “But there’s something I want you to know,” he finally said.
“What’s that, Dad?”
“You’re my biggest regret. Missing your life, your family. My God, Dave, you have a daughter, right? My granddaughter?”
Shocked, I realized I’d never thought of Mandy that way, as Dad�
�s granddaughter. “That’s right, Dad. She’s thirteen.”
“Can I see a picture?”
So I showed him a few wallet shots. “She’s amazing,” Dad wheezed, hardly able to get the words out. “Dave, she’s wonderful. I’m so happy you’re a father.”
“So am I, Dad.” I leaned down, looking at the picture with him. “So am I.”
Dad died a few days later. I stayed in Portland for the funeral, spending a little time with my mother-in-law and half-sister. They’re good people. I’m glad to know them.
I can never forgive my father for what happened. He made terrible choices we all paid for. But at least now I have a better perspective on how life can go terribly wrong, even when you have the best of intentions.
Is that an excuse? I don’t know. But at least I have some closure over my past. And the older you get, you realize that does count for something.
SOPHIA DANTON
The day I found out my father was leaving Mom for Nicole, my sister’s “pure” whore-in-arms, started out much like any other. Rushing out for a 10 a.m. interview, my cell phone started ringing. Flinging open my car door and crashing down in the driver’s seat, I answered the call and started the engine in one fluid motion.
“Sophia Danton,” I said, grimacing at the nearly empty gas gauge.
“Honey, it’s me.” Mom sounded unusually reserved. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
Actually I didn’t. “Sure. What’s up?” Cradling the phone to my shoulder, I pulled out of my condo parking space. “I am a little busy, though.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she slowly replied. This was actually somewhat patronizing, as I knew Mom couldn’t understand how a single woman without kids didn’t have all the time in the world. “But dear, this is important, and I need your advice.”
