Just when things were getting interesting with the sheet, the nurse came in and stopped the whole show. It wasn’t just any nurse, but the supervisor, Mr Nightingale, who put an end to what I was trying to do. Used to be in charge of the floor for the criminally insane. (Which terminology has always been a puzzle for me. Does it mean you’re so insane that it’s criminal? Or the other way around – you’re so criminal, it’s insane?) Those guys got farmed out to prison hospitals. So now, Mr Nightingale is in charge of the VIP floor where I’m a guest. Short, kind of dumpy-looking. Nice enough guy, but still, he’s got these annoying tics. Probably comes from all the time he spent with the nutty baddies (or vice-versa). Doesn’t walk straight into a room, sort of slides in along the wall.
Anyway, he made a big deal about me trying to hang myself. Took out a little whistle, and started blowing it like a super zealous football referee. Pretty soon, it was like Grand Central Station in there. Before I knew it, they had me spread-eagled on the bed, kept saying to me, “You don’t want to do that, Dr Max…” Can’t blame them, they didn’t know my story, my privileged relationship with suicide. Alison was the only one in on that. As far as they were concerned, I was what’s called a “suicide risk.” Which entitled me to the whole package: regular visits from the psychiatrists, also from the suicide counselor. The job of the latter being to explore what’s going on in your mind when you’re planning it. Also, to talk you out of trying it again. In my case, same as a high school physics teacher going up against the atom scientists at Los Alamos.
Afterwards, they kept my door open at all times, with staff coming to check on me every few minutes. Changed the Thorazine to something else. No go – the new medicine didn’t even make me sleepy. For sure, it didn’t change my mind about what I wanted – needed – to do. The suicide center told this new drug to fuck off. Finally, they put a straitjacket on me, which kept me from using my arms. I found a way around that too, by banging my head against the side rails, hoping to get a bleed going inside. I must have made a lot of noise doing it, because they came running in right away and kept me from doing it again. All I ended up with was a monster headache. After that, no more honor system. I split my time between lying in bed (they padded the side rails) and sitting in a chair, with both arms and one leg tied down.
That’s how close I came, playing chicken with the void. Maybe it was a good thing they didn’t let me go through with it. Gave me a chance to think about what was happening, and how good it felt, that rush. I’d keep on trying until I got it right.
So what does a guy do when he’s tied up, day and night? Somebody like me who’s with it all the way? Nothing like the barely conscious crowd that collects bedsores like they’re premium checks. The answer is, I watch TV a lot of the time. The remote control wedged in my right palm so I can change channels. Didn’t take me long to get hooked on The Horowitz Twins – Live! A three times a week cable show, featuring Dr Melissa and Dr Samantha, who no way you can tell apart, except by their getups. Dr M wears blue scrubs, while Dr S sticks to the traditional greens. Both of them are gynecologists. According to the announcer, “they take time out of their busy schedules” for their favorite cause: “getting women in touch with their sexuality.” Sound interesting? You bet your sweet ass. Especially if you’re shackled down, 24/24.
They deal a lot with what you could call “societal issues.” The first show I watched, the Gyn twins had this white-haired suit sitting between them. Introduced him as an expert in “Intimate Apparel Law.” He had a prim look about him. To me, it looked like the only item of intimate apparel he ever got to see was his own jockey shorts. In a singsong voice, he droned on and on about a class action suit filed by the partners of ladies who were into pantyhose called “Trim and Comfy.” Which is supposed to tighten up the tummy and the muscles you sit on, but – a tasteless way of putting it, I thought – “give where women are supposed to get.” Anyway – a big manufacturing booboo. They made a whole batch that gave where they were supposed to tighten, and clamped down where they were supposed to give. Result? The ladies had multiple orgasms every day, meaning when they got home at night, all of them had symptoms of a serious case of been there, done that. No interest left in sex with their partners. The motive for the lawsuit.
People drop in to see me. Peter Bishop, the pathologist, and Louie Rosenkrantz, the guy who built the laser for me. Once in a while, even The Chief comes around. The way he behaves, that gives me a lot of hope. For my demise, I mean. When he gets – you could say almost human – with patients, it always means their end is near. That’s the way he is with me.
Once or twice, even Persian Pete comes by. Rushes in in his scrub suit, the hair on his chest escaping every which way. Hoisting up his balls every couple of minutes, Italian style. A little rumble – like a drumstick playing a riff on a drum – emanating from there every time he does it. I’m sure it’s Alison who makes him come to see me. He’ll never know how close he came to getting zapped. Gives me the usual doctor bullshit: “You’ll be fine Max. Just a matter of time!” He could show a little more interest, the ungrateful bastard. Was I right to give him a reprieve and take the hit myself? Too late now.
Of course, there’s always Aunt Florence. During our weekly telephone talks, she kept bringing up the next summer, she knew a place where we could go away together, learn more German – with a French touch, ha-ha. Didn’t tell her about my change of domicile. By this time, she’d reverted to her former aunt status for me. No use worrying her, telling her what I’d done and what I was hoping to do. But that French bit puzzled me, even if it was never going to happen. What in the world was she thinking of for an encore?
One day, Arlene I came to call. Didn’t bother with flowers or candy. Brought me one of her old jeans, for sniffing purposes. Which they let me keep in my bed, like those security blankets babies get off on. Arlene II dropped by too. She’d married a rich guy, so no more denim trench coats for her. Sashayed in, covered in a queen-size mink. When she sat down, the coat opened up – nothing on underneath. Elena I also came to visit. Looking holy in her down-to-the-floor habit, big cross suspended from her neck. The nurses don’t know what to make of this visiting Sister. Is she a relative or what? Otherwise, why would she plant a long kiss on my lips every time she comes and goes?
Marian is a regular, of course. Brings the mail; also some goodies from the Parthenon. A greasy hamburger, or even one of those bagels I used to love to hate. But the best thing about being a prisoner: I get to see Alison every day. She shows up after work, then spends a couple of hours sitting opposite me, her legs up on a little stool. Skirt like a wind tunnel. Underskirt Factor hitting me like a ton of bricks. Keeps telling me she knows for sure that the effects of the laser will start wearing off soon. So I can go back to being a regular citizen. Whatever that is.
That regular tête-à-tête is the high point of my days. If this was a movie, she’d be right about the need to kill myself gradually wearing off. Then I invent a new laser, which knocks my suicide center out for good: fight fire with fire. That’s not all. The second laser just happens to work on the Penile Paradox too. Hits it square between the eyes. All of a sudden I get a full-time hard-on for Alison, and we walk out of the Psycho into the sunset, arm in arm.
But that isn’t at all what I have in mind. I’d feel like a total schmuck if the need to kill myself ends up in a whimper. Hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t expect it to, either. All I know is, I am totally on board for what the center has to offer.
One day, Alison came in, all excited. They’d just established a Lectureship in my honor. Those are talks given by some visiting hotshot, giving the lowdown on his or her latest research. For that, they get a fee, plus a free trip, all expenses paid. In this case, to the Big Apple. Couldn’t wait to find out who put up the money. Figured it had to be at least a $200,000 investment. Finally got around to asking. “Why, the Teitelbaums, of course,” Alison answered. Being the object of a 24/7 suicide watch is not exactly the best way
to climb the academic ladder, so I should have had a big inkling this was bound to happen. Namely, that I could kiss the Professorship I was supposed to get when I turned forty-five goodbye. The Chief must have had a word with them. “Poor Max,” I could just hear him say, “The best way we can honor him, now that his eligibility for the Fido Professorship is out of the question, is to name a Lectureship after him.” My bet is, he’s taking the Fido Teitelbaum Professorship for himself.
Don’t go around thinking it’s all visits from old girlfriends, watching the Horowitz twins on TV, and Underskirt Factor appreciation. The burnt-out suicide center keeps sending me messages. Each time I get one, everything starts pulsating and tingling. Especially high-ticket items like the arms that open windows, and the legs that take the jump. Blood pouring into them, like floodwaters after two weeks of rain. Feels like they’d be extra light – while also packing a big wallop – if I was ever allowed to use them. Which I can’t. And while my keepers have been hoping, expecting even, for me to get over my need to kill myself (as if it were the common cold,) I’ve been trying to come up with another plan. No way I’m going to lie around here, year after year, being kept alive so I won’t make myself dead.
I was becoming pretty discouraged. But, one day, as I was looking at the little piece of sky they allow me, I saw a banner floating in front of me. Like the ones those little planes drag over Miami Beach, advertising McDonald’s, or some local, bad-credit-OK used car dealer. Still, when I moved over a little bit, and I couldn’t see the sky anymore, the banner was still there. Which suggested to me it was some kind of message. Looked like “VEGAS.” Racked my brain for what that could mean. Russian Roulette? Then I got a better look. It was “VAGUS,” not “VEGAS.” It was a supreme revelation. Now I knew exactly what I had to do.
The vagus is a nerve which, when it’s tickled, slows down the heart. It’s deep in the body, but the beauty of it is you don’t have to tickle it straight on. There’s a way of making it work for you without even getting near it. If I could teach my vagus to make my heart beat slower and slower, I had a shot at getting to a point where there wouldn’t be enough blood pumped to any of my organs. Nothing dramatic. For once, supply and demand going in the same direction.
No question that was the way to go. But how to do it? Two of the three ways to turn on the vagus didn’t fit into my situation. That would require outside help. With both arms and one leg tied down, pressing on a certain spot in my neck, or giving the muscle of my anus a 7th-inning stretch were nonstarters. The only thing left for me: hold my breath and bear down, all at the same time. That’s the Valsalva Maneuver, and it’s guaranteed to slow the heart down to a walk. So I told my jailers I felt some skipped beats. That made them put me on a monitor. Between the monitor and the clock I could see from my bed, I’d be able to check how well I was doing with the breath holding.
At first, every time I did the maneuver, not much change, just a few beats less. But after a while, if I gave a good squeeze without breathing, the monitor didn’t like what it saw. A good sign. Didn’t feel faint or anything – yet – but from my usual sixty or seventy, I was down to around fifty beats a minute. I had to learn how to hold my breath longer, train my body. The Valsalva Maneuver was starting to work, but it would take another few weeks for my breathing and my slowed-down heart to meet for a final rendezvous. At which point, when the rush and the tingling came over me, I’d be ready to do my bit. Hold my breath for a good long time and squeeze down like there’s no tomorrow. Which there won’t be.
Now that I know how I’m going to do it, I feel more hopeful.. Before, I had a lot of guilt about not coming through for my suicide center. Now it’s just a matter of time, while I’m patiently waiting on my own, personal Death Row.
Do I have any regrets about wanting to knock myself off? I mean, am I 100% on board all the time about wanting to knock myself off? The answer is, I’d have to be crazy not to once in a while question what I had Alison do to me. But what made me fool her into shooting the laser at my locus ceruleus was a combination of scientific curiosity and disappointment in love. The opposite – scientific disappointment and curiosity in love – would have put a whole different slant on things. I wouldn’t be lying here now all tied up, getting my jollies from the likes of the Horowitz twins’ take on defective pantyhose. But there’s no use moaning and groaning, or asking “do we really have to go through with this?” No way the suicide center is going to let me off the hook.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALISON BEARING GIFTS
Mid-December, 1984
Something really weird happened one night, around 1am. The reason I know is that there is a big clock on the wall, facing my bed. I even remember what was playing on the radio: Mozart’s Don Giovanni. The hotshot who fucks all the women and slices up most of the men, while singing his ass off the entire time. My kind of guy. I was just getting myself into it, when, out of nowhere, the radio goes dead, and the lights in the hall go out. The shades in my room were drawn, so not even a glimmer coming from the direction of the windows. I hear these footsteps coming into my room. I ask who’s there – no answer. I’m tied down, so nothing I can do about finding out. Pretty soon, I feel a tug on the cord holding up my pajama bottoms. Right after, there’s this gentle pulling, to the point where the top of the bottoms meets the bottom of my bottom. What’s this? They’re taking rectal temperatures now, in the middle of the night? Except, I’m not getting turned over on my side. Instead, I’m feeling this warm, smooth hand, stroking the inside of my thighs. First one, then the other, back and forth like that. A maneuver guaranteed to make the ball on the side that’s getting stroked go up and down like a yo-yo. That’s the cremasteric reflex, a well-known time and motion saver for hookers. While the testicles are doing their dance, in all the excitement, the one who’s getting stroked gets a big hard-on.
Right off the bat, I began to have misgivings. As you must realize by now, I’m a pretty conservative person. To entrust my blossoming hard-on to somebody I can’t see, who hasn’t said a word, where I don’t even know if it’s a woman (or God forbid a man), that made me pretty nervous. Just as I was going to give out with a big Oy Vey (trans: SOS), this other smooth hand gets clapped over my mouth, while the first one is still stroking my thighs. What now wrapped itself around my hard-on, was something located halfway between the two hands – a mouth.
Ever hear about the zipless fuck? It goes on in the dark, with somebody you never met before, in a train going through a superlong tunnel. The activity I was being subjected to was not exactly the same. I was lying there trussed up like a chicken ready for the rotisserie, with about as much choice as the former about who was going to do what to me. But the anonymous part was a lot like it. Still, a zipless fuck is way better than a fuckless zip. That’s all that was available to guys like me, growing up in the Fifties. Got help taking my penis out of its holding pen. So far, so good. But after that, lots of rubbing, mainly with handkerchiefs. Or, if you got lucky, with pinched together thighs or pushed towards each other rolls of tummy baby fat. Or, on your birthday, being allowed to do the same, but this time with your penis as the centerpiece between budding breasts enjoying a brief furlough from their training bra.
Still, what hit me most was the odor. That combo of foot lotion and expensive shoe leather, mixed in with maybe a couple of drops of inter-toe sweat. What I’d smelled about Alison since that first time we’d walked down from Lynx’s office. No Underskirt Factor evident. At this point – if it really was Alison – she would have been standing, not sitting. Therefore, no wind tunnel effect. Still, no question it was who I thought it was. Once she got going, I could sense her nodding away for all she was worth. Same as what I saw her doing to Persian Pete, that night in his apartment.
Here was this woman who I had a major case of the hots for, ever since we met. With the Penile Paradox chugging away all along. Now I’m in restraints. Can’t move, except if you count my left leg. How much more at a disadvantage could I be? Th
at would make my potency potential with somebody who had a 99% probability of being Alison even worse than when I was a free man and subject to the Paradox. But what actually happened was the complete opposite. Got this major hard-on as soon as the likely Alison put her hands on me. When that forward tilt of her head was dedicated 100% to me.
She applied her talents here the same way she got her Princeton PhD. Mature judgment, creativity, constructive use of the literature, and, goes without saying, oral skills. She has it all. Of course, I wondered why my Penile Paradox took the night off when it faced its biggest ever challenge. Could it be the Paradox malfunctions in deep darkness? Or does an active suicide center, in some way, interfere with the Paradox? I’m not likely to come up with an answer during my (shortened) lifetime. Main thing is, she went to all this trouble – in the middle of the night yet – to make me feel good. Same as throwing a surprise party for your nearest and dearest. That’s when I decided to go out on this particular high. No way I was going to let that unique experience with Alison be anything but my last one. Ever.
Jews don’t go in for extreme unction. Somehow, getting oil dripped on you when you’re too sick to fight back is not for us. But what about extreme junction? Sometime in the next few days, I had to let the message the suicide center sent me like clockwork, hook up with the Valsalva. Went into high gear with the breathing training after that. Pretty soon, I could hold my breath long enough to get my heart down to around forty beats a minute. The numbers not even close to making me conk out, but getting there. No way is this going to be one of those long Jewish goodbyes. The kind where you put your coat on, but forget to leave; just keep yakking away.
Max Page 13
