THE ALCATRAZ OPTION

by Jay Begler

  Isabella replied, “I can understand her choice. She probably has a long-term plan for her life and doesn’t want that altered through some early entanglement.”

  “So, what do I do, give up? I don’t think I can live without her.”

  “I wish I had a simple answer, but maybe we can figure something out.”

  For the next two weeks, Isabella did her best to convince Morales let go of Rebecca. After several long soliloquies by Morales about Rebecca, Isabella concluded that Rebecca represented more than a lost love. She had become an object of an overpowering obsession. He didn’t like hearing this, but she said that for her advice to be of value, he had to consider that she would always be honest. He agreed. They spoke about at length about his obsession in the final days of his stay at the hacienda. After one long and difficult discussion, punctuated by difficult personal questions posed by Isabella, Morales admitted that his feelings for Rebecca went well beyond the realm of a teenage crush; that it had serious psychological implications. His honest conclusion, however, did nothing to change or diminish his obsession. By the time Morales was ready to leave, he was no better than the first day that Rebecca left him. His only consolation was that at least he found a good friend in Isabella. She felt the same way. Neither could have imagined at the time that within the next two decades they both would run the Aztec Cartel.

  Over time, each would use the other as sounding boards, but Morales, fearful that Isabella might find him slightly crazy, held back. He never revealed, for example, that as soon as he returned home, he called and emailed Rebecca daily. She never returned his phone calls or answered his emails. He even sent her a rare autographed copy of The Fire Flies, but instead of a thank you he received the book back with a posted note with a rebuke: “Stop! You made a promise. Keep it.”

  Called her every day an left a variety of messages, some sad, some angry and some slightly deranged. Rebecca got an unlisted number and an app that automatically blocked his email. The app had a feature which returned the email with a message, “At the request of the recipient, your email was automatically deleted as soon as it reached the recipient’s inbox. Please refrain from sending future emails to the recipient.”

  Undeterred, Morales stalked Rebecca electronically by following her entries on Facebook and checking her name in Google. He even ordered a “Google Alert,” so that every time Rebecca Shapiro, coupled with New York City, appeared in Google, he received an alert. Each day after school he would turn on his computer with the hope of finding a new photo of Rebecca. The practice, however, had its drawbacks. One day, he saw a photo with the caption, “Rebecca Shapiro was tagged in Judy Klaus’ photo.” There was Rebecca at a party, standing with a young boy who had his arm around her. He promised himself that he would win her back, but didn’t have any idea how to accomplish this seemingly impossible goal. For one thing, he doubted she wanted him back in her life. Not long after that, using money he had stolen from his mother and his friends’ parents, he hired a private detective in New York City, to take candid photographs of Rebecca. Using these photographs and others from Facebook, he created an electronic scrapbook with the code name “Fireflies.” At points where his obsession trumped rationality, Morales used Photoshop to places images of himself onto photographs of Rebecca.

  Like people who refer to medical sources such as WebMD to determine if they have a fatal disease, Morales began searching the internet for information about obsessions and the dangers they posed both to the person who obsessed. He wanted to shake his obsession, because it was painful, but he vacillated between submitting to his obsession, as a way of holding onto Rebecca and attempting to control it. At times, particularly after Morales engaged in some obsessive act relating to Rebecca, he felt a sense of shame and anger at himself because he believed that submitting to his obsession made him less of a person. When this happened, he’d often look at himself in the mirror and yell at his image, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The obsession was unrelenting, however. Like a drug addict trying to kick his habit, he would ultimately return to it.

  Seven

  •

  The Stalker

  When he was with Luis and wandered the dilapidated halls of Luis’ high school, Morales paid little attention to his surroundings. A full-time student now in the public high school he defiantly chose to attend, Morales moved zombie-like from classroom to classroom. The peeling paint, broken bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and walls encrusted with years’ worth of graffiti repelled him. A perceptible odor, a mix of urine, ammonia and marijuana pervaded the halls. Convinced that he made a mistake, Morales realized that his tenure at the school would last one year at most.

  Early on, four toughs accosted him. The fight lasted under a minute, with boys all lying bloodied on the schoolyard floor not comprehending what had just happened to them. School yard fights never go unnoticed. Just like vultures pick up the scent of a recent kill, the students swarmed to watch the fight. They applauded as Morales walked away. News of his fight and victory spread through the school, and he became a minor celebrity. Even some teachers thanked him for getting rid of “those hoodlums.”

  There were other toughs in the school, but given Morales’ reputation, they chose not to confront him. A few asked Morales to join their gangs. He politely refused. While other students asked for his help when one of the toughs extorted money, Morales rejected their pleas. He didn’t care about them, and the last thing he wanted to be was a vigilante.

  Despite his brief celebrity, Morales had no friends. None of the students seemed to be as intelligent or personable as Luis and Luis’ entourage. In the beginning, students sought him out, but by the end of November, Morales would sit alone in the school cafeteria. By Christmas, he knew he had to transfer to another school, ideally one in a different country.

  The last thing he wanted was advice from his father, whom he assumed would have a told you so attitude. Instead, he sought the counsel of his confident who he jokingly called “Isabella the wise.” When he explained his situation, she replied, “I have a great idea,” and before he could ask “What?” she added, “I just have to check out a few things. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  That evening Morales received a text from Isabella:

  “Hector, Here’s my idea: Transfer to a private school in New York City. There are a couple located near Rebecca’s school. What you do with that information is your business. Here is a list of the schools, application forms and everything else you need to get in. I’ll write your essays.

  Isabella The Wise”

  Reacting to Isabella’s suggestion he said aloud, “brilliant!” He knew that there was no other option for him, though he couldn’t care less about the actual school he’d attend. Proximity to Rebecca’s school was the only criteria for his choice. He’d stalk her from a distance, never approaching her, and work out a plan to run into her in a way that seemed to be serendipitous.

  Near the end of July, Morales was accepted at the Parker School, a prestigious private high school with a daunting admissions criteria, unless you knew someone on its Board of Directors. In this case the director was a banker who, working with Morales’ father, helped Aztec launder money in the United States. While Morales’ told his parents of the school’s academic record and the success rate of placing graduates in the top colleges and universities the country, his choice was governed by only one thing, proximity to Rebecca. Her school was just three blocks to the west and the odds were high that he would eventually run into her.

  At Parker, Morales soon found his clique of friends, boys and girls that shared his interests and tastes in music, movies and literature. Given his good looks and confident manner, Morales was quite popular with his classmates. They found him, like he had found Luis, rather exotic. He would tell them tales of El Fantasma and about Chula’s enmity for the Cartel. He also spoke with great admiration about Isabella and her genius.

  “It sounds like you really have feelings for her,” a young women said.


  “I do, but not romantic. We are just good friends.”

  “You know, Hector,” she replied, “there’s no such thing as a platonic friendship.”

  “Believe me, that’s all it is. It can never be anything else.”

  The days fell into routine: classes, sports, socializing and time devoted to stalking Rebecca. Outside of her school, in a location where he remained hidden, Morales used his telephoto lens to take photographs of her. Every day that he saw her in person intensified his obsession. Before long, he knew her daily schedule, where she would be and the pack of young girls with whom she traveled. One night a young man picked her up outside of her dorm and they walked off arm in arm towards Broadway. They were en route to Lincoln Center, for a showing of Vertigo with the soundtrack music being provided by the New York Philharmonic. Morales followed them, but then doubled back to her dorm, because the boy might eventually walk her back to her dorm.

  Three hours later he saw Rebecca and the boy walking towards her dorm. His thoughts were random: “Did they kiss on the way back? Does she really like him?”

  She touched the boy’s arm in a manner reminiscent of the way she used to touch Morales. It was as if Rebecca cheated on him and the boy was her lover. The boy turned and walked east and entered Central Park. Morales followed closely behind and, finding the right place within a dark tunnel attacked him from behind. The blow on the back of the boy’s head rendered him unconscious. Morales, with a jealous rage percolating within him, kicked the boy’s ribs, breaking two, and smashed his head with his foot, breaking the boy’s jawbone. To create the illusion that someone mugged him, not a rare occurrence for Central Park at night, Morales took the boy’s belongings, kept the little cash the boy had and threw the rest in a sewer. He had no remorse over what he did; it was just a temporary way of satisfying his anger, but not his undercurrent of despondency whenever he saw Rebecca.

  Towards Christmas, he and three of his friends were at the Museum of Modern Art viewing works by a Mexican Artist named Rafael Lozano-Hemmer. He and Isabella had seen Hemmer’s installations in Mexico City with a private docent, though he thought Isabella knew more of about Hemmer than the docent. He was showing off a bit by mouthing some words the docent used when he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard Rebecca say “Hello stranger.” Before he turned, Morales knew it was Rebecca.

  She wore a tightly wrapped trench-coat and the barest amount of make-up. With that habit he loved so much, she touched his arm, and as she did so, he blushed. Seeing this, she laughed and said, “Some things never change.”

  Morales began to tremble, but calmed himself. He had often rehearsed for this moment, his first face-to-face meeting with Rebecca, As casually as he could, he gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek and feigning slight surprise said: “Rebecca. Wow, it’s great to see you. You look terrific”

  “You too. I only have about a half hour and then have to leave. Let’s grab a cup of coffee and catch up.” Morales introduced his friends to Rebecca. “Rebecca,” he said, “was a co-worker with me at the laboratory at the hacienda”

  They sat at a small table in the museum’s café and drank cappuccinos. Morales began telling her of his adventures, his first fight in high school, and about his friendship with Isabella.”

  “She sounds wonderful. It’s a pity about her looks.”

  “Yes, that part is sad. But she’s beyond brilliant and someday will run a vast cattle empire. So at least she has that. So, tell me about yourself. What are you up to?”

  She was already taking preliminary steps towards college; had taken the SATs and scored well enough for early admission to her first two choices, John Hopkins and Duke. Rebecca chose these schools because they had two of the best bio-medical engineering curricula in the country.

  “So, you are still interested in medicine?”

  “Not medicine exactly, but pharmacology. John Hopkins is my first choice, but my parents are dead set against it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m in a serious relationship with a sophomore at the school and my parents are dead set against it. He’s not Jewish.”

  He didn’t seem to hear what she was saying. He sensed a tightness in his chest, and for an instant felt his throat closing. When she touched his arm, he snapped back. “Hector, I need to run, I’m picking up Steven at Grand Central and introducing him to my parents.”

  Deeply sad and angry, Morales knew that any show of genuine emotion would put her off. He forced himself to keep his emotions in check. “Can I ask a favor, Rebecca? I want to take your photo on my iPhone to send it to Isabella.”

  “Let’s do a selfie.”

  They stood; she got close to him and placed her arm around his waist. In a manner typical of people taking selfies, Morales held the camera at arm’s length and took two shots. They looked at them, and laughed, and cheek kissed. Rebecca turned, walked off, and was out of sight. He sat down to finish his cappuccino and looked at the photos. He texted them to Isabella with a message: “MOMA, December 10th, me and Rebecca. She’s in a relationship!!” Next to the message he placed two sad emojis.

  Rebecca never returned to school after the Christmas break. No one knew where she was, only that her parents had sent her to Israel to study. There were rumors that she had become pregnant via the boy she was dating and that she had an abortion. Morales chose not to believe the rumors because he couldn’t stand the concept of someone other than himself making love to Rebecca, though he realized his feelings were ridiculous in the extreme. Rebecca was cut off from every one of her peers, wiped from the social media landscape, and supplied with an iPhone controlled by and used only in the ultra-orthodox family’s presence, with whom she would live for the next year before college. The next time Morales and Rebecca saw each other, they were twenty-two years old.

  He was in the Apple store on Fifth Avenue and looking at the latest hi-tech watch offered by the company. Absorbed in the watch’s capabilities he heard, “Anything I can help you with, sir?” Morales knew it was Rebecca. As he turned to face her, a surge of adrenaline overtook his body and he struggled to control his emotions. He had not seen her in years. He thought, “She looks the same, different, better, more beautiful. Holy crap.”

  He said as calmly as he could, “Just wanted to see what time it was.” She wore an old-fashioned camel’s hair coat, with a knitted crimson and white wool scarf, which bore a small Harvard chevron. Both the coat and scarf were carryovers from the twenty-twenties, which were fashion carryovers from the nineteen-sixties and were now once again au courant. Morales seemed momentarily fixated on her face, until he noticed a little girl shaking Rebecca’s hand and whining, “I want to go.” Trembling internally, he asked “Is this your daughter?”

  She laughed and said, “I wish. No. She’s, my niece. Say hello, Sadie.”

  The girl took a position behind Rebecca’s coat and peered out at Morales. There was an awkward moment of silence until Rebecca asked, “So handsome, what have you been up to?

  “Well, I’m graduating from Columbia and will go for an MBA at its graduate business school. From there, it’s my father’s bank.” As he said this, he experienced a slight wave of depression.

  While the intervening five years had not eliminated his feelings for Rebecca, it had diluted them. Now, his thoughts of her were wistful more than anything else. That changed the moment he saw her; his pangs, his overwhelming obsession, overtook him. He wanted to say, “And I still love you desperately.” He wanted to beg her to be with him. He wanted to make love to her on the spot, but knew that his wishes were nothing more than ludicrous pipe dreams. So, instead he, “And you?”

  “I finished John Hopkins and am in a PhD program at Harvard in pharmacology and toxicity, and pushing towards working on an Alzheimer’s drug. So, how’s your love life?” She touched his arm in a way indicating she was joking. The touch still affected him.

  “Can’t complain, better than horseback riding, but not nearly as good as with someone I on
ce knew.” He couched his remark in the past; making it seem theatrical and liked that her face reddened ever so lightly: “Same here,” she said softly. The wailing from her niece, so loud that it appeared to form a bridge of awkward silence between them, punctuated the moment, and each knew that there was nothing more to say. She kissed him on the cheek. “Well, I have to run. It was great seeing you, Hector. Stay in touch.”

  She turned, walked away, and with her back to him raised her hand and waived. As she did so, he sensed a deep emotional pain and whispered under his breath, “Shit.”

  A little over a year later, with his MBA in hand, Morales flew back to Mexico City. He recalled what Chula said to him once about growing old. “You do two pirouettes, and suddenly a decade has passed.” He thought Chula’s observation was true. His years at the Parker School and Columbia University, seemed to be a blur. Morales was to work for his father’s bank, something he viewed with little enthusiasm, but he had no viable alternatives.

  He thought about Rebecca, the hold she had over him, and assumed he would never see her again but he was wrong. They would meet twice two decades later, with the first encounter being rather conventional and the second being something neither could remotely imagine. A chime rang in the plane lurching Morales from his thoughts. He would soon land in Mexico City. Morales peered out of the window at the smog-laden city below and wondered what the future held in store for him.

  PART TWO

  —

  Assimilation

  Eight

  •

  An Offer He Could Refuse

  Morales’ adjustment to life in Mexico City after his eight years in New York was easier than he expected. Old friends whom he hadn’t seen since his teen years resumed their connection to him. Within weeks, he integrated himself into the thriving club scene in Mexico City, an activity that provided him with an endless array of beautiful, interesting, women who were happy to make themselves available to this handsome young banker.