Train nodded, and said, “Roger’s got the President position sewed up; I’ll probably be asked to be Secretary, but I’m not sure that I want it, since that means I’ve got to do all of the typing and desktop publishing stuff on the Newsletter. I don’t mind writing lead articles, but I hate doing the grunt work.”
Jobran asked in a softer tone, “What about Ted personally? Do you think he had anything he would have done differently? Any regrets?”
Train gave the question serious consideration, then replied carefully, “My suspicion is that his only regret was that he didn’t have sex long enough; Viagra wasn’t invented soon enough to do him any good,” and he chuckled. “He probably hadn’t gotten laid for ten years.”
Jobran nodded. Then, indicating the room, which now had about 20 people dancing (mostly by themselves, since there were only about three females present), he asked, “Is this how you plan to have your memorial service?”
“Hell, no; this is too small-scale. I’m going to leave enough money to pay for a hotel room, and free food and drinks for everyone all night long. I want to be remembered with the party to end all parties!”
“Do you think that by having that kind of party, you would be achieving a form of ’immortality,’ somehow?” Jobran asked.
Train shook his head, and said, “Who cares? I won’t care, at that point.” With some feeling in his voice, he said, “I hate going to funerals, they’re always so depressing, and I always have a rotten time. I just don’t want people to be miserable at my funeral—there are enough miserable times in life already; I don’t want my funeral to add to them.”
In a serious tone, Jobran said, “To me, funerals are an opportunity to remember that we are after all finite beings; and the fact that we—perhaps alone among all the creatures—know that we will die one day, can be used to help us judge and evaluate how we are spending our limited time here.”
Train looked at Jobran strangely, then excused himself to go pick up another beer. When he returned, he took a long drink and said, “For me, most funerals are too damned serious.”
“Could it be that the seriousness that a funeral stimulates is actually a good experience, for you and for others?” Jobran asked. Seeing no response from Train, he continued, “Ted was a teacher of philosophy, so he obviously believed that philosophical reflection is worthwhile, for instance. Didn’t Socrates say that ‘the unexamined life is not worth living’?”
“There’s no point in examining ideas that are stupid!” Train responded, acidly. Sharply, he said, “I know what you and that Jewish Rabbi were trying to do with Ted—you were trying to convert him, make him believe in life after death! You’re as bad as his parents! But now he’s gone, and you can see that you failed.” Gulping a swig of beer, he said, haughtily, “The notion of life after death is horseshit! It’s just a dream, a fantasy; pure wish-fulfillment, a projection of man’s fears and hopes. It’s a ridiculous myth, and that’s exactly what Ted thought about it, and it’s sure as hell what I think about it!” Finishing the rest of his beer, he said, “Excuse me,” belched, then abruptly stalked away.
A couple of people had noticed the commotion that Train raised, so Jobran quickly headed to the exit, without looking back.
Emerging outside, he checked his watch: 12:35. The day was starting to get overcast. Not knowing what time the buses ran at this time of day, Jobran just
walked to the bus stop, thinking furiously as he did so. Why do we have funerals, in the first place? Why is it that we humans seem to feel this need for ceremonial “closure” of the life process? If we are no more than evolved protoplasm, a mere toss of the dice—as Ted probably would have said—why did we evolve with these needs? Why didn’t we evolve with the capacity to immediately forget about the dead and “move on”? Jobran reached the bus stop, and sat down on the empty bench, continuing to think.
What is life, anyhow? Is it ever possible for one’s life to end, with a sense of satisfaction, and finality? So that one can conclude, “This was a full life, well-lived”? Or is life always plagued with a sense of incompleteness, the sense of needing to be able to get more done? On the one hand, we seemingly have much more time in life than we need—which is why we waste so much time pointlessly watching TV, reading “escapist” novels, attending spectator sports events, or gambling. But on the other hand, our time here seems so short, so limited, like there is no time for us to do the things that we truly want to do. Many times, I think we pursue superficiality and escapism in entertainment because we feel that that we don’t have the time to pursue anything more substantial: We feel that “I only have this single evening, or part of this weekend, before I have to go back to work at a mind-numbing, soul-destroying job,” so we avoid anything that looks like it might be “involved.” If we knew that we had an unbounded stretch of time in front of is, I think we would want to study more, learn more, communicate with others more, and so on—but since we don’t, we tend to simply fill or otherwise occupy the time we have today.
The bus came, and Jobran boarded, being practically the only passenger. As the bus pulled away, he looked out the window and thought, So what is Ted’s legacy? In one sense, as a long-term college professor, he accomplished much; yet in another sense, he might be viewed as a failure: He had no romantic partner—male or female—who was here to mourn his passing; he had no children, to carry on his name. Without his dedication, will even the Skeptics’ Society be able to survive his demise?
And finally, Jobran wondered, Will that justify a human life, if all that we are ends up being shattered and dissolved upon our death? Is that enough? Or does there have to be more?
29
THE CONFESSIONS OF ABRAHAM
Jobran loosened his tie, as he unlocked the door to his home. I’m glad I don’t have to go to work until this evening. After the experience of Ted’s funeral, I need some time to just rest for awhile.
Entering the living room, Jobran tossed his suit coat on the couch. Then, thinking better of it, he picked it up to hang it up properly. As he crossed the room to retrieve the hanger, he noticed that something was sticking halfway out of the mail slot. That’s curious; it’s Sunday, so there’s no mail delivery. He went over to the slot to get the object or curiosity, thinking, It’s probably an ad for a pizza place that delivers.
He turned the large-sized envelope over, and saw in carefully hand-written letters, “JOBRAN.” Instantly, he recognized the writing as Abraham’s. Now very curious (why would Abraham write me a letter, rather than call? Maybe it’s an invitation to something), he quickly draped his coat over a chair, then sat in the chair and opened the letter. There, in a neatly-typed text, he read the following:
Jobe:
You’re probably curious about why I’m writing this, rather than calling, or coming by, or even E-mailing you. Well, to put it simply, I’m writing because I just can’t face you as I tell you what I must.
And what I have to tell you is that I have been diagnosed with AIDS; moreover, I am certain that I contracted it through illicit homosexual activity.
There; I wrote it. Now, let me see if I can get the rest of it out; I need to. Because by the time you read these words, I will have taken my own life.
Jobran leaped up and grabbed the telephone. Frantically dialing Abraham’s home number, he was surprised that the answering machine didn’t come on after three rings. He let it ring on and on, but to no avail. He then tried Abraham’s cell phone, but again there was no answer, and a message that “VoiceMail has not been activated for this number,” which was strange since Jobran knew that Abraham did have VoiceMail on his cell phone. Frantically searching for other options, he grabbed the telephone book and looked up the number of the Temple for which Abraham was rabbi. The usual “Our office is currently closed” message came on, which was to be expected, since no one normally worked weekends at the Temple. What else can I do? I don’t have a car,
so I can’t drive over there. I don’t know the home numbers of any of his neighbors, so I can’t ask them to check on him. Should I call 911? But what would I tell them? To break in his house? To search the roads for his car? But I don’t even know its license number! Unsure what to do, Jobran went back to reading the letter:
I’m sure that that this confession probably surprises you, since I have never suggested to you that I was gay, or bisexual. But in fact, I’m not sure that I’m either of those. In fact, I think that if I were gay— exclusively so, I mean—then I would probably feel much better about the whole matter. At least, I would know where I stood, and I might be able to live openly before God and man with a male partner.
Unfortunately, that’s not the way I am. I really feel that I am predominantly heterosexual. As you know, I was engaged to be married, and I truly was attracted—physically, as well as otherwise—to my fiancee, Katie. Unfortunately, when she found about my “other side,” she was absolutely disgusted, and broke up with me immediately.
What she found out was that, two or three times a year, there is this terrible compulsion—I don’t know any other way to describe it—that comes over me. Although I’ve tried since I was nineteen to overcome these urges, they are absolutely obsessive; the only thing that rids me of them is to drive to some place where they don’t know me—San Francisco, usually—and have anonymous sex, repeatedly, until I am physically exhausted and emotionally sickened. The AIDS crisis of the 1980s closed the public bathhouses, but there are still plenty of places left—whose address is passed on by word of mouth—where men continue to gather for the purpose of anonymous sex; they may be called “Health Spas,” “Private Resorts,” “Tanning Salons,” or so-called “Tea Rooms” at some public parks.
Jobran was completely flabbergasted. He would never have suspected that Abraham had been keeping such a secret from him. Yet he found no feelings of repulsion or disgust within himself; only a deep sorrow for his troubled friend, and frustration for the fact that Abraham felt he couldn’t confide this in him. “I guess I’m always going on so much about my own problems, that I never listened to him when he mentioned his own problems,” Jobran thought, guiltily, particularly remembering their last conversation.
If I were a Christian, maybe these experiences would make me believe in demonic possession, because that’s almost what it feels like; it’s like there’s an entirely different side of my personality. You remember those cartoons, where they have an angel standing on one shoulder and giving you good advice, and a devil standing on the other shoulder giving you bad advice? Well, that’s very much what it feels like, except that the devilish voice invariably drowns out the angelic voice, several times a year.
And so, during these episodes, I’ll usually check into a motel for 2 or 3 days. (Paying cash in advance, of course, so there’s no record.) I find myself drinking alcohol around the clock, not sleeping, and going frantically from one sexual encounter to another. After anywhere from 24-36 hours, I manage to stagger back to my motel, blind drunk and half crazed from sex madness, and collapse into sleep for 12 hours or so. Then, after I finally wake up, I’m disgusted with myself and sick at heart, so I drive straight back to Stentoria without stopping.
You’ll recall several times during our “quest” period, when I was unexpectedly absent, often on very short notice? I claimed that I had some sort of “rabbinic duties that I had to fulfill,” or a “conference that I had to attend,” but that wasn’t true—I was fulfilling my compulsion.
Jobran stopped reading, and attempted to call all of Abraham’s telephone numbers again, but was again unsuccessful.
In a way, it’s too bad that Judaism abandoned the animal sacrificial system after the Temple was destroyed by the Romans; maybe if I could go to the Temple and sacrifice an ox or a goat after one of these experiences, I could feel ‘cleansed’ again, and get on with my life.
Yet strangely enough, after one of these episodes, I do feel “purged” of my illicit desires—at least temporarily—and I am able to pursue my intellectual studies and rabbinical duties with renewed vigor. In fact, some of my most productive work has come in the immediate aftermath of one of these episodes.
I tried psychotherapy a couple of times when I was younger, but I was afraid that news of my seeking psychiatric help would get out, and it would preclude my rabbinic ordination; no one wants to ordain a rabbi that’s a nut case, you know? So I gave it up quietly. Was I being foolish? Maybe, except that, these incidents notwithstanding, my vocation as a rabbi is the focus of my life; and quite frankly, I feel like I truly am pretty good at it. Being part of, and serving the Jewish community has been my lifelong support, the thing that kept me going after other motivations lagged. So in a sense, I learned to coexist with these urges; and since I do get several vacations per year, I have almost always been able to fit my urges in with my rabbinical schedule.
One might ask, “Why would I even try and hide this proclivity of mine?” After all, the largest association of American Rabbis—the Central Conference of American Rabbis—in 1990 endorsed the position that rabbis could be gay, and that “All Jews are religiously equal regardless of sexual orientation.” Since Reform Rabbis are employed by a contract with their temples, rather than being appointed by their denomination (as I think Christians are), if my congregation didn’t mind, it shouldn’t have made any difference.
Except that in my case, part of the problem is that I don’t consider myself “gay,” as such—for that matter, I’m not really sure what I am. I know that when I see a male gay couple openly walking down the street holding hands, I don’t “identify” with them, or want that for myself. I admit it: I’m repressed, conflicted, and generally screwed-up.
Maybe it would have helped me if there were more organizations for gay Jews, like other religious groups have: Gay Christians have the Metropolitan Community Church, then subgroups like the Roman Catholics have Dignity, the Episcopalians have Integrity, the Mormons have Affirmation, but where do gay Jewish Rabbis go? The closest I ever came to one of these groups was one evening, I parked outside the meeting place of an all-gay synagogue in San Francisco—but I was afraid to go in: What if someone I knew saw me? Finally, I just drove away. Maybe what I needed was a “Rabbis Anonymous” meeting.
Jobran tried the phone again, with the same results. He couldn’t just stand by—
he had to try something else. So, not knowing what else to do, he called 911. “911; what is your emergency?” the female dispatcher said, briskly. “Umm…my name is Jobran Winter. I just received a letter that…well, I think
it’s a suicide note. I mean, I know it’s a suicide note; and friend of mine said that by the time I read the letter, he would have taken his life.”
The dispatcher then confirmed Jobran’s name and address, then took down Abraham’s name and address. “Does he live alone?” she asked, and Jobran said yes. Then she asked, “Did your friend specify how he was going to take his life? Or do you have any idea? Was he armed, or does he own a gun?”
“Umm…I don’t think he owns a gun,” he said, remembering the incident at
the Halloway House. “And…well, I haven’t finished reading the note, but….” “Why would your friend want to take his life?” “Well, he…“ Jobran started to say, then stopped, realizing that he didn’t want
to reveal too much about Abraham’s reasons—particularly when he hoped he was still alive. “I think…he’s sick; medically sick, I mean, and is depressed about it.” “I’ll dispatch a car over to his house, Mr. Winter; does he have a housekeeper, or do any of his neighbors have keys to his house, do you know?”
“I don’t know,” Jobran said, cursing himself for knowing so little about Abraham. “But…wait! He doesn’t have a garage, so if his car is parked out front—he drives a dark green late-model Saturn, so if it’s out front, then he’s probably there. If it’s not there…”
&nbs
p; “The car is on its way now, Mr. Winter. Will you be staying at your address for
the time being? The officers will probably want to talk to you, and see the note,
no matter what they find at his house.” “Yes, I’ll be here,” said Jobran, his voice trembling with gratitude. “Thank you;
thank you so much.” And the dispatcher terminated the conversation. With
nothing else to do but wait, Jobran resumed his reading:
Maybe a big part of my refusal to find any sympathetic organizations was the fact that I really didn’t want to find them, because I was absolutely consumed by guilt after these occasions: Roman Catholics think they’ve got problems with lifetime “Catholic Guilt,” but believe me, the Catholics haven’t got anything that can match up to a pair of proud and controlling Jewish parents like I’ve got, who would be devastated if “Their Son, the Rabbi” turned out to be less than perfect.
Anyway, I don’t make any excuses for myself, or my behavior: I was well aware of the kinds of risks I was facing—we all were, once the AIDS crisis broke during the 1970s—the “Golden Age of Promiscuity” was over. We half-heartedly attempted to practice “safe sex” for a while, but no precautions could protect you when you had sex as indiscriminately as I did; I might have as many as a dozen sexual partners during one of my “binges.” But I couldn’t help myself, the compulsion was too strong at such times. And since I had to keep my urges so well-hidden, there was no possibility of my ever having an ongoing partner. Even when I met someone who seemed interested in me personally, or in a longer-term relationship, I was-n’t interested. And frankly, the prospect of sharing my life with a man was quite unattractive to me; I still held out for the ideal of finding a suitable female partner for myself. Hopefully, one who could put up with my occasional “madness.”
Beyond Heaven and Earth Page 70
