I am a lesson in paradox. I feel one thing, then I feel the next. They don't always have to do with each other. I stand in my shabby clothes on the balcony in my fancy apartment. I stick out like a sore thumb, as I look down on the Prada mothers walking their sporty strollers. They see me in the elevator, with my flip-flops, wearing the Bedouin sharwal I bought in Sinai, and wonder how a twenty-six year old can afford to live here. Well I can't. Not really, that is. I can barely afford my beers.
Yaffa is renting me this place. She can afford it. We came here together one Friday, and she stepped out on the balcony, sniffing the air. "There's a lovely ocean breeze," said the realtor, and Yaffa smiled. Snapped her fingers, and made it happen. Out of thin air, and I am no longer living with two roommates in Florentin.
Yaffa was a client of mine. Or her dog Freddie is. Was. Never mind. Anyway. First thing I remember about her is her hideous sunglasses. She came into the shop one day, July, I think, said she was late for a meeting and could she leave Freddie with me even though his cut is not till one o'clock. Freddie is a dear, looked up at me with his droopy pink eyes, I said yes. Sunglasses moved up and down, she held out the leash, and smiled. I couldn't see a thing behind those glasses of hers, but she had a great smile, like a waterfall of diamonds. "What's his name?" I asked, and she said "Freddie."
"As in Mercury?" I said, kneeling down to scratch his ears, but she was already gone. A slight smell of perfume was in the air, and I remember actually sniffing the dog, and saying: "all right, doggie, sunglass lady smells nice but you sure don't. Let's give you a bath." Who knew, right?
She came back that day but I was already gone: Freddie had been my last client and I left him with Dror at the shop. I remember him watching me (Freddie, not Dror) as I untied my bicycle and waved goodbye. He's a really cute thing, that little monster. A hell of stinkbomb, but cute.
I think I must have worked at that shop for about three months before she first came by, but I had never seen her before. Another two months passed until she came again - "Freddie's jumped in the lake at the park. See if he's got any other beasts riding his fur." When I looked at her questioningly - "parasites. See if he has parasites." And then she became a regular. I've never had a client like this woman. A week after the cut she came back: "the shampoo you used was fascinating. Let me have a box of them." (I swear, that's what she said: fascinating. Who says 'fascinating' about a smell?). She started coming every week: a new collar ("this old one is rancid"), some light food ("Freddie's been constipated."), and finally, "what's your name?"
This took me by surprise. All I knew was her last name. Someone at the store had said: "did you order the food for Mrs. Rom?" and that's all I knew. She would come, say something about Freddie, and disappear, sunglasses bobbing, perfume flailing behind her, trying to catch up with her as she left.
"I'm Ella." I looked away, suddenly very intent on getting Freddie up to the cutting table. She didn't usually stay, never mind go into the cutting room. "Ella." She repeated. "I'm Yaffa. Yaffa Rom." Perhaps this should have meant something to me, as she paused. When I didn't say anything else, frowning, as I stroked Freddie's neck with one hand and grabbed the shaver with the other, she said: "you do a great job with Freddie. Perhaps you'd like to help me with Annette."
"Sure, bring her in." Freddie was impatient and wriggling around on the table. Seeing his mistress in plain view reminded him he had better things to do.
"I can't. Can't get her in the cage. Persians are stubborn. I thought about sedating her, but I can't bring myself to do it."
"I don't do cats." This was not easy; it was a small room, and I wasn't used to people standing in there with me.
"Oh." I heard her sigh softly. "That's too bad."
I looked at her. She had taken off her sunglasses, and her eyes were a surprise. They were a light green, almost lime-colored: unnatural. But they had soft edges and looked straight at me, like open arms reaching out.
"Well, I'd better leave you to it," she said, pulling her shoulder bag on her white linen jacket. As she turned to leave, I noticed a layer of short gray dog hairs dusting her back: she had leaned against the other table. "Wait," I said, anchoring Freddie to the bar, wiping my hands on my jeans. I grabbed a sticky roller from the shelf, and tried to unwrap the cellophane covering. She turned to me, half smiling those diamonds of hers, waiting. I finally tore the damn thing open with my teeth and held it out to her. Without saying a word, she turned her back at me. I hesitantly reached out, made a half-hearted attempt and rolled the thing up and down her back once or twice.
"Have you got it all? Serves me right for wearing white to a pet shop." I suddenly realized that she always wore white: I had never seen her in anything else.
"I think so," I said.
"Thank you," she said, straightening up, "you're very kind. I'll be back for Freddie in an hour."
"Or two or three," I muttered, under my breath, as her heels clicked out the door.
I gave Freddie the works that day: shampoo, cut, clipped his nails, and even got Dror to clean out his butt glands. I was disappointed when an hour later a dirty young man came in to claim him. He must have been a driver or a servant of some sorts: he couldn't be her son, with the dirty hair and the cigarette tucked in his ear. Not the diamond smile lady with the white clothes and the perfume. Yaffa. Did she even have a son? She was about my mother's age, I suppose, in her fifties or so. I wondered what she had looked like when she was younger. Those eyes, and that diamond smile. On a younger face.
For the next few weeks, the dirty boy would come around, sometimes with Freddie, sometimes alone. He would always have a note with him, and consult with it, before asking for a new dog bowl, "one of those chew toys with the tassel", or "some of those juicy treats". After several such visits, I could no longer take it. The bored look on his face as he read out her requests, as if it didn't matter whether Freddie ate dead mice or chopped liver. "I need a 15 kilo bag of Pro Diet," he said, looking miserably at his bicycle. "Would you like this delivered?" I asked, innocently, and it was like a wiper on a windshield: his dirty face immediately brightened, and he blurted out the address.
I took Dror's Subaru, with the embarrassing dice hanging from the mirror and the peeling "Doggy Style" logos on the doors. Her neighborhood was not too far from the shop: a line of tasteful white buildings, sniffing down on the traffic, reaching up to the sky. I parked between a Lexus and a BMW, and dragged the sack of dog food out of the trunk. Checking the address against my note, I crossed the street.
"Rom" said the label by her apartment number. I pressed the button and was startled as it immediately buzzed, as if someone had been waiting by the intercom. I opened the door and walked into the biggest lobby I had ever seen. "When in Rom," I smiled to myself, the dog sack echoing behind me as I walked, praying that nobody was watching me. You never know, with these high class buildings.
The floor in the hall was carpeted, like in a hotel. I pressed her doorbell but couldn't hear anything. Then I realized that my heart was pounding so hard, I wouldn't have heard anything anyway. The door clicked open, as if on its own doing. I walked in slowly, into a white tiled living room with immense windows, looking out on all of Ayalon. The jumble of cars in the terrible traffic was a silent display, as if pretend.
"Ella," she said, and the first of many tiny chills crawled up my back. "How nice of you." I turned, and saw Yaffa Rom standing there, eyes, lips. Her hair was wet and combed back: I was embarrassed. She was wearing a loose-fitting caftan of white, and I had come into her home, this rich woman's home.
"I've brought you the food," I said unnecessarily, gesturing. I started searching the room with my eyes: the crumpled sack of dog food was so unseemly in this museum of white and glass.
"Sit down," she commanded, and turned away, leaving me no choice. "Would you like a drink?" she called, her voice hanging in the air, then falling over me like a velvet drape.
"OK," I said, out of habit more than anything. "Water would be fine."
"I certainly wasn't going to offer you wine at this time of day," she smiled, coming back into the room with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on a tray.
She sat by me on the white couch, and I wondered if my jeans were clean. I smelled like dog hair, dog shampoo, dog pee: she smelled like sprinklers on a chopped lawn. Her eyes were on me, and I looked away, staring into my ice cubes as if they could jump up and freeze us both.
"So how long have you been working at the store?" she asked, stretching her ankles out idly.
"Oh, a few months." I wondered how long I had to stay.
"And you only wash the dogs? Do you learn how to do that sort of thing, or did you learn it on the job?"
"I'm actually a student of Psychology at the University. I only do this for the money. My sister used to do it too, she taught me."
"A student of psychology? Do you believe in that? Listening to people for money?"
I looked at her.
"It's not about-"
"I know. I'm teasing. Human nature interests you. That's lovely. I have some wonderful books for you to read. You do read psychology books, don't you?"
"I suppose. I'm only first year. It's a lot of theory."
"So what would a psychologist say?" she suddenly sounded like someone else. She was serious. Her diamonds were hidden away: her lime eyes intent, focused on mine.
"About what?"
"About you coming here, when you don't do deliveries, and you don't do cats."
"I was curious."
"Curious about what? Annette?"
"Just curious." She hadn't moved, but I could have sworn that she was suddenly sitting much closer to me.
"And are you still curious?" she asked, her voice softer.
I stand on the balcony, feeling one way, then the next. They don't always have to do with each other, the feelings that come and go. The ocean breeze strokes my face, gently as a lover, then disappears, scorned. Yaffa says that I'm just young and full of hormones, and slaps me playfully on the behind, telling me not to change. And why would I. She's taught me so much.
After that fateful day, when courage came to visit and made me step outside my soul, I became Yaffa Rom's lover. I don't remember much of that first time, except that there were many to follow right that week. And since. Our lovemaking is intense, urgent; surprisingly energetic for a woman of fifty-six ("fifty four, my darling, always fifty-four"). Her lime eyes wash over me like sea mist, refreshing and damp. Her diamond smile is addictive: I am almost sorry to see it go. "Yaffa Rom," I whisper to her as I fuck her, knowing that elsewhere this name opens doors, draws attention, but here it's just two words to breathe hotly into her ear.
"Are you ready?" I snap out of my reverie. I am still on the balcony, my coffee's grown cold. Dror pads up behind me, kisses me on the back of the neck. I feel his unshaved chin bristling against my skin. "We need to go. Uzi's waiting with the movie; they won't start till we come."
And as we leave: "I don't like this floor. D'you think the old bitch would give you parquet if you asked nicely enough?"
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Pass the Fucking Salt
Pass the Fucking Salt
-"Aba, Ima, I have something to tell you…"
-"Aba? Ima? You know my old roommate Shiri? The one with the colorful flag on her bedroom door?"
-"Aba. Ima. I'm gay."
- "Aba? Do you remember the time I was thirteen and took your car for a spin and smashed
the side mirror and you said you'd love me always no matter what?"
-"Aba, Ima, I love pussy."
Yeah. That's not it. I pull a face at the mirror and leave the bathroom, snapping off the light behind me. The six o'clock sun bathes my bedroom in purple velvet, fingering in through the shutters in a final attempt to say goodbye before flopping exhaustedly into the sea for the night. It's Friday, my favorite day of the week - no work! - and I'm on my way to my parents' house, somewhat less of a favorite but a decent meal nonetheless. And today I will tell them.
My mother holds a Ph.D. in Microbiology. She will take my declaration as a personal affront tailored specifically to meet the requirements of making life more difficult for her. She will then go online and read everything she can on the history, sociology, and psychology of the "phenomenon", (oh yes, that's how she will call it, as if holding the word in forceps) and recite these to me later over countless phone calls timed carefully for the peak of my working day. My father, on the other hand, will say nothing, but a silent bomb of worry will sink slowly to his stomach and begin its ominous tick, causing him to reach for the Pepto Bismol in the still hours of night.
They will have to manage. I can't wait any longer. Last week's Pride Parade found me standing on the sidewalk yet again: outside looking in. I am a liar. And a good one. I've got the shrug and the mumble down pat. I know how to look away when saying: "I'm seeing someone." But I'm tired of having to gulp down my heart when introducing myself to someone new. I'm tired of the tense shoulders and gritted teeth, tired of waiting to intercept and shoot down that casual question - that rude assumption - "what's his name?" Tired of loathing the flippant chatter at work: "my boyfriend this, my boyfriend that." I am twenty- three years old. I haven't been with a guy since the army, where I spent two years lying from morning to night. I don't want to lie anymore.
They are not unprepared. Last Saturday, at their house, I flipped the weekend supplement of Haaretz open to the article covering the controversy around the Jerusalem Pride Parade, and left it on the kitchen table for my mother to find. Just to lay the groundwork, to test the waters. I then tiptoed outside to the garden, my heart racing, waiting for the explosion that would or would not come.
About twenty minutes later, my mother wandered into the kitchen, dazed and tousled from her afternoon nap. Some long-lost compassionate voice in my head made a somber plea for dashing into the kitchen and snatching the paper away, but this got a jeering thumbs-down from the group of drunken louts that usually call the shots. Any minute now.
"Ella?"
I counted to three, and as casually as I could, called out:
"What?"
"Come here for a moment."
I raised my chin and walked into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, the newspaper open, pictures of drag queens and feathers screaming out from the page. Here we go.
"Could you get my reading glasses? They're upstairs by my bed. Oh, and set the table please. We'll be eating soon."
I lock the door with two turns of the key, jiggling the handle to make sure it's closed. It's only a two-bedroom, but it's the first place I've paid for myself, and I'm proud of it. It's on Smolenskin, a minute's walk from the 24-hr supermarket on Ben Yehuda where all the fashionable singles go and shopping is an afterthought. It's also five minutes from the beach. I hate sand, but it's nice to have the option. I bounce down the three floors, mentally checking the contents of my bag. Keys? Wallet? Cigarettes? Check. It would be a pain to have to turn back now.
I reach my flaking white Justy, coming apart at the seams but still operational, parked illegally on the red-and-white painted sidewalk. According to urban legend, the manyaks from the municipality don't write tickets on Sabbath. I have subscribed piously to this and many others, including taping a permanent sign to my windshield saying "Dear officer, I am unloading goods. Will be back shortly."
I whip the parking ticket from underneath the windshield wiper and, cursing softly, drop into my car, where I stuff it into the glove compartment along with its twenty or so predecessors. Not a good sign. I hope this evening turns out well.
"Aba? Ima? I have to tell you something-"
My mother opens the door, beaming. "Your brother is here with the kids."
My brother is exactly thirty-one years three months and two days old with precisely one wife and exactly two children. I say this because he is in the finance business and a stickler for details. My brother and his accurate family live in Cologne, Germany, which is exactly five hours and twelve minutes away. They come here twice a year on the dot: on Rosh Hashana and Passover.
It is June.
My father is out in the garden, glasses askew, face glowing, a grandson hanging off his back, and a granddaughter crawling busily underfoot.
"What a surprise, huh?" he pants, trying to get hold of the squirming boy.
"Yeah. Wow. What are they doing here?" I ask, trying to catch the eye of the little one on the ground.
"Gil's boss gave him a bonus for the second quarter, and he decided to surprise us with a visit. Look at the little one. She reminds me of you at that age."
I cock my head to one side, inspecting her. Gleefully, she stuffs a fistful of grass into her mouth.
"Would you be a dear and go get Safta?" my mother says, coming from behind and slapping me on the back in what she thinks is a youthful way.
"Why can't Gil get her? It'll give them time to catch up. Besides, I was hoping to talk to you-"
"Gadi watch out, you'll throw your back- NO! Roni, don't eat the petunias, sweetheart-"
I step into my father's Volvo, relaxing into the familiar scent of cologne and leather seats. My grandmother lives twenty minutes away at a retirement community in Hod Hasharon, and once every two or three weeks, it is my turn to pick her up for dinner. This entails going up to her apartment on the sixth floor, waiting patiently by the buzzer as she goes through the entire family tree ("Who is that? Miri? Gila? Gadi? Miki? David?...") and then walking into her apartment, inhaling must and cabbage under an overpowering reek of Charlie perfume, finding her fully dressed and made up, sitting on the sofa.
"I don't want to go," she always says.
It is then the job of the family member to nod understandingly, get her cane and purse, make sure the keys and her hearing aid are inside (she never wears it but takes it everywhere, in case someone says something interesting), and propel her gently but firmly to the door. This is usually quite a chore, but tonight I am grateful for the extra time to rehearse.
"Do you have my keys?" she asks for the third time as we exit the lobby.
"Yes, Safta. They're in your purse."
"Who else is going to be there?" She asks this as if she were a socialite on the way to a debutante's ball. A coming out ball, they used to call it. I smile.
"Aba, Ima, and guess what? Gil and the kids are here."
"Who? I can't hear you."
As we walk into the house, my brother kisses Safta gently on the cheek, and then slaps me on the back in what he thinks is a youthful way.
"How have you been?" he asks, and as I open my mouth to answer, turns abruptly to bark at my nephew, who is tugging at his pants.
"Oh, I've been gay," I say gamely.
"That's good, that's good. Not too bad myself. I really surprised the parents, now, didn't I. You should've seen the look on their faces when I walked in."
"You sure did. Where's Ariela?" I ask. My sister in law, if not the brightest, is a good partner for clandestinely topping up my wine at the dinner table.
"She went to visit her mother. She'll be here later."
"Is she OK?"
"Can't complain. Everything's good."
And that's it. My entire repertoire of conversation with my brother is finished, and we haven't even sat down to dinner.
"Aba, Ima, Gil, Safta, Roni, Dan, I have something to tell you…"
I am in front of the mirror again, this time in my mother's bathroom. She's redone it recently, and she now has her own toilette table with a little stool, on which I sit, staring at myself, trying to prepare for my big speech. I can hear the voices from downstairs, excited and jubilant. I fiddle with her lipstick, screwing it open, watching it rise, and then screwing it back closed. Chocolate Passion. What a stupid name. I screw it too far open and it breaks, tumbling out of the holder. I try to stick it back on to its base, but it yields and mashes into my fingers. Another bad sign. Should I postpone my news? Should I wait till everyone's gone and tackle my parents alone? I ponder this for a moment. I wonder if my brother's presence can actually help. Maybe he can cite statistics or something.
"Ella? Are you coming out?"
"Be right there," I call.
I wipe my chocolate stained fingers guiltily on my jeans and sweep the lipstick and its container into the trash. It's time. No more lying. I stare earnestly into the mirror, summoning up my courage. It's my time. Years of hiding and averting glances can finally be over. I will be able to look my parents in the eye. I hope they take it well. I hope they understand. It's not about them. Chocolate Passion is so not my color.
Dinner is a mess. My brother's children are not so accurate after all. Dan tries to pour the Coke and misses his glass by precisely two centimeters, causing my mother's voice to hit precisely 110 decibels. Roni sits in her high chair waving her fists and stuffing things into her mouth, stopping only to shriek for an exact total of eight and a half minutes when my mother takes a meticulously shredded napkin away from her. I sit in the middle of all this like a car entering the freeway, trying to weave my way into the conversation. My father, at his end of the table, interrogates my brother about work and repeats everything to Safta, who picks at her false teeth disinterestedly with a salad fork.
"Amos, that's his BOSS-"
"Dan sit DOWN!"
"And he is the CFO there, which means he's in charge of-"
"Gili have some more salad…"
"…Few more years, the kids will go to school, we'll start looking seriously-"
While clearing the table, I corner my mother in the kitchen.
"Ima, I want to talk to you and Aba about something."
She stands at the counter, scooping the remains of food into the trash and rinsing the plates.
"Those kids are so adorable, aren't they? You should really talk to your brother more. I wish you two were on better terms. Safta wants to go home. Maybe when you come back we can all sit and talk. OK?"
Driving Safta home, I am actually grateful for the silence. I melt into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. I drive slowly, slower than usual. I am in no rush to go anywhere. I haven't told them. I look over at Safta. She's looking out at the buildings as they go by. She's eighty-two. I wonder what she's had to lie about.
"Safta? I have something to tell you."
And then, without any further preparation, I spill it out. I tell her about the army and my Troop Commander, about that boyfriend in high school who had suddenly disappeared. I raise my voice a little and tell her about that famous basketball player and that actress she likes, and about the Jerusalem Pride Parade. Finally, I tell her about Shiri, who hadn't been my roommate. I drive even slower, pulling up to her building, and we sit there, two silhouettes in a parking lot, as I speak on and on, gesturing with my hands. Throughout it all, she stares straight ahead, and I suddenly wince, remembering the hearing aid in her purse.
"Safta?"
She turns and looks directly at me, her lower lip slightly trembling. A crumb of cake has stuck to her lipstick, and I brush it gently away.
"My sister Dina lived with a woman for twelve years after the war," she says. "Twelve years, and no one asked questions. But I knew." She waves a finger in the air. "They were in America, and far away. It was difficult, and I was here. But I knew."
"It's not so difficult today, Safta," I say softly.
"You will have children, yes?"
"Someday. Yes."
Her eyes shine. "You're a good girl, Ella. A good girl. Come and visit me more often."
-"Aba, Ima, I have something to tell you…"
-"Aba? Ima? You know my old roommate Shiri? The one with the colorful flag on her bedroom door?"
-"Aba. Ima. I'm gay."
- "Aba? Do you remember the time I was thirteen and took your car for a spin and smashed
the side mirror and you said you'd love me always no matter what?"
-"Aba, Ima, I love pussy."
Yeah. That's not it. I pull a face at the mirror and leave the bathroom, snapping off the light behind me. The six o'clock sun bathes my bedroom in purple velvet, fingering in through the shutters in a final attempt to say goodbye before flopping exhaustedly into the sea for the night. It's Friday, my favorite day of the week - no work! - and I'm on my way to my parents' house, somewhat less of a favorite but a decent meal nonetheless. And today I will tell them.
My mother holds a Ph.D. in Microbiology. She will take my declaration as a personal affront tailored specifically to meet the requirements of making life more difficult for her. She will then go online and read everything she can on the history, sociology, and psychology of the "phenomenon", (oh yes, that's how she will call it, as if holding the word in forceps) and recite these to me later over countless phone calls timed carefully for the peak of my working day. My father, on the other hand, will say nothing, but a silent bomb of worry will sink slowly to his stomach and begin its ominous tick, causing him to reach for the Pepto Bismol in the still hours of night.
They will have to manage. I can't wait any longer. Last week's Pride Parade found me standing on the sidewalk yet again: outside looking in. I am a liar. And a good one. I've got the shrug and the mumble down pat. I know how to look away when saying: "I'm seeing someone." But I'm tired of having to gulp down my heart when introducing myself to someone new. I'm tired of the tense shoulders and gritted teeth, tired of waiting to intercept and shoot down that casual question - that rude assumption - "what's his name?" Tired of loathing the flippant chatter at work: "my boyfriend this, my boyfriend that." I am twenty- three years old. I haven't been with a guy since the army, where I spent two years lying from morning to night. I don't want to lie anymore.
They are not unprepared. Last Saturday, at their house, I flipped the weekend supplement of Haaretz open to the article covering the controversy around the Jerusalem Pride Parade, and left it on the kitchen table for my mother to find. Just to lay the groundwork, to test the waters. I then tiptoed outside to the garden, my heart racing, waiting for the explosion that would or would not come.
About twenty minutes later, my mother wandered into the kitchen, dazed and tousled from her afternoon nap. Some long-lost compassionate voice in my head made a somber plea for dashing into the kitchen and snatching the paper away, but this got a jeering thumbs-down from the group of drunken louts that usually call the shots. Any minute now.
"Ella?"
I counted to three, and as casually as I could, called out:
"What?"
"Come here for a moment."
I raised my chin and walked into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, the newspaper open, pictures of drag queens and feathers screaming out from the page. Here we go.
"Could you get my reading glasses? They're upstairs by my bed. Oh, and set the table please. We'll be eating soon."
I lock the door with two turns of the key, jiggling the handle to make sure it's closed. It's only a two-bedroom, but it's the first place I've paid for myself, and I'm proud of it. It's on Smolenskin, a minute's walk from the 24-hr supermarket on Ben Yehuda where all the fashionable singles go and shopping is an afterthought. It's also five minutes from the beach. I hate sand, but it's nice to have the option. I bounce down the three floors, mentally checking the contents of my bag. Keys? Wallet? Cigarettes? Check. It would be a pain to have to turn back now.
I reach my flaking white Justy, coming apart at the seams but still operational, parked illegally on the red-and-white painted sidewalk. According to urban legend, the manyaks from the municipality don't write tickets on Sabbath. I have subscribed piously to this and many others, including taping a permanent sign to my windshield saying "Dear officer, I am unloading goods. Will be back shortly."
I whip the parking ticket from underneath the windshield wiper and, cursing softly, drop into my car, where I stuff it into the glove compartment along with its twenty or so predecessors. Not a good sign. I hope this evening turns out well.
"Aba? Ima? I have to tell you something-"
My mother opens the door, beaming. "Your brother is here with the kids."
My brother is exactly thirty-one years three months and two days old with precisely one wife and exactly two children. I say this because he is in the finance business and a stickler for details. My brother and his accurate family live in Cologne, Germany, which is exactly five hours and twelve minutes away. They come here twice a year on the dot: on Rosh Hashana and Passover.
It is June.
My father is out in the garden, glasses askew, face glowing, a grandson hanging off his back, and a granddaughter crawling busily underfoot.
"What a surprise, huh?" he pants, trying to get hold of the squirming boy.
"Yeah. Wow. What are they doing here?" I ask, trying to catch the eye of the little one on the ground.
"Gil's boss gave him a bonus for the second quarter, and he decided to surprise us with a visit. Look at the little one. She reminds me of you at that age."
I cock my head to one side, inspecting her. Gleefully, she stuffs a fistful of grass into her mouth.
"Would you be a dear and go get Safta?" my mother says, coming from behind and slapping me on the back in what she thinks is a youthful way.
"Why can't Gil get her? It'll give them time to catch up. Besides, I was hoping to talk to you-"
"Gadi watch out, you'll throw your back- NO! Roni, don't eat the petunias, sweetheart-"
I step into my father's Volvo, relaxing into the familiar scent of cologne and leather seats. My grandmother lives twenty minutes away at a retirement community in Hod Hasharon, and once every two or three weeks, it is my turn to pick her up for dinner. This entails going up to her apartment on the sixth floor, waiting patiently by the buzzer as she goes through the entire family tree ("Who is that? Miri? Gila? Gadi? Miki? David?...") and then walking into her apartment, inhaling must and cabbage under an overpowering reek of Charlie perfume, finding her fully dressed and made up, sitting on the sofa.
"I don't want to go," she always says.
It is then the job of the family member to nod understandingly, get her cane and purse, make sure the keys and her hearing aid are inside (she never wears it but takes it everywhere, in case someone says something interesting), and propel her gently but firmly to the door. This is usually quite a chore, but tonight I am grateful for the extra time to rehearse.
"Do you have my keys?" she asks for the third time as we exit the lobby.
"Yes, Safta. They're in your purse."
"Who else is going to be there?" She asks this as if she were a socialite on the way to a debutante's ball. A coming out ball, they used to call it. I smile.
"Aba, Ima, and guess what? Gil and the kids are here."
"Who? I can't hear you."
As we walk into the house, my brother kisses Safta gently on the cheek, and then slaps me on the back in what he thinks is a youthful way.
"How have you been?" he asks, and as I open my mouth to answer, turns abruptly to bark at my nephew, who is tugging at his pants.
"Oh, I've been gay," I say gamely.
"That's good, that's good. Not too bad myself. I really surprised the parents, now, didn't I. You should've seen the look on their faces when I walked in."
"You sure did. Where's Ariela?" I ask. My sister in law, if not the brightest, is a good partner for clandestinely topping up my wine at the dinner table.
"She went to visit her mother. She'll be here later."
"Is she OK?"
"Can't complain. Everything's good."
And that's it. My entire repertoire of conversation with my brother is finished, and we haven't even sat down to dinner.
"Aba, Ima, Gil, Safta, Roni, Dan, I have something to tell you…"
I am in front of the mirror again, this time in my mother's bathroom. She's redone it recently, and she now has her own toilette table with a little stool, on which I sit, staring at myself, trying to prepare for my big speech. I can hear the voices from downstairs, excited and jubilant. I fiddle with her lipstick, screwing it open, watching it rise, and then screwing it back closed. Chocolate Passion. What a stupid name. I screw it too far open and it breaks, tumbling out of the holder. I try to stick it back on to its base, but it yields and mashes into my fingers. Another bad sign. Should I postpone my news? Should I wait till everyone's gone and tackle my parents alone? I ponder this for a moment. I wonder if my brother's presence can actually help. Maybe he can cite statistics or something.
"Ella? Are you coming out?"
"Be right there," I call.
I wipe my chocolate stained fingers guiltily on my jeans and sweep the lipstick and its container into the trash. It's time. No more lying. I stare earnestly into the mirror, summoning up my courage. It's my time. Years of hiding and averting glances can finally be over. I will be able to look my parents in the eye. I hope they take it well. I hope they understand. It's not about them. Chocolate Passion is so not my color.
Dinner is a mess. My brother's children are not so accurate after all. Dan tries to pour the Coke and misses his glass by precisely two centimeters, causing my mother's voice to hit precisely 110 decibels. Roni sits in her high chair waving her fists and stuffing things into her mouth, stopping only to shriek for an exact total of eight and a half minutes when my mother takes a meticulously shredded napkin away from her. I sit in the middle of all this like a car entering the freeway, trying to weave my way into the conversation. My father, at his end of the table, interrogates my brother about work and repeats everything to Safta, who picks at her false teeth disinterestedly with a salad fork.
"Amos, that's his BOSS-"
"Dan sit DOWN!"
"And he is the CFO there, which means he's in charge of-"
"Gili have some more salad…"
"…Few more years, the kids will go to school, we'll start looking seriously-"
While clearing the table, I corner my mother in the kitchen.
"Ima, I want to talk to you and Aba about something."
She stands at the counter, scooping the remains of food into the trash and rinsing the plates.
"Those kids are so adorable, aren't they? You should really talk to your brother more. I wish you two were on better terms. Safta wants to go home. Maybe when you come back we can all sit and talk. OK?"
Driving Safta home, I am actually grateful for the silence. I melt into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. I drive slowly, slower than usual. I am in no rush to go anywhere. I haven't told them. I look over at Safta. She's looking out at the buildings as they go by. She's eighty-two. I wonder what she's had to lie about.
"Safta? I have something to tell you."
And then, without any further preparation, I spill it out. I tell her about the army and my Troop Commander, about that boyfriend in high school who had suddenly disappeared. I raise my voice a little and tell her about that famous basketball player and that actress she likes, and about the Jerusalem Pride Parade. Finally, I tell her about Shiri, who hadn't been my roommate. I drive even slower, pulling up to her building, and we sit there, two silhouettes in a parking lot, as I speak on and on, gesturing with my hands. Throughout it all, she stares straight ahead, and I suddenly wince, remembering the hearing aid in her purse.
"Safta?"
She turns and looks directly at me, her lower lip slightly trembling. A crumb of cake has stuck to her lipstick, and I brush it gently away.
"My sister Dina lived with a woman for twelve years after the war," she says. "Twelve years, and no one asked questions. But I knew." She waves a finger in the air. "They were in America, and far away. It was difficult, and I was here. But I knew."
"It's not so difficult today, Safta," I say softly.
"You will have children, yes?"
"Someday. Yes."
Her eyes shine. "You're a good girl, Ella. A good girl. Come and visit me more often."
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Control Freak meets the Car Salesman
The control freak meets the car salesman
A golden chance, you say,
"We are our own insurance,"
And as your pretty words dissolve into the air
I hate your self-assurance.
"Let's map the rules, come on,
It's harmless, don't you see?"
As long as we're up-front about it
The only victim's me.
"A risk free love", you promise me
"After all, what's the worst…?"
You sound like a used car salesman
For you, this is no first.
You tell me to go easy,
But my fists remain tightly closed
The tempest they unleash when opened
Ruins any pretense of repose.
And you thrill me with your glass unicorn
You fucking optimist
Why does it fall unto me to tell you
That unicorns don't exist?
Like risk free love, they are a myth
They shatter when they're touched
They don't hold grey's, or in-betweens,
They live on shades of "much".
And so with me, the bleeding lover
So strangled with emotion
A sucker for words that have no cover
In every drop - an ocean.
Therefore, forgive me for being so sternly composed
It's not that I am not entertained;
But when prompted, feeling so easily grows
It's a serious struggle to keep it contained.
So I'll keep my fists clenched, you keep your mouth fluid
You can tease my uptightness as you please
It's the same control that keeps me afloat
That stays my heart in the semblance of one piece.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The things that happen when you call
A shortness of breath melts into honeydew liqueur
And the gritting of teeth becomes a tremulous smile
My knees become soft, my eyelashes thicker
Has it been only… ? it seemed like such a long while.
I sit at the table, the phone in my hand
Self consciously smiling, although i’m alone
I stare at my fingers: they no longer tremble
with the itch of abstaining from using the phone.
I step into relief like a comfortable t-shirt
it’s been hard… yeah me too…i am jelly, you hear?
i’ll be fine, you take care,
and the phone call is over
and once again -
I could KILL anyone who comes near.
And the gritting of teeth becomes a tremulous smile
My knees become soft, my eyelashes thicker
Has it been only… ? it seemed like such a long while.
I sit at the table, the phone in my hand
Self consciously smiling, although i’m alone
I stare at my fingers: they no longer tremble
with the itch of abstaining from using the phone.
I step into relief like a comfortable t-shirt
it’s been hard… yeah me too…i am jelly, you hear?
i’ll be fine, you take care,
and the phone call is over
and once again -
I could KILL anyone who comes near.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
2/3 of a trilogy
Part I: Out of Time
Let’s find a hole in time and space. A bed of leaves in a forest clearing, my darling. All is still: somewhere else, six billion beings pulse in all their mediocrity/vulagrity/obSCENITY somewhere else! but for us there is only here and now: we are the space between the drops, the pain between the beats.
Come lie down with me on this bed of leaves. Turn to me now, and search my face. Do i have what you are looking for? I promise with my eyes, fulfill with my lips. Let me introduce myself to you: where shall I begin? The back of your neck invites my caress, and I greedingly oblige. I will kiss your neck gently, breathing you in, familiarizing myself with your warmth. My fingers are shaking: the neurons are firing, as an ancient message clicks into place: you belong here, and here, and here. I place my hand on your chest, together we rise and fall. Your white cotton tee shirt is sexier than all the nudity of the Roman Empire. Breathe me in. I am with you, and all senses are concentrated into the heightened awareness of you. Are we breathing together? Show me your eyes.
I will stroke your cheek, again, again, again, memorize this, take it with me: this is how it feels to be loved in a mirror. This is what it’s like to be unashamed. Again, again, again, leaving fingerprints, burning your memory into my hands.
Hold me close. I’m overwhelmed by your closeness, by your strength. By the silent power that trembles under your touch. Now I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten there was anyone else. I’ve forgotten there was shame and guilt and pride and hurt and anger and fear. I’ve forgotten everything but how to breathe.
Take off my shirt: will you take yours off? We lie perfectly still: our stomachs kissing, our chests melting into each other.
Open your eyes: this is when i tell you I love you.
open your eyes. open your eyes. open your eyes. open-
“Ma’am, would you like some more coffee?” a seventeen year old waitress. A nosering insolently flashing. She could care less. Her shift is almost over. She’s got her eye on the clock and her mind on the boyfriend.
“No thanks.”
I slap down twenty shekels and gather my stuff. Another wasted evening at a sidewalk cafe in Tel Aviv. Another story not written, progress not made.
Part II: Stolen
don’t take this so personally, the burden could be heavy - I am a lover and a poet and I ooze with the words / You’ve stumbled upon me and awakened my senses, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not being heard / I realize you’re human – an imperfect one, sure, but still you inspire with your smile, and your eyes / I’m just a hormonal she-dog chock full of emotions, but our connection is solid, so let me rhapsodize)
The scent of your skin is still in my nostrils: raw rain tumbling down on a grass covered slope.
I tear through the park on my bicycle, towards our private world in the bushes, fleeing from everything to what has become everything.
I’ve set the world apart and live in memories of you that are the tank of oxygen in the drowning underwater between our encounters. They come back to me now, little bubbles rising to the surface:
How you looked as I loved you, how you silenced me softly, placed a finger on my lips, said “that’s redundant, now, isn’t it”, then with a half smile you turned and you folded me in.
How I visibly shook when our fingers made contact, but I didn’t bother hiding it: it seemed quite all right / I smile as I remember your touch on my back – it felt like an invitation to dance through the night / And as my mouth tasted of your sweet center, I shuddered, knowing now we are speaking, now this is it.
I told you of hunger, and of yearning, and silence, and of years in which self love was abolished by shame / My fingers spoke volumes of compassionate friendship, of the true understanding when you called out my name / My kiss was explanatory – your response revealing; and so we indulged in the dialogue of love
I get off my bike: here we are, at our spot. Enevloped in the softness of alternative reality, between bushes of green in a gray gray world, we have found an existence that is separate from all. Once again memory takes a back seat to reality: here we are, once again, between ticks of the clock.
At your touch my tides rise, my defenses collapse: I let you inside and I sigh with relief. This is all that I need, this is all I must keep.
Let’s find a hole in time and space. A bed of leaves in a forest clearing, my darling. All is still: somewhere else, six billion beings pulse in all their mediocrity/vulagrity/obSCENITY somewhere else! but for us there is only here and now: we are the space between the drops, the pain between the beats.
Come lie down with me on this bed of leaves. Turn to me now, and search my face. Do i have what you are looking for? I promise with my eyes, fulfill with my lips. Let me introduce myself to you: where shall I begin? The back of your neck invites my caress, and I greedingly oblige. I will kiss your neck gently, breathing you in, familiarizing myself with your warmth. My fingers are shaking: the neurons are firing, as an ancient message clicks into place: you belong here, and here, and here. I place my hand on your chest, together we rise and fall. Your white cotton tee shirt is sexier than all the nudity of the Roman Empire. Breathe me in. I am with you, and all senses are concentrated into the heightened awareness of you. Are we breathing together? Show me your eyes.
I will stroke your cheek, again, again, again, memorize this, take it with me: this is how it feels to be loved in a mirror. This is what it’s like to be unashamed. Again, again, again, leaving fingerprints, burning your memory into my hands.
Hold me close. I’m overwhelmed by your closeness, by your strength. By the silent power that trembles under your touch. Now I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten there was anyone else. I’ve forgotten there was shame and guilt and pride and hurt and anger and fear. I’ve forgotten everything but how to breathe.
Take off my shirt: will you take yours off? We lie perfectly still: our stomachs kissing, our chests melting into each other.
Open your eyes: this is when i tell you I love you.
open your eyes. open your eyes. open your eyes. open-
“Ma’am, would you like some more coffee?” a seventeen year old waitress. A nosering insolently flashing. She could care less. Her shift is almost over. She’s got her eye on the clock and her mind on the boyfriend.
“No thanks.”
I slap down twenty shekels and gather my stuff. Another wasted evening at a sidewalk cafe in Tel Aviv. Another story not written, progress not made.
Part II: Stolen
don’t take this so personally, the burden could be heavy - I am a lover and a poet and I ooze with the words / You’ve stumbled upon me and awakened my senses, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not being heard / I realize you’re human – an imperfect one, sure, but still you inspire with your smile, and your eyes / I’m just a hormonal she-dog chock full of emotions, but our connection is solid, so let me rhapsodize)
The scent of your skin is still in my nostrils: raw rain tumbling down on a grass covered slope.
I tear through the park on my bicycle, towards our private world in the bushes, fleeing from everything to what has become everything.
I’ve set the world apart and live in memories of you that are the tank of oxygen in the drowning underwater between our encounters. They come back to me now, little bubbles rising to the surface:
How you looked as I loved you, how you silenced me softly, placed a finger on my lips, said “that’s redundant, now, isn’t it”, then with a half smile you turned and you folded me in.
How I visibly shook when our fingers made contact, but I didn’t bother hiding it: it seemed quite all right / I smile as I remember your touch on my back – it felt like an invitation to dance through the night / And as my mouth tasted of your sweet center, I shuddered, knowing now we are speaking, now this is it.
I told you of hunger, and of yearning, and silence, and of years in which self love was abolished by shame / My fingers spoke volumes of compassionate friendship, of the true understanding when you called out my name / My kiss was explanatory – your response revealing; and so we indulged in the dialogue of love
I get off my bike: here we are, at our spot. Enevloped in the softness of alternative reality, between bushes of green in a gray gray world, we have found an existence that is separate from all. Once again memory takes a back seat to reality: here we are, once again, between ticks of the clock.
At your touch my tides rise, my defenses collapse: I let you inside and I sigh with relief. This is all that I need, this is all I must keep.
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