He’s driving a little bit buzzed and fast because he believes he’s above the law.
Got his rocks off with a couple of prostitutes on 82nd and Sandy.
After, while driving home, blue and red lights behind him flashed.
His brown skin alone and that he’s also draped in gold make him immediately suspect.
“Roll down the window”, they shout. Get out of the car, and put your hands above your head. Put your hands behind your head. Spread your legs,” they shout, as they pat him down. Do you have a gun”?
Now, the confidence, the natural bravado drained from his brain and his body. “Yes, I was with a prostitute. Yes, I paid for sex, ” he offers, though they hadn’t asked that question, says he.
They shouted something about red lights and red lights, they keep repeating. His body shakes. ICE is rounding up immigrants. And what he doesn’t know is that he’s part of a sting. Though he is a naturalized citizen, the news spreads fear… nevertheless.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is. He walked away only the worse for wear. The citation reads: solicitation for prostitution. Nothing about a red light.
He reads it confused and brings it to me. I explained: a class A misdemeanor, up to a year in jail and over a $6400 fine. There’s also a court date.
What he doesn’t know either is that some johns had their cars impounded and were jailed that night. He finds out from friends that his name is published online.
“How many more stupid things are you going to do that I have to help you with,” i hiss through my teeth, over a bowl of phò.
Find a high-powered lawyer. $8500 retainer. Attend classes. Go to court. Maybe go to jail.
Enough money, and his god will help him, he believes. “God did this,” he relentlessly reiterates.
On the stand, he’ll perjer himself. He lies. A big liar. The lawyer will try to keep him off the stand.
Through all of his other petty crimes, he has never had to suffer the consequences. “God helps me,” he says, and he really believes it. I sigh and say, “Money talks.” He doesn’t believe me. He never does.
There are a plethora of songs and poetry and of stories written about heartbreak. I have had my share, but there are some that still break my heart that are still etched in my memory.
These words hurt so badly because I knew at the time that they were true.
These pierced my heart, and I thought I might die. If you know, if you’ve loved like I’ve loved, you know how bad it feels to lose someone.
As we lay beside one another, he said softly…
“I don’t love you anymore. I know how much you love me. I love her like you love me.”
Why did he have to say those words? It would have been easier if he had just left. It would have been easier not to have heard them.
Some words we can never forget.
Why did these words come to me today? Like any kind of grief, it washes over you like the waves of the sea, and you have no control over your heart and how they make you feel. It was a song that brought them back.
She asked me if I was wearing silver or gold. My answer was silver. Her response was, “then go”.
Her accent was foreign to me. She was probably nearing 70 years old. She wore a form fitting swim suit and lay on a lush towel on the white sand. She was beautiful. Her hair was full and dark and streaked with sun bleached strands. I laid not far from her on a cheap hotel towel.
A tall and lanky young man in a tight red speedo, that left not much to the imagination, stood towering over me. He was dark brown and muscular. His life on the beach made him appear darker than the skin peeking out from under his suit.
I had met several of what I called “the boys on the beach”. Because I am naturally curious and an ethnographer, I had spoken with many of them and had even befriended a couple.
They made their livelihood by providing services to the tourists on the beach. Some worked giving rides on jet skis and inflatable bananas. Some drove boats for para-gliding. Most of those that I met had started quite young… 13 – 14 years old even.
If they were lucky they would meet women who would then take them out to dinners, buy them clothes and would even give them money.
I had watched these scenarios on the beaches in Mexico many times. One might see older women out in the clubs at night dancing, escorted by these young men. Some might even call them gigalos. Everyone benefited.
So, here was Gilberto, offering to take me out on his paddle board, out to the La Isla de Roqueta. He had cold beer in the compatment on his board, he added, hoping to convince me. I was reluctant. Even though he was a cousin to one of the men I had gotten to know, I didn’t know him except by sight.
He was trying convincingly to encourage me to go with him to where only the locals would know. He knew of a cove with white sand, he said, where there was every color of irridescent fish and beautiful coral and unusual rock formations. But I have no money, I said, hoping to discourage him.
I was equivocating even though I knew him slightly and I was used to seeing him everyday on the beach taking others out into the bay to the Isla. Tired of our discussion, it was then that the woman lying near me stepped in with her question, “Are you wearing silver or gold”?
I told her that I was wearing only silver. She then, with an air of authority said, “Then go”. I felt like my mother had just told me that I could go ahead and go on a date with that boy on the motorcycle.
I gathered up my towel and climbed onto his long board. Gilberto stood on the front of the board with a paddle, looking not unlike a statue of Adonis. I relaxed as he handed me a beer from his cooler. This wasn’t the first time I had accepted an invitation to do something a little adventurous, to some maybe, dangerous
He was practiced and proficient as we glided past the submerged statue of Nuestra Señora de Los Mares or better known as La VirgenGuadelupe.
This statue is not very deeply submerged and is a popular tourist attraction, often visited by the glass bottomed boats that transport tourists and locals alike, between the beaches and the island. She’s located in the Bay of Acapulco off the coast of La Isla Roqueta. Though beloved, it seemed really creepy to me.
Nuestra Señorade Los Maresorthe Virgen de Guadelupe
By the time we were out into the bay and gliding and rocking along, I was so glad that I overcame my trepidation and went along. I was so glad that the lady lying beside me on the beach had encouraged me to go. Then, as now, I’m glad I did not miss this experience.
As we drew near the dock where the boats landed and let people off to visit the restaurant on the island, we took a turn to the right and circled the island staying near the shore. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the water splashing over the board was refreshing.
It wasn’t long and Gilberto guided us into a small and hidden cove with a white Sandy beach. The smooth and glistening rocks at the water’s edge were every color and shone in the sun through the translucent blue, green water. Gilberto unloaded the cooler with the beer and a few snacks onto the beach.
Cove on the Isla Roqueta
For a short while I laid on the beach and drank another beer. Gilberto encouraged me to move into the water and I laid and floated on the gently sloping beach. As my eyes adjusted to looking under the water, I saw schools of beautiful small fish, iridescent in the sun and shining in every color. Gilberto moved in and lay beside me. I lost track of time.
For a minute I thought Gilberto would try to make a move. He did but as I moved a little away from him, he did not persist. I didn’t blame him for trying, as this is how he made his living. He was possibly hoping that I would be one of those women who would spend their vacation taking him out to dinners buying him clothes and spending money on him.
We talked softly, drank more beer and rocked in the water until the sun sank into the horizon. It was time for us to reluctanty return to la playa Caleta. The air was still warm as stars began to appear in the sky. This had been a magical day.
I jumped off the board just short of shore and walked through the gentle waves onto the warm sand. I laid my towel out and sat down, exhausted from the day in the sun and sea. Gilberto sat next to me. I asked him what I owed him. He wouldn’t take my money. No matter how much I insisted he refused to take even one peso.
I wanted to at least pay for the beer. I wanted at least to pay him for his time. I knew that if he hadn’t spent the day with me, he would have made money doing what he does best, which is to entertain the tourists.
Instead, Gilberto and I had become friends. Maybe this was worth more than silver and gold to him. I know it was to me.
Hi Sweetie, I live as though I am partially blind. I see something, mask it with a justification and surge onward. I have spent 7 days in a dream of which I came out of only yesterday.
I was hit twice in the temple by a jealous drunk woman, offered a charge of crack and sex by a young beautiful black girl, got sick and broke out in crater sized pimples.
Since I faced myself in the late afternoon yesterday, the flu like symptoms have mysteriously disappeared. Could it be that my body is my best angel?
I am led to strange places by subconscious yet conscious Cubans who have a common river running in their desperate brains. “Can you help me”, they say again and again like a constant chant that fills my good senses with bad ideas.
I must have a need. I push all sorts of interesting but wasteful stuff at it and come away without having accomplished the very thing that I sought to accomplish and then I’m exposed to what I don’t want. Now buried, I can’t see it anymore. Write to me, I will explain what I mean or call.
For ever your friend, Karen
2
OK baby, Denial is holding on to what already has died but one won’t learn the lesson of it because feeling and thinking the same old shit is easier. Or, once again, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.
Why are you hanging out in bars with shaky Latinos? You’re bobbin’ up-and-down with 3 fingers out of the water. The Cubans are only there to take the rings off your fingers before you go down for good.
You can’t possibly believe that you’re having fun. Where are your guts? Do something different. Don’t go dancing even if you really want to. Don’t rationalize your wants around your desperate needs. This time is not about you but about your family. There is enough there to fill your days and nights. Fuck the-guys-in-the-club thing for a big 8 weeks. I will meet the challenge with giving up or doing what you ask of me for 8 weeks.
I am worried about your recklessness. It is not 1970 when there were virtually no consequences to taking drugs or in a one night stand. I am worried you do not understand you can drop dead, you can get Aids, you can get herpes, you can nose dive and never get out of the spin. I don’t think you can see what your going out and coming back beat up must look like to your family.
Your recklessness in going out and looking for trouble is scaring the hell out of everyone who loves you. Don’t you care? Who is out there cheering you on? What are you thinking? You know what you are shootin’ for while you are in the clubs. Do you have the courage to say it? Is it worth it right now? What happens if your family says enough is enough?
I am ready to hear how mad you are that I would write this. I am ready to read where you see I am fuckin’ up. I am so ready.
I do love you. I check my email every day.
Love, MB
3
Sorry for jumping up-and-down on you in the last email I just don’t get the attraction to the same old scene that chews you up and spits you out again I don’t want to see you keep cripplin’ your relationship with your family because you want to be worshiped by anyone who is willing. You have so much wonderful experiences around you right now at this moment and the moment will not last long.
I check my email everyday. Feel free to write whatever, something like I have. I am not afraid to hear anything although, I might bark a little.
Still your friend? MB
4
Hi Sweetie, Will you please stop being afraid to speak your mind with me. Do you think that I don’t know what your reaction will be when I tell you the things that I do? I expect that someone who loves me as much as you do will tear me up when I fuck up. I give you, if I haven’t already, permission to nail me to the wall, beat me with a stick until I cry out for more love… but I know that I won’t quit going out dancing. I just want to get smarter, quicker. It only took me 7 days to open my eyes. Actually they were open all the time. I justify my blindness. I am gaining much needed experience and will hope to learn more each day. I will find out about myself. I will, I will, I will.
Mexico is the next stop, baby. I have to head home in order to arrive by the 28th. I will arrive late if I can come and see you again.
Gotta go. And by the way, nobody is influencing me. My friend is appalled at my attraction for the wild side. She prefers to die slowly, I, the quick and handy way.
When I was a kid, we were living in Eugene in Fox Hollow on Spencer’s Butte. We lived nextdoor to the Rice family. Dad and Mom became friends with Ray and Myrna Rice and we kids got close to Cathy, Charlie, Cheryl, Janet and I don’t remember the names of the other kids, but I think there were about 4 or 5 of them.
The oldest kid was a boy and he didn’t care much for us. I remember that I had a great straw hat that I treasured and a solid crush on the boy. One time he put that straw hat over a pile of dog poop and stepped on it. That was the end of my straw hat, though I tried to clean it with a strong stream of water from the hose. Mom made me throw it away. And that was the end of the crush I had on him.
Even though we were only going to be in Eugene for a couple of years while my dad tried to find job satisfaction at Acme Fast Freight, he never got happy and so I remember tensions were high. But we were tight and held together.
Mom went straight to work at Sacred Heart Hospital. Being a nurse who trained at the University of Minnesota, she could get a job in a minute and deep at heart she was a nurse. She loved her job no matter where she lived.
We only stayed in Fox Hollow for the 1st part of those 2 years but boy they were fun times. For one, it was rural and we had moved from St. Johns, which was a small community in the larger city of Portland. We had the run of the place. Just up the road was a roller rink where we went as often as was allowed.
Steve often would put Kristi on his handlebars and they would go up to the road above our house and ride down the mountain as fast as he could peddle. As far as I was concerned they were dare devils and I dare not attempt a ride down the mountain… especially not with Steve. He was ridiculously fearless.
He was in high school, maybe freshman and sophomore years and Kristi was probably in 5th or 6th grade… eleven years old maybe. She was nothing but fun and carelessness. Her hair would fly and her big blue eyes looked wild. She was as fearless as Steven.
Steve was ingenious and loved to invent something out of nothing. He built a “go cart” out of scrap wood and some wagon tires. We didn’t need a motor since the house was at the bottom of a steep descent down from the road. That was our raceway.
We’d push the heavy cart up the driveway, turn it around, hop on and go. I don’t remember much of a steering mechanism. I remember ropes or something attached to what you might call something to steer with, it was more like, lean to the left, lean to the right and hope that once you zoomed through the carport, you wouldn’t crash into the roof supports and you’d try to miss the clothes line pole centered between the support beams. Most of the time we made it.
The house was a long way from the road, so we picked up alot of speed. And brakes? There were none. By the time we came by the house, barely passing through the carport safely, we’d be sailing at top speed. We’d, pass the house, continuing on across the property until we crossed a dirt road and smashed and crashed into a fence on the other side. The fence stopped the go cart so suddenly, your whole body jerked and shuddered to a halt nearly giving us whiplash.
A huge oak tree, perfect for climbing, awaited certain unlucky kids who were not as adept as we were at missing it. But there was something more sinister than the oak tree standing there. The fence was covered in poison ivy.
I remember Steve covered in the poison ivy rash, all red and scabby, with an uncontrollable itch and whitish pink from calamine lotion. Out of us three kids, Steve was the only one who got the dreaded infection. But that vine covered fence didn’t stop us from continuing to ride our go cart down the hill and into the fence.
The old oak tree was my safe haven. I called it the girl’s tree and boys were not allowed to climb it. If they tried to I’d scream at the top of my lungs and kick at them until they left me alone.
During this time, Steve had a beloved bb gun. One afternoon, he reluctantly acquiesced to teach me to shoot it. He held it up, barrel pointing to the sky. He growled at me to not pull the trigger until he said to, threatening me with sudden death if I made a wrong move. I promised I wouldn’t. He dropped some bbs down the barrel and lowered it horizontally with his thumb over the end so they wouldn’t roll out.
For some reason at that moment, without warning, I pulled the trigger embedding the first bb into his thumb. He pulled the gun out of my hand and started yelling and pushed me. I started yelling too, screaming, “Please don’t tell Mom. Please don’t tell Dad.” He never did because they probably would have taken the gun away from him if they knew he was letting me shoot it. That was not the first or the last time that we kept secrets from Mom and Dad.
Well, back to the Rice family. They liked to go camping and fishing as much as we did. What I remember most is that Myrna would make these big fat melt-in -your-mouth cinnamon rolls to take along. Though I loved the swimming and the fishing, the campfires and roasting marshmallows and sleeping in a canvas tent, in canvas and flannel sleeping bags, the cinnamon rolls are what I remember most about camping with the Rice’s.
One summer evening I was over at the Rice’s house. To get there, there was a path between our houses. We went back-and-forth enough that we could walk that path or run that path or cartwheel on that path blindfolded. It was about the distance of two city blocks. It was partially dirt and grass. When it rained the dirt parts had big puddles and mud but in the summer there were just dips and high spots making it all the more fun to ride our bicycles over. There was a boulder near the end closest to our house. The large stone was the size of a hassock for a comfy living room armchair.
When I got to their house, it was almost sunset. They were making homemade taffy. Myrna cooked the taffy and when it was cool enough, the kids pulled and pulled it until it was shiny and smooth. We couldn’t resist eating it at the same time. Once Myrna said we had pulled enough, we cut it with scissors into bite size pieces and wrapped it in wax paper squares and twisted the ends to keep it from sticking together and to keep it fresh.
I was having a wonderful time laughing and talking and getting all sticky. I was popping bits of taffy into my mouth, the candy sticking to my teeth. Suddenly, I realized that a tooth, one of my molars, got stuck in taffy and pulled it right out of my gums and I had swallowed it. Immediately, I began to cry.
I ran from the house into the darkened yard. I should have been able to transverse that path with ease, but no. As I ran my eyes were filled with tears and I was afraid something terrible would happen to me since I had swallowed my tooth.
I was running wildly and at top speed. On any other night, I would have reached home in a minute or two. But when I got to the boulder, my toe hit it and my momentum launched my body over the boulder and into the grass headlong, adding insult to injury.
I was dazed. I was worried. Mom was still too far away. Eventually, I was able to get up and make my way to the house with bloodied knees and bloodied hands. And on top of that I had swallowed a tooth. I couldn’t imagine what would happen now. Would I die?
My mom, who first of all is a nurse and second of all is a stoic and third of all is a loving and caring mother, took me to the bathroom where the cleansing and disinfecting took place. No tiny stone or bits of sand or mud was left in my poor knees and hands and they were soon disinfected with mecurichrome and bandaged. No tears or crying for mercy stopped her from making sure that these injuries would heal properly.
It took a bit for her to understand that I was trying to say that not only did I have bodily injuries but I had swallowed my tooth along with a piece of taffy. I’m sure now that mom hid her smile at how distraught I was. She knew that that tooth would be quickly excreted along with everything else I had eaten.
But Mom being Mom, she held me tightly in her arms and comforted me and explained that I had nothing to worry about. I knew that the best place for me to be was in my mother’s arms. Once she assured me that this was not a life-or-death situation, I calmed quickly. This was just one of the many times that my mom picked me up, cleaned me up and took care of whatever injuries I suffered be they injuries to the heart or injuries to the body. She knew just what to say and just what to do.
How was I to know she would be offended. I thought this would honor her. But it affected our relationship, negatively, from that day forward .
It was decades ago and we had moved from Whidbey Island in the Puget Sound, off the coast of Washington, and into the astoundingly and equally beautiful Columbia River Gorge in Oregon.
We lived on the Island for about 7 years. During that time, we met some very interesting people. Among them were Magdalene and her husband Ivor. They had both been born to Ukrainian parents in the same refugee camp in Germany after WWII was over. His family was then sent to England and hers to the US to begin again.
Their families didn’t know one another. But later, once both Ivor and Magdalene were grown young adults, by happenstance, they met in New York City and fell in love. I won’t continue their story since it’s their story to tell.
How they ended up on Whidbey Island with 2 children in tow, I can’t recall. We moved to the Island because we were promised a house and a job. An old high school friend of Jack’s was pastoring a church there and had connections.
It was at this church that we met Ivor and Magdalene. Now, when I look back, it was the friends that we made that made being in a toxic environment seem worth it. I still have a couple of friends from that time. Fewer, of course, because whenever you leave “the church” being ostracized is the norm. But I digress.
The Borscht
I’m no expert, but from what I learned, borscht is an everyday, common soup/stew eaten in many countries of the world. Mainly made of beets, which gives it its distinctively rich, red bordeaux color and the tomatoes, fresh or canned. It takes on unique flavors based on the meat used for the broth and the addition of other mostly root vegetables. Some cooks add cabbage and others add saurkraut. Dill, fresh or dried, is sprinkled in liberally.
Once the meat is seared with the onions and garlic, water is added to cover and then left to simmer until the meat is fall off the bone tender and the broth is rich and savory. Various meats can be used… like I said, this is not a “precious” soup. Its kinda like a “what’s in the fridge” kinda everyday soup. Anyway, this is what I was taught.
Then carrots, potatoes and other vegetables of your choice are added and cooked until very tender. The meat always used in this recipe was pork short ribs. Once everything is red, dyed by the beet juice and it fills the kitchen with a delectable fragrance, you should dish up huge full ladles into big bowls. Forget about small bowls.
This is a main course soup eaten with crusty, white bread or other breads of your choice. I can imagine a dark rye sliced into thick slabs smeared with soft butter. Never mind if your bread is a day or two old. This soup is made for dunking bread in.
The finishing touch is a large dollop of sour cream, sprinkled with cayenne pepper and more dill. This soup quickly became a staple in our household even though the children wouldn’t eat it. Why, I’ll never know because they’re advenurous eaters and have always been. Even to this day they turn their noses up in disgust when I offer to make a pot of borscht.
So, I’ve kind of roughly given you the recipe for what I learned to make from Magdalene. While living on the Island, we would often go to their house after church to eat with them. More often than not, there was the delicious pot of borscht on the stove. I could always eat bowl after bowl after bowl.
I was so enamored of this soup, I asked Magdalene one day for the recipe. She gladly told me how to make it just like I’ve told you here. She would say things like, “pork short ribs or spare ribs or left over roast, whatever you have”. And the same for the vegetables with the exception of the beets and she always used saurkraut and so when I began to make my own pots of borscht, of course I always used pork short ribs and there was always the saurkraut. I wanted mine to taste just like hers.
The theft of the borscht recipe
As I mentioned before, even though the kids didn’t like the soup, I still made it often enough to make them complain. I didn’t change a thing that Magdalene had taught me.
It seemed only natural when a morning TV show, that I watched almost daily, had a cooking contest. They were asking for recipes with a $25, or was it a $50, prize for the one chosen as the most delicious and desirable. Within a month my recipe had won the prize and a check arrived in the mail and the recipe connected to my name was announced on the morning show. To me this was just good fun. And even though I knew how good the soup was, I wasn’t really expecting to win, so it was a wonderful surprise to hear my name and the name of the recipe announced.
Excited, I called Magdalene to tell her and to tell her I would share the money with her or that I would give it all to her since it was her recipe. She responded in a way that I never expected. She was mad. She was offended. She wanted nothing to do with it or with me. She hung up on me right then and there.
From then on there was a rift between us. We never saw one another again even though she had moved to the eastern part of Washington and we had moved into the Gorge. We never even talked to one another on the phone again.
Occasionally, I saw her posts on Facebook. She had survived cancer and had grandchildren. She looked wonderful and I missed her as a friend. This morning, another mutual friend told me that Magdalene had died 2 years ago after a fight, I assume, from another bout with cancer.
Then the memories of the borscht theft came rushing in. Without doubt, every time I make borscht, I remember Magdalene and the infamous theft. Thank you, Magdalene, for the wonderful unintentional gift of borscht. I’ll never forget you.
It was April 5th, 2023 at 4 o’clock in the afternoon when happy hour began. It was just 8 and a 1/2 hours before the pink moon arose at 12:34 am on the 6th.
Coincidentally, I awoke just at 12:34 without prompting. There were no bells that rang. There were no sounds outside of the house nor light that entered my room. I simply awoke.
I wasn’t surprised that it was at just that moment that I stirred and sat up. These things often happen to me. They probably happen to you too and if you’re paying attention you will notice them. Perhaps you look at the clock just at 11:11 or 3:33. I often wake up at exactly 12 o’clock midnight. Always in my mind, the thought arises, and I say, “it is the witching hour”. I don’t want to think those words but there they are.
Without intention, my friend and I planned to get together on this date a week or more before, never occuring to us that there might be significance. Perhaps it did occur to her being that she is deeply knowledgeable in astrology. If she did, she didn’t mention it to me.
I texted her early in the morning wondering if we were going to meet at her house or go out for food. It was then that she said she wanted to go to the Sapphire Hotel having never been there before.
I was excited by this prospect having been there several times previously. I knew the food was good, maybe even better than good and I knew the drinks were exceptional and extraordinary.
The hotel is squeezed between a coffee shop and a framing shop at the end of a busy business district known as Hawthorn. It’s one of those areas filled with bars, restaurants, bookstores, ritual shops and grocers. There’s only a small sign on the window painted in gold announcing it’s location. The windows were dark but I could see the small candles that burned inside and the brooding ambient light, the only evidence that it was open.
The Sapphire Hotel has a dark and shady past, having once housed a brothel. Such is the history of Portland, Oregon. Like most, if not all port cities, they hold deep and dangerous secrets hidden in their past.
We were the 1st to enter. We left the daylight behind us and chose a table tucked against the wall, a candle on the table, already flickering in the dim room. The dark wooden walls and floors, the oriental carpets and red velvet drapery alluded to the mysteries that lay dormant.
“How many of the people who come here know of its history”, I wondered. I could name many hotels and restaurants with seeedy pasts that housed whores and entertained criminals. But Portland has become a city of transplants. Not many anymore have been around long enough to care about its past.
We pondered over the drink menu with its many strange names. Finally I settled on a “Wai Fai password”. Mango with dark rum and heavily spiced. She ordered an “Aquarius”, astringent with Campari, reminiscent of a Negroni but sweeter. We ordered salty, mapley bacon wrapped dates and Korean bbq wings so spicy it took two before my mouth and lips got used to the heat. We lingered over these, leaning into each other, as we shared what we had been reading, studying, doing and worrying about since we last met.
Time passed as we enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe it was an hour when we decided to order our entree. It would be a medium rare steak with chimichurri sauce, roasted and seasoned potatoes and steamed fennel laced broccoli for us both. It is a rare occasion for me to eat beef but knowing what I knew already about the food here, I gave it a try.
The steak was thick and tender, slightly pink in its interior with a spoonful or two of the chimichurri so as not to overwhelm the flavor of the beef. This was one of those times that I thanked the universe that I had given up on veganism.
Still the conversation simultaneously and continuously wandered from topic to topic in some organic way that only we could follow, as again we lingered over our food and our 2nd drink. Perhaps another hour or more passed, we weren’t counting the minutes.
Because my friend had named our dinner out, “fuck it”, having been through a bit of suffering lately, we added dessert and a 3rd drink. Dessert was a dark, appearing almost black in the candle light, lava cake on a large plate surrounded by a scoop of vanilla ice cream, more than a dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel. We wanted coffee drinks to counter the sweetness but my Spanish coffee was laden with rum, kahlua, tuaca and another coffee liqueur but I declined the whip cream. Her drink of choice was a surprising Campari laced coffee with a whip of Negroni cream. “What?”, You might say, but it was extraordinarily pleasant leaving the mouth slightly dry.
Again, we lingered. We had drunk and eaten to our pleasure limit. By now we had spent 4 lush hours and we weren’t done yet but we gathered up our coats and bags and reluctantly departed. We slowly made our way to the car while petting dogs along the way: The big, black 12 year old, with his muzzle turning mostly white, with cloudy, rhuemy eyes and the one year old meat head pittie who wiggled and jumped on me to my delight.
We had a wonderful time at the Sapphire Hotel. But all things must come to an end. If like Buddha says, “Life is suffering” this was a pleasant reprieve. Thank you, my dear friend, for this respite.
Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.
That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.
Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.
He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave, everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.
I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.
Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.
I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.
I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.
I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.
I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be, insignificant details.
I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously, could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.
A friend of mine, Jeff, was found dead in his apartment. He worked for me for many years. I don’t know any details yet and I’m not sure that I will. He was totally depressed after retirement. He had at least a million dollars saved and a huge retirement package.
Jeff was forced to retire after working at OHSU for more than 40 years. He didn’t have any health issues and so I don’t know the cause of death. He might have taken his own life but I don’t know that. I will really miss hearing from him.
Jeff and I were friends for more than 20 years and he worked for me for at least 10 of those years. We became quite close and he told me a lot about himself, his family and his life. I knew him before he went through rehab for drinking and probably other drugs and I knew him after he got through rehab. I knew he was depressed and that he didn’t really want to go on living once he was forced into retirement but I didn’t think he would take his own life but I don’t know. Unless his friend Shirley contacts me to tell me what she knows, I may never know what happened.
I spent the day he died on the phone with people who knew Jeff and wanted to console me. My son came over and we had dinner together and before that he and my daughter went out for a hike in the snow.
I went upstairs and ate some Ginger snaps and drank a cup of tea and watched something on Netflix or YouTube. It’s hard for me to keep my mind off of what happened to Jeff. I want to know how he died. I want to know if there’s going to be an obituary… whether there’s going to be a memorial service. I’m just filled with questions. He didn’t have any family until he found some cousins some years back. His mom had passed away and he never knew his dad. I want to know who’s handling taking care of his body and his burial. Hopefully he had directives and plans for all of that. I’m just at a loss.
I talked to his friend Shirley for about an hour that night. She doesn’t know what he died from but he was in bed when she found him and he was already cold. He had lost so much weight and he was a tall bean pole anyway. He was so skinny he couldn’t keep his pants up. She had been taking him brunch and dinner everyday because she was worried about him. The day he died she had taken breakfast over. He sat in his chair. When she went back that evening with food, he was still sitting in his chair with the breakfast plate in his lap, only partially eaten. After he ate what she brought for dinner, she saw that he climbed into bed. The next day when she took a new breakfast, she found him dead.
She didn’t know the cause of death, but she’s calling the coroner’s office today. My friend Judith, who also knew Jeff, said he died of a broken heart. That might be. He was so hopeless and lonely. He really wanted a female companion and he did not want to retire.
He had FB friends but other than Shirley and James, he didn’t see anyone. He had, in the last years, found family and was so thrilled. He had photos, and histories… they were quite well off. He found out who his father was and found his half brother. His half brother is coming from California to settle Jeff’s affairs. If family members are his beneficiaries, they’re going to inherit quite a fortune.
The cousins I contacted are in shock. I also contacted his oldest friend… since childhood, and he’s really shocked, too.
Shirley doesn’t believe he would take his own life. She’s known him longer than I have, so I tend to believe her. No blood, no vomit, no pained look on his face or uncomfortable posture. It was as though he just passed over.
I hope his brother arranges some kind of get together.
I hope I learn more. If his brother doesn’t arrange to clear out his apartment, I’m going to go over and help Shirley do it.
I tend to believe that I will never find out the real cause of his death, that thought is good enough for me. He was miserable and no matter what I said to him it didn’t change how he felt. Jeff loved food. For him not to be eating meant a lot. Maybe he just let go.
You and I both know that we can’t control another person’s life if they don’t want to live. It’s really their own personal choice and we have no say in it no matter how much we love them. We have to let each person that we love walk their own path without our interference. But we, who are Left Behind in these circumstances, suffer a great deal of loss and pain. Jeff now is out of pain; he’s out of misery.
It seems like he had been to the doctor but wasn’t going back. He was having back pain. He really didn’t see any reason to go on; he had no purpose in life, he thought. He was lonely and miserable and had obviously started drinking again after years and years of abstinence. Jeff was done. He wanted to step off and he did.
For some reason I decided I would go over and help Shirley clean the apartment. Jeff’s brother has come and gone. He took what he wanted. I don’t know what he took since this is the first time I’ve been in his house. All of the furniture is still there. Nothing worth saving really. The books are mainly packed up. I gathered up all the DVDs, CDs, videos. His old friend, Shirley, is cleaning his kitchen, bathroom, and getting rid of his clothes. His electronic devices are still there, nothing worth much. I spent all my time today gathering papers from every drawer, nooks, crannies and shelves, in every room. I’ll spend tomorrow sorting. I don’t have any more heavy things to lift, thank goodness. There is one small table I want… well, two, but I’ll check with Shirley. I don’t really have any right to them. I’m just doing this to honor Jeff. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was wild in his youth, but always kind and a loyal friend. He was my best employee. Really brilliant. It’s so sad he had only found his family in recent years. I just want to help preserve something of him.
He had a nice home. Books, entertainment, money but even with friends and new found family, it wasn’t enough to make life worthwhile without work. I’ve never been depressed so I don’t understand it.
He obviously had kidney problems because they don’t just fail suddenly but he never said a word. Maybe I’ll find evidence of it in his papers. Funny, he was a wonderful archives assistant, yet his own papers are in total disarray. His place is beyond dirty. He could have easily hired a house keeper. He ate very well. He loved food. Good old fashioned American fare. But, once forced to retire, he lapsed into drinking again. Dammit!
When I got home from Jeff’s. I took a bath using a CBD bath bomb. That was so relaxing. I have another day over at Jeff’s to be done with not only his paperwork but boxing up his books and throwing away a ton of paperwork, knick knacks, clothes and the like.
There’s no one who gives a damn but me and Shirley. Today, Shirley stayed and helped haul stuff out to the dumpster. I have gathered up at least 2 boxes of things to send to his family. I’ll have a large box of his writings. I actually don’t know what to do with them. The boxes will go to Powell”s bookstore or to the Goodwill or the management co. will deal with them. There is a box full of land deeds from his family. I wonder if they still own all this land and just don’t know about it. I’m going to try to find out who to send them to tonight.
Nobody is here who cares.
Shirley is my age and a long time alcoholic. But more importantly, she’s a Blood/Blackfeet Indian. She’s been married to a white man for 23 years who’s been in love with a black woman for the last 5 or 6 years. She’s full of tales of abuse and fighting, of arguing, of jealousy and the cops coming to the house. Funny though, I like her as long as she doesn’t say anything about trump. How can a Canadian-American Indian say anything good about trump. The only thing I can figure out is that her husband is a racist/ redneck and so she’s getting her political views from him.
She’s a tiny, skinny woman and a hard worker and strong. She’s been married 5 times but only has one, gigantic, son who is 32 and a daughter. She’s toothless but has a good figure and I think at one time was probably quite attractive. She has bronze skin and deep brown eyes and a typical Indian nose… long, slightly hooked and wide, on a round face with high cheekbones and with long black hair that she dyes. She’s letting it grow out and the white is shockingly white. She tells of Indian wisdom and yet she allows herself to be humiliated. She says she is stuck in this relationship. Her husband is one of Jeff’s oldest friends and Jeff was the best man at their wedding. She came to love Jeff as a brother and cared for him, having him over for all holidays, sending him home with food for him to cook or with leftovers every week, taking him shopping. James and Shirley were companions to Jeff through rehab but now everybody drinks and smokes. She got a call from James twice while we were working and he wanted her to take his stimulus check and go out and buy whiskey and beer.
She told me the story of a time that he burned her with chile by throwing it on her off the stove and all over the couch. Now James has had a stroke and he can’t walk and he can’t hurt her anymore and the black woman doesn’t want him. Shirley wants him though, at least she needs him. Yesterday, I had to deliver Jeff’s keys to her house. Shirley wasn’t home but James was laying on the couch yelling at me to open the door. At 1st I didn’t hear him and so he yelled forcefully to open the door. Their house is cozy. They have nice things.
Shirley has worked hard all of her life. She got fired just recently though because her company found out she had voted for trump, that’s what she says. They said it was ethical for them to fire her. Between James and Shirley’s social security and maybe retirement they probably have enough to live on without Shirley working. She could put James in a nursing home and she could move back to the reservation where she has family. She might be happier there but she wants to stay close to her son Calvin even though her daughter lives on the reservation.
It’s not funny how we get stuck in situations that are not good for us and yet we stay. I wish Shirley all of the best. I think I might miss seeing her. I couldn’t really socialize with her at home, but perhaps I could meet her for coffee some times. She’s a very generous person. Perhaps if she moved back to the reservation she could see how trump is a bastard.
I’m happy. I hope you’re happy too. I have a sense of accomplishment for working over at Jeff’s even though it was not my responsibility. I feel good that I was able to do something for him even though he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to his material belongings now that he has passed on to something, somewhere, we know not where or what or how. For now his family will have a sense of who Jeff was though they barely knew him. What a terrible father he had not to let his other kids know about their brother. He was all alone for many years. He was the offspring of an affair… but unwanted. That’s very sad.
eyeamdust 