Contentment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Middlesex (2002)

  utes were elapsed I clambered up onto the carpet and dried off. Over the sound system Bob Presto was saying, "Let's hear it for Hermaph- roditus, ladies and gentlemen! Only here at Octopussy's Garden, where gender is always on a bender! I'm telling you, folks, we put the glam rock in the rock lobsters, we put the AC/DC in the mahi mahi . ." . Beached on her side, Zora with blue eyes and golden hair asked me, "Am I zipped?" I checked. "This tank is making me all congested. I'm always congested." "You want something from the bar?" "Get me a Negroni, Cal. Thanks." "Ladies and Gendemen, it's time for our next attraction here at Octopussy's Garden. Yes, I see now that the boys from Steinhardt Aquarium are just bringing her in. Put those tokens in the boxes, ladies and gendemen, this is something you won't want to miss. May I have a drum roll, please? On second thought, make that a sushi roll." Zora's music started. Her overture. "Ladies and gendemen, since time immemorial mariners have told stories of seeing incredible creatures, half woman, half fish, swimming in the seas. We here at Sixty-Niners did not give credence to such stories. But a tuna fisherman of our acquaintance brought us an amazing catch the other day. And now we know those stories are true. Ladies and gendemen," crooned Bob Presto, "does . . anyone . . . . smell . . .fish!" At that cue, Zora in her rubber suit with the flashing green se- quin scales would tumble into the tank. The suit came up to her waist and left her chest and shoulders bare. Into the aquatic light Zora streamed, opening her eyes underwater as I did not, smiling at the men and women in the booths, her long blond hair flowing behind her like seaweed, tiny air bubbles beading her breasts like pearls, as she kicked her glittering emerald fish tail. She performed no lewd- ness. Zora's beauty was so great that everyone was content merely to look at her, the white skin, the beautiful breasts, the taut belly with its winking navel, the magnificent curve of her swaying backside where flesh merged with scales. She swam with her arms at her sides, voluptuously fluctuating. Her face was serene, her eyes a light Caribbean blue. Downstairs a constant disco beat throbbed, but up 485 here in Octopussy's Garden the music was ethereal, a kind of melodi- ous bubbling itself. Viewed from a certain angle, there was a kind of artistry to it. Sixty-Niners was a smut pavilion, but up in the Garden the atmo- sphere was exotic rather than raunchy. It was the sexual equivalent of Trader Vic's. Viewers got to see strange things, uncommon bodies, but much of the appeal was the transport involved. Looking through their portholes, the customers were watching real bodies do the

• From Middlesex (2002)

  ons; and local, earth-tone Pewabics. For tables, he upended cable reels and spread them with cloths. He tented bedsheets overhead, hiding the pipes. From his old connections in the rum-running busi- ness he rented a slot machine and ordered a week's supply of beer and whiskey. And on a cold Friday night in February of 1924, he opened for business. The Zebra Room was a neighborhood place with irregular hours. Whenever Lefty was open for business he put an icon of St. George in the living room window, facing the street. Patrons came around back, giving a coded knock— a long and two shorts followed by two longs— on die basement door. Then they descended out of the Amer- ica of factory work and tyrannical foremen into an Arcadian grotto of forgetfulness. My grandfather put the Victrola in the corner. He set out braided sesame koulouria on the bar. He greeted people with the exuberance they expected from a foreigner and he flirted with the ladies. Behind the bar a stained glass window of liquor bottles glowed: the blues of English gin, the deep reds of claret and Madeira, the tawny browns of scotch and bourbon. A hanging lamp spun on its chain, speckling the zebra skin with light and making the cus- tomers feel even drunker than they were. Occasionally someone would stand up from his chair and begin to twitch and snap his fin- gers to the strange music, while his companions laughed. Down in that basement speakeasy, my grandfather acquired the attributes of the barkeep he would be for the rest of his life. He chan- neled his intellectual powers into the science of mixology. He learned how to serve the evening rush one-man-band style, pouring whiskeys with his right hand while filling beer steins with his left, as he pushed 132 out coasters with his elbow and pumped the keg with his foot. For fourteen to sixteen hours a day he worked in that sumptuously deco- rated hole in the ground and never stopped moving the entire time. If he wasn't pouring drinks, he was refilling the koulouria trays. If he wasn't roiling out a new beer keg, he was placing hard-boiled eggs in a wire hamper. He kept his body busy so that his mind wouldn't have a chance to think: about the growing coldness of his wife, or the way their crime pursued them. Lefty had dreamed of opening a casino, and the Zebra Room was as close as he ever came to it. There was no gambling, no potted palms, but there was rebetika and, on many nights, hashish. Only in 1958, when he had stepped from behind the bar of another Zebra Room, would my grandfather have the leisure to remember his youthful dreams of roulette wheels. Then, trying to make up for lost time, he would ruin himself, and finally silence his voice in my life forever.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Your parents let you smoke?" I said. She looked up, surprised, then returned to the work at hand. She got the cigarette going, inhaled deeply, and let it out, slowly, satisfy- ingly. "They smoke," she said. "They'd be pretty big hypocrites if they didn't let me smoke." "But they're adults." "Mummy and Daddy know I'm going to smoke if I want to. If they don't let me do it, I'll just sneak it." By the looks of it, this dispensation had been in effect for some time. The Object was not new to smoking. She was already a profes- sional. As she sized me up, her eyes narrowing, the cigarette hung 332 aslant from her mouth. Smoke drifted close to her face. It was a strange opposition: the hard-bitten private-eye expression on the face of a girl wearing a uniform for private school. Finally she reached up and took the cigarette out of her mouth. Without looking for the ashtray, she flicked her ash. It fell in. "I doubt a kid like you smokes," she said. "That would be a good guess." "You interested in starting?" She held out her pack of Tareytons. "I don't want to get cancer." She tossed the pack down, shrugging. "I figure they'll be able to cure it by the time I get it." "I hope so. For your sake." She inhaled again, even more deeply. She held the smoke in and then turned in cinematic profile and let it out. "You don't have any bad habits, I bet," she said. "I've got tons of bad habits." "Like what?" "Like I chew my hair." "I bite my nails," she said competitively. She lifted one hand to show me. "Mummy got me this stuff to put on them. It tastes like shit. It's supposed to help you quit." "Does it work?" "At first it did. But now I sort of like the taste." She smiled. I smiled. Then, briefly, trying it out, we laughed together. "That's not as bad as chewing your hair," I resumed. "Why not?" "Because when you chew your hair it starts smelling like what you had for lunch." She made a face and said, "Bogue." At school we would have felt funny talking together, but here no one could see us. In the bigger scheme of things, out in the world, we were more alike than different. We were both teenagers. We were both from the suburbs. I set down my bag and came over to the sofa. The Object put her Tareyton in her mouth. Planting her palms on ei- ther side of her crossed legs, she lifted herself up, like a yogi levitat- ing, and scooted over to make room for me. "I've got a history test tomorrow," she said. "Who do you have for history?" 333 " "Miss Schuyler." "Miss Schuyler has a vibrator in her desk"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Freezethe action.Amomentousnight,this, for allinvolved(in- cludingme). I want to record thepositions(Leftydorsal,Lina couchant) andthecircumstances(night's amnesty)and the direct cause(a playabouta hybrid monster).Parents aresupposedto pass downphysical traitstotheir children,butit's mybeliefthatallsorts ofother thingsgetpasseddown, too:motifs,scenarios, evenfates. Wouldn'tIalsosneakuponagirlpretending to be asleep? And wouldn'tthere also bea play involved,and somebodydying onstage? Leavingthesegenealogical questionsaside,Ireturn tothebiolog- icalfacts.Likecollegegirlssharing adormroom, Desdemonaand Linawerebothsynchronizedintheir menstrual cycles.Thatnight wasdayfourteen.Nothermometerverified this, buta few weeks laterthe symptomsof nauseaandhypersensitive nosesdid. "Who- ever nameditmorning sicknesswas a man,"Lina declared. "Hewas justhomeinthemorning tonotice."Thenausea keptnoschedule; it ownednowatch.Theyweresick intheafternoon, inthemiddleof the night. Pregnancy wasa boat inastormand theycouldn't get off. And so theylashed themselves to the mastsoftheir bedsandrode outthesquall.Everything theycamein contactwith, thebedsheets, thepillows,theair itself,begantoturn onthem.Their husbands' breath becameintolerable, andwhentheyweren't toosick to move, they werewavingtheir arms, gesturing tothe mentokeepaway. Pregnancy humbledthehusbands. Afteraninitial rushofmale pride, they quicklyrecognizedtheminor rolethatnature hadas- signed themin thedramaofreproduction,and quiedywithdrewinto abaffled reserve, catalyststo an explosionthey couldn'texplain. While their wivesgrandlysufferedinthe bedrooms,Zizmo andLefty retreated tothe salatolistentomusic,or drovetoacoffeehousein Greektown whereno one would beoffended by their smell.They played backgammon andtalkedpolitics, andnoonespokeabout women because inthecoffeehouseeveryone wasa bachelor, nomat- terhow old hewas orhow manychildrenhe'd givenawifewhopre- ferred theircompany tohis. The talkwasalwaysthesame, ofthe Turks and theirbrutality,ofVenizelos andhismistakes,ofKing Constantine andhis return,andoftheunavenged crimeofSmyrna burned. "And does anybodycare?No!" "It's like whatBerengersaidtoClemenceau: c Hewhoowns the oil owns theworld.' " 109 "ThosedamnTurks!Murderersand rapists!" "They desecratedtheHagia Sophiaandnow theydestroyed Smyrna!" But hereZizmo spoke up: "Stopbellyaching. Thewarwas the Greeks'fault." "What!" "Whoinvadedwho?"askedZizmo. "TheTurksinvaded.In 1453." "TheGreeks can't evenrun theirowncountry. Whydotheyneed another! 1 " Atthispoint,men stoodup,chairswereknockedover."Whothe hellareyou, Zizmo? GoddamnedPontian!Turk-sympathizer!" "Isympathize withthe truth,"shoutedZizmo. "There'snoevi- dencetheTurksstartedthatfire.TheGreeksdid ittoblameitonthe Turks." Leftysteppedbetweenthemen,preventingafight.Afterthat, Zizmo kept hispoliticalopinions to himself. Hesatmoroselydrink- ingcoffee,readinganoddassortmentofmagazinesorpamphlets speculatingonspacetravelandancient civilizations. Hechewedhis lemonpeelsandtoldLefty to do so,too. Together,theysettledinto the randomcamaraderie ofmen onthe outskirtsofa birth. Likeall expectantfathers,theirtiioughtsturnedtomoney. Mygrandfatherhadnevertold Jimmy thereasonforhisdismissal fromFord, but Zizmo hadagood ideawhyitmighthavehappened. And so,a few weekslater,hemadewhat restitutionhecould. "Just actlikewe'regoingfor a drive." "Okay." "Ifwe getstopped,don'tsayanything." "Okay." "Thisisabetter jobthantheRouge. Believeme. Fivedollars a day isnothing.Andhere youcaneat allthegarlicyou want." Theyareinthe Packard,passingthe amusement grounds of Elec- tricPark. It'sfoggy out,andlate—justpast3 a.m.Tobehonest, the amusement grounds shouldbeclosedat thishour,but, for my own purposes, tonightElectric Parkisopenall night, andthefog sud- denlylifts,allso that mygrandfathercanlook out thewindowand see a roller coasterstreakingdown the track.A moment of cheap 110 symbolism only,andthen I havetobowto thestrictrulesof realism, whichis tosay:they can't seea thing.Springfogfoamsovertheram- parts ofthe newlyopenedBelleIsleBridge.Theyellowglobesof streetlamps glow, aureoled inthemist. "Lot oftraffic forthislate,"Leftymarvels. "Yes,"says Zizmo."It'sverypopular at night." Thebridge liftsthemgenriyabovetheriverand sets themback down ontheotherside.BelleIsle,aparamecium-shapedislandinthe DetroitRiver,liesless than halfamilefromtheCanadianshore.By day, theparkis fullofpicnickers andstrollers.Fishermenlineits muddybanks. Churchgroups holdtentmeetings.Comedark,how- ever,the island takes onanoffshoreatmosphereofrelaxed morals. Lovers parkinsecludedlookouts.Carsrolloverthebridge onshad- owy missions.Zizmodrivesthroughthegloom, past the octagonal gazebosandthemonumentoftheCivilWarHero,andintothe woodswheretheOttawaonceheldtheirsummercamp.Fogwipes thewindshield.Birchtreesshedparchmentbeneathanink-black sky. Missingfrommostcarsinthe1920s:rearviewmirrors."Steer," Zizmo keepssaying,andturnsaroundtoseeifthey'rebeingfol- lowed. Inthisfashion,tradingthewheel,theyweavealongCentral AvenueandThe Strand,circlingtheislandthreetimes,until Zizmo issatisfied. Atthenortheasternend,hepullsthecarover,facing Canada. "Whyare westopping?" "Wait andsee." Zizmoturns theheadlights onandoffthree times.Hegetsout of the car.So doesLefty.They standinthedarknessamidriversounds, waves lapping, freighters blowingfoghorns.Thenthere'sanother sound: adistanthum."Youhavean office?" my grandfather asks. "A warehouse?" "Thisismyoffice." Zizmowaveshishandsthroughdie air.He points tothe Packard."Andthat'smywarehouse." Thehumis gettinglouder now;Lefty squintsthroughthefog."Iusedtowork for the railroad." Zizmotakes adriedapricotoutofhispocketand eatsit. "Out WestinUtah. Broke my back. Then Igot smart."But the hum has almost reachedthem; Zizmoisopeningthetrunk.And now, in thefog, an outboardappears,asleek craftwith twomen aboard. They cuttheengineas theboatglidesintothereeds. Zizmo hands an envelopetooneman.The otherwhisksthetarp offthe 111

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  He liked “the Creek,” as he called it, but “You have to be careful here, with students and with teachers. And I do hate being careful.” He smirked. I hated being careful, too—or wanted to, at least. He told me this while ripping through his duffel bag, throwing clothes into drawers with reckless abandon. Chip did not believe in having a sock drawer or a T-shirt drawer. He believed that all drawers were created equal and filled each with whatever fit. My mother would have died. As soon as he finished “unpacking,” Chip hit me roughly on the shoulder, said, “I hope you’re stronger than you look,” and walked out the door, leaving it open behind him. He peeked his head back in a few seconds later and saw me standing still. “Well, come on, Miles To Go Halter. We got shit to do.” We made our way to the TV room, which according to Chip contained the only cable TV on campus. Over the summer, it served as a storage unit. Packed nearly to the ceiling with couches, fridges, and rolled-up carpets, the TV room undulated with kids trying to find and haul away their stuff. Chip said hello to a few people but didn’t introduce me. As he wandered through the couch-stocked maze, I stood near the room’s entrance, trying my best not to block pairs of roommates as they maneuvered furniture through the narrow front door. It took ten minutes for Chip to find his stuff, and an hour more for us to make four trips back and forth across the dorm circle between the TV room and Room 43. By the end, I wanted to crawl into Chip’s minifridge and sleep for a thousand years, but Chip seemed immune to both fatigue and heatstroke. I sat down on his couch. “I found it lying on a curb in my neighborhood a couple years ago,” he said of the couch as he worked on setting up my PlayStation 2 on top of his footlocker. “I know the leather’s got some cracks, but come on. That’s a damn nice couch.” The leather had more than a few cracks—it was about 30 percent baby blue faux leather and 70 percent foam—but it felt damn good to me anyway. “All right,” he said. “We’re about done.” He walked over to his desk and pulled a roll of duct tape from a drawer. “We just need your trunk.” I got up, pulled the trunk out from under the bed, and Chip situated it between the couch and the PlayStation 2 and started tearing off thin strips of duct tape. He applied them to the trunk so that they spelled out COFFEE TABLE . “There,” he said. He sat down and put his feet up on the, uh, coffee table. “Done.” I sat down next to him, and he looked over at me and suddenly said, “Listen.

• From The Journals of Sylvia Plath (1982)

  So is the lady with jaundice three beds down to my left next to Gran. She is bright yellow, has been “opened” innumerable times and is going to Clacton-on-the-Sea—to a convent convalescent home where the nuns bake their own bread and do up tasty dishes. “The Salt air does you good,” I say. I face Helga’s aa pot of tulips and Charles’s ab dying iris and daffodils. “That yellow stuff’s lasted well,” Daisy says of Miss Stapleton’s bouquet. “For-sigh-thia,” drawls Maury with the pain- set face and tart tongue. She told me she’ll never be able to move her arm, just her fingers. Now it is 1:40 P.M. Sunday afternoon. I have desperately washed, powdered my sallow bandaged body, combed my greasy hair—feel shoddily in need of a shampoo. Bunny and Joan are talking about the difference between “black African” and “white Afrikaans.” The nurses are “tidying” beds before visiting hours. To my own surprise I am allowed to go out and sit on a park bench in the sun with Ted and the pooker [Frieda] as I did yesterday all afternoon; I am immensely fond of all the nurses in their black and white pin-striped dresses, white aprons and hats and black shoes and stockings. Their youth is the chief beauty about them—youth, absolute starched cleanliness and a comforting tidying-up and brow-smoothing air. The routine, even with the quite short night’s sleep (about 10–6 if lucky— swimming to it through Mrs. John’s snores and clutching it through the nurses’ morning bustle and glassy clatter) I feel more fresh and rested than I have for months. I am above the “sick level” of the place so I have an extra advantage—although I slightly cancel it by much bedside visiting and gossiping. I feel so fresh and peaceful now, in spite of a slight shiver at the thought of my stitches coming out—it is like a diverting holiday—my first since the baby was born almost a year ago: quite bracing. All morning talked to Jay Wynn across the way about her office and private life and nervous breakdown—cannot congratulate myself too much on this confidence because I blabbed about my own breakdown and misapplied shock treatment. Shall outline her account after I come in tonight. Ted is actually having a rougher time than I— poor love sounded quite squashed yesterday: “How do you do it all?... The pooker makes an astonishing amount of pots to wash.... She wets a lot” and “I seem to be eating mostly bread!” I felt needed and very happy and lucky. My life—as I compare it to those in the ward about me—is so fine—everything but money and a house—love and all. A sunny day. HOT. The radiator at my back makes me sweat—I should have listed it among annoyances. The windows—the three bay windows on the far side of the ward—are white and dazzling with sun. Dark green blinds, dulled moon-bulbs. 7:45 P.M., twilight.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  and scoldedher husbandfor tryingtocarrythingstooheavyforhim. "Do you thinkyou'reyoung? LetMilton do it.You'reanoldman." Underone armsheheldthesilkworm box,whichwasn'tforsale. Whenshesaw theportrait ofthePatriarch, shegaspedinhorror."We don'thavebad luckenough youwant to sellthePatriarch?" She snatcheditupandcarried itinside.Fortherestofthe dayshe remained inthekitchen,unable towatchthemiscellaneous hordeof yard salescavengerspickoverher personalpossessions.There were weekendantiquers from thesuburbswho broughttheirdogsalong, andfamiliesdownon their luckwho ropedchairstotheroofsof bat- teredcars,anddiscriminatingmale coupleswhoturnedeverything overto search fortrademarksonthebottom. Desdemonawould havefeltnomore ashamed hadsheherself beenforsale,displayed naked onthegreensofa,apricetaghangingfrom herfoot.When everythinghad been sold orgivenaway,Miltondrove mygrandpar- ents'remainingbelongings in a rentedtruckthe twelveblocksto Seminole. Inordertogive themprivacy,mygrandparentswereoffered the attic.Riskinginjury, myfatherand Jimmy Papanikolascarriedevery- thingupthesecret stairway behind thewallpapereddoor. Up into the peakedspace theycartedmy grandparents'disassembled bed,the leather ottoman, thebrass coffeetable,andLefty'srebetikarecords. Trying tomake up withhiswife,mygrandfatherbroughthomethe first ofthe manyparakeetsmygrandparentswouldhaveoverthe years, andgradually, livingontopofus all,Desdemona andLefty madetheir next-to-last home together.Forthenextnine years,Des- demona complained ofthe crampedquartersandofthepaininher legs when she descendedthe stairs;buteverytimemy father offered tomove her downstairs,she refused.Inmyopinion,sheenjoyedthe attic because thevertigoof livingupthereremindedherofMount Olympus. The dormer window provided a goodview(notofsultans' tombs but oftheEdison factory),andwhensheleft thewindow open, the wind blew throughas itused to doinBithynios. Up inthe attic, Desdemona andLefty camebackto wheretheystarted. As does my story. Because now Chapter Eleven, my five-year-oldbrother,and JimmyPapanikolas are eachholdingaredegg. Dyedthecolorof the blood of Christ,moreeggs fill a bowlonthe diningroom table.Red 209 eggs arelined alongthe mantel.Theyhang in string pouches over doorways. Zeus liberatedalllivingthingsfrom an egg. Ex ovoomnia.The white flew up to become the sky,theyolk descendedintoearth.And onGreekEaster,westillplaythe egg-crackinggame. Jimmy Pa- panikolasholdshis egg out,passive, asChapterElevenrams hisegg againstit.Always onlyoneeggcracks. "Iwin!"shoutsChapter Eleven.NowMiltonselects anegg from thebowl."Thislookslike a goodone.Builtlike aBrinkstruck."Heholdsit out.Chapter Eleven preparestoramit.Butbeforeanythinghappens, mymothertapsmy father ontheback.Shehasathermometerinhermouth. Asdinnerdishesareclearedfromthe tabledownstairs,myparents ascendhandinhandtotheirbedroom.AsDesdemonacracksher egg againstLefty's,myparentsshuckoff astrictminimumofclothing.As Sourmelina,backfromNewMexicofortheholidays,playstheegg gamewithMrs. Watson,myfatherletsoutasmallgroan, rolls side- waysoffmymother,anddeclares,"Thatshould doit." Thebedroom growsstill.Insidemymother,a billionspermswim upstream,malesin the lead.Theycarrynotonlyinstructionsabout eyecolor,height,noseshape,enzymeproduction,microphageresis- tance, buta story, too. Against a blackbackgroundtheyswim,along white silkenthreadspinningitselfout.Thethread beganon aday twohundredandfiftyyears ago, whenthebiologygods,for their ownamusement, monkeyedwitha geneon a baby'sfifthchromo- some. That babypassed themutationontoherson, who passed iton to his twodaughters, whopassedit ontothreeof theirchildren(my great-great-greats, etc.),untilfinallyitendedup inthebodiesofmy grandparents. Hitchingaride,the genedescendeda mountainand left:a village behind.Itgottrapped in a burning cityandescaped, speaking badFrench.Crossingtheocean,it fakeda romance,circled a ship'sdeck, andmadelovein a lifeboat.Ithad itsbraidscut off.It tooka train toDetroit andmoved into a house onHurlbut;it con- sulted dream books andopenedan underground speakeasy;itgota jobat Temple No.1...Andthenthe genemoved onagain,into new bodies... It joined theBoyScouts andpainted its toenailsred;it played "Begin the Beguine"outtheback window; itwent off to war and stayedat home, watching newsreels;ittook an entranceexam; posedlikethe movie magazines;received a death sentence andmade 210 a deal with St. Christopher;itdated a futurepriestand brokeoffan engagement; itwas saved byabosun'schair...always moving ahead, rushing along,only afewmorecurvesleftinthe tracknow, Annapolis andasubmarinechaser ... untilthebiologygodsknew thiswas theirtime, this waswhatthey'dbeenwaitingfor,andasa spoon swung andzyiayiaworried, my destiny fellinto place ... On March 20, 1954, ChapterElevenarrived andthebiologygodsshook theirheads,nope, sorry ... Butthere was stilltime,everything was in place,the rollercoasterwasinfreefallandthere was nostoppingit now,my fatherwasseeingvisionsoflittlegirlsandmymother was prayingtoa ChristPantocratorshedidn'tentirelybelievein,untilfi- nally—rightthisminute!—onGreekEaster, 1959, it'sabouttohap- pen.Thegeneisabouttomeetitstwin. Asspermmeetsegg,Ifeelajolt.There'saloudsound,asonic boomasmyworldcracks.Ifeel myselfshift,alreadylosing bits ofmy prenatalomniscience, tumblingtoward the blankslateofperson- hood.(Withtheshredof all-knowingnessIhaveleft,I see mygrand- father,Lefty Stephanides, onthenightofmybirthninemonthsfrom now,turning a demitasse cup upsidedownonasaucer.Iseehiscof- feegroundsforming asignas painexplodesinhistempleandhetop- plestothefloor.)Againthespermramsmy capsule;andIrealizeI can'tputitoffanylonger.Theleaseonmy terrificlittleapartmentis finally upandI'mbeingevicted. SoIraiseonefist(male-typically) andbegin tobeatonthewalls ofmyeggshelluntilitcracks.Then, slipperyas ayolk,Idive headfirstintotheworld. "I'm sorry,little baby girl,"my mothersaidin bed, touchingher bellyand alreadyspeakingtome. "Iwanted it to be moreromantic." "Youwant romantic?"saidmy father."Where'smy clarinet?" 211 BOOK THREE

• From Middlesex (2002)

  floor,but onthe way theytookhimlots ofotherplacesaswell. There was a landing,forinstance, overhungwith a mobile.Thestairway walls had peepholesand shelvescutinto them.Asyouclimbed,you couldsee thelegsofsomeone passingalongthehallwayabove.You couldspy on someone downintheliving room. "Where aretheclosets?" Tessieasked as soon aswegotinside. "Closets?" "Thekitchen'samillionmiles away from thefamilyroom,Milt. Everytimeyou want a snack youhavetotraipseallthewayacross the house." "It'll give us someexercise." "AndhowamIsupposedtofindcurtainsforthosewindows? Theydon'tmakecurtainsthatbig.Everyonecanseerightin!" "Thinkofit this way.Wecansee right out." Butthen therewas a screamattheotherendofthehouse: "Mana!" Againstherbetterjudgment,Desdemona hadpressed abuttonon thewall."Whatkinddoor thisis?"shewasshoutingasweallcame running."Itmoveby itself!" "Hey,cool,"saidChapter Eleven."Tryit, Cal.Putyourhead in thedoorway. Yeah, likethat . . ." "Don'tfoolwiththat door,kids." "I'mjusttestingthe pressure." "Ow!" "What didI tell you? Birdbrain.Nowget yoursisteroutofthe door." "I'm trying.The button doesn't work." "What doyou meanit doesn't work?" "Oh,thisiswonderful, Milt.No closets,andnowwehavetocall thefire departmentto get Callie outof thedoor." "It'snot designed to have someone's neck init." "Mana!" "Canyoubreathe, honey?" "Yeah, butithurts." "It's likethatguyat Carlsbad Caverns," saidChapter Eleven. "He got stuck andthey had to feed himfor forty daysandthenhefinally died." "Stop wriggling, Callie. You're making it—" 259 "I'mnot wriggling—" "Icansee Callie's underwear!Ican seeCallie'sunderwear!" "Stopthatrightnow" "Here,Tessie,takeCallie'sleg. Okay,onthree. A-oneanda-two anda-three!" Wesettled in,with ourvariousmisgivings. Aftertheincidentwith thepneumaticdoor,Desdemonahad apremonitionthat thishouse ofmodernconveniences(which wasinfactnearly as old asshewas) would bethelastshewouldeverlivein. Shemovedwhatremained ofherand my grandfather'sbelongings intothe guesthouse—the brasscoffee table, thesilkwormbox, theportraitofPatriarch Athenagoras—butshecouldnever getusedtotheskylight,which waslikeaholeinthe roof, orthepush-pedalfaucet inthebathroom, ortheboxthatspokeonthewall.(Every roomonMiddlesexwas equipped with anintercom.Backwhentheyhadbeeninstalledinthe 1940s—overdiirty yearsafterthehouseitselfhadbeenbuiltin 1909—theintercomshadprobablyallworked.But by 1967 you mightspeakintothekitchenintercom onlytohaveyourvoicecome outinthemasterbedroom.Thespeakersdistortedourvoices, so that wehad to listenveryclosely to understand whatwas beingsaid,like decipheringachild'sfirst,garbledspeech.) ChapterEleven tapped intothepneumaticsysteminthebase- mentand spenthourssendingaPing-Pongball aroundthehouse throughanetworkofvacuumcleanerhoses.Tessieneverstopped complainingabout the lackofcloset space andtheimpracticallayout, but gradually, thankstoatouchof claustrophobia,shegrew toap- preciateMiddlesex'sglasswalls. Leftycleanedthem.Makinghimself useful as always, hetook uponhimselfthe Sisypheantaskof keepingallthoseModernistsur- faces sparkling. Withthesame concentrationhetrainedontheaorist tenseof ancient Greekverbs—atenseso fullofwearinessit specified actionsthat might never be completed—Leftynow cleanedthe huge picturewindows,the fogged glassofthegreenhouse, thesliding doorsthatled to thecourtyard, and eventhe skylights.Ashe was Windexingthenewhouse,however,Chapter ElevenandIwere ex- ploringit.Or, Ishould say,them.The meditative, pastelyellowcube that facedthe streetcontained themain livingquarters. Behindthat 260 lay a courtyard with adrypooland afragiledogwoodleaningoverin vain tosee itsreflection.Along the westernedgeofthiscourtyard, extending fromthebackofthe kitchen,ran awhite,translucenttun- nel, somethinglikethe tubesthatconduct footballteams ontothe field.This tunnelledtoasmall domed outbuilding— a sortofhuge igloo— surroundedbyacovered porch.Inside wasabathingpool (just warming up now, gettingready to play itspartinmylife). Be- hindthe bathhousewas yetanothercourtyard,floored withsmooth black stones. Alongthe easternedge ofthis,tobalance thetunnel, rana porticolined with thinbrowniron beams.Theporticoled up to theguesthouse, where noguests everstayed:onlyDesdemona, forashort timewithherhusband and a longtimealone. But moreimportantto a kid:Middlesex hadlotsofsneaker-sized ledgesto walkalong.Ithaddeep,concretewindow wellsperfectfor makingintoforts.Ithadsundecksandcatwalks.ChapterElevenand Iclimbedallover Middlesex.Lefty wouldwashthewindowsand, fiveminuteslater,mybrother andI would come along,leaningon theglassandleavingfingerprints.Andseeingthem,ourtall,mute grandfather, who inanotfierlifemighthavebeenaprofessorbutin thisonewasholdingawetragandbucket, onlysmiledandwashed thewindowsalloveragain. Althoughheneversaida wordtome,I loved my Chaplinesque papou. Hisspeechlessness seemedtobe anactofrefinement.Itwent withhis elegantclothes, hisshoes withwovenvamps,the glazeofhis hair. And yethewasnot stiffat allbut playful,evencomedic.When he tookmeforridesinthe car Leftyoften pretended to fallasleep at thewheel. Suddenlyhis eyes wouldclose andhewouldslumptoone side. Thecar would continue on, unpiloted, drifting toward thecurb. Ilaughed, screamed, pulledmy hair andkickedmylegs.Atthe last possible second,Lefty would springawake, takingthewheeland averting disaster. Wedidn't needto speak to eachother. Weunderstood eachother without speaking.But thena terrible thing happened. Itis aSaturday morning a fewweeks after ourmovetoMiddle- sex.Lefty is taking me fora walk around the newneighborhood.The planis to godown to the lake. Hand inhand westrollacrossour new front lawn. Change is clinkingin histrouser pocket,justbelow the level ofmyshoulders. Irun my fingers over histhumb,fascinated 261

• From Middlesex (2002)

  had beentorn down,revealingtheinnerrooms likea dollhouse. Lefty saw the brightiytiledkitchensand bathroomshangingin midair, half-enclosedspaceswhoserichcolorsreminded him ofthe sultans' tombs,andhehadanidea. Thenext morning he climbeddowninto thebasementon Hurl- butandwentto work.Heremoved Desdemona'sspicedsausages fromtheheatingpipes.Hesweptup thecobwebs andlaidarugover thedirtfloor.Hebroughtdown Jimmy Zizmo'szebraskinfrom up- stairsandtackeditonthewall.Infrontofthesink hebuiltasmall baroutofdiscarded lumberandcovereditwith scavengedtiles:blue- and-whitearabesques;Neapolitancheckerboard;redheraldic drag- ons;andlocal,earth-tone Pewabics.Fortables,heupended cable reelsandspreadthemwithcloths.Hetentedbedsheetsoverhead, hidingthe pipes. From hisoldconnectionsintherum-runningbusi- nessherentedaslotmachineand ordered a week'ssupplyofbeer and whiskey.Andona coldFridaynightinFebruaryof 1924, heopened forbusiness. The ZebraRoom was aneighborhoodplacewithirregularhours. WheneverLeftywasopenfor businesshe put aniconof St. George inthe living room window,facingthestreet. Patrons camearound back,givingacodedknock—along andtwoshortsfollowedbytwo longs— on diebasementdoor.Thenthey descended out oftheAmer- icaoffactory workand tyrannicalforemenintoan Arcadiangrottoof forgetfulness.Mygrandfatherputthe Victrolainthecorner.Heset outbraided sesame koulouriaonthebar.He greetedpeoplewiththe exuberance theyexpected from a foreignerand heflirtedwiththe ladies.Behindthebar a stainedglass window ofliquorbottles glowed:the bluesof Englishgin,thedeepreds ofclaretand Madeira, thetawnybrowns of scotchandbourbon. Ahanging lamp spun on itschain, specklingthezebra skinwithlight and making thecus- tomers feel even drunkerthanthey were. Occasionally someone wouldstandupfromhischairand beginto twitchandsnaphis fin- gerstothestrange music, whilehis companions laughed. Downinthat basement speakeasy,my grandfatheracquiredthe attributesofthebarkeep he wouldbe for the rest of hislife. He chan- neled his intellectual powers intothescience of mixology. Helearned how to serve theevening rush one-man-band style, pouringwhiskeys withhisright hand whilefillingbeer steinswith his left,ashepushed 132 out coasters with hiselbowandpumpedthekegwithhis foot.For fourteen to sixteenhoursadayheworkedinthat sumptuouslydeco- rated holein thegroundandneverstoppedmovingtheentire time. Ifhe wasn't pouringdrinks,he was refillingthekoulouriatrays.Ifhe wasn't roiling out a newbeer keg, hewasplacinghard-boiled eggs in a wire hamper.Hekept hisbody busysothathismindwouldn'thave a chance tothink: aboutthegrowingcoldness ofhiswife,ortheway their crime pursuedthem.Leftyhaddreamedof openingacasino, and the ZebraRoomwasascloseasheevercametoit.Therewas no gambling, nopotted palms, buttherewasrebetikaand,onmany nights, hashish. Only in 1958, whenhehadsteppedfrombehindthe bar ofanother ZebraRoom,would mygrandfatherhavetheleisure toremember hisyouthfuldreams ofroulettewheels.Then,tryingto makeupforlost time,hewouldruinhimself, andfinallysilencehis voiceinmylifeforever. DesdemonaandSourmelinaremained upstairs, raisingthechil- dren.Practicallyspeaking,thismeantthatDesdemona got themout ofbedinthemorning,fedthem,washedtheirfaces,andchanged their diapersbeforebringingthemintoSourmelina,whobythen was receiving visitors,stillsmellingofthecucumberslicessheput overhereyelids atnight. AtthesightofTheodora,Sourmelina spreadherarms and crooned,"Chryso fili! v — snatchinghergolden girl fromDesdemonaandcoveringherfacewithkisses.Fortherest ofthe morning,drinkingcoffee,Linaamusedherselfbyapplying kohl tolittleTheodora'seyelashes.When odors arose, shehandedthe babyback,saying, "Something happened." It wasSourmelina'sbeliefthatthesouldidn'tenterthebodyuntil achild startedspeaking.Shelet Desdemona worryabout thediaper rashes andwhooping coughs, theearachesandnosebleeds.Whenever company came overforSunday dinner,however, Sourmelinagreeted them with theoverdressedbaby pinnedtohershoulder,theperfect accessory. Sourmelina wasbadwithbabiesbut terrificwithteen- agers. She wasthereforyour firstcrushesandheartbreaks,yourparty dresses andspins at sophisticatedstateslikeanomie. And so, inthose early years, Miltonand Theodoragrewup togetherinthetraditional Stephanides way.Asoncea kelimi had separatedabrotherandsister, now awool blanket separatedsecond cousins.Asonceadouble shadow had leaptup againstamountainside, now a similarly con- 133 joined shadowmovedacross theback porchofthe houseon Hurl- but. They grew. Atone,theyshared thesame bathwater.At two, the samecrayons. Atthree,Milton satinatoy airplanewhile Theodora spunthe propeller.ButtheEast SideofDetroit wasn't a small moun- tainvillage.Therewerelots ofkidsto playwith.And sowhen he turnedfour,Milton renouncedhis cousin'scompanionship, prefer- ringtoplay withneighborhood boys.Theodora didn'tcare. Bythen shehadanothercousin toplaywith. Desdemona haddoneeverythingshe couldto fulfillherpromise ofneverhavinganotherchild. ShenursedMilton untilhewasthree. Shecontinuedtorebuff Lefty'sadvances.Butit wasimpossible todo soeverynight. Thereweretimeswhen theguiltshefelt formarrying Leftyconflicted withtheguiltshefeltfornot satisfyinghim. There weretimes whenLefty'sneed seemedsodesperate,sopitiful, thatshe couldn'tresistgiving intohim.Andthereweretimeswhen she,too, neededphysical comfortandrelease.It happenednomorethan a handfuloftimes eachyear,thoughmoreoftenin thesummer months. OccasionallyDesdemona hadtoomuchwineon some- body'sname day,andthenitalsohappened.Andon a hot nightin July of1927 itsignificantlyhappened,andtheresultwas adaughter: Zoe HelenStephanides, myAuntZo. Fromthe momentshelearnedthatshewaspregnant,mygrand- mother wasagaintormented byfearsthatthebaby would suffera hideous birth defect.IntheOrthodoxChurch,eventhechildrenof closely related godparentswere kept frommarrying,onthegrounds thatthis amounted tospiritualincest.Whatwasthat comparedwith this?This was muchworse!SoDesdemona agonized,unable tosleep at night as thenewbabygrewinsideher.Thatshehadpromisedthe Panaghia, theAll-Holy Virgin,thatshe wouldneverhaveanother childonly made Desdemonafeelmorecertain thatthehandof judg- ment wouldnow fallheavyonherhead.But onceagainheranxieties werefornaught. Thefollowingspring,on April 27, 1928, Zoe Stephanideswas born, a large,healthygirl withthesquarishheadof hergrandmother, apowerfulcry,andnothingat allthematterwith her. Miltonhad little interest inhisnewsister. He preferred shooting his slingshot withhis friends.Theodora was justthe opposite.She 134

• From Middlesex (2002)

  demona pickouther burialplot. Shealso pickedouthermortician. Georgie Pappas,Sophie Sassoon's brotherwho workedat theT. J. Thomas FuneralHome, arrived atMiddlesex inApril(whenabout of pneumoniawas looking promising). Hecarriedhissamplecasesof caskets, crematoryurns, andflower arrangements outtotheguest house andsat by Desdemona's bedwhile shelooked the photographs overwiththe excitement ofsomeone browsing travelbrochures.She asked Miltonwhathecould afford. "I don'twanttotalkabout it,Ma. You'renotdying." "Iamno asking fortheImperial. Georgie says Imperial istopof line.But for yiayia Presidential is okay." "When the timecomes, youcanhavewhatever you want. But—" "Andsatininside.Please. Andapillow.Likehere.Pageeight. Numberfive.Payattention!Andtell Georgie leave myglasses." AsfarasDesdemonawasconcerned,deathwasonlyanotherkind of emigration.Instead of sailing fromTurkeyto America, this time shewould be travelingfromearth to heaven,whereLeftyhadalready gottenhiscitizenshipandhadaplacewaiting. Graduallywebecameaccustomedto Desdemona'sretreatfrom thefamilysphere.Bythistime, thespringof 1971, Miltonwasbusy with anew"business venture."Afterthe disasteronPingreeStreet, Miltonvowed neverto make thesamemistakeagain.Howdoyou escapethereal estate rule oflocation, location,location?Simple: be everywhere atonce. "Hot dogstands," Milton announcedat dinneronenight."Start with three orfour andadd onasyou go." With theremaining insurance money Miltonrentedspaceinthree mallsin theDetroit metropolitanarea. Onapad ofyellowpaper,he came upwith the design for thestands. "McDonald's has Golden Arches?" hesaid."We've got the Pillars ofHercules." If youeverdrove along the blue highways anywherefromMichi- gan toFlorida,anytime from 1971to 1978, youmayhaveseenthe bright whiteneon pillars that flankedmy father's chainofhotdog restaurants. The pillars combinedhis Greek heritage withthecolonial architecture ofhis beloved native land. Milton's pillarswere the Parthenon andthe Supreme Court Building; they weretheHerakles of myth as wellas the Hercules of Hollywood movies.Theyalso got people's attention. 275 Miltonstarted out withthree HerculesHotDogs™but quickly added franchisesasprofitsallowed.HebeganinMichigan butsoon spilledoverintoOhio,andfromtherewentondown theInterstate to die deep South.Theformat was morelikeDairy QueenthanMc- Donald's.Seatingwasminimalornonexistent (at most a couple of picnictables).Therewerenoplayareas,nosweepstakes or"Happy Meals"no giveaways orpromotions.Whattherewaswashot dogs, Coney Island style,as thattermwas usedin Detroit,meaning they wereservedwithchilisauceand onions. HerculesHotDogswere side-of-the-roadplaces, and usuallynotthenicest roads.By bowling alleys,bytrainstations,insmalltownsonthewaytobiggerones, anywherewhererealestatewascheapand alot ofcarsor people passedthrough. Ididn'tlikethestands.Tometheywereasteep come-down from theromanticdaysoftheZebraRoom.Whereweretheknickknacks, thejukebox,theglowingshelfofpies,thedeep maroonbooths? Wherewere the regulars? I couldn'tunderstandhowthesehotdog standscouldmakesomuchmoremoneythanthe dinereverhad.But makemoneytheydid.Afterthefirst, touch-and-goyear,myfather's chainofhotdogrestaurantsbegan to makehima comfortably wealthyman.Asidefromsecuringgood locations,therewasanother elementtomyfather'ssuccess.Agimmickor,intoday's parlance, a "branding."BallParkfranksplumped whenyoucookedthem,but Hercules HotDogs didsomethingbetter.They cameoutofthe packagelookinglikenormal,udder-pink wieners,butastheygot hot,anamazingtransformationtookplace. Sizzlingonthegrill, the hot dogs bulgedinthemiddle,grew fatter,and,yes^ flexed. ThiswasChapterEleven's contribution.Onenight,my then seventeen-year-oldbrotherhadgonedown intothekitchentomake himself a late-night snack.He foundsomehotdogs intherefrigera- tor.Notwantingtowaitforwaterto boil,hegotouta fryingpan. Nexthedecidedtocutthehotdogsin half."Iwantedto increasethe surfacearea,"heexplained to melater.Rather than slicingthehot dogs lengthwise,ChapterEleventriedvarious combinationsto amusehimself.Hemadenotcheshereandslits thereandthen heput all diehotdogsina panandwatchedwhat happened. Notmuch,thatfirstnight.Butafewofmy brother'sincisions re- sulted inthe hotdogs assumingfunny shapes. Afterthat,itbecamea 276

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "You've beento Africa?" "I've beenall over." Likeeverybody else intown,theysqueezed intogether. Desdemona andLefty sleptina bedroomdirecdy above Zizmo and Lina's,and the firstfew nightsmygrandmotherclimbed outofbedtoput her eartothe floor."Nothing"shesaid,"Itoldyou." "Come backtobed,"Leftyscolded."That'stheirbusiness." "Whatbusiness? That's whatI'mtellingyou.Theyaren'thaving anybusiness." Whileinthe bedroombelow,Zizmo wasdiscussingthenew boardersupstairs."What a romantic! Meetsagirlontheboatand marriesher.Nodowry." "Some peoplemarryforlove." "Marriageisforhousekeepingandforchildren. Which reminds me." "Please, Jimmy, nottonight." "Then when?Fiveyearswe'vebeenmarriedand no children. You'realways sick,tired,this,that.Have you beentakingthe castor oil?" "Yes." "Andthemagnesium?" "Yes." "Good.Wehave to reduceyourbile.Ifthe motherhastoomuch bile,the childwilllackvigoranddisobeyhisparents." "Goodnight, kyrie? "Goodnight, kyriaV Before the weekwasout, allmygrandparents' questions about Sourmelina's marriagehadbeen answered. Becauseofhisage, Jimmy Zizmo treated hisyoungbride morelike adaughter than a wife. He was always telling herwhat shecouldandcouldn'tdo,howlingover theprice and necklinesofher outfits,telling hertogotobed,toget up, tospeak, tokeepsilent. Herefusedtogiveherthecarkeysuntil she cajoled himwithkissesandcaresses.His nutritionalquackery even led him to monitorherregularitylikea doctor,and someof their biggest fightscameasa resultofhisinterrogatingLinaabout her stools. Asforsexualrelations,they hadhappened,butnot re- cently. For thelastfivemonthsLinahad complainedofimaginary 91 ailments, preferringher husband'sherbal curesto hisamatory atten- tions. Zizmo,inturn, harbored vaguelyyogic beliefsaboutthe men- talbenefits ofsemenretention,and sowasdisposed to wait untilhis wife's vitalityreturned. The housewas sex-segregatedlike thehouses in die patridha,theoldcountry, meninthe sala^womeninthe kitchen. Twosphereswithseparate concerns, duties,even—theevo- lutionarybiologistsmightsay—thought patterns.Leftyand Desde- mona,accustomed to livingintheir ownhouse,were forcedtoadapt to theirnewlandlord's ways. Besides, mygrandfather neededajob. Inthosedaystherewere a lotof carcompanies towork for. There was Chalmers,Metzger, Brush,Columbia,and Flanders.Therewas Hupp,Paige,Hudson,Krit,Saxon, Liberty,Rickenbacker, and Dodge. Jimmy Zizmo, however,hadconnections atFord. "I'masupplier,"hesaid. "Ofwhat?" "Assortedfuels." Theywereinthe Packardagain,vibratingonthintires.Alight mist wasfalling.Leftysquintedthrough thefoggedwindshield.Lit- tlebylittle, astheyapproachedalongMichiganAvenue,hebeganto beaware of a monolithloominginthedistance, a buildinglike a gi- gantic churchorgan, pipesrunningintothesky. There was also a smell:thesamesmellthatwoulddriftupriver, yearslater, tofind meinmybedorinthefieldhockey goal. Likemy own, similarly beakednose at thosetimes,mygrandfather'snose went onalert. Hisnostrilsflared. He inhaled.Atfirstthesmellwas recognizable, part oftheorganicrealmofbadeggs andmanure.But after afewseconds thesmell'schemicalproperties seared hisnostrils, and hecoveredhis nose withhis handkerchief. Zizmolaughed. "Don'tworry.You'llgetused toit." "No,I won't." "Do youwant toknowthesecret?" "What?" "Don'tbreathe." When they reached thefactory,Zizmotook himintothePerson- nel Department. "Howlong hashe lived inDetroit?"the manager asked. "Sixmontiis." 92 "Canyou verifythat?" Zizmo nowspoke in a low tone."I coulddropthenecessarydoc- umentsby yourhouse." The personnel manager lookedbothways."OldLogCabin?" "Only thebest." Thechief juttedouthislowerlip,examiningmygrandfather. "How'shis English?" "Notas goodasmine.Buthelearnsfast." "He'llhavetotake the courseandpassthetest.Otherwisehe's out." "It'sadeal. Now,ifyou'll writedownyourhomeaddress,wecan schedule a delivery.WouldMondayevening, say aroundeight-thirty, be suitable?" "Comearoundtothebackdoor." Mygrandfather'sshortemploy at theFordMotorCompany markedtheonlytimeanyStephanideshaseverworkedinthe auto- mobileindustry.Insteadofcars,wewouldbecomemanufacturersof hamburgerplatters andGreeksalads,industrialistsofspanakopita andgrilled cheesesandwiches,technocratsofricepuddingand bananacreampie. Ourassemblylinewasthegrill;ourheavyma- chinery,thesodafountain.Still,thosetwenty-five weeksgaveusa personalconnection to thatmassive,forbidding,awe-inspiring com- plex wesawfromthehighway,thatcontrolledVesuviusofchutes, tubes,ladders, catwalks,fire,andsmokeknown,likeaplagueor a monarch,only byacolor:"theRouge." Onhisfirst dayofwork, Leftycameintothekitchenmodelinghis newoveralls. Hespreadhisflannel-shirtedarmsandsnappedhisfin- gers,dancing inwork boots, andDesdemonalaughedandshutthe kitchen doorsoasnottowakeup Lina.Lefty ate hisbreakfastof prunes and yogurt,readinga Greeknewspaper a fewdaysold.Des- demona packedhis Greek lunchoffeta, olives, andbread in anew American container: a brownpaperbag.Atthebackdoor,whenhe turned tokiss hershe steppedback, anxious that peoplemight see. Butthen she remembered thattheyweremarriednow.Theylivedin aplace called Michigan,where thebirdsseemedtocomeinonly one color, and where no oneknewthem.Desdemonastepped forward again tomeet her husband'slips.Theirfirstkiss in thegreatAmerican outdoors, on theback porch,near a cherrytreelosingitsleaves. A 93

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese and Thalia wait for Katrina in front of the McDonald’s by the Greenpoint stop on the G train. Thalia came along without requiring an invite. Reese had earlier volunteered to keep her company that night, her motherly attempt to staunch both grief and Thalia’s temptation to go out drinking with all the queers from out of town, both perennial ingredients in the recipes that Thalia fell back upon whenever she cooked up a truly messy evening. In return for allowing Reese to mother her so intrusively, Thalia felt entitled to the chance to witness and color-comment Reese’s own messiness. “So what’s your plan here?” Thalia asks Reese, flicking through photos on her phone while they await Katrina. “You're just going to bring this nice pregnant lady back to Iris’s amateur erotic massage parlor?” “Amateurs, by definition, don’t get paid,” Reese counters. “I live in a professional erotic massage parlor, thank you very much. But I texted Iris to put away the massage table.” “And what did Iris say to that?” “She hasn’t responded.” Reese retrieves her phone. “Oh wait, no. She texted. She says to fuck off, she’s not hiding anything for Amy’s baby mama.” Thalia laughed. “That sounds like Iris.” “Yeah,” Reese sourly agrees. “It does.” “Why did she hate Amy again?” “She didn’t hate Amy. She just thought Amy was a snob. She was there the day when I met Amy.” Amy and Iris’s mutual distaste had begun the night that Amy launched into a tirade against the prevalence of Candy Darling—worship among trans girls. The rant revolved around Amy’s oft-elaborated claim that trans girls never do anything. The best they ever hope for is for someone else to discover them, take an interest, and make them into a muse. But muses are passive. They have no agency and they reap no rewards—the rewards are reserved for those who use them for inspiration. Among the Factory girl trancestors, Holly Woodlawn and Jackie Curtis actually did things. Those two had a reputation for danger in their wit, vengeance, and unpredictability. They held Andy Warhol to account. But trans girls don’t worship those two. Candy Darling? She was just some helpless languid blonde waiting around for a man to save her and make her famous. Iris, a languid blonde waiting for a man to save her and make her famous, had tolerated Amy’s lecture in silence. When Amy finished, Iris coolly raised her skirt to reveal the photorealistic tattoo of Candy Darling’s face that decorated her entire upper thigh. “No,” disagrees Thalia, “Iris definitely hated Amy. She told me.” “You two shouldn’t be gossiping about me.” “We weren't gossiping about you, we were gossiping about Amy.” At that moment, Katrina ascends from the station and pops out her earbuds with a tug on their cord at the same time that she calls out a greeting to Reese. She’s wearing yoga pants and an oversized duster

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Katrina’s kitchen and living area are one big room with high ceilings, just as in the Friends apartment set, only the room is smaller, and Katrina’s kitchen has a counter dividing it from the living space. With a little click, Katrina ignites the flame of a stick lighter and touches it to the wicks of a clutch of candles in jars hunched together on the counter. Satisfied with the lighting effect, she picks up the plate on which she has arranged the sushi and carries it into the living area. On the plush cream rug beside the coffee table, she kneels, places the plate on the floor, then quickly grabs it again, and pops back up, turns, and puts it on the little table in the eating area beside the kitchen. Reese watches this maneuver bemused. “What was that cute detour on the way to the table?” Katrina reddens a little. “I like to eat on the floor when I’m by myself. I call it an indoor picnic.” “That’s adorable. We can have an indoor picnic if you like that.” Katrina shakes her head. “No, I’m silly.” Reese leans over the counter and grabs the ramekins, places them on the rug, and settles in beside them. “I’m going to have an indoor picnic,” she announces, looking over to Katrina at the table. “I know you want to join me.”

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  The ground was thick with fallen branches, decaying pine needles, and brambly green bushes; the path wound past pine trees sprouting tall and thin, their stubbly needles providing a lace of shade from another sunburned day. And the smaller oak and maple trees, which from Dr. Hyde’s classroom had been invisible beneath the more majestic pines, showed hints of an as-yet-thermally-unforeseeable fall: Their still-green leaves were beginning to droop. We came to a rickety wooden bridge—just thick plywood laid over a concrete foundation—over Culver Creek, the winding rivulet that doubled back over and over again through the outskirts of campus. On the far side of the bridge, there was a tiny path leading down a steep slope. Not even a path so much as a series of hints—a broken branch here, a patch of stomped-down grass there—that people had come this way before. As we walked down single file, Alaska, the Colonel, and Takumi each held back a thick maple branch for one another, passing it along until I, last in line, let it snap back into place behind me. And there, beneath the bridge, an oasis. A slab of concrete, three feet wide and ten feet long, with blue plastic chairs stolen long ago from some classroom. Cooled by the creek and the shade of the bridge, I felt unhot for the first time in weeks. The Colonel dispensed the cigarettes. Takumi passed; the rest of us lit up. “He has no right to condescend to us is all I’m saying,” Alaska said, continuing her conversation with the Colonel. “Pudge is done with staring out the window, and I’m done with going on tirades about it, but he’s a terrible teacher, and you won’t convince me otherwise.” “Fine,” the Colonel said. “Just don’t make another scene. Christ, you nearly killed the poor old bastard.” “Seriously, you’ll never win by crossing Hyde,” Takumi said. “He’ll eat you alive, shit you out, and then piss on his dump. Which by the way is what we should be doing to whoever ratted on Marya. Has anyone heard anything?” “It must have been some Weekday Warrior,” Alaska said. “But apparently they think it was the Colonel. So who knows. Maybe the Eagle just got lucky. She was stupid; she got caught; she got expelled; it’s over. That’s what happens when you’re stupid and you get caught.” Alaska made an O with her lips, moving her mouth like a goldfish eating, trying unsuccessfully to blow smoke rings. “Wow,” Takumi said, “if I ever get kicked out, remind me to even the score myself, since I sure can’t count on you.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she responded, not angry so much as dismissive. “I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with figuring out everything that happens here, like we have to unravel every mystery. God, it’s over.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Thebicyclist was Asian, atleastgenetically. Herblackhair was cut inashag.Shewaswearing ashort olive greenwindbreaker, flared black skipants,and apairof maroon Campersresembling bowling shoes.Thebasketofherbike contained a camerabag. Ihada hunch shewas American. Itwasthe retrobike.Chrome and turquoise,ithad fenders aswideas aChevrolet's,tires asthickas a wheelbarrow's,and appeared toweighatleast ahundred pounds. An expatriate'swhim, thatbike.I wasaboutto use it asapretextfor startingaconversationwhen thetrain stoppedagain.The bicyclist looked up.Herhairfell awayfromherbeautiful, hoodedfaceand, for a moment,oureyesmet.The placidityofher countenancealong withthesmoothnessofherskin madeherfaceappearlike amask, withliving,humaneyesbehindit.These eyesnowdartedawayfrom mine as shegraspedthehandlebarsofherbikeand pushedhergreat two-wheeleroff the trainandtowardtheelevators.TheU-Bahn re- sumed,butIwasnolongerreading.Isatinmyseat,inastateof voluptuousagitation,ofagitated voluptuousness, untilmystop. ThenIstaggeredout. Unbuttoningmy suitjacket,Itooka cigarfrom theinnerpocket ofmycoat.Froma stillsmallerpocket I took outmycigar cutterand matches.Though itwasn't afterdinner,Ilitthecigar— a Davidoff GrandCruNo. 3—andstood smoking, trying tocalm myself. Theci- gars,the double-breasted suits— they'realittletoomuch.I'mwell aware of that.ButIneed them. Theymakeme feelbetter.Afterwhat I've been through, some overcompensation isto be expected.Inmy bespokesuit,my checked shirt, Ismokedmy medium-fatcigaruntil thefireinmyblood subsided. Somethingyou should understand:I'mnot androgynousinthe least.5-alpha-reductase deficiency syndromeallows fornormal biosynthesisand peripheral action of testosterone,inutero, neona- tally,and at puberty. In other words, Ioperate insocietyasaman.I use themen's room. Never the urinals, always thestalls.Inthemen's locker roomat my gym I even shower, albeit discreedy.Ipossessall the secondarysex characteristics ofa normalmanexcept one:my in- ability to synthesize dihydrotestosterone hasmade meimmune to baldness. I'velived more than halfmy life asa male,and by now everything comes naturally. When Calliope surfaces, shedoes so like achildhoodspeech impediment. Suddenly thereshe isagain,doing a hair flip,or checking her nails. It's a little like beingpossessed. Callie 41 rises up inside me, wearing myskinlikealooserobe. Shesticksher little hands into thebaggy sleeves of myarms.Sheinsertsher chimp's feet through the trousers ofmylegs.Onthesidewalk I'llfeelhergirl- ish walktake over,andthemovementbringsbacka kindofemotion, a desolate and gossipy sympathyforthe girlsI see cominghome from school. Thiscontinuesforafewmoresteps. Calliope'shairtick- lesthe back ofmythroat. I feel her presstentatively onmychest- that oldnervoushabitof hers— toseeifanythingishappeningthere. The sickfluid ofadolescentdespairthatrunsthrough herveinsover- flowsagain intomine.Butthen, justassuddenly,sheisleaving, shrinkingandmeltingawayinsideme,andwhen I turn toseemy reflectioninawindowthere'sthis:aforty-one-year-oldmanwith longish,wavyhair,a thinmustache, andagoatee.Akindofmodern Musketeer. But that'senoughaboutmefornow.Ihavetopick up whereex- plosionsinterruptedmeyesterday.Afterall,neitherCalnorCalliope couldhavecomeintoexistencewithoutwhathappenednext. "Itoldyou!"Desdemonacriedatthetopofherlungs. "Itold you all this goodluck wouldbebad!Thisishowthey liberate us? Onlythe Greekscouldbe sostupid!" Bythe morning afterthewaltz,yousee,Desdemona's forebod- ingshadbeenborne out.TheMegahIdeahad cometoanend.The TurkshadcapturedAfyon.TheGreekArmy,beaten,was fleeing to- ward thesea. Inretreat, itwassettingfireto everythinginitspath. DesdemonaandLefty, indawn'slight,stood onthe mountainside and surveyedthe devastation.Blacksmokerose formilesacrossthe valley.Everyvillage,every field, every treewas aflame. "Wecan'tstay here," Leftysaid."TheTurks willwant revenge." "Sincewhen did theyneed a reason?" "We'll goto America. We canlivewith Sourmelina." "It won't be nice in America,"Desdemona insisted, shakingher head. "You shouldn'tbelieveLina'sletters.She exaggerates." "Aslong aswe're togetherwe'll beokay." He looked ather, inthe wayofthenight before, and Desdemona blushed. He triedtoput hisarm around her,but she stoppedhim. "Look." 42

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  After he bought the house, Quentin had the interior remodeled into two living spaces, one upstairs and one downstairs, each with its own living room, kitchen, and master bed and bath, just as anyone would do in order to divide a house into a duplex. But instead of adding any doors between the two units, they were openly joined by a grand wooden stairway that traversed the two open shared living areas, both with fireplaces and exposed beams. When the remodel was done, Quentin and his boyfriend moved in downstairs, and a lesbian couple—Irene and Heidi—settled in upstairs. The cis boyfriend donated sperm to each of the two women, and they simultaneously each carried a child—a boy, Ambrose, and a girl, Justine—born a few weeks apart. The foursome raised the two kids together, the dads downstairs and the moms upstairs, with the two children having the run of the place, moving freely up and down the stairs between dads and moms, always with a grown-up around to pay them attention or answer a question or look at a drawing or whatever. Quentin and the other adults all took the last name they gave the children, so any of them could show up at any official proceeding, and the name alone would confer parenthood. Most intriguingly, the parents never told Ambrose and Justine that this kind of family unit wasn’t how most or even any other families had arranged themselves. So until the siblings went to school, they understood their family as the norm and, by that point, had so incorporated the idea of four parents into their concept of family that they seemed to feel an assured smugness at their abundance of parents compared with their schoolmates’ paltry one or two. Quentin, however, kept the setup quiet—a queer familiar version of stealth. He was an unassuming patriarch, content to revel in what he had made for himself, tacitly rejecting any calls to explain himself —other families were not required to explain their existences, and so neither would he. What Reese and Amy gleaned was primarily through observation—what they saw over the course of a few evenings early on in their dating life, when they visited with a friend of Amy’s who had grown close to Quentin. “Tt’s just that, sometimes if you can imagine the concrete logistics of a situation,” Ames said to Katrina when Reese was over with the two of them. “You can then begin to envision yourself in it.” “But what exactly are the logistics to envision, Ames?” Katrina asked. “That’s where I get hung up. Are you suggesting we remodel a house? That our situation needs an architectural solution?” “Well, that’s why I mention Quentin—” Ames began, but without even planning to, Reese cuts in. “No.” “No, what?” “Tm not doing that. Even if you magically had a mansion to divide into two, I’m not living in the basement, or whatever, while you and Katrina cohabit above me. That is humiliating.”

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Colonel, they poked a hole in the gutter and connected a plastic tube from the gutter down through my back window into my room! The whole place is soaking wet. My copy of The General in His Labyrinth is absolutely ruined .” “That’s pretty good,” the Colonel said, like an artist admiring another’s work. “Hey!” she shouted. “Sorry. Don’t worry, dude,” he said. “God will punish the wicked. And before He does, we will.” sixty-seven days before SO THIS IS HOW NOAH FELT. You wake up one morning and God has forgiven you and you walk around squinting all day because you’ve forgotten how sunlight feels warm and rough against your skin like a kiss on the cheek from your dad, and the whole world is brighter and cleaner than ever before, like central Alabama has been put in the washing machine for two weeks and cleaned with extra-superstrength detergent with color brightener, and now the grass is greener and the bufriedos are crunchier. I stayed by the classrooms that afternoon, lying on my stomach in the newly dry grass and reading for American history—the Civil War, or as it was known around these parts, the War Between the States. To me, it was the war that spawned a thousand good last words. Like General Albert Sidney Johnston, who, when asked if he was injured, answered, “Yes, and I fear seriously.” Or Robert E. Lee, who, many years after the war, in a dying delirium, announced, “Strike the tent!” I was mulling over why the Confederate generals had better last words than the Union ones (Ulysses S. Grant’s last word, “Water,” was pretty lame) when I noticed a shadow blocking me from the sun. It had been some time since I’d seen a shadow, and it startled me a bit. I looked up. “I brought you a snack,” Takumi said, dropping an oatmeal cream pie onto my book. “Very nutritious.” I smiled. “You’ve got your oats. You’ve got your meal. You’ve got your cream. It’s a fuckin’ food pyramid.” “Hell yeah it is.” And then I didn’t know what to say. Takumi knew a lot about hip-hop; I knew a lot about last words and video games. Finally, I said, “I can’t believe those guys flooded Alaska’s room.” “Yeah,” Takumi said, not looking at me. “Well, they had their reasons. You have to understand that with like everybody, even the Weekday Warriors, Alaska is famous for pranking. I mean, last year, we put a Volkswagen Beetle in the library. So if they have a reason to try and one-up her, they’ll try. And that’s pretty ingenious, to divert water from the gutter to her room. I mean, I don’t want to admire it…” I laughed. “Yeah. That will be tough to top.” I unwrapped the cream pie and bit into it. Mmm…hundreds of delicious calories per bite. “She’ll think of something,” he said. “Pudge,” he said. “Hmm. Pudge, you need a cigarette.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  commanding officers of the units to which they had been assigned. The results made us happy. As Meehl’s book had suggested, the new interview procedure was a substantial improvement over the old one. The sum of our six ratings predicted soldiers’ performance much more accurately than the global evaluations of the previous interviewing method, although far from perfectly. We had progressed from “completely useless” to “moderately useful.” The big surprise to me was that the intuitive judgment that the interviewers summoned up in the “close your eyes” exercise also did very well, indeed just as well as the sum of the six specific ratings. I learned from this finding a lesson that I have never forgotten: intuition adds value even in the justly derided selection interview, but only after a disciplined collection of objective information and disciplined scoring of separate traits. I set a formula that gave the “close your eyes” evaluation the same weight as the sum of the six trait ratings. A more general lesson that I learned from this episode was do not simply trust intuitive judgment—your own or that of others—but do not dismiss it, either. Some forty-five years later, after I won a Nobel Prize in economics, I was for a short time a minor celebrity in Israel. On one of my visits, someone had the idea of escorting me around my old army base, which still housed the unit that interviews new recruits. I was introduced to the commanding officer of the Psychological Unit, and she described their current interviewing practices, which had not changed much from the system I had designed; there was, it turned out, a considerable amount of research indicating that the interviews still worked well. As she came to the end of her description of how the interviews are conducted, the officer added, “And then we tell them, ‘Close your eyes.’” Do It Yourself The message of this chapter is readily applicable to tasks other than making manpower decisions for an army. Implementing interview procedures in the spirit of Meehl and Dawes requires relatively little effort but substantial discipline. Suppose that you need to hire a sales representative for your firm. If you are serious about hiring the best possible person for the job, this is what you should do. First, select a few traits that are prerequisites for success in this position (technical proficiency, engaging personality, reliability, and so on). Don’t overdo it—six dimensions is a good number. The traits you choose should be as independent as possible from each other, and you should feel that you can assess them reliably by asking a few factual questions. Next, make a list of those questions for each trait and think about how you will score it, say on a 1–5 scale.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “IT have the opposite problem,” Reese says. “I’d be happy if you shared even more than you do. I want to know everything about your pregnancy, because then it feels like mine too, but asking makes me feel weird and like I’m prying about your body.” “That’s perfect because I’m probably just going to keep complaining more and more. Starting a couple weeks ago, brushing my teeth has made me feel like I’m going to puke, and I’ve been suffering through that in silence because it feels too banal to bitch about.” “Girl, bitch away.” “T won't take you for granted. I promise. It’s so good to be here with you. My friend Diana has been having IVF treatments and she’s so worried and also so alone. They managed to get three embryos fertilized, and she’s already emotionally attached to them. This is their second round of IVF. The first time, when one of the embryos got damaged in the freezing process—she called me crying, sobbing like she’d lost a child. It was really pretty heartbreaking and her husband acted like she was being crazy and irrational. The day they transferred an embryo she had to tell him not to be an emotional moron, because he had made plans to go indoor rock climbing that night. She was like, ‘You are staying in with me and your maybe- unborn-child tonight’ and he was like, ‘But, babe, your procedure is in the morning, and my plans aren’t until five.’ ” Reese snorted at the idiocy of men. Ames, at least, had spent enough time as a woman not to totally revert to complete emotional tone deafness. In fact, she supposed that’s why he hadn’t come today, why he had been giving Katrina and Reese their space. Had he been there, Reese might have slipped into the role of resentful third wheel. No, in fact, his stereotypical male absence was probably an act of astute emotional perspicacity on the order of Amy’s. Maybe, gender aside, he'll be a good dad. “What do you think of this crib?” Katrina asks. They have wandered into the furniture area. She runs her hand along the rail of a stark white crib that comes paired with a matching changing table. The crib is designed by a Danish company. Scandinavians seem to have cornered a disproportionate slice of the high-end baby product market. “Oh, I didn’t think we’d use a crib,” Reese says offhandedly. “I never had one.” “Of course we need a crib. Where will she sleep otherwise?” “In bed. Babies are happier in bed with their parents.” “What? No way. That’s how babies get crushed. You roll over on them in your sleep.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Adversity and setbacks actually provide the perfect setting for charm. Showing a calm, un- ruffled exterior in the face of unpleasantness puts people at ease. You seem patient, as if waiting for destiny to deal you a better card—or as if you were confident you could charm the Fates themselves. Never show anger, ill temper, or vengefulness, all disruptive emotions that will make people de- fensive. In the politics of large groups, welcome adversity as a chance to show the charming qualities of magnanimity and poise. Let others get flus- tered and upset—the contrast will redound to your favor. Never whine, never complain, never try to justify yourself. Make yourself useful. If done subtly, your ability to enhance the lives of others will be devilishly seductive. Your social skills will prove important here: creating a wide network of allies will give you the power to link people up with each other, which will make them feel that by knowing you they can make their lives easier. This is something no one can resist. Follow-through is key: so many people will charm by promising a person great things—a better job, a new contact, a big favor—but if they do not follow through they make enemies instead of friends. Anyone can make a promise; what sets you apart, and makes you charming, is your ability to come through in the end, following up your promise with a definite action. Conversely, if someone does you a favor, show your gratitude concretely. In a world of bluff and smoke, real action and true helpfulness are perhaps the ultimate charm. Examples of Charmers 1. In the early 1870s, Queen Victoria of England had reached a low point in her life. Her beloved husband, Prince Albert, had died in 1861, leaving her more than grief stricken. In all of her decisions she had relied on his advice; she was too uneducated and inexperienced to do otherwise, or so everyone made her feel. In fact, with Albert's death, political discussions and policy issues had come to bore her to tears. Now Victoria gradually withdrew from the public eye. As a result, the monarchy became less popu- lar and therefore less powerful. In 1874, the Conservative Party came to power, and its leader, the seventy-year-old Benjamin Disraeli, became prime minister. The protocol of his accession to his seat demanded that he come to the palace for a pri- vate meeting with the queen, who was fifty-five at the time.