Embarrassment

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 Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “What’s to kid?” Her face softens and she strokes your forehead. “You wanna try again?” “What time is it?” you say. “I’m late for work.” “Cool your jets. It’s Saturday.” “I work Saturdays.” You sit up in bed, extracting her hand from your hair. You feel ravaged. On the television screen, Wile E. Coyote is building an improbable contraption to catch the Road Runner. Posters on the wall depict rock groups in lurid light and kittens in soft focus. You hear sounds coming from the next room. “Who’s that?” you say, pointing at the door. The girl is putting a record on the turntable. “My parents,” she says. By the time you get back to Manhattan it is two o’clock. You feel as if you have come across oceans and mountains. The parents were watching television when you finally worked up the courage to slouch out of the bedroom. They didn’t even look up. You have never been so glad to see the inside of your apartment. You check the refrigerator for liquids. The milk is sour. You are trying to nod off on the couch when the buzzer rings. When you punch the Listen button a voice says “United Parcel Service.” Possibly some kind soul has sent you a brand-new mail-order heart. The voice sounds like it is coming through layers of cloth. Where the hell is the doorman? Does UPS deliver on Saturday? Do you care? You press the Door button and go back to the couch. When the bell rings you go to look through the peephole. Michael is standing in the hall, greatly reduced in size but no less menacing. You consider the fire escape. He steps forward and pounds on the door. The fisheye peephole makes his fist seem like a monstrous appendage. Maybe if you’re quiet he’ll go away. He pounds again. You open the door. Michael seems to fill the entire frame. “Michael,” you say. You meet his eyes, which are implacable, then you look down at his feet on which there are a pair of genuine work boots of

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I'm not theMrs.!" "You're not?" I ordered myusualofacheeseburger,milkshake, and lemon meringue piefor dessert. Openingthecashregister,Miltongaveme a stack of quarterstouseinthe jukebox.WhileIchosesongs,I looked out thefront windowfor myneighborhood friend.MostSat- urdayshe was installedonthe corner,surrounded byotheryoung men. Sometimes hestoodon abrokenchairor a cinder blockwhile heorated. Alwayshis arm wasinthe air,wavingandgesticulating. Butifhe happened to seeme,hisraised fistwouldopen up, andhe would wave. Hisnamewas MariusWyxzewixard Challouehliczilczese Grimes. Iwasnot allowedtospeaktohim.Milton consideredMarius tobea troublemaker,aviewinwhichmanyZebra Roompatrons,white and blackboth,concurred. I likedhim,though.Hecalled me"Little QueenoftheNile."He saidI lookedlikeCleopatra. "Cleopatrawas Greek,"hesaid."Didyou know that?""No.""Yeah,shewas. Shewas a Ptolemy.Bigfamily back then.Theywere GreekEgyptians.I'vegot alittleEgyptianbloodinme,too.Youandmeareprobably related." Ifhewasstandingonhisbrokenchair,waitingfor a crowd toform, hewouldtalk tome.But ifotherpeoplewere therehewould betoo busy. MariusWyxzewixardChallouehliczilczeseGrimeshad been named afteranEthiopiannationalist,acontemporaryofFard Muhammad, infact,backin thethirties.Mariushad beenanasth- maticchild.He'd spent most ofhischildhood inside,readingthe eclecticbooksinhismother's library.Asa teenagerhe'dbeenbeaten upa lot(heworeglasses, Mariusdid,andhad a habit of mouth- breathing). Butbythetime Igotto knowhim,Marius W C. Grimes wascoming intohis manhood.Heworkedatarecordstoreandwas going to U.ofD.Law School, nights.There was somethinghappen- ing in thecountry,inthe blackneighborhoodsespecially,thatwas conducive to the ascension ofa brotherlikeMariustothecorner soapbox. It was suddenly cooltoknowstuff,toexpatiateonthe causes of theSpanish CivilWar.CheGuevarahadasthma,too.And Marius wore aberet.A black paramilitaryberetwithblackglasses and alittle fledglingsoul patch.Inberetand glassesMariusstoodon the corner wakingpeopleup tothings. "ZebraRoom," hepointed a bony finger,"white-owned." Thenthe fingerwent downthe block. 229 "TV store, white-owned.Grocery store,white-owned. Bank .. ." Brothers lookedaround ... "You gotit.No bank.They don'tgive loans toblackfolks."Mariuswasplanning tobecome apublicadvo- cate. Assoonashegraduatedfromlaw schoolhewas going tosue thecity ofDearbornforhousing discrimination. Hewascurrently numberthreein his lawschool class. Butnowitwas humid out,his childhoodasthmaacting up, andMarius wasfeelingunhappy and unwellwhenIcame roller-skating by. "Hi,Marius." He did not vocallyrespond, a sign withhimthathewas inlow spirits.Buthenoddedhishead,whichgaveme thecourageto con- tinue. "Whydon'tyougetabetterchairtostandon?" "Youdon'tlikemychair?" "It'sallbroken." "Thischair isanantique.Thatmeansit's supposedtobebroken." "Notthatbroken." ButMariuswas squintingacrossthestreet atthe Zebra Room. "Letme askyou something,littleCleo." "What?" "Howcomethere'salwaysatleastthree big fatofficersoftheso- calledpeacesittingatthe counterofyourdad'splace?" "Hegivesthemfreecoffee." "Andwhydoyouthink he does that?" "Idon'tknow." "You don'tknow?Okay, I'lltellyou.He's payingprotection money. Youroldmanlikestokeep thefuzzaroundbecausehe's scared of us blackfolks." "Heisnot," Isaid, suddenlydefensive. "Youdon't thinkso?" "No." "Okay, then, Queenie.Youknowbest." But Marius's accusationbotheredme. Afterthat,Ibeganto watch myfathermoreclosely.Inoticedhowhealways lockedthecar doors when we drovethroughtheblackneighborhood. I heard himin the livingroom on Sundays:"Theydon'ttakecare of theirproperties. Theylet everything gotohell."Thenextweek, when Leftytookme to the diner,Iwas more awarethaneverofthe broad backsofpolice - 230 menatthe counter.Iheardthemjokingwithmyfather."Hey, Milt, you betterstart putting somesoulfoodonthemenu." "Think so?"— my father,jovially— "Maybealittlecollardgreens?" I snuckout, goingto lookforMarius.He wasinhisusualspot but sitting, notstanding,and readingabook. "Test tomorrow,"hetoldme. "Gottastudy." "I'minsecond grade," Isaid. "Only second!Ihad youdownforhighschool at least." I gave himmymostwinningsmile. "Mustbethat Ptolemy blood. Just stayawayfromthe Roman men,okay?" "What?" "Nothing,Little Queen. Just playingwithyou."He waslaughing now,whichhedidn'tdothat often. His faceopened up, bright. Andsuddenlymyfatherwasshouting my name. "Callie!" "What?" "Getoverhererightnow!" Marius stoodupawkwardly from his chair. "Wewerejust talk- ing," hesaid. "Smartlittle girl yougothere." "Youstayawayfromher, you hearme?" "Daddy!" Iprotested,appalled,embarrassedformyfriend. ButMarius's voicewassoft. "It's cool, little Cleo.Gotthis test and all.Goon backtoyourdad." For therestof thatday Miltonkeptafterme."Youarenever, ever, totalk tostrangerslikethat.What's thematterwith you?" "He's not astranger. HisnameisMariusWyxzewixard Chal- louehliczilczese Grimes." "You hearme? You stayaway frompeoplelike that." Afterward, Milton toldmygrandfathertostopbringingmedown to thediner forlunch.But Iwouldcomeagain,in justa fewmonths, under myown power. 231

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I give you now the entire pregnancy in time lapse. Desdemona, at eight weeks, lies on her back, bedcovers drawn up to her armpits. The light at the window flickers with the change of day and night. Her body jerks; she's on her side, her belly; the covers change shape. A wool blanket appears and disappears. Food trays fly to the bedside table, then jump away before returning. But throughout the mad dance of inanimate objects the continuity of Desdemona's shifting body remains at center. Her breasts inflate. Her nipples darken. At fourteen weeks her face begins to grow plump, so that for the first 113 time I can recognize the yia yia of my childhood. At twenty weeks a mysterious line starts drawing itself down from her navel. Her belly rises like Jiffy Pop. At thirty weeks her skin thins, and her hair gets thicker. Her complexion, pale with nausea at first, grows less so until there it is: a glow. The bigger she gets, the more stationary. She stops lying on her stomach. Motionless, she swells toward the camera. The window's strobe effect continues. At thirty-six weeks she cocoons herself in bedsheets. The sheets go up and down, revealing her face, exhausted, euphoric, resigned, impatient. Her eyes open. She cries out. Lina wrapped her legs in putties to prevent varicose veins. Wor- ried that her breath was bad, she kept a tin of mints beside her bed. She weighed herself each morning, biting her lower lip. She enjoyed her new buxom figure but fretted about the consequences. "My breasts will never be the same. I know it. After this, just flaps. Like in the National Geographic." Pregnancy made her feel too much like an animal. It was embarrassing to be so publicly colonized. Her face felt on fire during hormone surges. She perspired; her makeup ran. The entire process was a holdover from more primitive stages of develop- ment. It linked her with the lower forms of life. She thought of queen bees spewing eggs. She thought of the collie next door, dig- ging its hole in the backyard last spring. The only escape was radio. She wore her earphones in bed, on the couch, in the bathtub. During the summer she carried her Aeriola Jr. outside and sat under the cherry tree. Filling her head with music, she escaped her body. On a third-trimester October morning, a cab pulled up outside 3467 Hurlbut Street and a tall, slender figure climbed out. He checked the address against a piece of paper, collected his things— umbrella and suitcase— and paid the driver. He took off his hat and stared into it as though reading instructions along the lining. Then he put the hat back on and walked up onto the porch. Desdemona and Lina both heard the knocking. They met at the front door.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Sing, Muse, of Greek ladies and their battle against unsightiy hair! Sing of depilatory creams and tweezers! Of bleach and beeswax! Sing how the unsightly black fuzz, like the Persian legions of Darius, sweeps over the Achaean mainland of girls barely into their teens! No, Calliope was not surprised by the appearance of a shadow above her upper lip. My Aunt Zo, my mother, Sourmelina, and even my cousin Cleo all suffered from hair growing where they didn't want it to. When I close my eyes and summon the fond smells of childhood, do I smell gingerbread baking or the pine-fresh scent of Christmas trees? Not primarily. The aroma that fills, as it were, the nostrils of my memory is the sulfurous, protein-dissolving fetor of Nair. I see my mother, with her feet in the tub, waiting for the bub- bling, stinging foam to work. I see Sourmelina, heating up a tin of wax on the stove. The pains they took to make themselves smooth! The rashes the creams left! The futility of it all! The enemy, hair, was invincible. It was life itself. I told my mother to make an appointment for me at Sophie Sas- soon's beauty parlor at the Eastiand Mall. 308 Wedged between a movie theater and a submarine sandwich shop, the Golden Fleece did what it could to distance itself socially from its neighbors. A tasteful awning hung over the entrance, bear- ing the silhouette of a Parisian^ra?^ dame. Inside, flowers sat on the front desk. Just as colorful as the flowers was Sophie Sassoon herself. In a purple muumuu, braceleted and begemmed, she glided from chair to chair. "How we doing here? Oh, you look gorgeous. That color takes ten years off." Then to the next customer: "Don't look so worried. Trust me. This is how they're wearing their hair now. Reinaldo, tell her." And Reinaldo in his hip-huggers: "Like Mia Far- row in Rosemary's Baby. Sick flick, but she looked great." By then So- phie had moved on to the next person. "Hon, let me give you some advice. Don't blow-dry your hair. Let it dry wet. Also I've got a con- ditioner for you you won't believe. I'm an authorized dealer." It was Sophie Sassoon's personal attention the women came for, the feeling of safety the salon gave them, the assurance that in here they could expose their flaws without embarrassment and Sophie would take care of them. It must have been the love they came for. Otherwise the customers would have noticed that Sophie Sassoon was herself in need of beauty advice. They would have seen that her eyebrows were drawn on as though by Magic Marker, and that her face, owing to the Princess Borghese makeup she sold on commission, was the color of a brick. But did I see it that day myself, or in the weeks that fol-

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Hi, Father Mike. Beautiful service today," Tessie said, and imme- diately regretted it. Father Mike was the assistant priest at Assump- tion. When the last priest had left, harangued back to Athens after a mere three months, the family had hoped that Father Mike might be promoted. But in the end another new, foreign- born priest, Father Gregorios, had been given the post. Aunt Zo, who never missed a chance to lament her marriage, had said at dinner in her comedi- enne's voice, "My husband. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride." By complimenting the service, Tessie hadn't intended to compli- 13 ment Father Greg. The situation was made still more delicate by the fact that, years ago, Tessie and Michael Antoniou had been engaged to be married. Now she was married to Milton and Father Mike was married to Milton's sister. Tessie had come down to clear her head and have her coffee and already the day was getting out of hand. Father Mike didn't appear to notice the slight, however. He stood smiling, his eyes gentle above the roaring waterfall of his beard. A sweet-natured man, Father Mike was popular with church widows. They liked to crowd around him, offering him cookies and bathing in his beatific essence. Part of this essence came from Father Mike's perfect contentment at being only five foot four. His shortness had a charitable aspect to it, as though he had given away his height. He seemed to have forgiven Tessie for breaking off their engage- ment years ago, but it was always there in the air between them, like the talcum powder that sometimes puffed out of his clerical collar. Smiling, carefully holding his coffee cup and saucer, Father Mike asked,"So, Tessie, how are things at home?" My mother knew, of course, that as a weekly Sunday guest at our house, Father Mike was fully informed about the thermometer scheme. Looking in his eyes, she thought she detected a glint of amusement. "You're coming over to the house today," she said carelessly. "You can see for yourself." "I'm looking forward to it," said Father Mike. "We always have such interesting discussions at your house." Tessie examined Father Mike's eyes again but now they seemed full of genuine warmth. And then something happened to take her attention away from Father Mike completely. Across the room, Chapter Eleven had stood on a chair to reach the tap of the coffee urn. He was trying to fill a coffee cup, but once he got the tap open he couldn't get it closed. Scalding coffee poured out across the table. The hot liquid splattered a girl who was standing nearby. The girl jumped back. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. With great speed my mother ran across the room and whisked the girl into the ladies' room. No one remembers the girl's name. She didn't belong to any of the regular parishioners. She wasn't even Greek. She appeared at 14

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Mama laid her hand on my forehead to keep the shampoo from running into my eyes. It didn’t work. “It’s burning. It’s burning.” I jerked my head up and thrashed my legs. More shampoo ran into my eyes.“No, no. Please, no.”With one hand under my head and the other pushing down on my chest, she held me under the faucet.“Don’t. Don’t.” The water ran over my forehead and into my nose. I gasped for breath and swallowed a mouthful of water. “I’m drowning. Let me up. Please.”By the time she helped me out of the tub, we were exhausted. We still had to comb the tangles out of my hair, roll the slippery strands onto the pink sponge rollers, and sit around and wait for the curls to dry. I had to be careful how I played (no chase, no bungled cartwheel attempts), careful how I turned my head (not too fast), and careful how I sat (no rolling my head from side to side on the back of the couch). By the end of the afternoon, I was exhausted.“Donna Marie, hold still.” Mama sat on the side of the bed and I stood in front of her. She emphasized each word with a little jerk on the pink sponge curlers she pulled from my hair.“It hurts.”Mama wrapped each curl around her finger and shellacked it with hair spray. My hair felt hard and prickly against my neck.“Now hold your arms up and let’s get your petticoat on.”“But it itches.”“Hold your arms up.”I thrust my lip out and my hands into the air. The petticoat pricked my skin as it fell over my shoulders and around my waist.“Now, step into your dress.”I stomped into the dress she held open at my feet. She pulled it up, fastened the buttons on the back, and tied the sash.“Put these on.” She handed me a pair of white ruffled socks and my church shoes, black patent-leather Mary Janes.“Try not to scuff your shoes tonight. Now, let me see you.”I locked my knees and held my arms away from me. She cupped my chin and studied my face. “You are just as pretty as Pam Terrell. In fact, you’re pretty as Marilyn Monroe.”“Who?”“Marilyn Monroe. Go ask the ministers if you aren’t just as pretty as Marilyn Monroe.”I skipped into the living room, ready to show myself off. Brother Terrell and Brother Cotton sat on the edge of the couch, deep in conversation. Children did not interrupt adults, especially preachers. My face burned and my heart pounded. I stood in front of the men and without explanation pitched myself up on my toes and began to whirl.I heard the soft tapping of my patent leather shoes on the floor. One more twirl. Faster. My dress and petticoat flew up; a show of lacy panties. I came to a stop in front of Brother Cotton and looked him in the eye.“Do you think I’m pretty?He pursed his lips and whistled.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Meanwhile, on Hurlbut, Father Stylianopoulos, head priest of Assumption Greek Orthodox Church, has finally come over to bless the house. Desdemona watches the priest nervously as he drinks the glass of Metaxa she has offered him. When she and Lefty became members of his congregation, the old priest had asked, as a formality, if they had received an Orthodox wedding. Desdemona had replied in the affirmative. She had grown up believing that priests could tell whether someone was telling the truth or not, but Father Stylian- opoulos had only nodded and written their names into the church register. Now he sets down his glass. He stands and recites the bless- ing, shaking holy water on the threshold. Before he's finished, how- ever, Desdemona's nose begins acting up again. She can smell what the priest had for lunch. She can detect the aroma under his arms as he makes the sign of the cross. At the door, letting him out, she holds her breath. "Thank you, Father. Thank you." Stylianopoulos goes on his way. But it's no use. As soon as she inhales again, she can smell the fertilized flower beds and Mrs. Czeslawski boiling cabbage next door and what she swears must be an open jar of mustard some- where, all these scents gone wayward on her, as she puts a hand to her stomach. Right then the bedroom door swings open. Sourmelina steps out. Powder and rouge cover one side of her face; the other side, bare, looks green. "Do you smell something?" she asks. "Yes. I smell everything." "Oh my God." "What is it>" "I didn't think this would happen to me. To you maybe. But not to me." And now we are in the Detroit Light Guard Armory, later that night, 7:00 p.m. An assembled audience of two thousand settles down as the house lights dim. Prominent business leaders greet each other with handshakes. Jimmy Zizmo, in a new cream-colored suit with yellow necktie, crosses his legs, jiggling one saddle shoe. Lina and Desdemona hold hands, joined in a mysterious union. 103 The curtain parts to gasps and scattered applause. A painted flat shows a steamship, two huge smokestacks, and a swath of deck and railing. A gangway extends into the stage's other focal point: a giant gray cauldron emblazoned with the words ford English school melting pot. A European folk melody begins to play. Suddenly a lone figure appears on the gangway. Dressed in a Balkan costume of vest, ballooning trousers, and high leather boots, the im- migrant carries his possessions bundled on a stick. He looks around with apprehension and then descends into the melting pot. "What propaganda," Zizmo murmurs in his seat. Lina shushes him. Now SYRIA descends into the pot. Then ITALY. POLAND. NORWAY. PALESTINE. And finally: GREECE. "Look, it's Lefty!"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I'm in second grade," I said. "Only second! I had you down for high school at least." I gave him my most winning smile. "Must be that Ptolemy blood. Just stay away from the Roman men, okay?" "What?" "Nothing, Little Queen. Just playing with you." He was laughing now, which he didn't do that often. His face opened up, bright. And suddenly my father was shouting my name. "Callie!" "What?" "Get over here right now!" Marius stood up awkwardly from his chair. "We were just talk- ing," he said. "Smart little girl you got here." "You stay away from her, you hear me?" "Daddy!" I protested, appalled, embarrassed for my friend. But Marius's voice was soft. "It's cool, little Cleo. Got this test and all. Go on back to your dad." For the rest of that day Milton kept after me. "You are never, ever, to talk to strangers like that. What's the matter with you?" "He's not a stranger. His name is Marius Wyxzewixard Chal- louehliczilczese Grimes." "You hear me? You stay away from people like that." Afterward, Milton told my grandfather to stop bringing me down to the diner for lunch. But I would come again, in just a few months, under my own power. 231 OPfl! [nrQhey always think it's the old-school, gentlemanly routine. The slowness of my advances. The leisurely pace of my incursions. , 1 (I've learned to make the first move by now, but not the second.) I invited Julie Kikuchi to go away for the weekend. To Pomerania. The idea was to drive to Usedom, an island in the Baltic, and stay in an old resort once favored by Wilhelm II. I made a point to empha- size that we would have separate rooms. Since it was the weekend, I tried to dress down. It isn't easy for me. I wore a camel-hair turtleneck, tweed blazer, and jeans. And a pair of handmade cordovans by Edward Green. This particular style is called the Dundee. They look dressy until you notice the Vibram soles. The leather is of a double thickness. The Dundee is a shoe de- signed for touring the landed estates, for tromping through mud while wearing a tie, with your spaniels trailing behind. I had to wait four months for these shoes. On the shoebox it says: "Edward Green: Master Shoemakers to the Few." That's me exactiy. The few. I picked Julie up in a rented Mercedes, an unquiet diesel. She had made a bunch of tapes for the ride and had brought reading material: The Guardian^ the last two issues of Parkett. We drove out the nar- row, tree-lined roads to the northeast. We passed villages of thatch- roofed houses. The land grew marshier, inlets appeared, and soon we traveled over the bridge to the island. Shall I get right to it? No, slowly, leisurely, that's the way. Let 232

• From Middlesex (2002)

  In 1971: Judge Stephen J. Roth of the U.S. District Court ruled that de jure segregation existed in the Detroit school system. He im- mediately ordered the schools to be desegregated. There was only one problem. By 1971 the Detroit student population was 80 per- cent black. "That busing judge can bus all he wants," Milton crowed, reading about the decision in the paper. "Doesn't make any difference now. You see, Tessie? You understand why your dear old husband wanted to get the kids out of that school system? Because if I didn't, that goddamn Roth would be busing them to school in downtown Nairobi, that's why." In 1972: Five-foot five-inch S. Miyamoto, rejected by the Detroit police force for failing to meet the five-foot seven-inch requirement (he had tried elevator heels, etc.), appeared on The Tonight Show to plead his case. I wrote a letter to the police commissioner myself in support of Miyamoto, but I never received a reply, and Miyamoto was rejected. A few months later, Police Commissioner Nichols was thrown from his horse during a parade. "That's what you get!" I said. 281 In 1972: H. D. Jackson and L. D. Moore, who had brought a po- lice brutality case for four million dollars, hijacked a Southern Air- ways jet to Cuba, outraged at being awarded damages in the amount of twenty-five dollars. In 1972: Mayor Roman Gribbs claimed that Detroit had turned around. The city had overcome the trauma of the '67 riots. There- fore, he wasn't planning on running for another term. A new candi- date appeared, the man who would become the city's first African American mayor, Coleman A. Young. And I turned twelve. A few months earlier, on the first day of sixth grade, Carol Horning came into class wearing a slight but unmistakably self-satisfied smile. Below this smile, as if displayed on a trophy shelf, were the new breasts she had gotten over the summer. She wasn't the only one. During the growing months, quite a few of my schoolmates had— as adults liked to say—"developed."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  with multiple partners, keeping their turbans in place. Tessie blushed, looking; while Milton squinted; and I hid inside my hair as usual. We tried to look someplace else and so looked at the bookshelves. But here it wasn't safe either. Amid a dulling surround of issues of JAMA and The New England Journal of Medicine were some eye- popping titles. One, with entwining snakes on the spine, was called Erotosexual Pair Bonding. There was a purple, pamphlety thing enti- ded Ritualized Homosexuality: Three Field Studies. On the desk itself, with a bookmark in it, was a manual called Hap-Penis: Surgical Tech- niques in Female-to-Male Sex Reassignment. If the sign on the front door hadn't already, Luce's office made it clear just what kind of spe- cialist my parents had brought me to see. (And, worse, to see me.) There were sculptures, too. Reproductions from the temple at Ku- jaraho occupied corners of the room along with huge jade plants. Against the waxy green foliage, melon-breasted Hindu women bent over double, offering up orifices like prayers to the well-endowed men who answered them. An overloaded switchboard, a dirty game of Twister everywhere you turned. "Will you look at this place?" Tessie whispered. "Sort of unusual decor," said Milton. 407 And I: "What are we doing here?" It was right then that the door opened and Dr. Luce presented himself. At that stage, I didn't know about his glamour status in the field. I had no idea of the frequency with which Luce's name appeared in the relevant journals and papers. But I saw right away that Luce wasn't your normal-looking doctor. Instead of a medical coat he wore a suede vest with fringe. Silver hair touched the collar of his beige turtleneck. His pants were flared and on his feet were a pair of ankle boots with zippers on the sides. He had eyeglasses, too, silver wire-rims, and a gray mustache. "Welcome to New York," he said. "I'm Dr. Luce." He shook my father's hand, then my mother's, and finally came to me. "You must be Calliope." He was smiling, relaxed. "Let's see if I can remember my mythology. Calliope was one of the Muses, right?" "Right." "In charge of what?" "Epic poetry." "You can't beat that," said Luce. He was trying to act casual, but I could see he was excited. I was an extraordinary case, after all. He was taking his time, savoring me. To a scientist like Luce I was noth- ing less than a sexual or genetic Kaspar Hauser. There he was, a famous sexologist, a guest on Dick Cavctt^ a regular contributor to Playboy', and suddenly on his doorstep, arriving out of the woods of Detroit like the Wild Boy of Aveyron, was me, Calliope Stepha- nides, age fourteen. I was a living experiment dressed in white corduroys and a Fair Isle sweater. This sweater, pale yellow, with a

• From Middlesex (2002)

  On the road there was time for minor adjustments. Many of the socks I'd brought were the wrong color— pink, white, or covered with whales. Also my underpants weren't the right kind. At a Wool- worth's in Nebraska City I bought a three-pack of boxer shorts. As a girl, I had worn size large. As a boy, medium. I trolled through the toiletries section, too. Instead of row upon row of beauty products there was only a single rack of hygienic essentials. The explosion in men's cosmetics hadn't happened yet. There were no pampering unguents disguised by rugged names. No Heavy-Duty Skin Repair. No Anti-Burn Shave Gel. I selected deodorant, disposable razors, and shaving cream. The colorful cologne bottles attracted me, but my experience with after-shaves was not favorable. Cologne made me think of voice coaches, of maitre d's, of old men and their unwanted embraces. I picked out a man's wallet, too. At the register, I couldn't look the cashier in the face, as embarrassed as if I were buying con- doms. The cashier wasn't much older than I was, with blond, feath- ered hair. That heartland look. At restaurants I began to use the men's rooms. This was perhaps the hardest adjustment. I was scandalized by the filth of men's rooms, the rank smells and pig sounds, the grunting and huffing from the stalls. Urine was forever puddled on the floors. Scraps of soiled toilet paper adhered to the commodes. When you entered a stall, more of- ten than not a plumbing emergency greeted you, a brown tide, a soup of dead frogs. To think that a toilet stall had once been a haven for me! That was all over now. I could see at once that men's rooms, unlike the ladies', provided no comfort. Often there wasn't even a mirror, or any hand soap. And while the closeted, flatulent men showed no shame, at the urinals men acted nervous. They looked straight ahead like horses with blinders. I understood at those times what I was leaving behind: the soli- 451 darity of a shared biology. Women know what it means to have a body. They understand its difficulties and frailties, its glories and pleasures. Men think their bodies are theirs alone. They tend them in private, even in public.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Latin, huh? That what they're teaching you in that school?" "I like it." "You a necrophiliac?" "A what?" "That's someone who gets off on dead people. Latin's dead, isn't it?" "I don't know." "I know some Latin." "You do?" "Cunnilingus." "Don't be gross." "Fellatio." "Ha ha." "Mons veneris." "I'm dying of laughter. You're killing me. Look, I'm dead." Chapter Eleven was quiet for a while. I tried to go on studying but felt him staring at me. Finally, exasperated, I closed my book. "What are you looking at?" I said. There was a pause characteristic of my brother. Behind his granny glasses his eyes looked bland, but the mind behind them was work- ing things out. "I'm looking at my little sister," he said. "Okay. You saw her. Now go." "I'm looking at my little sister and thinking she doesn't look like my little sister anymore." "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. 314 Again the pause. "I don't know," said my brother. "I'm trying to figure it out." "Well, when you figure it out, let me know. Bight now I've got stuff to do." On Saturday morning, Chapter Eleven's girlfriend arrived. Meg Zemka was as small as my mother and as flat-chested as me. Her hair was a mousy brown, her teeth, owing to an impoverished childhood, not well cared for. She was a waif, an orphan, a runt, and six times as powerful as my brother. "What are you studying up at college, Meg?" my father asked at dinner. "Poli. sci." "That sounds interesting." "I doubt you'd like my emphasis. I'm a Marxist." "Oh, you are, are you?" "You run a bunch of restaurants, right?" "That's right. Hercules Hot Dogs. Haven't you ever had one? We'll have to take you down to one of our stands." "Meg doesn't eat meat," my mother reminded. "Oh yeah, I forgot," said Milton. "Well, you can have some french fries. We've got french fries." "What do you pay your workers?" Meg asked. "The ones behind the counter? They get minimum wage." "And you live out here in this big house in Grosse Pointe." "That's because I handle the entire business and accept the risk." "Sounds like exploitation to me." "It does, does it?" Milton smiled. "Well, if giving somebody a job is exploiting them, then I guess I'm an exploiter. Those jobs didn't exist before I started the business." "That's like saying that the slaves didn't have jobs until they built the plantations." "You got a real live wire here," Milton said, turning to my brother. "Where did you find her?" "I found him," said Meg. "On top of an elevator." That was when we learned how Chapter Eleven was spending his time at college. His favorite pastime was to unscrew the ceiling panel on the dorm elevator and climb up on top. He sat there for hours, riding up and down in the darkness. "The first time I did it," Chapter Eleven now confessed, "the car 315

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “Enough with the Alaska already. By my count, there are ninety-two girls at this school, and every last one of them is less crazy than Alaska, who, I might add, already has a boyfriend . I’m going to lunch. It’s bufriedo day.” He walked out, leaving the door open. Feeling like an overinfatuated idiot, I got up to close the door. The Colonel, already halfway across the dorm circle, turned around. “Christ. Are you coming or what?” You can say a lot of bad things about Alabama, but you can’t say that Alabamans as a people are unduly afraid of deep fryers. In that first week at the Creek, the cafeteria served fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, and fried okra, which marked my first foray into the delicacy that is the fried vegetable. I half expected them to fry the iceberg lettuce. But nothing matched the bufriedo, a dish created by Maureen, the amazingly (and understandably) obese Culver Creek cook. A deep-fried bean burrito, the bufriedo proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that frying always improves a food. Sitting with the Colonel and five guys I didn’t know at a circular table in the cafeteria that afternoon, I sank my teeth into the crunchy shell of my first bufriedo and experienced a culinary orgasm. My mom cooked okay, but I immediately wanted to bring Maureen home with me over Thanksgiving. The Colonel introduced me (as “Pudge”) to the guys at the wobbly wooden table, but I only registered the name Takumi, whom Alaska had mentioned yesterday. A thin Japanese guy only a few inches taller than the Colonel, Takumi talked with his mouth full as I chewed slowly, savoring the bean-y crunch. “God,” Takumi said to me, “there’s nothing like watching a man eat his first bufriedo.” I didn’t say much—partly because no one asked me any questions and partly because I just wanted to eat as much as I could. But Takumi felt no such modesty—he could, and did, eat and chew and swallow while talking. The lunch discussion centered on the girl who was supposed to have been Alaska’s roommate, Marya, and her boyfriend, Paul, who had been a Weekday Warrior. They’d gotten kicked out in the last week of the previous school year, I learned, for what the Colonel called “the Trifecta”—they were caught committing three of Culver Creek’s expellable offenses at once. Lying naked in bed together (“genital contact” being offense #1), already drunk (#2), they were smoking a joint (#3) when the Eagle burst in on them. Rumors had it that someone had ratted them out, and Takumi seemed intent on finding out who—intent enough, anyway, to shout about it with his mouth jam-packed with bufriedo. “Paul was an asshole,” the Colonel said.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  glis's ghosts haunted the school, along with actual busts and por- traits. A statue in the courtyard showed the bespectacled educators in a fanciful, springtime mood, Miss Baker gesturing, Pope-like, to bless the air, while Miss Inglis (forever the bottom) turned to see what her colleague was bringing to her attention. Miss Inglis's floppy hat ob- scured her plain features. In the work's only avant-garde touch, a thick wire extended from Miss Baker's head, at the top of which hov- ered the object of wonder: a hummingbird. ... All this was suggested by the spinning hockey ball. But there was something else, something more personal, tiiat explained why I was its target. What was Calliope doing playing goalie? Why was she encumbered by mask and pads? Why was Coach Stork hollering at her to make the save? To answer simply: I wasn't very good at sports. Softball, basket- ball, tennis: I was hopeless in every one. Field hockey was even worse. I couldn't get used to the funny little sticks or the nebulous, European strategies. Short on players, Coach Stork put me in goal and hoped for the best. It rarely happened. With a lack of team spirit, some Wolverettes maintained that I possessed no coordination what- soever. Did this charge have merit? Is there any connection between 293 my present desk job and a lack of physical grace? I'm not going to an- swer that. But in my defense I will say that none of my more athletic teammates ever inhabited such a problematic body. They didn't have, as I did, two testicles squatting illegally in their inguinal canals. Un- known to me, those anarchists had taken up residence in my ab- domen, and were even hooked up to the utilities. If I crossed my leg the wrong way or moved too quickly, a spasm shot across my groin. On the hockey field I often doubled over, my eyes tearing up, while Coach Stork swatted me on the rump. "It's just a cramps Stephanides. Run it off." (And now, as I moved to block the slap shot, just such a pain hit me. My insides twisted, erupting with a lava flow of pain. I bent forward, tripping on my goalie stick. And then I was tumbling, falling . . .) But there's still time to record a few other physical changes. At the beginning of seventh grade I got braces, a fall set. Rubber bands now hooked my upper and lower palates together. My jaw felt springy, like a ventriloquist dummy's. Every night before going to sleep I du- tifully fit my medieval headgear on. But in the darkness, while my teeth were slowly coerced into straightness, the rest of my face had begun to give in to a stronger, genetic predisposition toward crookedness. To paraphrase Nietzsche, there are two types of Greek: the Apollonian and the Dionysian. I'd been born Apollonian, a sun-

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Whoever Chip Martin was, I hoped to God he would bring an arsenal of high-powered fans, because I hadn’t packed even one, and I could already feel my sweat pooling on the vinyl mattress, which disgusted me so much that I stopped thinking and got off my ass to find a towel to wipe up the sweat with. And then I thought, Well, before the adventure comes the unpacking . I managed to tape a map of the world to the wall and get most of my clothes into drawers before I noticed that the hot, moist air made even the walls sweat, and I decided that now was not the time for manual labor. Now was the time for a magnificently cold shower. The small bathroom contained a huge, full-length mirror behind the door, and so I could not escape the reflection of my naked self as I leaned in to turn on the shower faucet. My skinniness always surprised me: My thin arms didn’t seem to get much bigger as they moved from wrist to shoulder, my chest lacked any hint of either fat or muscle, and I felt embarrassed and wondered if something could be done about the mirror. I pulled open the plain white shower curtain and ducked into the stall. Unfortunately, the shower seemed to have been designed for someone approximately three feet, seven inches tall, so the cold water hit my lower rib cage—with all the force of a dripping faucet. To wet my sweat-soaked face, I had to spread my legs and squat significantly. Surely, John F. Kennedy (who was six feet tall according to his biography, my height exactly) did not have to squat at his boarding school. No, this was a different beast entirely, and as the dribbling shower slowly soaked my body, I wondered whether I could find a Great Perhaps here at all or whether I had made a grand miscalculation. When I opened the bathroom door after my shower, a towel wrapped around my waist, I saw a short, muscular guy with a shock of brown hair. He was hauling a gigantic army-green duffel bag through the door of my room. He stood five feet and nothing, but was well-built, like a scale model of Adonis, and with him arrived the stink of stale cigarette smoke. Great , I thought. I’m meeting my roommate naked . He heaved the duffel into the room, closed the door, and walked over to me. “I’m Chip Martin,” he announced in a deep voice, the voice of a radio deejay. Before I could respond, he added, “I’d shake your hand, but I think you should hold on damn tight to that towel till you can get some clothes on.” I laughed and nodded my head at him (that’s cool, right? the nod?) and said, “I’m Miles Halter. Nice to meet you.” “Miles, as in ‘to go before I sleep’?” he asked me. “Huh?” “It’s a Robert Frost poem.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  aligned with, taken in by, nurtured and befriended by the year's new- comers. As I opened my locker, my friends said nothing about my porous goaltending. Instead Reetika kindly turned the subject to an upcoming math test. Joanne Maria Barbara Peracchio slowly peeled off a knee sock. Correctional surgery had left her right ankle as diin as a broomstick. The sight of it always made me feel better about my- self. Norma Abdow opened her locker, looked in, and shouted, "Gross!" I stalled, unlacing my pads. On either side, my friends, with quick, shivery movements, stripped off their clothes. They wrapped themselves in towels. "You guys?" Linda Ramirez asked. "Can I bor- row some shampoo?" "Only if you're my lunch peon tomorrow." "No way!" "Then no shampoo." "Okay, okay." "Okay, what?" "Okay, Your Highness." I waited until they left before I undressed. First I took off my knee socks. I reached under my athletic tunic and pulled down my shorts. After tying a bath towel around my waist, I unbuttoned the shoulder straps of my tunic and pulled it over my head. This left me with the towel and my jersey on. Now came the tricky part. The brassiere I had was size 30 AA. It had a tiny rosette between the cups and a label that read "Young Miss by Olga." (Tessie had urged me to get an old-fashioned training bra, but I wanted something that looked like what my friends had, and preferably padded.) I now fas- tened this item around my waist, clasps in front, and then rotated it into position. At that point, one sleeve at a time, I pulled my arms in- side my jersey so that it sat on my shoulders like a cloak. Working in- side it, I slid the bra up my torso until I could slip my arms through the armholes. When that was accomplished, I put my kilt on under my towel, removed my jersey, put on my blouse, and tossed the towel away. I wasn't naked for a second. The only witness to my cunning was our school mascot. On the wall behind me a faded felt banner proclaimed: "1955 State Field Hockey Champions." Below this, striking her customary insouciant pose, was the B&I Wolverette. With her beady eyes, sharp teeth, and tapering snout, she stood leaning on her hockey stick, right foot crossed over left ankle. She wore a blue tunic with a red sash. A red 299 ribbon sat between her furry ears. It was difficult to tell if she was smiling or snarling. There was something of the Yale bulldog's tenac- ity in our Wolverette, but there was elegance, too. The Wolverette didn't just play to win. She played to keep her figure. At the nearby drinking fountain, I pressed one finger over the hole, making the water squirt high in the air. I put my head into this stream. Coach Stork always touched our hair before letting us leave, making sure it was wet.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  363 ing examples and quoting the famous dead and castigating the infa- mous living. No more running the government from our love seats. No more revamping of the tax code or philosophical fights about the role of government, the welfare state, the Swedish health system (de- signed by a Dr. Fioretos, no relation). The end of an era. Never again. Never on Sunday. The only people who stayed were Aunt Zo, Father Mike, and our cousins, because they were related to us. Tessie was angry with Mil- ton for causing a fight. She told him so, he exploded at her, and she gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the day. Father Mike took advantage of this to lead Tessie up to the sun deck. Milton got in his car and drove off. I was with Aunt Zo when we later brought refreshments up to the deck. I had just stepped out onto the gravel between the thick redwood railings when I saw Tessie and Father Mike sitting on the black iron patio furniture. Father Mike was hold- ing my mother's hand, leaning his bearded face close to her and look- ing into her eyes as he spoke softly. My mother had been crying, apparently. She had a tissue balled in one hand. "Caliie's got iced tea," Aunt Zo announced as she came out, "and I've got the booze." But then she saw how Father Mike was looking at my mother and she went silent. My mother stood up, blushing. "I'll take the booze, Zo." Everyone laughed nervously. Aunt Zo poured the glasses. "Don't look, Mike," she said. "The presvytercfs getting drunk on Sunday." The following Friday I drove up with the Object's father to their summer house near Petoskey. It was a grand Victorian, covered with gingerbread, and painted the color of pistachio saltwater taffy. I was dazzled by the sight of the house as we drove up. It sat on a rise above Little Traverse Bay, guarded by tall pines, all its windows blaz- ing. I was good with parents. Parents were my specialty. In the car on the way up I had carried on a lively and wide-ranging conversation with the Object's father. It was from him that she had gotten her col- oring. Mr. Object had the Celtic tints. He was in his late fifties, how- ever, and his reddish hair had been bleached almost colorless now, like a dandelion gone to seed. His freckled skin looked blown out, too. He wore a khaki poplin suit and bow tie. After he picked me up, we stopped at a party store near the highway, where Mr. Object bought a six-pack of Smirnoff cocktails. 364

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "It was an accident," Tessie insisted, still hot with embarrassment. "Poor Father Mike! He'll never get over it." "That went reallyfar? marveled Chapter Eleven. In all the commotion, no one wondered about the engineering involved. Desdemona took my reverse baptism of her son-in-law as a bad omen. Already potentially responsible for her husband's stroke, I had now committed a sacrilege at my first liturgical opportunity. In addi- tion, I had humiliated her by being born a girl. "Maybe you should try guessing the weather," Sourmelina teased her. My father rubbed it in: "So much for your spoon, Ma. It sort of pooped out on you." The truth was that in those days Desdemona was struggling against as- similationist pressures she couldn't resist. Though she had lived in America as an eternal exile, a visitor for forty years, certain bits of her adopted country had been seeping under the locked doors of her dis- approval. After Lefty came home from the hospital, my father took a TV up to the attic to provide some entertainment. It was a small black-and-white Zenith, prone to vertical shift. Milton placed it on a bedside table and went back downstairs. The television remained, rumbling, glowing. Lefty adjusted his pillows to watch. Desdemona tried to do housework but found herself looking over at the screen more and more often. She still didn't like cars. She covered her ears 222 whenever the vacuum cleaner was on. But the TV was somehow dif- ferent. My grandmother took to television right away. It was the first and only thing about America she approved of. Sometimes she for- got to turn the set off and would awaken at 2 a.m. to hear "The Star- Spangled Banner" playing before the station signed off. The television replaced the sound of conversation that was miss- ing from my grandparents' lives. Desdemona watched all day long, scandalized by the love affairs on As the World Turns. She liked deter- gent commercials especially, anything with animated scrubbing bub- bles or avenging suds. Living on Seminole contributed to the cultural imperialism. On Sundays, instead of serving Metaxa, Milton fixed cocktails for his guests. "Drinks with the names of people," Desdemona complained to her mute husband back in the attic. "Tom Collins. Harvey Wall Bang. This is a drink! And they are listening to music on the, how you say, the hi-fi. Milton he puts this music, and they drink Tom Collins and sometimes they are, you know, dancing, one on one, men together with the women. Like wrestling."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  In 1974, Dr. Nishan Philobosian was eighty-eight years old. He still wore a bow tie, but his neck no longer filled out the collar of his shirt. He was reduced in all his parts, freeze-dried. Nevertheless, green golf slacks extended from the hem of his white coat and a pair of tinted aviator-style glasses gripped his hairless head. 401 "Hello, Callie, how are you?" "Fine, Dr. Phil." "Starting school again? What grade are you in now?" "I'll be in ninth this year. High school." "High school? Already? I must be getting old." His courtly manner was no different than it had ever been. The foreign sounds he still made, the evidence of the Old World in his teeth, put me somewhat at ease. All my life dignified foreigners had petted and pampered me. I was a sucker for the soft-handed Levan- tine affections. As a little girl I had sat on Dr. Philobosian's knee while his fingers climbed my spinal column, counting off the verte- brae. Now I was taller than he was, gangly, freak-haired, a Tiny Tim of a girl, sitting in gown, bra, and underpants on the edge of an old- fashioned medical table with step-drawers of vulcanized rubber. He listened to my heart and lungs, his bald head dipping on the long neck like that of a brontosaurus, sampling leaves. "How's your father, Callie?" "Fine." "How's the hot dog business?" "Good." "How many hot dog places your dad has now?" "Like fifty or something." "There's one not too far from where Nurse Rosalee and I go in the winter. Pompano Beach." He examined my eyes and ears and then politely asked me to stand and lower my underpants. Fifty years earlier, Dr. Philobosian had made his living treating Ottoman ladies in Smyrna. Propriety was an old habit with him. My mind was not fuzzy, as it had been up in Petoskey. I was fully aware of what was happening and where the focus of medical scrutiny lay. After I had pulled my panties down to my knees, a hot wave of embarrassment swept through me and by reflex I covered myself with my hand. Dr. Philobosian, not entirely gentiy, moved this aside. There was something of the impatience of the old in this. He forgot himself momentarily, and behind his aviator lenses his eyes glared. Still, he didn't look down at me. He gazed gallandy off at the far wall while feeling for information with his hands. We were as close as dancing. Dr. Phil's breathing was noisy; his hands shook. I 402 glanced down myself only once. My embarrassment had retracted me. From my angle I was a girl again, white belly, dark triangle, fore- shortened legs shaved smooth. My brassiere was bandoliered across my chest.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  started going up to the top. I thought I might get crushed. But they leave some air space." "This is what we're paying your tuition for?" Milton asked. "That's what you're exploiting your workers for," said Meg. Tessie made Chapter Eleven and Meg sleep in separate bedrooms, but in the middle of the night there was a lot of tiptoeing and gig- gling in the dark. Trying to be the big sister I never had, Meg gave me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Chapter Eleven, swept up in the sexual revolution, tried to edu- cate me, too. "You ever masturbate, Cal?" "What!" "You don't have to be embarrassed. It's natural. This friend of mine told me you could do it with your hand. So I went into the bathroom—" "I don't want to hear about—" "—and tried it out. All of sudden, all the muscles in my penis started contracting—" "In our bathroom?" "—And then I ejaculated. It felt really amazing. You should try it, Cal, if you haven't already. Girls are a little different, but physiologi- cally it's pretty much the same. I mean, the penis and the clitoris are analogous structures. You gotta experiment to see what works." I put my fingers in my ears and started humming. "You don't have to have any hang-ups with me," Chapter Eleven said loudly. "I'm your brother." The rock music, the reverence for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the av- ocado pits sprouting on the windowsill, the rainbow- colored rolling papers. What else? Oh yeah: my brother had stopped using deodor- ant. "You stink!" I objected one day, sitting next to him in the TV room. Chapter Eleven gave the tiniest of shrugs. "I'm a human," he said. "This is what humans smell like." "Then humans stink." "Do you think I stink, Meg?" "No way," nuzzling up to his armpit. "It turns me onV "Will you guys get out of here! I'm trying to watch this show." 316 "Hey, baby, my little sister wants us to split. What do you say to a little nookie?" "Groovy." "See you, sis. We'll be upstairs in flagrante delicto? Where could all this lead? Only to family dissension, shouting matches, and heartbreak. On New Year's Eve, as Milton and Tessie toasted the new year with glasses of Cold Duck, Chapter Eleven and Meg swigged on bottles of Elephant Malt Liquor, going outside every so often to secretiy smoke a joint. Milton said, "You know, I've been thinking about finally making that trip to the old country. We could go back and seepapou zndyiayia''s village." "And fix that church, like you promised," said Tessie. "What do you think?" Milton asked Chapter Eleven. "Maybe we could take a family vacation this summer."