Loneliness

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 The Art of Seduction (2001)

  at an angle, indirectly, so that the target only gradually becomes aware of you. Haunt the periphery of your target's life— approach through a third party, or seem to cultivate a relatively neutral relationship, moving gradually from friend to lover. Arrange an occasional "chance" encounter, as if you and your target were destined to become acquainted— nothing is more seductive than a sense of destiny. Lull the target into feeling secure, then strike. Friend to Lover Anne Marie Louis d'Orléans, the Duchess de Montpensier, known in seventeenth-century France as La Grande Mademoiselle, had never known love in her life. Her mother had died when she was young; her father remarried and ignored her. She came from one of Europe's most illustrious families: her grandfather had been King Henry IV; the future King Louis XIV was her cousin. When she was young, matches had been pro- Many women adore the posed between her and the widowed king of Spain, the son of the Holy elusive, \ Hate overeagerness. So, play Roman emperor, and even cousin Louis himself, among many others. But hard to get, \ Stop boredom all of these matches were designed for political purposes, or because of her developing. And don't let family's enormous wealth. No one bothered to woo her; she rarely even your entreaties \ Sound too met her suitors. To make matters worse, the Grande Mademoiselle was an confident of possession. Insinuate sex \ idealist who believed in the old-fashioned values of chivalry: courage, hon- Camouflaged as friendship. esty, virtue. She loathed the schemers whose motives in courting her were I've seen ultrastubborn dubious at best. Whom could she trust? One by one she found a reason to creatures \ Fooled by this gambit, the switch from spurn them. Spinsterhood seemed to be her fate. companion to stud. In April of 1669, the Grande Mademoiselle, then forty-two, met one —OVID, THEART OF LOVE, of the strangest men in the court: the Marquis Antonin Peguilin, later TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN known as the Duke de Lauzun. A favorite of Louis XIV's, the thirty-six-year-old Marquis was a brave soldier with an acid wit. He was also an in-curable Don Juan. Although he was short, and certainly not handsome, his impudent manners and his military exploits made him irresistible to On the street, I do not stop women. The Grande Mademoiselle had noticed him some years before, ad- her, or I exchange a miring his elegance and boldness. But it was only this time, in 1669, that greeting with her but never come close, but always she had a real conversation with him, if a short one, and although she knew strive for distance. of his lady-killer reputation, she found him charming. A few days later they Presumably our repeated ran into each other again; this time the conversation was longer, and encounters are clearly noticeable to her;

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  And too, besides, Flee and I were always finding ourselves in bed together with other people, usually white women. Then I thought we were the only gay Black women in the world, or at least in the Village, which at the time was a state of mind extending all the way from river to river below 14th Street, and in pockets throughout the area still known as the Lower East Side. I had heard tales from Flee and others about the proper Black ladies who came downtown on Friday night after the last show at Small’s Paradise to find a gay-girl to go muff-diving with, and bring her back up to Convent Avenue to sleep over while their husbands went hunting, fishing, golfing, or to an Alpha’s weekend. But I only met one once, and her pressed hair and all too eagerly interested husband who had accompanied her this particular night to the Bagatelle, where I met her over a daiquiri and a pressed knee, turned me off completely. And this was pretty hard to do in those days because it seemed an eternity between warm beds in the cold mornings seven flights up on Seventh Street. So I told her that I never traveled above 23rd Street. I could have said 14th Street, but she had already found out that I went to college; therefore I thought 23rd was safe enough because CCNY Downtown was there. That was the last bastion of working-class academia allowed. Downtown in the gay bars I was a closet student and an invisible Black. Uptown at Hunter I was a closet dyke and a general intruder. Maybe four people altogether knew I wrote poetry, and I usually made it pretty easy for them to forget. It was not that I didn’t have friends, and good ones. There was a loose group of young lesbians, white except for Flee and I, who hung out together, apart from whatever piece of the straight world we each had a separate place in. We not only believed in the reality of sisterhood, that word which was to be so abused two decades later, but we also tried to put it into practice, with varying results. We all cared for and about each other, sometimes with more or less understanding, regardless of who was entangled with whom at any given time, and there was always a place to sleep and something to eat and a listening ear for anyone who wandered into the crew. And there was always somebody calling you on the telephone, to interrupt the fantasies of suicide.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “It’s less of a burden on the servants to maintain only the areas we use regularly,” Charlotte explained before he could ask. Thinking of the motley crew he’d met so far, he had to agree. Hugh was relieved to see that the dining room was clean and kept in usable condition, but he was slightly disappointed to see only two place settings on the long mahogany table. “Is Her Grace not joining us for dinner?” Even as he asked, he wondered why a paid companion would be allowed to dress so beautifully and eat dinner with him instead of with her employer. But he refused to ask. No sane man would question such good fortune. “She’s become accustomed to eating her meals alone.” “Odd, that,” he murmured as he held a chair for her. He’d made a habit of surrounding himself with large, boisterous groups of people, rarely spending a moment without company of some sort. Eating alone sounded . . . lonely. Taking his seat, Hugh settled in to enjoy his meal when a familiar noise drew his attention to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He shook his head and sighed. Sure enough, the portal swung open and the young, jittery maid entered. The soup tureen in her hands wobbled alarmingly, and the ladle protruding from it rattled so loudly, nothing else could be heard. Directly on her heels and bearing a pitcher came Tom, the lazy-eyed boy who’d assisted Hugh earlier. The two servants almost collided, compliments of the madly swinging door. Together they performed an odd sort of spinning dance, stumbling forward and back and around, as they attempted to keep their liquids from spilling out everywhere. For a moment, Hugh watched the antics in dumbfounded fascination, and then, muttering an oath, he pushed to his feet and rescued the maid from the soup (or the soup from the maid, depending on how one looked at it). “’Tis a wonder you don’t starve,” he muttered, and Charlotte laughed. “They would have been fine, if you’d have given them a moment.” Hugh shot her a disbelieving glance. “Truly,” she insisted. “Are you the only normal individual on the premises?” he rejoined as he took his seat. The lovely full mouth he found endlessly erotic curved in a wide grin. “That depends on what you consider normal. Some would say that a young, unmarried woman who chooses to live with a mad duchess is far from normal.” She glanced at the shaking woman at the end of the table. “You may serve now, Katie.” The pretty brunette flashed a tentative smile and moved to fill their bowls with soup. Hugh watched as, despite her affliction, she managed the task without spilling a drop onto the pristine tablecloth.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  warned him of the terrible penalties for smuggling. He didn’t want to have his hands cut off. A few years ago you were home for the weekend and you found one of the spoons with the Plaza crest in the silverware drawer. You walk up Fifth Avenue along the park. On the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, a mime with a black-and-white face performs in front of a small crowd. As you pass you hear laughter and when you turn around the mime is imitating your walk. He bows and tips his hat when you stop. You bow back and throw him a quarter. At the ticket window you say you’re a student. The woman asks you if you have an ID. You say you left it in your dorm and she ends up giving you the student rate anyway. You go to the Egyptian wing and wander among the obelisks, sarcophagi and mummies. In your several visits to the Met this is the only exhibit you have seen. Mummies of all sizes are included, some of them unwrapped to reveal the leathery half-preserved dead. Also dog and cat mummies, and an infant mummy, an ancient newborn bundled up for eternity. From the Met you walk to Tad’s place on Lexington. It’s a little after six. No answer to the buzzer. You decide to go for a drink and come back later. In a few minutes you are in singles’ heaven on First Avenue. You start at Friday’s, where you get a seat at the bar and finally succeed in ordering a drink. Prime time approaches, and the place is packed with eager secretaries and slumming lawyers. Everyone here has the Jordache look—the look you don’t want to know better. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of cosmetics on the women and thousands in gold around the necks of the open-shirted men. Gold crucifixes, Stars of David and coke spoons hang from the chains. Some trust in God to get them laid; others in drugs. Someone should do a survey of success ratios, publish it in New York magazine. You are sitting beside a girl with frosted hair who emanates the scent of honeysuckle. She has been sneaking peeks at you in between conferences with her girlfriend. You would guess her age to be

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “I really enjoyed Amanda,” Elaine says between songs. “I do hope I see her again.” There is something confidential in her manner, as if you shared a secret with regard to Amanda. You would be happier if she had said she didn’t like Amanda. Being still unable to think the worst of her, you need other people to think it and speak it for you. Tad and Theresa have disappeared. Elaine excuses herself and says she will be right back. You feel abandoned. You consider the possibility of conspiracy. They have planned to meet at the door and ditch you. You are doing bad things to their mood. Or, worse yet, you are missing out on drugs. You get yourself a drink. You wait five minutes and then decide to reconnoiter. You check the Men’s Room first and then the Ladies’. A woman in a leather jump suit is teasing her hair at the mirror. “Plenty of room,” she says. You hear sounds coming from one of the stalls. Giggling. Looking down, you see Elaine’s pumps and Theresa’s sandals under the door. “Save a little for me,” you say, pushing on the door of the stall, which yields just enough to allow you to stick your head in and discover Elaine and Theresa engaged in an unnatural act. You look on in wonder and confusion. “Want to join the party?” Elaine asks. “Bon appétit,” you blurt, and you lurch out of the Ladies’ Room. You emerge into a din of bodies and music. It is very late.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  "Why are you avoiding because I like it," or, "I love soup." The critics went wild with their interme?" But all he heard pretations: "An art like Warhol's is necessarily parasitic upon the myths of were his own words echoed its time," one wrote; another, "The decision not to decide is a paradox that back. Still he persisted, deceived by what he took to is equal to an idea which expresses nothing but then gives it dimension." be another's voice, and The show was a huge success, establishing Warhol as a leading figure in a said, "Come here, and let new movement, pop art. us meet!" Echo answered: "Let us meet!" Never In 1963, Warhol rented a large Manhattan loft space that he called the again would she reply more Factory, and that soon became the hub of a large entourage—hangers-on, willingly to any sound. To actors, aspiring artists. Here, particularly at night, Warhol would simply make good her words she came out of the wood and wander about, or stand in a corner. People would gather around him, fight made to throw her arms for his attention, throw questions at him, and he would answer, in his non-round the neck she loved: committal way. But no one could get close to him, physically or mentally; but he fled from her, crying he would not allow it. At the same time, if he walked by you without givas he did so, " A w a y with these embraces! I would die ing you his usual "Oh, hi," you were devastated. He hadn't noticed you; before I would have you perhaps you were on the way out. touch me!" . . . Thus Increasingly interested in filmmaking, Warhol cast his friends in his scorned, she concealed herself in the woods, hiding movies. In effect he was offering them a kind of instant celebrity (their her shamed face in the "fifteen minutes of fame"—the phrase is Warhol's). Soon people were shelter of the leaves, and competing for roles. He groomed women in particular for stardom: Edie ever since that day she dwells in lonely caves. Yet Sedgwick, Viva, Nico. Just being around him offered a kind of celebrity by still her love remained association. The Factory became the place to be seen, and stars like Judy firmly rooted in her heart, Garland and Tennessee Williams would go to parties there, rubbing elbows and was increased by the with Sedgwick, Viva, and the bohemian lower echelons whom Warhol had pain of having been rejected. . . . • Narcissus befriended. People began sending limos to bring him to parties of their had played with her own; his presence alone was enough to turn a social evening into a scene— affections, treating her as he even though he would pass through in near silence, keeping to himself and had previously treated other spirits of the waters and leaving early. the woods, and his male

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  pass to someone else. To seduce them for good, she entered their spirit. She the white of his armpit learned French and began to sing in it. She started dressing and acting as a could be seen, and dealt stylish French lady, as if to say that she preferred the French way of life to him a blow on the neck which made the hall echo the American. Countries are like people: they have vast insecurities, and with the sound. And this they feel threatened by other customs. It is often quite seductive to a people he followed by a second to see an outsider adopting their ways. Benjamin Disraeli was born and blow. • The old man rose in anger and cried: "What lived all his life in England, but he was Jewish by birth, and had exotic fea- are you doing, vile tures; the provincial English considered him an outsider. Yet he was more creature?" • "Sir" replied English in his manners and tastes than many an Englishman, and this was my brother, "you have received your humble slave part of his charm, which he proved by becoming the leader of the Conser- into your house and loaded vative Party. Should you be an outsider (as most of us ultimately are), turn him with your generosity; it to advantage: play on your alien nature in such a way as to show the you have fed him with the group how deeply you prefer their tastes and customs to your own. choicest food and quenched his thirst with the most In 1752, the notorious rake Saltykov determined to be the first man in potent wines. Alas, he the Russian court to seduce the twenty-three-year-old grand duchess, the became drunk, and forgot future Empress Catherine the Great. He knew that she was lonely; her hus- his manners! But you are so noble, sir, that you will band Peter ignored her, as did many of the other courtiers. And yet the ob- 226 • The Art of Seduction surely pardon his offence. " stacles were immense: she was spied on day and night. Still, Saltykov man- • When he heard these aged to befriend the young woman, and to enter her all-too-small circle. words, the old man burst He finally got her alone, and made it clear to her how well he understood out laughing and said: "For a long time I have her loneliness, how deeply he disliked her husband, and how much he jested with all types of shared her interest in the new ideas that were sweeping Europe. Soon he men, but no one has ever found himself able to arrange further meetings, where he gave her the im-had the patience or the wit to enter into my humors as pression that when he was with her, nothing else in the world mattered. you have done. Now, Catherine fell deeply in love with him, and he did in fact become her first therefore, I pardon you,

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Then, taking his bounteous host unawares, he suddenly raised his arm so high that the white of his armpit could be seen, and dealt him a blow on the neck which made the hall echo with the sound. And this he followed by a second blow. • The old man rose in anger and cried: "What are you doing, vile creature?" • "Sir" replied my brother, "you have received your humble slave into your house and loaded him with your generosity; you have fed him with the choicest food and quenched his thirst with the most potent wines. Alas, he became drunk, and forgot his manners! But you are so noble, sir, that you will 226 • The Art of Seduction stacles were immense: she was spied on day and night. Still, Saltykov man- aged to befriend the young woman, and to enter her all-too-small circle. He finally got her alone, and made it clear to her how well he understood her loneliness, how deeply he disliked her husband, and how much he shared her interest in the new ideas that were sweeping Europe. Soon he found himself able to arrange further meetings, where he gave her the im- pression that when he was with her, nothing else in the world mattered. Catherine fell deeply in love with him, and he did in fact become her first lover. Saltykov had entered her spirit. When you mirror people, you focus intense attention on them. They will sense the effort you are making, and will find it flattering. Obviously you have chosen them, separating them out from the rest. There seems to be nothing else in your life but them—their moods, their tastes, their spirit. The more you focus on them, the deeper the spell you produce, and the in- toxicating effect you have on their vanity. Many of us have difficulty reconciling the person we are right now with the person we want to be. We are disappointed that we have compro- mised our youthful ideals, and we still imagine ourselves as that person who had so much promise, but whom circumstances prevented from real- izing it. When you are mirroring someone, do not stop at the person they have become; enter the spirit of that ideal person they wanted to be. This is how the French writer Chateaubriand managed to become a great se- ducer, despite his physical ugliness. When he was growing up, in the latter eighteenth century, romanticism was coming into fashion, and many young women felt deeply oppressed by the lack of romance in their lives. Chateaubriand would reawaken the fantasy they had had as young girls of being swept off their feet, of fulfilling romantic ideals.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I've got tons of places." "You buy me a burger I'll show you a good place." "I said I've got tons." "I know a good place in the park." "I can go into the park myself. Anyone can go into the park." "Not if they don't want to get rolled they can't. You don't know what's up, man. There's places in the Gate that are safe and places that aren't. Me and my friends got a nice place. Real secluded. The cops don't even know about it, so we can just party all the time. Might let you stay there but first I need that double cheese." "It was a hamburger a minute ago." "You snooze, you lose. Price is going up all the time. How old are you, anyway?" "Eighteen." "Yeah, right, like I'll believe that. You ain't no eighteen. I'm six- teen and you're not any older than me. You from Marin?" I shook my head. It had been a while since I had spoken to any- one my age. It felt good. It made me less lonely. But I still had my guard up. "You're a rich kid, though, right? Mr. Alligator?" I didn't say anything. And suddenly he was all appeal, full of kid hungers, his knees shaking. "Come on, man. I'm hungry. Okay, forget the double cheese. Just a burger." "All right." "Cool. A burger. And fries. You said fries, right? You won't be- lieve this, man, but I got rich parents, too." So began my time in Golden Gate Park. It turned out my new friend, Matt, wasn't lying about his parents. He was from the Main Line. His father was a divorce lawyer in Philadelphia. Matt was the fourth child, the youngest. Stocky, with a lug's jaw, a throaty, smoke- roughened voice, he had left home to follow the Grateful Dead the summer before but had never stopped. He sold tie-dyed T-shirts at their concerts, and dope or acid when he could. Deep in the park, where he led me, I found his cohorts. 470 "This is Cal," Matt told them. "He's going to crash here for a while." "That's cool." "You an undertaker, man?" "I thought it was Abe Lincoln at first." "Nah, these are just Cal's traveling clothes," Matt said. "He's got some others in that suitcase. Right?" I nodded. "You want to buy a shirt? I got some shirts."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Things weren't always like this. In college, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Olivia. We were drawn together by our common wound- edness. Olivia had been savagely attacked when she was only thir- teen, nearly raped. The police had caught the guy who did it and Olivia had testified in court numerous times. The ordeal had arrested her development. Instead of doing the normal things a high school girl did, she had had to remain that thirteen-year-old girl on the wit- ness stand. While Olivia and I were both intellectually capable of handling the college curriculum, of excelling in it even, we remained in key ways emotionally adolescent. We cried a lot in bed. I remem- ber the first time we took off our clothes in front of each other. It was like unwinding bandages. I was as much of a man as Olivia could bear at that point. I was her starter kit. 319 After college, I took a trip around the world. I tried to forget my body by keeping it in motion. Nine months later, back home, I took the Foreign Service exam and, a year after that, started working for the State Department. A perfect job for me. Three years in one place, two in another. Never long enough to form a solid attachment to anyone. In Brussels, I fell in love with a bartender who claimed not to care about the uncommon way I was made. I was so grateful that I asked her to marry me, though I found her dull company, ambi- tionless, too much of a shouter, a hitter. Fortunately, she refused my proposal and ran off with someone else. Who has there been since? A few here and there, never long-lasting. And so, without permanence, I have fallen into the routine of my incomplete seductions. The chat- ting up I'm good at. The dinners and drinks. The clinches in door- ways. But then I'm off. "I've got a meeting with the ambassador in the morning," I say. And they believe me. They believe the ambassa- dor wants to be briefed on the upcoming Aaron Copland tribute. It's getting harder all the time. With Olivia and every woman who came after her there has been this knowledge to deal with: the great fact of my condition. The Obscure Object and I met unawares, how- ever, in blissful ignorance. After all the screaming in our house, there reigned, that winter on Middlesex, only silence. A silence so profound that, like the left foot of the President's secretary, it erased portions of the official record. A soggy, evasive season during which Milton, unable to admit that Chapter Eleven's attack had broken his heart, began visibly to swell with rage, so that almost anything set him off, a long red light, ice

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  It was clear who had the better end of the deal.At some point in the day, my thoughts went into hibernation. I sat on the porch, elbows to knees, and watched the clouds move across the sky, careful not to think, not to want, not to anticipate. Longing rooted me in time and deepened the chasm between where I was and where I wanted to be: with my mother, or at the very least playing freeze tag with Pam and Randall. I spent my time looking instead of thinking. I studied birds, ants, trees, bushes. If I looked at something long enough, the veil that separated me from it fell away. There was no I. There was no it. There was only the experience of connectedness. Then I was back in my body again. These moments, unsought and unarticulated, came to me from that time until my early twenties. And in a sense they saved me, first from loneliness and later from nihilism. When as a teen I read in Alan Watts’s This Is It that underlying the great religious traditions of the world is “the sensation of basic inseparability from the total universe, of the identity of one’s own self with the Great Spirit beneath all that exists,” I applied it to what I had always considered my own singular experience. And to what I imagined people experienced under the tent. But of course as a five-year-old kid in Andalusia, Alabama, I was just trying to get from one part of my day to another. The clouds passed, insects crawled over my fingers, the sun burned a hole in my brain, the rain dripped, dripped, dripped, the bus groaned to a stop, Pam and Randall trudged up the hill, and time started again.Pam took me to the side of the house, away from Randall, and opened her hand to show me little hard white balls wrapped in pieces of notebook paper. Atomic FireBalls. She had picked them up off the playground after other kids spat them out. She unwrapped each one, explaining that they were red when they were brand-new. We held them under the water hydrant and washed off the germs. I promised her I would never tell Randall (“He would want some”), or anyone else (“They wouldn’t understand”).I daydreamed of living with Aunt Ruth, my mother’s sister, or her brother, Uncle Dave. The last time I could remember seeing them was at Grandma’s funeral. She had died after gallbladder surgery just as Brother Terrell had predicted. I thought my aunts, uncles, and my grandpa blamed Brother Terrell for her death, and that’s why we never saw them. My mother told me later she avoided them because they were suspicious of her relationship with her employer.One morning I woke up convinced that two of my youngest uncles were there. I had seen them roll a new red tricycle into the house for me during the night.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  When I got back at dinnertime the Object was still not there. Her mother was angry, thinking it rude of the Object to leave me alone. Jerome, too, was out with friends. So I ate dinner with the Object's parents. I felt too desolate to charm the grownups that night. I ate in silence and afterward sat in the living room pretending to read. The clock ticked on. The night labored and creaked. When I felt I might fall apart I went into the bathroom and threw water on my face. I held a warm washcloth over my eyes and pressed my hands against my temples. I wondered what the Object and Rex were doing. I pic- tured her socks in the air, her little tennis socks with the balls at the heels, those ensanguined balls, bouncing. It was obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Object were staying up just to 381 keep me company. So finally I said good night and went up to bed myself. I got in and immediately started crying. I cried for a long time, trying not to make any noise. While I sobbed I said things in an aggrieved whisper. I cried, "Why don't you like me?" and "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I didn't care what I sounded like. There was a poison in my system and I needed to purge it. While I was carrying on like that, I heard the screen door bang shut downstairs. I wiped my nose on the sheets and tried to settle down and listen. Footsteps climbed the stairs, and in another moment the door of the bedroom opened and closed. The Object entered and stood there in darkness. She might have been waiting for her eyes to adjust. I lay on my side, pre- tending to be asleep. The floorboards creaked as she came over to my side of the bed. I felt her standing over me, looking down. Then she went to the other side of the bed, took off her shoes and shorts, put on a T-shirt, and got in. The Object slept on her back. She told me once that back-sleepers were the leaders in life, born performers or exhibitionists. Stomach- sleepers like me were in retreat from reality, given to dark perception and the meditative arts. This theory applied in our case. I lay prone, my nose and eyes sore from crying. The Object, supine, yawned and (like a born performer, perhaps) soon fell asleep.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  San Francisco, that cold, identity-cleansing mist that rolls over the city every day, explains better than anything else why that city is what it is. After the Second World War, San Francisco was the main point of reentry for sailors returning from the Pacific. Out at sea, many of these sailors had picked up amatory habits that were frowned upon back on dry land. So these sailors stayed in San Francisco, growing in number and attracting others, until the city became the gay capital, the homosexual Hauptstadt. (Further evidence of life's unpredictabil- ity: the Castro is a direct outcome of the military-industrial complex.) It was the fog that appealed to those sailors because it lent the city the shifting, anonymous feeling of the sea, and in such anonymity per- sonal change was that much easier. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether the fog was rolling in over the city or whether the city was drifting out to meet it. Back in the 1940s, the fog hid what those sailors did from their fellow citizens. And the fog wasn't done. In the fifties it filled the heads of the Beats like the foam in their cappucci- nos. In the sixties it clouded the minds of the hippies like the pot smoke rising in their bongs. And in the seventies, when Cal Ste- phanides arrived, the fog was hiding my new friends and me in the park. On my third day in the Haight, I was in a cafe, eating a banana split. It was my second. The kick of my new freedom was wearing off. Gorging on sweets didn't chase away the blues as it had a week earlier. "Spare some change?" I looked up. Slouching beside my small marble-topped table was a type I knew well. It was one of the underpass kids, the scroungy runaways I kept my distance from. The hood of his sweatshirt was up, framing a flushed face, ripe with pimples. "Sorry," I said. The boy bent over, his face getting closer to mine. "Spare some change?" he said again. His persistence annoyed me. So I glowered at him and said, "I should ask you the same question." "I'm not the one pigging out on a sundae." "I told you I don't have any spare change." He glanced behind me and asked more affably, "How come you're carrying that humongous suitcase around?" 469 "That's my business." "I saw you yesterday with that thing." "I have enough money for this ice cream but that's it." "Don't you have any place to stay?"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  crudeness to the overall sketch, something bulbous about the nose, the eyes on the squinty side, pinpricks of light. What threw me at first was the dark, sheenless hair, which I soon realized was dyed. "You were the one in the play, right?" "Yes." Jerome nodded. With slitty eyes glinting he said, "A thespian, eh? Just like you. Right, sis?" "My brother has a lot of problems," the Object said. "Hey, since you gals are into the thee-a-tah, maybe you want to be in my next film." He looked at me. "I'm making a vampire movie. You'd make a great vampire." "I would?" "Let me see your teeth." 344 I didn't oblige, taking my cue from the Object not to be too friendly. "Jerome is into monster movies," she said. "Horror films," he corrected, still directing his words to me. "Not monster movies. My sister, as usual, belittles my chosen medium. Want to know the tide?" "No," said the Object. "Vampires in Prep School. It's about this vampire, played by rnoi, who gets sent off to prep school because his affluent but terribly un- happy parents are going through a divorce. Anyway, he doesn't get along too well out there at boarding school. He doesn't wear the right clothes. He doesn't have the right haircut. But then one day af- ter this kegger he takes a walk across campus and gets attacked by a vampire. And— here's the kicker— the vampire is smoking a pipe. He's wearing a Harris tweed. It's the fucking headmaster, man! So the next morning, our hero wakes up and goes right out and buys a blue blazer and some Top-Siders and— presto— he's a total prep!" "Will you move, you're blocking my sun." "It's a metaphor for the whole boarding school experience," Jerome said. "Each generation puts the bite on the next, turning them into the living dead." "Jerome has been kicked out of two boarding schools." "And I shall have my revenge upon them!" Jerome proclaimed in a hoary voice, shaking his fist in the air. Then without another word he ran to the pool and jumped. As he did, he spun around so he was facing us. There Jerome hung, skinny, sunken-chested, as white as a saltine, his face scrunched up and one hand clutching his nuts. He held that pose all the way down. I was too young to ask myself what was behind our sudden intimacy. In the days and weeks that followed, I didn't consider the Object's own motivations, her love vacuum. Her mother had engagements all day long. Her father left for the office at six forty- five. Jerome was a brother and therefore useless. The Object didn't like being alone. She had never learned to amuse herself. And so one evening at her house, as I was about to get on my bike and ride home, she suggested that I sleep over. "I don't have my toothbrush." 345 "You can use mine."

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I wouldn’t have ratted on them, but anyone who shacks up with a Jaguar-driving Weekday Warrior like Paul deserves what she gets.” “Dude,” Takumi responded, “yaw guhfwend,” and then he swallowed a bite of food, “is a Weekday Warrior.” “True.” The Colonel laughed. “Much to my chagrin, that is an incontestable fact. But she is not as big an asshole as Paul.” “Not quite.” Takumi smirked. The Colonel laughed again, and I wondered why he wouldn’t stand up for his girlfriend. I wouldn’t have cared if my girlfriend was a Jaguar-driving Cyclops with a beard—I’d have been grateful just to have someone to make out with. — That evening, when the Colonel dropped by Room 43 to pick up the cigarettes (he seemed to have forgotten that they were, technically, mine ), I didn’t really care when he didn’t invite me out with him. In public school, I’d known plenty of people who made it a habit to hate this kind of person or that kind—the geeks hated the preps, etc.—and it always seemed like a big waste of time to me. The Colonel didn’t tell me where he’d spent the afternoon, or where he was going to spend the evening, but he closed the door behind him when he left, so I guessed I wasn’t welcome. Just as well: I spent the night surfing the Web (no porn, I swear) and reading The Final Days, a book about Richard Nixon and Watergate. For dinner, I microwaved a refrigerated bufriedo the Colonel had snuck out of the cafeteria. It reminded me of nights in Florida—except with better food and no air-conditioning. Lying in bed and reading felt pleasantly familiar. I decided to heed what I’m sure would have been my mother’s advice and get a good night’s sleep before my first day of classes. French II started at 8:10, and figuring it couldn’t take more than eight minutes to put on some clothes and walk to the classrooms, I set my alarm for 8:02. I took a shower, and then lay in bed waiting for sleep to save me from the heat. Around 11:00, I realized that the tiny fan clipped to my bunk might make more of a difference if I took off my shirt, and I finally fell asleep on top of the sheets wearing just boxers. A decision I found myself regretting some hours later when I awoke to two sweaty, meaty hands shaking the holy hell out of me. I woke up completely and instantly, sitting up straight in bed, terrified, and I couldn’t understand the voices for some reason, couldn’t understand why there were any voices at all, and what the hell time was it anyway? And finally my head cleared enough to hear, “C’mon, kid. Don’t make us kick your ass. Just get up,” and then from the top bunk, I heard, “Christ, Pudge. Just get up .” So I got up, and saw for the first time three shadowy figures.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "All right." The camp was located in a grove of mimosa trees. The fuzzy red flowers on the branches were like pipe cleaners. Stretching over the dunes were huge evergreen bushes that formed natural huts. They were hollow inside, the soil dry underneath. The bushes kept the wind out and, most of the time, the rain. Inside, there was enough room to sit up. Each bush contained a few sleeping bags; you chose whichever one happened to be empty when you wanted to sleep. Communal ethics applied. Kids were always leaving the camp or showing up. It was equipped with all the stuff they abandoned: a camping stove, a pasta pot, miscellaneous silverware, jelly jar glasses, bedding, and a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee the guys tossed around, sometimes enlisting me to even out the sides. ("Jesus, Gator, you throw like a girl, man.") They were well stocked with gorp, bongs, pipes, vials of amyl nitrate, but understocked on towels, underwear, toothpaste. There was a ditch thirty or so yards distant that we em- ployed as a latrine. The fountain by the aquarium was good for wash- ing oneself, but you had to do it at night to avoid the police. If one of the guys had a girlfriend there would be a girl around for a while. I stayed away from them, feeling they might guess my secret. I was like an immigrant, putting on airs, who runs into someone from the old country. I didn't want to be found out, so remained tight-lipped. But I would have been laconic in that company in any case. They were all Deadheads, and that was what the talk was. Who saw Jerry on which night. Who had a bootleg of which concert. Matt had flunked out of high school but had an impressive mind when it came to cataloguing Dead trivia. He carried the dates and cities of their tour in his head. He knew the lyrics of every song, when and where the Dead had played it, how many times, and what songs they 471 had played only once. He lived in expectation of certain songs being performed as the faithful await the Messiah. Someday the Dead were going to play "Cosmic Charlie" and Matt Larson wanted to be there to see creation redeemed. He had once met Mountain Girl, Jerry's wife. "She was so fucking cool," he said. "I would fucking love a woman like that. If I found a lady as cool as Mountain Girl, I'd marry her and have kids and all that shit like that." "Get a job, too?" "We could follow the tour. Keep our babies in little sacks. Pa- poose style. And sell weed."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  hadplayed onlyonce.Helivedinexpectation ofcertain songsbeing performedas thefaithful await theMessiah. Someday theDeadwere going toplay"CosmicCharlie"andMatt Larsonwantedto bethere tosee creationredeemed.Hehadonce metMountainGirl, Jerry's wife."Shewassofuckingcool,"hesaid. "I would fuckinglove a womanlikethat.IfIfoundaladyascool asMountainGirl,I'd marry herandhave kidsandallthat shit like that." "Geta job,too?" "We couldfollow thetour.Keepourbabiesinlittlesacks.Pa- poosestyle.Andsell weed." We weren'ttheonlyoneslivinginthepark.Occupying some dunesonthe othersideofthefieldwerehomeless guys, with long beards,theirfacesbrownfromsunanddirt.Theywereknown to ransackotherpeople'scamps, sowe never leftoursunattended.That wasprettymuchtheonlyrulewehad.Someonealwayshadtostand guard. IhungaroundtheDeadheadsbecauseIwasscaredalone.My timeontheroadmademeseethebenefitsofbeinginapack.Wehad lefthomefordifferentreasons.They weren't kidsIwouldeverhave beenfriendswithinnormalcircumstances,butforthatbrief time I made do,becauseI hadnowhereelse to go.Iwasneveratease aroundthem. But theyweren'tespeciallycruel.Fightsbrokeout when kidshadbeendrinking,butthe ethoswasnonviolent.Every- onewasreadingSiddhartha.Anoldpaperbackgotpassed aroundthe camp. Ireadit,too.It'soneofthe thingsIremembermostabout thattime: Cal,sittingon a rock,reading HermannHesseandlearn- ingabout theBuddha. "Iheard the Buddha droppedacid,"saidone Head."That'swhat his enlightenment was." "Theydidn't haveacidbackthen,man." "No, it waslike,youknow, a 'shroom." "I think Jerry's theBuddha,man." "Yeah!" "Like whenI fuckingsaw Jerry play that forty-five-minutespace jamon 'Truckin'in SantaFe,'Iknew hewasthe Buddha." Inallthese conversations Itookno part.See Calinthefar under- hang ofthe bushes,asalltheDeadheadsdrift offtosleep. I hadrunaway without thinkingwhatmylife wouldbelike. Ihad 472 1 fled withouthavinganywheretorunto.NowIwasdirty, I wasrun- ningout ofmoney. Sooner orlaterIwouldhaveto call myparents. But forthe firsttimeinmylife, Iknewthattherewas nothingthey could dotohelpme. Nothing anyonecoulddo. Everyday Itooktheband toAliBaba'sandboughtthemveggie burgers forseventy-fivecentseach. Ioptedoutonthebegging and thedope dealing.MostiyIhungaround themimosagrove,ingrow- ing despair.Afew times Iwalked outtothebeachto sit by the sea, but afterawhileI stopped doingthat,too.Naturebroughtnorelief. Outsidehad ended.There wasnowheretogothatwouldn'tbeme. Itwas theoppositeformyparents. Wherevertheywent, whatever theydid, whatgreetedthem wasmyabsence.Afterthe thirdweekof my vanishing,friendsandrelatives stoppedcoming over to Middle- sexinsuchnumbers.Thehousegotquieter.Thephonedidn'tring. Milton calledChapterEleven,who was nowlivingintheUpper Peninsula,andsaid,"Yourmother'sgoingthrough a roughperiod. Westilldon'tknowwhereyoursisteris.I'msureyourmotherwould feelalittlebetterifshecould see you.Whydon'tyoucomedownfor theweekend?"Miltondidn'tmentionanythingaboutmynote. Throughout mytimeattheClinichehadkeptChapter Eleven ap- prisedofthe situationinonlythesimplest terms. Chapter Eleven heardtheseriousness in Milton's voice andagreedtostartcoming downon weekendsandstaying inhisoldbedroom.Gradually,he learned the detailsofmy condition,reactingtotheminamilderway thanmy parents had, whichallowedthem,oratleastTessie,tobegin toaccept thenewreality.ItwasduringthoseweekendsthatMilton, desperate tocementhisrestoredrelationshipwithhisson, urgedhim once again togointothefamily business."You'renotstillgoingwith thatMeg, are you?" "No." "Well, youdroppedoutofyourengineeringstudies.So whatare you doing now? Yourmotherand Idon'thave avery clearideaof yourlife upthereinMarquette." "I work in abar." "You work in a bar?Doingwhat?" "Short-order cook." Milton pausedonlyamoment."Whatwould you ratherdo, stay 473 behindthe grill or runHerculesHot Dogssomeday?You're theone thatinventedthemanyway." Chapter Elevendidnotsay yes. But hedid not sayno.He had once been a science geek,but thesixties hadchangedthat.Under the imperativesofthatdecade,ChapterElevenhadbecome alacto- vegetarian,aTranscendentalMeditation student,achewerof peyote buttons.Once,longago,hehadsawedgolfballsinhalf,trying to find out what was inside; butat somepoint inhislifemybrotherhad becomefascinatedwiththeinteriorofthemind.Convincedofthe essentialuselessness of formalizededucation, hehadretreatedfrom civilization.Bothofushadourmoments of gettingbacktonature, Chapter ElevenintheU.P. andmeinmy bushinGoldenGatePark. Bythetimemyfathermadehisoffer,however,ChapterElevenhad beguntotireofthewoods. "Comeon,"Miltonsaid,"let'sgohave a Herculesrightnow." "Idon'teatmeat,"ChapterElevensaid."HowcanIruntheplace ifIdon't eatmeat?" "I'vebeenthinkingaboutputtinginsaladbars,"said Milton. "Lottapeople eatingalow-fatdietthesedays." "Goodidea." "Yeah? You thinkso?Thatcanbeyour department,then."Milton elbowed ChapterEleven,kidding, "We'llstartyouoffasvice presi- dentinchargeofsaladbars." Theydrove tothe Herculesdowntown.Itwasbusywhen theyar- rived. Miltongreetedthemanager,GusZaras. "Yahsou." Guslooked upand,asecond late,beganto smilebroadly."Hey there,Milt. Howyoudoing?" "Fine, fine.I broughtthe futurebossdowntosee theplace."He indicatedChapter Eleven. "Welcome tothefamilydynasty,"Gus joked,spreading hisarms. Helaughed tooloudly. Seeming torealize this,hestopped. There wasanawkwardsilence. ThenGusasked, "So,Milt, what 5 !!itbe?" "Twowitheverything. Andwhatdowe gotthat's vegetarian?" "Wegot bean soup." "Okay. Getmy kidhere a bowlofbeansoup." "Yougot it." Milton andChapter Elevenchosestools and waitedtobe served. After another long silence,Miltonsaid,"You knowhowmany of these places yourold manownsrightnow?" 474

• From Middlesex (2002)

  and nevereatingsalads.Iwasfreenow toletmyteethrot orto put my feet up onthe backsofseats.Sometimeswhile I was hitching I sawotherrunaways.Underoverpassesorinrunoff drainsthey con- gregated,smokingcigarettes, the hoods of their sweatshirts pulled up.They weretougher thanIwas,scroungier.Isteered clearoftheir packs.Theywerefrombrokenhomes,hadbeen physicallyabused and nowabusedothers.I wasn't anything likethem.Ihadbrought myfamily'supwardmobilityoutontotheroad.Ijoined nopacksbut wentmywayalone. Andnow,amidtheprairie,appears the recreationvehicle be- longing to Myron and SylviaBresnick, ofPelham,NewYork.Like a modern-daycoveredwagon,it rolls outofthewavinggrasslands and stops.Adooropens,likethedoorof a house,and standinginsideis a perkywomaninherlatesixties. "I think we've got roomfor you," she says. Amomentbefore,IhadbeenonRoute80inwesternIowa.But nowasI carry mysuitcaseontothisshipoftheprairie,Iamsuddenly intheBresnicks'livingroom.Framedphotographsoftheirchildren hang onthewalls,alongwithChagallprints.ThehistoryofWinston ChurchillthatMyronisworkinghiswaythrough at night at the hookupssitsonthecoffeetable. Myronis a retiredparts salesman,Sylviaa formersocialworker. In profilesheresemblesacutePunchinello,her cheeksexpressive, painted, andthenose carved for comiceffect.Myronworkshislips around hiscigar,foul and intimatewithhisown juices. WhileMyrondrives, Sylvia gives mea tourofthebeds, the shower, thelivingarea.WhatschooldoIgoto? WhatdoIwantto be?She peppersmewith questions. Myronturns fromthewheeland booms,"Stanford! Good school!" Anditis right thenthatit happens.Atsome momentonRoute 80somethingclicks inmyheadand suddenlyI feelIamgettingthe hangofit.Myron andSylviaaretreatingme likeason. Underthis collectivedelusion Ibecome that, foralittle whileatleast. Ibecome male-identified. But something daughterlymustclingtome, too.For soonSylvia has takenme aside tocomplainabouther husband. "Iknowit'stacky. This wholeRV thing. Youshouldseethe people wemeetin these camps. Theycall itthe C RVlifestyle.'Oh, they're niceenough— but 450 bor-ing. Imiss goingtoculturalevents.Myronsays hespenthislife traveling around thecountrytoobusytosee it. So he'sdoingitover again— slowly.Andguess who getsdragged along?" "My heart?" Myroniscallingtoher."Couldyoubring yourhus- band anicedtea, please?He'sparched." They letme offinNebraska.I countedmymoney andfoundI hadtwo hundred andthirtydollarsleft.Ifound a cheaproomin a kind of boardinghouseandstayedthenight.I was still too scaredto hitchhikeinthe dark. Ontheroad therewastimeforminoradjustments.Manyofthe socksI'd broughtwerethewrongcolor—pink,white,orcovered with whales.Alsomy underpants weren't therightkind. Ata Wool- worth'sinNebraska CityI boughtathree-packof boxershorts. Asa girl,Ihadworn sizelarge.As aboy,medium.I trolled through the toiletries section,too.Insteadofrowuponrowof beauty products there was onlya singlerackofhygienicessentials.Theexplosionin men'scosmetics hadn'thappened yet. Therewerenopampering unguentsdisguisedbyruggednames.NoHeavy-DutySkinRepair. NoAnti-BurnShaveGel.Iselecteddeodorant,disposablerazors, andshavingcream.Thecolorfulcolognebottlesattractedme,butmy experiencewithafter-shaveswasnotfavorable.Colognemademe thinkofvoicecoaches,ofmaitred's,ofoldmenandtheirunwanted embraces.I pickedoutaman'swallet,too. At the register, Icouldn't lookthe cashierintheface,as embarrassed asifI were buyingcon- doms.The cashierwasn't mucholderthanI was, withblond,feath- ered hair.Thatheartlandlook. At restaurantsIbegan touse themen'srooms.This was perhaps thehardest adjustment.Iwasscandalizedbythefilthofmen'srooms, therank smells andpig sounds,thegrunting andhuffingfrom the stalls. Urine was foreverpuddledonthefloors. Scraps of soiled toilet paperadhered tothecommodes.Whenyouentered a stall,moreof- tenthan not aplumbingemergencygreetedyou,abrowntide,a soup of deadfrogs. To thinkthat a toilet stallhadoncebeenahaven forme! That wasallovernow.Icould seeatonce thatmen's rooms, unlike the ladies',providedno comfort.Oftentherewasn't evena mirror, or anyhandsoap.Andwhilethecloseted,flatulent men showed no shame, at theurinals menactednervous.Theylooked straight ahead like horseswith blinders. I understood atthosetimeswhatIwasleaving behind: thesoli- 451 darityofa sharedbiology.Women knowwhatit means to have a body. Theyunderstanditsdifficultiesandfrailties, itsglories and pleasures.Menthinktheirbodiesaretheirs alone.They tendthemin private, eveninpublic. A wordonpenises. WhatwasCal'sofficialposition onpenises? Amongthem,surroundedbythem,hisfeelingswere thesame as they hadbeen asa girl: by equalmeasures fascinatedandhorrified. Peniseshadneverreallydonethatmuchforme. MygirlfriendsandI hadacomicalopinionofthem.Wehidour guilty interest bygiggling orpretending disgust. Like every schoolgirlon a fieldtrip, I'dhad myblushingmomentsamongtheRomanantiquities. I'dstolen peekswhen theteacher's backwas turned. It'sourfirstartlesson askids,isn'tit?Thenudesaredressed.They're dressedinhigh- mindedness. Being six yearsolder, mybrotherhadnevershared a bathtubwithme.TheglimpsesofhisgenitalsI'dhadovertheyears werefleeting.I'dstudiouslylookedaway. Even Jerome hadpene- tratedmewithoutmyseeingwhatwenton.Anything so long con- cealedcouldn'tfail to intrigue me.Buttheglimpsesthosemen's roomsaffordedwereonthewholedisappointing.Theproudphallus wasnowhereinevidence,onlythefeedbag,thedrytuber,thesnail thathadlostitsshell. And Iwasscaredtodeathofbeingcaught looking. Despitemy suit,myhaircut,andmyheight,everytimeIwentintoamen'sroom ashoutrang outinmyhead:"You'reinthe men's!"Butthemen's waswhereIwassupposedtobe.Nobodysaidaword.Nobodyob- jected tomy presence.And so Isearchedforastallthatlooked halfway clean.Ihadtosittourinate.Stilldo. Atnight, on thefungalcarpetsofmotelrooms,Idid exercises, push-upsand sit-ups.Wearingnothingbut mynewboxers,I exam- inedmyphysique inthemirror.Notlongago I'dfrettedovermyfail- uretodevelop. Thatworry wasgone now.Ididn'thaveto live up to that standardanymore.Theimpossibledemandshadbeen removed andIfeltavastrelief. Buttherewerealso momentsof dislocation, staring at mychanging body.Sometimesitdidn't feellikemy own.It was hard,white,bony. Beautifulinitsownway, Isupposed, but Spartan.Not receptive orpliantatall.Contents under pressure, rather. Itwas inthosemotelrooms thatIlearned aboutmy newbody,its 452

• From Middlesex (2002)

  San Francisco,that cold, identity-cleansingmistthatrollsoverthe city everyday, explains better than anythingelsewhythatcityiswhat itis. After theSecond WorldWar,SanFranciscowas the mainpoint of reentryfor sailorsreturningfromthePacific.Outatsea, many of these sailorshadpickedupamatoryhabitsthatwerefrowned upon backon dry land. So thesesailors stayed in San Francisco,growingin numberand attractingothers,untilthecitybecamethe gay capital, the homosexual Hauptstadt.(Furtherevidenceoflife'sunpredictabil- ity:the Castroisadirectoutcomeofthemilitary-industrialcomplex.) It wasthefogthatappealedtothosesailorsbecauseitlentthecitythe shifting,anonymousfeelingofthesea,andinsuchanonymityper- sonalchangewasthat much easier.Sometimesitwashardto tell whetherthefogwas rolling inoverthecityor whether thecitywas driftingouttomeet it. Backinthe1940s,thefoghidwhatthose sailors didfromtheirfellowcitizens.And the fogwasn'tdone.Inthe fiftiesitfilledtheheadsofthe Beats likethefoamintheircappucci- nos.Inthesixties it cloudedthemindsofthehippieslikethe pot smokerisingintheirbongs.Andintheseventies,whenCal Ste- phanidesarrived, thefogwas hidingmy new friendsandmeinthe park. Onmythird day intheHaight,Iwasin a cafe,eatingabanana split.It wasmysecond.Thekickofmynewfreedomwaswearing off.Gorgingon sweetsdidn'tchaseawaythebluesasithadaweek earlier. "Sparesome change?" Ilooked up.Slouchingbesidemysmallmarble-toppedtable was atypeI knewwell.It was oneoftheunderpasskids,thescroungy runawaysI kept my distancefrom.Thehoodofhissweatshirt was up,framing aflushedface,ripewithpimples. "Sorry," Isaid. The boybent over, hisfacegettingcloser to mine. "Sparesome change?" he saidagain. His persistence annoyedme.SoIgloweredathimandsaid,"I should askyou thesamequestion." "I'mnot the one pigging outonasundae." "Itold you Idon'thaveanysparechange." He glanced behind me andaskedmoreaffably, "Howcome you're carrying thathumongoussuitcase around?" 469 "That'smybusiness." "Isawyou yesterday withthatthing." "Ihaveenoughmoneyforthisice cream butthat'sit." "Don'tyouhaveanyplacetostay?" "I'vegottonsofplaces." "YoubuymeaburgerI'llshow youagoodplace." "IsaidI've got tons." "Iknowagoodplaceinthepark." "Icangointotheparkmyself. Anyone cangointothepark." "Not if theydon'twantto get rolled theycan't.Youdon't know what's up,man.There'splacesinthe Gatethataresafeandplaces thataren't.Meandmyfriendsgot aniceplace.Realsecluded. The copsdon't even know aboutit,sowe canjustpartyallthetime. Mightletyou stay there but firstI needthatdoublecheese." "Itwas a hamburger aminuteago." "Yousnooze,youlose. Priceisgoingupallthetime.Howoldare you,anyway?" "Eighteen." "Yeah,right,likeI'llbelievethat. You ain't noeighteen.I'm six- teenand you'renotanyolderthanme.YoufromMarin?" Ishookmyhead.Ithadbeen awhilesince I hadspokentoany- one myage.Itfeltgood.Itmademelesslonely.ButIstillhadmy guard up. "You're arichkid,though,right?Mr.Alligator?" I didn't say anything. Andsuddenlyhewas allappeal,fullofkid hungers,his kneesshaking."Comeon,man.I'mhungry.Okay, forget the doublecheese. Just aburger." "Allright." "Cool. Aburger.And fries. Yousaidfries,right?You won'tbe- lievethis, man, but I gotrich parents, too." Sobegan mytimeinGoldenGatePark. Itturnedoutmy new friend, Matt, wasn't lyingabouthisparents.He wasfromthe Main Line.Hisfather was a divorcelawyerinPhiladelphia. Mattwasthe fourthchild, theyoungest. Stocky, with a lug'sjaw,athroaty, smoke- roughenedvoice, hehadlefthome to followthe GratefulDead the summer before buthadnever stopped. Hesoldtie-dyed T-shirtsat their concerts,and dopeoracidwhen he could.Deep inthe park, whereheled me,Ifound hiscohorts. 470 "Thisis Cal,"Matt toldthem."He's going to crashherefora while." "That's cool." "You an undertaker,man?" "Ithought itwas AbeLincoln at first." "Nah, these arejustCal'stravelingclothes,"Mattsaid."He'sgot some othersin thatsuitcase.Right?" I nodded. "You wanttobuya shirt? Igotsomeshirts." "Allright." Thecampwas locatedin a groveofmimosatrees.The fuzzy red flowersonthe brancheswerelikepipecleaners.Stretching overthe duneswerehuge evergreenbushesthatformednaturalhuts.They werehollow inside,thesoildryunderneath.Thebusheskeptthe wind out and,mostofthetime,therain. Inside,there was enough room to situp.Eachbushcontainedafew sleeping bags; youchose whicheveronehappenedtobeempty whenyouwantedtosleep. Communalethicsapplied.Kids werealwaysleavingthecampor showingup.Itwasequippedwith all the stufftheyabandoned: a campingstove,apastapot, miscellaneoussilverware,jellyjarglasses, bedding,and a glow-in-the-darkFrisbeetheguystossedaround, sometimesenlistingmetoevenoutthesides. ("Jesus, Gator,you throwlike a girl,man.")Theywerewellstocked with gorp,bongs, pipes,vialsofamylnitrate,but understockedontowels,underwear, toothpaste. Therewas a ditchthirty or so yardsdistantthat we em- ployed asalatrine.The fountain by theaquariumwasgoodforwash- ingoneself, butyouhadtodo it at nighttoavoidthepolice. If oneofthe guyshada girlfriendtherewouldbe a girlaroundfor awhile. Istayedawayfromthem, feelingtheymight guessmysecret. I waslike animmigrant, puttingonairs,whorunsintosomeone from theoldcountry. I didn'twantto be found out, soremained tight-lipped. ButIwouldhavebeenlaconicinthatcompanyinany case.They were allDeadheads,and that was whatthe talkwas.Who saw Jerry onwhichnight.Whohadabootlegofwhichconcert.Matt had flunked out ofhigh school buthadanimpressivemindwhenit came tocataloguing Deadtrivia.Hecarriedthe datesandcitiesof their tourin his head. Heknewthelyrics ofeverysong,whenand where the Dead hadplayed it, howmanytimes,andwhatsongs they 471

• From Middlesex (2002)

  If Milton missed havingabeautiful daughter,I never knewit. At weddings he stillasked meto dance,regardlessofhow ridiculouswe looked together. "Comeon, kukla"he'dsay,"let'scut therug," and we'd be off,the squat, plump fatherleadingwith confident,old- fashioned, fox-trotsteps, and theawkwardpraying mantisofa daughter tryingto follow along.My parents'love for medidn'tdi- minishwith mylooks. Ithink it'sfairtosay, however,thatasmyap- pearance changed inthose yearsa speciesofsadnessinfiltratedmy parents' love. Theyworried thatI wouldn'tattractboys,thatIwould be a wallflower, likeAunt Zo. Sometimeswhenweweredancing, Miltonsquared hisshoulders andlooked aroundthefloor,asifdar- inganyoneto makeacrack. My responsetoallthis growingwasto growmyhair.Unlikethe restof me,whichseemed bentondoing whateveritwanted,myhair remainedundermy control.Andsolike Desdemonaafterherdisas- trous YWCA makeover,Irefusedtoletanyonecut it.Allthrough seventhgradeand intoeighthIpursuedmygoal. Whilecollege stu- dentsmarched againstthewar,Calliopeprotested againsthairclip- pers.While bombs were secredydroppedonCambodia,Callie did whatshecouldtokeep herownsecrets.Bythespringof 1973, the warwasofficiallyover.PresidentNixonwouldbeoutofofficeinAu- gustofthenextyear.Rockmusicwasgiving wayto disco.Acrossthe nation,hairstyleswerechanging.ButCalliope'shead,likeamidwest- erner whoalwaysgotthefashionslate,stillthoughtit was thesixties. My hair! Myunbelievablyabundant,thirteen-year-oldhair!Has thereeverexisted ahead ofhairlike mine at thirteen?Didany girl ever summonasmanyRoto-Rooter men out oftheir trucks? Monthly, weekly,semiweekly,thedrains inourhouseclogged. "Jesus Christ,"Milton complained,writing outyetanother check,"you're worse thanthose goddamntreeroots." Hairlikea balloftumble- weed,blowing throughtherooms ofMiddlesex.Hairlikea black tornado wheeling acrossanamateur newsreel.Hairsovast itseemed topossess itsownweather systems, becausemydry splitendscrack- ledwith static electricitywhereas closer in,near myscalp,theatmo- spheregrew warmandmoist like a rain forest. Desdemona'shairwas longand silky, butI'dgotten Jimmy Zizmo'sspikiervariety. Pomade would never subdueit.First ladies would neverbuyit.Itwashair that could turntheMedusa to stone,hair snakierthanallthe snake pitsin a minotaurmovie. 305 My familysuffered. Myhairturned upineverycorner, every drawer,every meal. Eveninthericepuddings Tessiemade,covering each little bowlwith waxpaperbefore puttingitawayinthe fridge— eveninto these prophylactically securedessertsmyhair foundits way! Jet blackhairswoundthemselvesaround barsofsoap.Theylay pressedlike flowerstemsbetweenthe pagesofbooks.Theyturned up ineyeglasscases, birthday cards,once—Iswear—insidean egg Tessie hadjust cracked.Thenext-doorneighbor's catcoughedup a hairballoneday and the hair wasnotthecat's."That'ssogross!" Becky Turnbullshouted."I'mcallingtheSPCA!" In vainMilton tried togetmeto wear oneofthe paperhatshis employeeshadtowear by law.Tessie,asthoughIwerestillsix,tookahairbrushtome. "I —don't — see— why — you — won't— let — Sophie — do — some- thing—with—your—hair." "BecauseI see whatshedoes to herhair." "Sophiehasaperfectiynicehairstyle." "Ow!" "Well,whatdoyouexpect?It's a rat'snest." "Just leaveit." "Bestill."Morebrushing,tugging.Myheadjerkingwithevery stroke."Shorthair's the stylenowanyway,Callie." "Areyoufinished?" Afewfinal, frustratedstrokes.Then, plaintively:"At leasttieit back. Keepitout ofyourface." Whatcould Itellher?Thatthatwasthe wholepoint of having longhair?To keepit inmy face?MaybeIdidn't looklike Dorothy Hamill.Maybe I wasevenstartingto bear a strongresemblanceto our weeping willow trees. But therewerevirtues tomyhair.Itcov- eredtinselteeth.It coveredsatyricalnose.It hidblemishesand,best ofall,ithidme. Cut myhair? Never! I wasstill growingit out. My dream wastosomeday liveinsideit. Imagine me then at unluckythirteenasI enteredthe eighth grade. Five feetteninches tall,weighingone hundredand thirty-one pounds.Blackhairhanging likedrapeson eithersideofmynose. People knockingon the air infrontofmyface and calling out,"Any- bodyin there?" Iwas inthereall right. Where elsecouldI go? 306 UIAHIHG LVRICAL ambackto myoldways.Tomy solitarywalksthroughVictoria- park. TomyRomeo y Julietas, my DavidoffGrandCms.Tomy ,1 embassyreceptions,my Philharmonieconcerts,mynightly rounds at theFelsenkeller.It'smyfavoritetimeofyear, fall.The slightchilltotheair, quickening thebrain,andall theschoolkid, school-yearmemoriesattachedtoautumn.Youdon'tgetthe bright leaveshereinEuropethewayyoudoinNewEngland.The leaves smolder but nevercatchflame.It'sstill warmenoughto bicycle.Last nightIrodefromSchonebergtoOrianenburger Strassein Mitte.I metafriendforadrink.Leaving,riding throughthestreets, Iwas hailed bytheintergalacticstreetwalkers.Intheir Manga suits,their moonboots,they tossed their teaseddoll'shair and called,Hallo- hallo. Maybetheywould bejust the thingfor me. Remuneratedto toleratemost anything.Shockedbynothing. Andyet,as Ipedaled past their lineup, their Strich, myfeelings toward themwerenota man's.Iwas awareof agood girl's reproachfulnessanddisdain,along with aperceptible,physical empathy. Astheyshifted theirhips,hook- ing mewith theirdarklypainted eyes, mymind fillednotwith im- agesof whatImight dowiththem, butwithwhatit must be likefor them,night after night,hourafter hour, to have to doit.The Huren themselves didn'tlook tooclosely atme.Theysaw mysilkscarf, my Zegna pants, mygleaming shoes. Theysawthe moneyin mywallet. Hallo, they called.Hallo. Hallo. 307