She Came in Lit

Chapter One

WAKING THE SLEEPING DOG

The Voice possessed absolute authority and seemed to be coming from the heart of the mystery. Do you know who you are boomed through mind’s untended edge and caught my eyes in the mirror, just an innocent last glance to make sure I look perfect. I locked the apartment door. Who am I, what a question to ask of my perfect life. I had my first good paying job, good for 1966 anyway, charge accounts at Nordstrom, I.Magnin and Fredrick & Nelson, each maxed so I looked like I just stepped-off the cover of Vogue, or maybe from one of the inside pages cause I was too big-chested and too short for a cover model. Guys were crazy for me, two already proposed. And I had been picked to run for Seafair Queen by the very respectable Cirque Playhouse, whose owners Janice and Gene Keene knew me since I was the pretty little girl down the block that came to play in the yard with their Saint Bernard. But who am I, I could not shake it from my seventeen year old head.

I took the bus to work, my secretary job for Boeing, in their downtown Seattle high-rise. I could not type but looked the part, sexy and perky. They needed someone decorative to check security badges at the front desk, an empty head who could pass a level-8 security clearance because the 7th floor was the Strategic Air Command division, and with a spotless record, never even a traffic ticket, I fit the profile. When taking typing my junior year at Mercer Island High School, I made sure to fail and therefore never get stuck behind a typewriter, the typing pool being the direction most girls of little promise were herded till we snagged a husband, and yet here I was, a secretary who could not type, a living cartoon. Once a week my Boss would hand me an inconsequential letter, and glad for something to pass the time, I did my best, full knowing his private secretary would put it in proper form later. To fill the rest of my days, I’d call Penny in Hawaii on the company’s free W.A.T.S. Line. Two years ahead of me in school, Penny and I had grown-up across the street from each other, on a small island in Lake Washington, connected to Seattle by the Lake Washington Floating Bridge, the country’s first. Though they really couldn’t afford the life-style, my Folks moved me and my two brothers from our working class Mt. Baker neighborhood in Seattle to Mercer Island in the summer of my fourth-grade year, because The Island had the best schools in the State, and they were willing to tighten their belts to provide their children with a better education than they had. My Dad being a jeweler on a fixed salary at Zedick’s on 3rd Avenue in downtown Seattle, while the other Island kids fathers were doctors, lawyers, business owners and chiefs, it was a real struggle to compete with classmates who had their own charge accounts by 5th grade. It seemed so unfair that money was such an advantage, but I was resource-full and tried hard, buying into the idea that The Island represented the best and was worth the struggle. And I didn’t know much more till high school, when I began to get off The Island, and realize though it seemed so conspicuously advantaged, it was really a golden prison much as Seattle’s Central District ghetto was a disenfranchised cellblock. This restlessness rustled quietly, I thought of Mercer Island as a Golden Ghetto, beyond that my discontent was still to gilded to comprehend.

One month before my high school graduation Penny broke-up with her long-time beau Nick, moved to Hawaii and would not say why. At first she begged me come live with her after graduation, and I considered it. But only three months in paradise and she was painfully homesick, finding Oahu claustrophobic and way too expensive, she was trying to save money to come home. Hungry for any news, I’d fill her in while repainting my nails if I’d smudged them the night before. Then I’d read the morning Post Intelligencer, flirt with the pilots and engineers, go to lunch, read the afternoon Seattle Times, flirt with the pilots and engineers, and work the mandatory half-hour overtime every night for time-and-a-half pay. In my ignorance-is-bliss I thought I had it all, but today my own eyes in the mirror haunted me, I couldn’t shake-off the feeling I’d built my life so far in quicksand, and that Voice, felt like a challenge to my whole being. After a brief pre-occupied conversation with Penny, and unable to concentrate on the morning paper, except an ad for Ray Charles at the Seattle Center Coliseum, I called my roommate to see if she wanted to go, Katey would meet me in the ticket line. Then I sat back and looked my self over. Square-toed black patent-leather Charles Jourdan sling-back pumps with three-inch block-heels that made me look almost five-six, sheer smoke-colored Dior silk stockings, fastened to a white lace Dior garter belt, matching bra and bikini-panties underneath a sleeveless white piqué mini-dress and short-sleeved fully-lined matching jacket with black patent-leather buttons. My nails were long, filed blunt, painted Fabergé flat white and always perfect. I repainted them often in bed and fell asleep with my hands carefully placed atop the quilt hoping they’d dry before smudging. Joy by Jean Patou my daily scent. There wasn’t a hair on my body I didn’t shave, wax, pluck, trim, color or style. I loyally subscribed to Vogue, copying the latest make-up exactly, and wore my hair in a tasteful beehive tied round with a scarf, the ends falling strategically next to my left eye. Good with hair, I created my own do, and bought into the pretense of wrapping it in an ensemble matching designer silk scarf to set me apart from the crowd, like an expensive man’s tie. And yet, for the first time in my life I was consciously questioning if looking perfect was the entire definition of who I was. I thought I knew who I was, wore all the right labels, but today I knew for sure, for unshakably sure god-damn-it that I did not. With one glance in the mirror I’d fallen down the rabbit hole into another reality, felt startlingly awake, disturbed, the questions in my head remaining solid instead of drifting off into the just to be forgotten. And I could not go back, the mirror had broken, I was in free-fall, and could not think of where else to start but on the outside.

After work I walked to Nordstrom, charged a paisley long-sleeve wool challis smock-dress with yellow cuffs and big pockets, the skirt ten-inches longer than any I owned. Instead of silk stockings and a garter belt, I chose golden-yellow Danskin dance tights, and matching spaghetti-strap sling-back Capezio shoes with one-inch squashed heels. Once home I took my hair down and washed it. Having discovered that detaching the hood from my hair-dryer and using the hose as a blower, the blasting hot air and a stiff brush were enough to straighten my curls. For according to the Golden Ghetto Girls’ bible Vogue, anything but straight was totally out, and though I did not live on The Island for the time being, Vogue still dictated the fashion-slave rules for anyone aspiring to high society, and I understood only too well the consequences of not following the rules. Before the blower method, my oldest friend Rachel and I used to iron our curls pin-straight, and though unable to avoid creases close to the head, fried ends that resembled steel wool, and static electricity that made those ends float, even electric steel wool was better than showing our ethnic curls in a Doris Day world. The hose-blower method made my hair look naturally straight, when it wasn’t undone by the damp and rain in the Pacific Northwest. I put on my new outfit, and stood infront of the mirror, looking more like a designer Hippie than Barbie doll. Head and hands the only things uncovered, my hair hung down to my shoulders, covering my long neck, the smock shrouded my tits, waist and hips, thick tights covered my legs, no fuck-me high heels to make my legs seem longer and tip my rump up for that ready look. All the assets I’d been taught to use to catch that man who would sweep me off my feet safely back to the Golden Ghetto were hidden.

I took a cab to the Ray Charles concert, cruised the line for Katey, and not finding her went to the end. Minutes later she walked by, I had to call out, she did not recognize the new me. Nearing the ticket window, Penny’s ex-boyfriend Nick spotted me and asked to cut-in with us. Although he’d gone to school in Seattle, I’d known him nigh on six years, since he started dating Penny, and though he’d been a real jerk to her, and made me nervous, I had always been drawn to him. From her body-language, Katey was too, I introduced them. There were enough boys in my life at the moment, and in my mind even flirting with Nick would betray Penny’s and my friendship. He pulled a thin marijuana joint from behind his ear, boldly lit it, drew a long toke and held it in, stifling exploding lungs, and passed it to me. Having smoked marijuana only once less than a month ago, and experiencing a super self-consciousness, I was afraid someone might see me in such a public place and tell my Folks, or the police would haul me off to jail. I passed it to Katey, who took a greedy hit, and coughing passed it to Nick. Taking another long drag, he extinguished the cinder in a pool of saliva on his cupped tongue, swallowed the roach, and smiling as if he’d just exposed himself offered to buy our tickets. Thrilled, batting lashes, Katey eagerly accepted. I did not want the obligation or complication and declined, and once inside, slipped away into the crowd. Ray Charles with his beautiful lips and the Raelettes in their pink feather tops were my absolute fav, I’d been to four concerts in two years, and danced the entire three hour show, the new me attracting a different kind of boy, the ones with long hair.

Nick drove us home. Katey invited him up, and we all got stoned. Still a neophyte, I began laughing and could not stop. Reminded of their first times Nick and Katey enjoyed me. We lived in one of the many apartment buildings on Capitol Hill in Seattle, $50 a month, one bedroom, everyone young, lots of cute boys. Through gales and convulsing I heard a pounding, crossed the room to turn-down the record player, and the door busted opened. My neighbor Jake came flying in, red-faced and raging at me for smoking dope, it would ruin my life, Katey and Nick were low-lifes and I’d be a stupid junkie before I knew it. If I wasn’t stoned, I would’ve been scared of him. But this seemed more a slow-motion version of Reefer Madness, the anti-drug movie shown in high schools. And though no one at my school did drugs till my senior year, when two girls started smoking marijuana and stopped wearing panties and bras, I thought the movie was a joke. Jake plainly did not, getting into a hot-head vocal shoving match with Nick. Fearing eviction, I stepped in-between, instinctively shaking a Mother’s finger, scolding. Jake retreated, and I pursued, indignant, demanding what right he had to invade my life, he wasn’t my Dad, all the way into his bedroom, where an eight-by-ten color photo of my Big Brother’s girlfriend Marlee stood on a wooden box by his bed. Jake sank down on the bare mattress and just looked at me. Marlee worked at Boeing and tipped me off to the open job. I pressed what was he doing with her photo, then realized he must be the poor schmuck she dumped for Big. Staring at his feet Jake apologized for interfering, promised to fix my door, and then confessed to being inlove with me and sometimes following me. Lights and sirens went off in my head, I fled without another word. Nick was strutting round the front room pissed. Katey food-tripping on Darigold chocolate ice cream. And I was no longer high but exhausted and went to bed, having an interview in the morning before work with the Seattle Times, they were talking to all the girls in the Seafair Queen Pageant, I needed my beauty sleep. Nick and Katey’s voices faded as I slid over sleep’s threshold, confused as to how things could get so complicated so fast. Except for once, nothing violent ever happened in my life, my nicely arranged life, lived till now mostly on the surface.

Standing on a sandy beach, massive cliffs jutting-up behind me, it was near high tide and huge breakers were crashing in quick succession, each foaming crest taking flight as a rabid white bat. My friends were huddled at the base of the cliffs with no escape, while I frantically tried sweeping the ocean back with a push-broom. I woke tired, the sinking feeling of being overwhelmed in the pit of my stomach. And still I aced the interview. If The Golden Ghetto had taught me anything, it was how to say all the right things, make all the proper moves. Word was whispering round Pageant contestants that the daughter of the president of the Chamber of Commerce had already been chosen to win. I refused to believe the crown so many girls dreamed of wearing was rigged, and shrugged it off to deliberate rumor-mongering designed to demoralize the rest of us. When I was tired, work seemed endless. I caught a nap on the couch in the ladies room during lunch, and nodded-off again on the bus ride home. My heart leapt against my chest finding Nick’s blue Volkswagen bus parked infront of my building. He’d come to invited me on a Lysergic Acid Diethylamide-25 trip. I’d lived with Katey just two weeks when she asked if I wanted to get stoned. Thinking she meant drunk I said sure. And never having smoked even one cigarette, inhaled an entire marijuana joint, getting so high I was afraid to stand up, Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention on the record player singing Susie Cream Cheese, and suddenly my skin was breathing from each individual pore, and I understood another kind of life went on under this fragile covering, while my consciousness viewed it from the outside. I felt split-in-two yet solitary, exposed and self-conscious, and fell inlove with Zappa’s mind, his lyrics infecting my head, hearing music as if for the first time, pulsing and swelling it took me on a covered wagon ride over a vast rolling landscape and rescued my soul like music had so many times before. Then I was ravenous. Katey called it the munchies. We pulled skirts on over our jeans, put our coats on backwards, fastened clothes pins in our hair, and walked across the street to the little corner grocery. The clerk tried not to notice us. We giggled at his trying, bought Mountain Bars, Hostess chocolate cupcakes, Snowballs and Doctor Pepper, took them back to the apartment and devoured every last crumb. And now, I was considering LSD. Nick assured me it was safe, the pure stuff, dropped on a sugar cube and stored in the freezer, that I shouldn’t worry, though LSD had been recently criminalized in some states it was still legal in Washington. I said yes way too casually. Nick licked his bottom lip showing me his tongue, and said he’d be over on the weekend, we could trip in Volunteer Park.

Sometimes things happen all at once. My sixty-two year old maternal Grampa Joe was rushed to Group Health Hospital. I went every day after work. Soon he wasted-thin and curled into a fetal position, supposedly in a coma, unable to hear anything. But sometimes when we were alone, the rhythm of his breath as I spoke or read, I knew he could hear me. In a bitter and sweet way I coveted this time alone with my Grampa, imagining if I was him, I’d still want to know what’s going on, so I’d bring the Seattle Times and read to him. One day I brought The Prophet by Kahil Gilbran. Grampa would never read anything this far-out, and I felt as if I was breaking some unwritten rule, I never knew him to read poetry or have much interest in the Arts. He worked hard his entire life, loved to fish, play poker and drink whiskey, though I never saw him drunk. He was the well-respected spiritual patriarch of our large Jewish family, and this was my first chance ever to let him know who I really was. Maybe if he heard what I found profound, maybe we could know each other better.

Time folded in on itself till Grampa woke-up. The family gathered round his bedside, and he told us he heard every word that had been said. My heart swelled knowing I connected with him in a grown-up way, and collapsed as he went on to say he would die soon. With everyone talking at once I had to go before the room closed-in on me, taking motionless refuge in a small waiting area till everyone went to dinner. As Grampa faded in and out of consciousness, I held his hand and spilled my guts, about catching my eyes in the mirror, feeling lost, my foundation sliding from under me, the Seafair rumor, and how much I loved him, pleading please don’t go now, just when I’m old enough to have an intelligent conversation with you, and begging forgiveness for my selfishness, if he had to die he could, there had to be something better than the terrible pain he was in even if it was nothing. And when I was willing to see Death on him, the weight of it crushed me. I went crazy, ranting how it made no sense someone I love so much had to leave me, why did God make bodies so fragile, He should be smarter, have better timing than to take my Grampa when I was just wise enough to learn from him, argue with him, maybe be friends, it wasn’t fair. Feeling Gramp’s hand tighten round mine, I couldn’t bear seeing him struggle yet raised my eyes to meet his. They were piercing blue, he whispered Shoshy, promise me you’ll have a Rabbi marry you. I was stunned by this displaced request I promise. Then he spoke in a clear quiet voice to some one I could not see Death takes its own time, makes you wait. His wrists were tied to the side-rails with Ace bandages because he’d tried pulling the IV from his arm several times, he pointed with his eyes towards the needle and calmly said Pull that out. I was paralyzed No Grampa, I can’t. Clutching his hand, feeling the grip pain had on him as he fought for breath through the growing edema, the damn doctors were being stingy with the morphine, I needed to do something and could only sob. With the little he still had Grampa whispered It’s okay Shoshy, I shouldn’t ask you. My heart burst, he was trying to comfort me when he was the one, I ran to the nurses’ station, demanding a doctor, who insisted Gramp had enough pain medication and that I was hysterical and must keep my voice down. I would not He’s dying. He’s not gona be a junkie. If you have a heart, please give him a break. To my surprise the Doc instructed the nurse to give Grampa more, and almost immediately his pained face and body relaxed a bit and his eyes closed. I sat by the bed watching his chest rise and fall to each death-rattle, tears rolling off my face though it felt like someone else’s, till Granny, Mom and Dad, and the rest of the family came back from dinner. Kissing Grampa good-bye I walked home. The phone rang at 1:06AM. Grampa died in his sleep, Granny held his hand till it was cold.

My brain turned to fire, and I needed to knock God’s teeth out. It was past 4AM when I entered the synagogue, the front door was unlocked. I went straight to the pulpit, never having seen a female up there I was sure this sacrilege would demand Yahweh’s attention, that He would show Himself, nothing happened. This God of the Jews scared the salt out of me. He was known to smite if you did something He didn’t like. He cursed Cain for offering the best vegetables from his garden when He wanted blood, commanded Abraham to sacrifice his only son, made slaves of His people in Egypt for 400 years, then parted the Red Sea to let them go. No matter, I burned rage that He’d given us dying bodies, taking my Grampa in the reckoning, and did not seem to care. I just wanted Yahweh to show Himself to me, right now, let me know I mattered. Nothing happened. In synagogue you sit or stand, never kneel, so I knelt on the pulpit, nothing happened. I said Jesus Jesus Jesus, nothing happened. I opened the curtain of the Ark and took out the Sefer Torah, removed the beautiful silver finials and bejeweled breast plate with twelve precious stones representing each tribe, slipped the blue, white and gold embroidered satin mantle off the parchment scroll, laid it on the podium, unrolled and began to read. Having gone to Hebrew School every Monday, Thursday and Sunday for seven years preparing for confirmation, I could read Hebrew, and was surely the only female to have ever read from this holy scroll on this pulpit. Though there was never anything said aloud, I knew it was not okay for me to do this, knew it was a violation Yahweh ought to notice. I looked up at the painting of hands on the vaulting ceiling and waited, expecting lightning to crack the roof and kill me, ready, glad to die at least knowing there was a God. Nothing happened. The synagogue was deafeningly silent, just a big empty room, Yahweh wasn’t there, didn’t care I was, He had not come when I needed Him most. I carefully placed the covering on the Torah, put it back in the Ark, closed the curtain and left the building. Yahweh didn’t give a shit about me so I did not him. I felt empty and cheated and alone, walked home, and waited for two days.

Grampa’s funeral was jerky disjointed snapshots. According to custom, the Shomrim watch the body from the time of death till burial. Jews believe human beings are created in God’s image, each endowed with a special holiness and dignity that does not dissipate with death. Though death may destroy the body, the soul housed in it must continue to be respected, so great care is taken to prepare the body. It’s washed and shrouded in clean white cotton or muslin linen, hand-sewn specifically for this purpose, and must be buried within 48 hours of death in a plain pine box. Judaic law forbids embalming or cremation, or any form of ostentation or display at a funeral. Simple burial rites assure equality in death despite the material wealth a person may command in life, so no family no matter how poor will be shamed in death by the simplicity of their coffin or shroud, and that the rich can not attempt to out do one another in death. I sat next to Mom on the newly recovered front bench, feeling too big for the little chapel, noticing every snag and tatter on the carpet, the Rabbi infuriating me, going on and on about Grampa till everyone dissolved in sobs. I refused to cry, staring at the pine box, visualizing my Grampa’s withering dead body inside dressed in white, I could hardly sit there. His five brothers shouldered the coffin, and I followed too quickly, too close, stepping on Granny’s sister’s heel, nearly causing her to fall. And standing on a grassy plot already reserved for my Mom and Dad, I stared at the remarkably vertical sides of Grampa’s hole, feeling out-of-body like the raven perched on the phone wire above, remote-viewing my Dad restrain Granny from throwing herself in as the casket was lowered, noting the clods tumble when the Cantor removed the tarpaulin from the dirt mound, how the Rabbi used the back of the shovel to scatter the first measure of dirt on Grampa’s box, the hollow bang of pebbles on pine as one by one family stepped forward to take their turn, first with the wrong side of the shovel to show their unwillingness to let go, then the right side as a final act of compassion, a giving that had no way of being repaid. I did not know how to behave. This was my first human loved one buried in the ground, and I was never comfortable revealing private wounds in public, didn’t think it was anyone’s business how vulnerable and broken I was, so I stood tall and silent, pretending to be Jackie Kennedy, achingly dignified and composed at her husband’s funeral. Mom was absolutely destroyed, a zombie, unaware how public her private was, for she lost her Daddy, one of the good ones, and she was her Father’s daughter. I wanted to comfort her but the words on my tongue screamed Fuck You God, so I bit hard, and softly held her elbow as we walked from the hole, watching Dad holding her other arm, thinking he was diabetic and how great-full I was that insulin had been discovered and could help him cheat Death, for he too was one of the good ones, and I was definitely my Father’s daughter. The overwhelming emotion etched on faces was grief, but guilt and fear were there too. I hadn’t said I love you enough to Grampa, though I knew he knew, and hadn’t said it much lately to Mom or Dad, wasn’t sure they knew. Grampa’s death transformed me clear down to my deoxyribonucleic acid, and walking away from his grave I made a vow, in his honor I would not leave any unfinished business, just incase something unexpected happened. Everyone gathered at Granny’s, Brenner Brothers catered with a feast of traditional Jewish food, eat eat, herring, chopped liver, lox, bagels, rye, and I stayed till my composure would no longer hold. Granny was well attended by her five sisters and two brothers as I kissed her on the cheek. She stared at me with helpless blood-shot eyes and a crooked grin of dim recognition. Dad had ahold of Mom’s hand, and smiled tenderly at my sincere I love you Daddy. Still a zombie, Mom did not seem to register words. I could not tarnish my sparkling-new vow with a lie, so simply nodded to Big Brother. Little Bro returned a hesitant, surprised I love you too.

Nick’s blue VW bus was parked infront of my building, he’d taken Katey to the downtown Eagles Hall last night to see Jefferson Airplane and I assumed he’d come for her, but he’d come for me, to see was I all right. Aching to cry in private, I told him I needed to be alone. He followed to the door anyway and tried to hug me. I pushed him away hard, needing to keep this all-I-had-left-of-my-Grampa visceral gnawing pain, and quickly slipped inside locking the door. I could not sit, could not stop, round-and-round in tight circles, feeling like a shark, needing to keep moving, to run water over my gills to live, tears falling silent on the carpet, talking to my self outloud till Katey came home. I was never so glad to see anyone, but she did not once look at me, rushing, stuffing a suitcase for the annual family reunion in North Dakota, her Dad honking out front, she didn’t say goodbye or shut the door. Sleep refused me, near daylight I laid down on the couch, mind looping round-and-round, cursing God.

Functioning on automatic, yet watching myself make all those good-mannered moves, my bloody underbelly carefully hidden, I let no one know how scared I was losing my faith, how grief consumed me, none of my co-workers noticed the frozen smile as I checked their security badges, no one knew me. The Seafair Pageant seemed like some past life, I couldn’t make myself care about the coming television interview. Home was an empty box to wait in till the next obligation, I felt like running into the wall just to feel some other kind of pain, and I worried because I’d begun to relish the torment that kept me close to Grampa, the only one who knew my secrets, the only one who had ever listened. Days passed uncounted, then a knock and hello at my door after sunset. It was Nick. My heart leapt at some one to talk too, I took a deep breath, let it out, cracked open the door and asked if he’d come to see Katey. He said they agreed to just be friends, he’d come to see was I all right. Wholly exhausted, wanting to believe it wasn’t really the big bad wolf, I opened, wary, having never been alone with him, his uncanny way of knowing when I was vulnerable made me nervous, yet he seemed to see the inside me, and I needed to be seen or I might disappear. Again he tried for a hug. I stepped back, and desperate to fill the awkward silent moment offer him some of the cheap whiskey I sipped. More silence pushed me to ask without thinking it out, could he get me some Crystal methedrine, Katey raved how it pepped-her-up, and I was having trouble staying awake at work. Licking his bottom lip Nick smiled, told me to give him ten bucks, tossed down a gulp of the whiskey and left. Inside the hour returning with a small baggie of white powder he called a dime-bag, and a pint of orange juice, he poured the powder into the juice, shook it hard and offered it to me with a wry grin. Holding the bottle, considering, reasoning maybe this would finally wear me out and bring on sleep, I gulped the bitter brew, gagging on the grainy accumulation at the bottom. Nick urged me finish it off. I did.

Self-control running away so fast I could not regain any safe mental ground, staying-up all night blabbering to Nick, who seemed an old friend though I did not really know him. My thoughts a roaring freight train, body in constant feeling of falling, it struck me I didn’t really know Katey either. Nick offered to drive me to work, but I felt buoyant, floating, not a bit tired, and left early to walk in the beautiful morning light, Crystal an effective high, pushing the pain off my body. At work I talked too much, no one suspected drugs, I was so naturally strait and perky. Sitting at my desk was not possible, I couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper, Penny wasn’t home, I invented excuses to run errands, fetch things, the day was endless. Finally free, walking home I felt filled with helium, floating up Capitol Hill. Nick was waiting, hungry, wanting to take me to the Hasty Tasty for a bite. I was thankful for somewhere to go, someone to talk too, and in what seemed seconds pulled on my paisley dress, ready. He drove to the District, a three-block section of University Way NE, the main business district close to the University of Washington, also called the Ave, where the Hippies and Flower-Children hung-out. Nick ate a steak rare and fries with lots of ketchup. I watched the blood run from the meat, Crystal wiping-out any interest in eating. Then we paraded up and down the Ave, he seemed to know all the street people. I’d been up 24 hours, my neck stiffened as if someone had ahold of it, and again outside myself, this time out of control, showing more than I would, jabbering to people about nothing, I felt like a puppet and Nick the puppet-master, exposing me, making me a fool, it was not fun and I wanted to come down. I asked how long before the Crystal wore off. He grinned, seeming delighted You’ll be up at least two more days. I freaked, there was no way out, this was not how a Golden Girl acted, or how I wanted to, I screamed at him Take me home now. He pulled a thin joint from behind his ear on the way. I smoked the whole thing, it did not get me high or slow me down. Once home, I threw back three quick shots of whiskey, hitting my empty stomach like boiling water. They did not slow me at all, and from the grin on Nick’s face he was enjoying this way too much. Katey had mentioned Crystal and paranoia went together, maybe I was paranoid, I didn’t exactly know what paranoid was, but just thinking I had it freaked me even more. Nick tried to hug me, always wanting to comfort me, again I stepped back. He smiled wide, or was it a grimace, and slowly nodding his head yes whispered A dime bag’s enough to get three people off. What a cruel fucking jerk, urging me to drink the whole thing, yet it was me who trusted the big bad wolf. I shoved him toward the door. He did not resist and left. For effect I slammed and locked it, still, hearing his bus drive off, I panicked, this trip was way too much alone.

Jake’s record player seeped through the wall, Bob Dylan, I went next door and knocked. Surprised, he welcomed me. I was plainly short-circuiting, probably looked as if I’d stuck my finger in a light socket, tears flooded my eyes as I told him Grampa died and I could not sleep. He offered me a beer, politely listening to me blubber while drinking the rest of the six-pack, nodding off and on, sitting-up pretending to listen. Every apartment in the building was dark, the whole world was dark, when Jake passed-out I went to the pool, stripped and swam laps till sunrise, readied for work, walked downtown looking in every window, catching my reflection, thinking who is that, wanting to eat enough to slow me down, my throat choking-off the first bite of fresh onion bagel from the Three Sisters Bakery at Pike Place Market, thoughts so scrambled I stood at green lights and walked through red, and though freshly showered, I smelled of burning flesh and could not get away from the nose stinging stench, my heart banging so hard against my breast bone I was sure it shook me for every one to see. Once at my desk I could not sit, on first break I told the boss I was sick, an easy excuse, and no where to go, walked home, pulled on my jeans and headed for Volunteer Park, to sit on the back of the Big Stone Ram infront of the Wing Luke Asian Art Museum, something I’d done countless times growing-up, hoping this would put a tail on my kite. No rest there, I marched home like a puppet soldier, forced down a banana that came right up, Katey was still gone, Penny didn’t take drugs and would only be angry with me, my Folks would freak and want me to do something I did not want to, there was no one to call, I felt like a mongrel chasing her tail, round-and-round, my mind a closed system chanting run run run run, where, I could not save my thoughts from rushing into the dark, what if I never come down, what if I get brain damage, what if I never find my self again, then the Ave, the Ave, Hippies take drugs, maybe someone would know what to do. I caught the bus, was not able to stay seated, the driver made me get off, and I ran ran ran ran nine blocks, then pacing up and down the sidewalk peering in the Eiger, the Hasty Tasty, the Coffee Corral, every head shop, into Hippies face, mine frozen in a tight smile, no longer able to form words or ask for help, Crystal was illegal and I was on the outside of the law, an undercover cop could put me away, was this paranoia, every last beat of life rushing out, I might just disappear, and there was Nick. A knowing smile he took my hand and turned it palm-up, placed two small oval golden-orange tablets in the center, said they were Thorazine, what doctors give patients after a heart operation so they won’t move, what shrinks give psychotics. I cared only they worked, gulping them down dry. He drove me home. And I began to slow, like a 45 record spinning at 78 and suddenly switched to 33 1/3, I could form words again, demanding to know why he would do such a cruel thing to me. He said I was the type to get strung-out on speed, that he cared too much about me and needed to make sure I had a bad trip so I’d never want more. How dared he do my thinking for me, and all too wrecked to be indignant, too grateful to have someone to talk too, I mustered as warm a voice as I could and assured him I was not the addictive kind, learned lessons much easier than being thrown from a plane without a parachute, that he could have just told me. Against better judgment, and for reasons I did not want to think about, I let him come in, made it clear he would be sleeping on the couch, and went to bed.

Gently rocking my shoulder, Nick woke me, I slept through the alarm. Driving me to work, he offered a thin tightly rolled joint, the one that seemed always hidden behind his ear. And he drove too fast for holding dope, and I smoked the joint pretending it was a cigarette incase a cop noticed us. I could not stand this wolf, nevertheless he wasn’t like any other human I knew, yes he was dangerous, even frightening, but he fascinated me. Work seemed an unending unthinking unpleasant something I used to do for money, now an exquisite waste of vital essence, this nothing of consequence all day. After lunch I hatched a plan to amuse my self, stopping every pilot and engineer, even the ones I knew well, making them show a security badges even if theirs was properly clipped on, a little power-trip to compensate for my suddenly humiliating ornamental position, which barely alleviated the slow grind. A few of my victims asked was I okay, and seemed genuinely concerned. I knew they were not. One of the engineers constantly trying to bed me, leaned on my desk and asked too loud, would I like to go to dinner at the Space Needle, and for dessert we could watch the submarine races from his bedroom window over-looking Lake Union. I knew he thought this clever, I knew if I let all this new-found contempt out on him he’d probably burst into flames, and this poor guy didn’t deserve it all, he couldn’t possibly know what had happened to me, just a few days ago I thought him cute for a 32 year old, so without meeting his eyes, I flashed a perky grin and said I already had a date for the races. We’d gone out once, and he spent the evening infusing everything with clumsy sexual innuendo, but now his stale little jokes were insulting, and I was embarrassed ever having laughed at them. The work day finally expired, I hurried home to crash, who I thought I was a constant leaking away, and no one to talk too, the Golden Ghetto had not prepared me for this leaking. I closed my eyes, tomorrow after work I had a Seafair interview at the Olympic Hotel.

My first time on TV and I could not relax shoulders or jaw, could not shake it out, felt put together with spit and if I dried-out would fall apart. I’d worn the only appropriate things I owned, my senior prom gown, a sheer ankle-length form-fitting sleeveless delicately flowered silk number with a flesh-tone silk slip beneath, hair up in my trademark beehive, wrapped with a matching green silk scarf, green kidskin three-inch pumps and dyed-to-match above the elbow gloves, on the middle finger of my right hand glittered the showy black pearl and diamond ring Dad made for my 16th birthday. I thought I had a chance if I could only relax, for I knew what was expected in this type of a thoroughbred race, sexy and ready yet virginal, docile, altruistic, patriotic, smart but not wise. There were twelve of us. I had not made friends with any of the Girls, had little in common but the Pageant, knew them mainly by their prattling conversations about custom-made gowns, backstage make-up artists and hairdressers, where they’d gone abroad for summer vacation, and how much Daddy made.

As the television crew arrived and began to set-up, Pageant Director instructed us on the questions, and to my surprise on the answers. I was instantly drawn to the camera man, a pouty-faced Badboy in well-worn blue jeans and shoulder length dark brown hair, a resounding anti-establishment statement. It wasn’t easy to get any job in long hair or jeans and he proudly wore both, telling me he must be good at what he does, I was smitten with his nerve. We picked numbers from a hat for interview order, the Pageant Director showed us where we would be sitting, advising us not to fret, the interview was being filmed for later broadcast and any mistakes would be edited out, he gave us 15 minutes to primp. Walking passed the Seafair Commodores and this year’s King Neptune, I felt like a lamb chop on a plate and thought from the sick feeling at the pit of my gut how old these men were and how juicy the Girls were, and since I had no backstage attendants, decided to go on to the hospitality table for tea and a few moments alone to try and gather my self.

Badboy walked over as I drank my cup, poured a coffee and grinned Hi. Just plain heart-throbbing up close, I was light-headed simply inhaling the same air and smiled back I’ve never been on TV. I just can not relax. All those people watching me. He smiled The trick, don’t think all of them at once, just one person watching one TV set at a time. That’s all. There’s only one person watching you. You’re a big girl, you can handle that. He smile warmed If you want the camera to love you, look through the lens to me, and think of me cause I’ll be thinking of you. I finally engaged his shockingly green eyes I am a big girl. I can handle that. He asked So, how old are you. I looked down Almost eighteen. Shaking his head no he murmured Such delicious jail-bait. Our eyes touched again, I protested Only two more weeks. He ran a big hand through his mane to take it off his face. I ached for this man, no submarine jokes, no innuendo, this man did not insult me.

And then it was show time. Having picked number nine, I took my designated seat, kept statue-still trying to breathe evenly, deeply, calmly, watching Badboy run his camera, listening to the Girls pre-chewed answers, pure saccharine, simpering morons, I would not be a moron on TV even for that one person watching, having been hired cute and dumb at Boeing was the last time. When my turn came, I looked through the lens and talked to Badboy Yes I plan on going to college. Seattle Community. Yes I’m planning on a career. I’ve always dreamed of being a criminal lawyer. Why am I running for Seafair Queen. Emotional ties made me say yes when the Cirque Playhouse asked me to represent them. What emotional ties. I’ve been hooked on Seafair since I was five years old, when I won a Tradewell coloring contest and a ride on their float in the Torch Light Parade. I spent my first nine years in the Mount Baker neighborhood, walking distance of Stan Sayres Pits, and when summer and the races came, first I would sell parking spaces infront of our house and driveway, then I’d wheel my lemonade wagon down to the Pits and sell all I could get my Mom to make. In high school my friend Steve Reynolds often took me screaming across Lake Washington in his limited hydro. And, I sometimes baby-sat for the neighbor kids, whose father had been a tenor sax player with the Guy Lombardo Band, has his own local band now called The Kings Men, and just happens to be champion unlimited hydroplane driver Bill Muncey. So you see I have emotional ties to Seafair. Then came the question What do you think of this new fad, men wearing long hair. The previous eight obliged with the suggested, it looks dirty, criminal, you can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl from the back. I thought they must be blind, Badboy didn’t look anything like a girl, so I smiled through the lens and spoke to him I think long hair is sexy. Suddenly I relaxed, I’d become a real person, I was no longer one of the Girls. The Pageant Director’s booming voice halted the interview and ordered me into the adjoining room. Without looking round I followed, and did not close the door. He demanded Sit down. His red-face angry loud and accusing What’s a matter with you. Can’t you follow simple instructions. The other Girls are smart enough to listen. You’re a trouble-maker and I simply can not allow your kind in this Pageant. You’re not Seafair material. I should have been shaking, embarrassed beyond articulation, but he was wrong, the Girls were dumb enough to listen, and he was right, I wasn’t Seafair material, time had slowed down for me to think, I had nothing to lose here except my self, and to my surprise and delight boomed back Last I looked Sir, honesty is still a virtue. I paused to watch already swollen neck veins bulge over his starched white collar, and giddy at my own calm, stood, and went on in sure tone I heard the daughter of the president of the Chamber of Commerce is going to win anyway. I was glad the door was open. Mr.Director’s hands tensed, he involuntarily leaned toward me, instantly caught himself and cleared his throat Now there Little Missy. You don’t know what you’re saying. I threw him a triumphant smile, said nothing and left the Hotel, head high like the thoroughbred I’d been taught to be, don’t look back you could turn to salt singing in my head, realizing from Mr.Director’s reaction the contest might really be rigged, that the Girls were being used though I wasn’t clear how or why, and that I’d probably been approved by the committee for the most part because Mercer Island was a safe bet, my family must have money, and I surely would obey the rules.

Feeling iridescent neon on the street in my long silk gown and gloves, I caught the bus home, leaving Badboy behind, there was no one to talk too, my friends and family saw running for Seafair Queen as a golden opportunity, how could I explain the exhilaration of purposefully blowing it, or that I was freaking-out at a job they all thought was so great, that my boy-friends seemed exactly that, boys, that Grampa’s death had taken the bottom out of my life, that I thought God was fucked, didn’t know who I was now that I wasn’t who I used to be, and that I was considering taking LSD. But the question that fired my brain, why wasn’t there any one to talk too. I had friends and none ever mentioned these things happening to them, none of the magazines mentioned this feeling of being outside my self looking-in. I put Dylan on the record player and crawled into bed still wearing my prom dress and gloves, laying on my back, arms close to my body, feeling like a rocket waiting to be shot into space, too emotionally fatigued to cry, wishing Katey would come home, I could sort of talk to her, playing the day over and over like poison rolling round in my head, till sleep showed some mercy, Dylan singing when you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.

Was Nick the only human on earth I could talk too. Friday afternoon I called from work, asking did he still want to take LSD. He was chilly, saying I’d brushed him off. Desperate for any mooring I submitted how messed-up I’d been lately. My tone must have salved any hurt feelings, he would be over at 7PM with Donna and Gabriel. Uncomfortable with the strain of strangers, I said okay.

Gabriel and I were instant friends, he did not come on to me, no pressure, no innuendo, I could relax. Twenty-four years old, a University of California at Santa Cruz quantum mechanics grad student till he was busted for small-time marijuana dealing, he ran before sentencing, went underground, changed his name, and was playing bass in a local band. Donna was gaga for Nick, finding any chance to brush up against him with her tits. Embarrassed for her rawness, her desperation, her seeming unawareness of any of this, for her humiliation, and for making me an unwilling participant, I needed to say something Katey ‘ll be home tonight. Nick nodded, more telling me to fuck-off than acknowledge my words, running that pointed tongue quickly back and forth along his bottom lip. For some reason they reminded me of animals, this smooth game that went on between male and female, all run by some unthinking program that no one thought about, just did, like it was inevitable, that’s what embarrassed me, I was a very private person, yet could see my own desire in Donna, because I was unthinking about it too. Katey’s thing for Nick made me a little uneasy having seen him while she was gone, but I had not crossed the line, we were just friends, I’d been care-full not to lead him on or tease. Taking my attention back, Gabriel sat down on the couch, took a small round ornate silver-framed mirror from one coat pocket, a small bundle in tin foil from the other, unwrapped four innocent little sugar cubes and placed them carefully on the mirror, promising this acid is pharmaceutically pure, no need to worry it’s cut with anything, promising we’d have a good trip. We gathered round. This felt somehow sacred, and scary, I felt totally unprepared So what’ll this pharmaceutically pure LSD do to me. Gabe smiled If you’re blessed, you’ll see God. I did once. His smile grew He was Buddha. I smiled too, for me Buddha was a green statue Granny had on her mantel and if you rubbed his belly it was supposed to bring good luck, but Gabe seeing God definitely interested me, not Yahweh, Buddha. He went on that most people have similar experiences on acid, it was mainly the individual details that differed. I was deeply excited by this sameness, maybe I could see God too, I needed to, I was pretty sure he wasn’t there. Gabe placed the cubes on our tongues, each time saying something in Latin and crossing himself. Nick and Donna laughed. I didn’t know much about Christian ritual.

We walked to Volunteer Park on a balmy summer night, the LSD was tasteless and I let the sweet cube dissolve on my tongue, holding it there, considering swallowing or spitting, thinking how funny it was this drug coming on such an innocent vehicle. Gabriel put his hand lightly on my shoulder You’re a brave girl dropping acid for the first time. Stepping into the unknown. I swallowed hard. And when my mouth began to taste of tin foil, the initial sign this was more than a sugar cube, I felt I’d jumped off the Smith Tower and would have to figure out how to fly on the way down or die. Gabe seemed to sense my stiffening, talking in a low soothing tone he confided Going on someone’s first trip is my favorite thing to do. I’m honored to be on yours. And don’t worry Shoshannah, I’m here for you. Telling me this only made me stiffen more, knowing there was something I would need someone to be here for. My connection with Gabe drew Nick, and his interest sparked Donna’s automatic competition, she glared hard at me. He would be just so very flattered, bitches vying, but my world had begun to warp, and the game appeared so clear, and stupid. I would not automatically compete with Donna, the bitch-rule, win-lose, being played-off each other for a man’s favor no longer roused me, I returned the rivalry without defense, telling her she looked beautiful. Having nothing to bark back at disarmed her, she went with me instead of against, we both won. Could it be so easy to dissolve this game that left so little room for personal dignity. At once we were girl-friends, on an acid glide through the park, into the sparkling glass conservatory, modeled on London’s Crystal Palace, greeted by a room full of orchid blossom shamelessly showing their privates, bobbing on long gracefully stems, the narrow blacktop walkway absorbing our footfalls as if we road on silent wheels, seeing this familiar botanical garden as if for the first time. Gabriel, Donna, Nick followed me through the five rooms, each a different temperature and humidity, lush cartoon flora reaching for us, Venus fly traps open, waiting, pitcher plants, hibiscus, gigantic mums, palms, cactus, ferns, flowers throwing their perfume snares, not one bug in sight, time irrelevant, casually noticing I stepped outside my self, again. The glide emerged, sun setting behind sapphire Olympics, sky streaking fire-burnt-orange and blue-hot-pink fading to violet, an epiphany sky, tears ran down my cheeks, tasting of the sea, and I knew I was the same. I had silently been chosen guide, and feeling the weight of responsibility turned to Gabe to be there for me, he’d done this before, what more was suppose to happen, when would I see God. He was sure by my response to the sun set I already had. Meandering the grounds, still following me, I wondered aloud could it be so straightforward, could such intense awe at such beauty be God, could something that wasn’t male be God, could lowly nature, so often called Mother be God, did it even need gender. Gabe tried to explain quantum physics, how we were all connected yet individual, even Buddha, Yahweh, Shiva being individual manifestations of the whole. I noticed his lips were not moving, and yet I heard him. Nick, Donna too, their thoughts so carnal, was this why Gabe said he would be there for me, was this a bad trip, I could not bear being in-on Nick and Donna’s pornography, what if they could hear me too, what if my new ears were permanent, I would eavesdrop this vulgar soap-opera for ever, and it was beginning to have a smell, like rancid fried chicken without the chicken. I had not found my wings, spinning, falling fast, when a full grown Robin landed light on my shoulder, staying my fall. Never having been this close to a wild animal, I did not to flinch, slowly turning my head to get a moonlit look, thinking this bird should be asleep by now. He lingered, tightening his grip, and I heard with these new ears I don’t sleep till I know who’s in my yard. It struck me that he spoke English. Robin ruffled I’m an all American bird, so well fed here I no longer need to migrate. Satisfied with the last word he flew to a near dogwood. I could hear everything in his yard, worms worming, bugs chewing, grass growing, air currenting, trees rustling, squirrels whispering, mice, snakes, raccoons showed themselves, every thing opened and we were all here, individual and connected, acid-here, weightless, bigger than before, again I became aware of the thinness of this skin I wore, how easily torn to bleed-out my life, everything rushing and smooth, reality layered beyond my dearest hope, and my company swept along in my awe, following, in my train. I wondered if the exquisite streaming paisley patterns crawling over everything was the thin film of liquid covering my eyeballs or the life blood of every thing I had never slowed down enough to notice. No one answered, my ears were mine again. The train pulled-up at the Big Stone Ram guarding the entrance to the Wing Luke Museum. We sat on the stairs at its feet. Donna began pounding her fist on her knee, hating her Dad for coming into her room, never stopping at the good-night kiss, she’d run away at fifteen, living on the street was safer. We planned her revenge, planned a new identity for Gabe to get back into school, figured-out the entire universe, and still I was not satisfied, I wanted at least one big hallucination, one I could be sure of. Gabe laughed at me. I laughed at him. We all laughed. Nick lit the joint he’d been carrying behind his ear, promising it would make the ride down easy. Taking long luxurious puffs, not bothering to hold in the smoke, we decided the bathroom at my place was the next stop. Walking away from the stone behemoth, shivering but not at all cold, I looked back at his familiar horn curling round the right side of his big head. He turned and look square in my eyes with that same who are you that caught me in the mirror, and suddenly there was so much more to believe in than I had ever been given to imagine, I knew that if there was God, I had just seen it, outside any boundary of my expectations. And I must have been jumping round, laughing loud, for Gabe found my hand, warning me to calm down. Breathless I whispered Did you see it look at me. He shook his head No sweet girl, it was a special gift only for you. I knew this was true, so deep down it salved a place nothing else had touched, for it meant I counted for something, meant I could fly, meant I had some freedom, this was a million times bigger than winning the Seafair crown.

Coming down was for the most part lovely, a passenger in the back-seat of a stretch limo on a lazy country road, watching the scenery, new-old reality slowly surrounding me again with the mundane, a slight stiff neck from the intensity of the trip, a very dry mouth, I made tea. Gabriel proclaimed this the best trip he’d ever been on. Nick rolled another joint, and