By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2004
I was drunk and insane when I stumbled into the stinking, damp, pissed-on subway. Four in the morning. Big mistake. Three teenagers across from me seemed to be enjoying their last free weekend before the start of school. They were laughing and grinning, white lollipop sticks protruding from their swollen lips. One of the girls caught my eye and gave me a face-splitting grin.
“I love your bag,” she squealed. “Isn’t her bag awesome?” The girl next to her squinted in my direction, and then her eyes exploded open like sunflowers.
“Oh my God, it’s SO COOL!” They ran over and sat on either side of me, their fingers touching my purse.
“This is a beautiful shirt!”
“Oh, and your shoes! So pretty!”
My eyes could not keep up with their hands, running over my arms and legs. I would have squirmed away, but I was feeling pretty high, myself. Their touches were butterfly soft on my skin. One look at the shorter of the two, and I knew she was a lesbian. She didn’t know for sure yet, but I did.
Their traveling companion, a boy with light brown peach fuzz around his chin, remained in the seat from where the girls had leapt up, arms folded across his chest, a smirk forming around the lollipop stick in his mouth.
The train screeched into a station, ding-dong doors, an older man wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt sat down in the corner of the car and promptly fell asleep. The taller girl was inspecting my new manicure with jaw-dropping fascination, while the shorter Future Lesbian of America had her fingers and nose in my hair, the sound of her sharp inhales only a little less annoying that the smell of her candy cane breath, warming my chin on the exhales.
I trained my eyes on their friend, the boy across from me, his brown eyes glassy, his lips slick.
“Who’s your friend?” I sounded crazy to my own ears. With these adolescent girls hanging off me, I probably looked crazier.
“Oh, that’s just Lawrence.”
“He’s my brother.”
I glanced at the short, dark-haired girl, entranced by my smoke-filled, bar-stench hair, and then back at the boy she called her brother. A chaperone.
Another station, another ding-dong, another passenger, this time some emo chick, horn-rimmed glasses and headphones, doubtless going to my stop at the end of Park Slope.
“Oh My GOD!” the taller girl suddenly perked up, brushing long strands of blonde hair from her eyes, “Carrie, I just thought of something! We should get off this train and go dancing!”
“Yeah!”
“Ooorrrrrr, Lila.....we could just dance here!”
The girls started dancing on the train as it rocked around underneath Manhattan. They were thrown into the doors, laughing as their hair and arms flew about. Carrie the Little Lesbo grabbed the pole in the middle of the subway car, flung her legs around it, and humped it frantically. Lila the Buxom Blonde giggled and cheered. I glanced at the chaperone, Lawrence, still with a sardonic grin, still sucking on his lollipop.
“Your parents made you do this?” I indicated the screaming, writhing girls. He nodded.
“How old are they?”
He held up ten fingers, then five.
“How old are you?”
He held up ten fingers, then seven.
I could barely remember my own 17, but I know for sure that I was not riding the New York City subways at four o’clock on Sunday mornings.
Lawrence slowly pulled the headless, white stick from his mouth – how long had he been chewing that thing? – and licked his lips. Discretion diverted my eyes to the two girls, laughing maniacally, lamenting their parched mouths.
The squeal of the wheels, the melody of the doors.
“Where are we?”
“Did we miss our stop?”
“Oh my God, Lawrence, are you paying attention?”
“Do you have any water?”
He looked at the girls, unfazed by their ramblings. “We’re not home yet.”
Relieved, Carrie and Lila embraced, and when they pulled away from each other, the short girl “accidentally” brushed her lips against the tall one’s open mouth. A moment of stillness hung between them, their feet braced against the subway floor, arms still around each other’s shoulders. The Led Zeppelin dude was sleeping, the emo girl was staring straight ahead, and the Puerto Rican couple, who had boarded at the last stop, were making out. We were the only other people in the car, and I was the only one paying attention to the events unfolding beautifully before my eyes.
And Lawrence. I glanced at the 17-year old boy, a painfully sweet leer crawling across his lips at the sight of his sister and her pretty friend in a quasi-passionate embrace. I followed his eyes to where the two girls were still standing, oblivious to us and even to the motion of the train, rolling over the tracks into Brooklyn.
“You two should just kiss and get it over with.”
All six eyes shot over to me. What was I saying? The words were like gibberish in my own tinny voice, my head was reeling, I was wasted.
Saved by the bell, the train poured into Carroll Street station, the doors creaked open. Led Zeppelin t-shirt man got off, the Puerto Rican couple were sleeping on each other, and emo girl was still focused strongly on her reflection in the window. The train rolled on, and so did Lawrence, Lila, and Carrie. Lila grabbed the pole in the middle of the car, but kept one hand on Carrie’s shoulder, the latter little lesbian smiling weakly, licking her lips. Lila’s eyes flew over to me.
“Why would you even say something like that, huh? Do I look like some kind of lesbo to you?”
I laughed in her face. If she were a little bigger, the girl probably would have kicked my ass. But she was jacked on ecstasy, and was having a hard time holding a serious gaze. She sat down next to Lawrence, who was watching me very carefully. His eyes burned a gaze of laser beams into my face, my breasts, my long legs sticking out of my short black skirt.
The short, dark-haired Carrie sat down next to me and stared at her shoes. Lila, the titsy blonde girl, in an attempt to confirm her own sexuality, had her arms twisted through Lawrence’s, cozying up to him. He ignored her.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Carrie’s voice broke into the heat wave shooting between me and Lawrence. I glanced down at her.
“I’m too old for you.”
“Why don’t you just kiss and get it over with?” Lila’s voice cut across the aisle. Lawrence’s face exploded in a burst of laughter that made the Puerto Rican couple wake up.
“Next stop, girls,” he chuckled, as the train pulled away from the 4th Avenue-9th Street station. I looked at him and he crossed his arms, smugly fascinated. Lila, too, had her arms crossed under her enormous breasts, twirling the tips of her long, blonde hair through her fingers.
I had no idea what I was doing when I leaned down and placed my lips on Carrie’s. She squeaked and closed her eyes, pressing her mouth to mine, just like she had seen in the movies. Her lips were so warm and wet, memories of Spin the Bottle, Truth or Dare, and Seven Minutes in Heaven came flooding back in a tundra.
This girl was fifteen years old. I pulled away from her and glanced at her seventeen-year old brother. His mouth was as wide as his eyes, and when he stood, I saw that he had an erection that probably could have cut glass.
The train screeched into 7th Avenue station, and Lawrence and Lila stood, the latter looking as though she might puke. Carrie at my side stood slowly, never taking her eyes off me for a moment.
“Come on, Carrie,” Lawrence called, holding the door open. She moved to the door and stepped onto the platform, staring back at me through the window, her lips shiny, her eyes moist.
The train pulled away and I closed my eyes, floating in my intoxication to the next stop, my stop, slowly sobering. The doors opened at Prospect Park, I got off, and as I had surmised, emo girl followed behind me. The lights on the platform were brighter than the rising August sun and the air was so thick.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City, NJ.
Showing posts with label Jessica E. Lapidus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jessica E. Lapidus. Show all posts
June 16, 2004
April 25, 2004
rancor. (Part II)
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2004
On the day of Hochner’s sentencing, Ilka’s mother brought her the newspaper article with tears streaming down her face. She didn’t have to read it; the headline told her everything:
"I want to go see him."
Her mother was stunned. "What?"
"I want to go see him. I have to ask him something."
"Ilka, sweetie, I don’t know if you can do..."
"Of course I can. Will they let me? Sure they will. Can I handle it? I don’t know. But I have to find out."
"Honey, I don’t think that it’s a good idea."
Ilka looked at her mother, more emotion on her face in one glance than there had been since the day she woke up without her left leg. "Mom, I’ve been waiting for this. Please, I want to go. I have to go."
Ilka’s parents were unhappy, but how could they begrudge their wheelchair-bound daughter her one wish?
Her father made the arrangements, and on a sunny Tuesday morning, he drove Ilka down to the county jail so she could meet Louis Hochner. Her father wanted to go with her to the visiting area, but Ilka insisted she go by herself.
Her arms were tired by the time she got to the end of the stark white hall. She presented her ID to the guard at the door, and when the opening alarm sounded on the door to the visiting area, Ilka jumped.
"You all right, miss?"
"Yep. How long do I have in there?"
"Ten minutes to talk to the prisoner."
Ilka nodded and wheeled herself into the room. There were other people sitting around, mostly women with babies on one side of the glass, screeching into the phone. On the other side were men in orange, chins in hand, listening with empty eyes and sad hearts to their baby mamas, wondering when the hell their ten minutes would be up. She handed her appointment card to the guard leaning against the wall and he handed it to another man who walked behind the glass and through another door. The first officer indicated a space at the glass and Ilka wheeled herself into it.
She was staring at the door on the other side, waiting for Hochner to appear, and for a moment she felt the twitch in her missing leg like she could just get up and run. She looked down. The left leg of her jeans was tied in a knot against her thigh. She wasn’t running anywhere.
Another alarm buzzed and Ilka’s head snapped up. Hochner came through the door followed by a solemn looking guard. The bile of fear rose in Ilka’s throat and she swallowed it down. She gripped the side of her wheelchair. Hochner looked shorter than Ilka remembered, and then she realized that he was in a wheelchair, too. The guard wheeled him into the table on the other side of the glass from Ilka and stepped back against the wall behind the prisoners.
Ilka and Hochner stared at each other. For a moment, neither of them knew what they were doing there. Ilka reached for the black handset and Hochner did the same. They held their handsets to their ears and kept staring.
"Who are you?" Hochner finally asked. Ilka flinched. She had expected his voice to be angry and bellowing like it had been in the Burger King. Instead, it was deep but soft, almost concerned. He had the same creased brow as he had in the mug shot that had been broadcast on the news, but now he looked more concerned than angry.
"My name is Ilka. You shot me in the leg. They cut it off."
Hochner looked at Ilka’s eyes and a shiver blew through her. "I’m sorry," he whispered, lowering his head in shame.
Ilka fought back tears. "It’s okay."
He looked up. "It is?"
Ilka nodded. "They said you have a weakness for whisky."
Hochner shook his head. "Those fucking assholes, they sold me out."
"Who?"
"They went all the way against the Bum Code of Ethics, telling the police I was a drunk."
"My dad is, too."
Hochner picked at a scratch in the table. Ilka pulled the receiver close to her ear and leaned into the glass between them as though he might hear her better. "We’re human, you know."
Hochner looked into Ilka’s face. "Humans don’t do what I did, usually."
"We all make mistakes. You lost your legs, too."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four. How old are you?"
"Forty-six. They’re gonna kill me."
"Why did you murder ten people?"
"Hey, it was only nine. That old lady dropped dead of her own accord."
"Was it all just for money for whisky?"
"Scotch. It’s scotch. And no. Have you ever had a Whopper from Burger King?"
Ilka nodded, smiling. "Oh man, they’re good. I was eating one when you… you…"
"Yeah, well, I was hungry. And all I wanted was a Whopper, you know, with extra onions."
"I always liked mine with extra pickles and mayonnaise."
"Oh, I hate mayonnaise. But I wanted a Whopper that day."
"So why didn’t you just come and buy one instead of blowing the place to bits?"
"When you’re broke and hungry, you’ll do anything for some food. I asked the girl for a Whopper and she said no and I told her I was gonna rape her ass with the shotgun in my pants and I showed her the stock and she screamed so I shot her."
Ilka and Hochner both leaned closer to the glass between them. Their noses were both almost touching. He had blue eyes. She had dark roots around the perimeter of her blonde head.
"Louis…"
"…Hochner. Please."
"Hochner, was it worth it?"
"Why did that little cunt scream when I said not to?"
"A man’s arm landed on her chicken sandwich."
"Two minutes," the guard leaning over Hochner’s shoulder mouthed at Ilka. She nodded.
"We gotta stop soon," she said, leaning back in her wheelchair. Her palms were sweaty.
"Why did you come here, Ilka?"
She shrugged. "I originally came to tell you how awful you are, but I saw you in a wheelchair, too, and I saw a man. Just a man. A man who didn’t testify on his own behalf, but who is clearly insane. And they never knew. They let homeless people speak on your behalf. If you had testified, they would have known that you were crazy."
"I want a Whopper for my last meal. You think they’ll do that?"
Ilka nodded. "Do you have running dreams?"
Hochner smiled. "Yeah, I do. They’re great. I dream I’m running on the beach."
"I dream I’m running into your arms."
The guard came around and put his hands on Hochner’s wheelchair. Hochner strained his neck to the receiver as the guard started to pull him away.
"Are they warm, at least?"
The guard pulled the wheelchair back and Hochner threw the receiver at the glass. Ilka jumped and yelled, "LIKE HELL! HOT LIKE HELL!!"
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City, NJ.
On the day of Hochner’s sentencing, Ilka’s mother brought her the newspaper article with tears streaming down her face. She didn’t have to read it; the headline told her everything:
Burger King Killer Sentenced to Death on Nine Counts of MurderFor the first time in three months, Ilka smiled. For the first time in two weeks, she spoke.
"I want to go see him."
Her mother was stunned. "What?"
"I want to go see him. I have to ask him something."
"Ilka, sweetie, I don’t know if you can do..."
"Of course I can. Will they let me? Sure they will. Can I handle it? I don’t know. But I have to find out."
"Honey, I don’t think that it’s a good idea."
Ilka looked at her mother, more emotion on her face in one glance than there had been since the day she woke up without her left leg. "Mom, I’ve been waiting for this. Please, I want to go. I have to go."
Ilka’s parents were unhappy, but how could they begrudge their wheelchair-bound daughter her one wish?
Her father made the arrangements, and on a sunny Tuesday morning, he drove Ilka down to the county jail so she could meet Louis Hochner. Her father wanted to go with her to the visiting area, but Ilka insisted she go by herself.
Her arms were tired by the time she got to the end of the stark white hall. She presented her ID to the guard at the door, and when the opening alarm sounded on the door to the visiting area, Ilka jumped.
"You all right, miss?"
"Yep. How long do I have in there?"
"Ten minutes to talk to the prisoner."
Ilka nodded and wheeled herself into the room. There were other people sitting around, mostly women with babies on one side of the glass, screeching into the phone. On the other side were men in orange, chins in hand, listening with empty eyes and sad hearts to their baby mamas, wondering when the hell their ten minutes would be up. She handed her appointment card to the guard leaning against the wall and he handed it to another man who walked behind the glass and through another door. The first officer indicated a space at the glass and Ilka wheeled herself into it.
She was staring at the door on the other side, waiting for Hochner to appear, and for a moment she felt the twitch in her missing leg like she could just get up and run. She looked down. The left leg of her jeans was tied in a knot against her thigh. She wasn’t running anywhere.
Another alarm buzzed and Ilka’s head snapped up. Hochner came through the door followed by a solemn looking guard. The bile of fear rose in Ilka’s throat and she swallowed it down. She gripped the side of her wheelchair. Hochner looked shorter than Ilka remembered, and then she realized that he was in a wheelchair, too. The guard wheeled him into the table on the other side of the glass from Ilka and stepped back against the wall behind the prisoners.
Ilka and Hochner stared at each other. For a moment, neither of them knew what they were doing there. Ilka reached for the black handset and Hochner did the same. They held their handsets to their ears and kept staring.
"Who are you?" Hochner finally asked. Ilka flinched. She had expected his voice to be angry and bellowing like it had been in the Burger King. Instead, it was deep but soft, almost concerned. He had the same creased brow as he had in the mug shot that had been broadcast on the news, but now he looked more concerned than angry.
"My name is Ilka. You shot me in the leg. They cut it off."
Hochner looked at Ilka’s eyes and a shiver blew through her. "I’m sorry," he whispered, lowering his head in shame.
Ilka fought back tears. "It’s okay."
He looked up. "It is?"
Ilka nodded. "They said you have a weakness for whisky."
Hochner shook his head. "Those fucking assholes, they sold me out."
"Who?"
"They went all the way against the Bum Code of Ethics, telling the police I was a drunk."
"My dad is, too."
Hochner picked at a scratch in the table. Ilka pulled the receiver close to her ear and leaned into the glass between them as though he might hear her better. "We’re human, you know."
Hochner looked into Ilka’s face. "Humans don’t do what I did, usually."
"We all make mistakes. You lost your legs, too."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four. How old are you?"
"Forty-six. They’re gonna kill me."
"Why did you murder ten people?"
"Hey, it was only nine. That old lady dropped dead of her own accord."
"Was it all just for money for whisky?"
"Scotch. It’s scotch. And no. Have you ever had a Whopper from Burger King?"
Ilka nodded, smiling. "Oh man, they’re good. I was eating one when you… you…"
"Yeah, well, I was hungry. And all I wanted was a Whopper, you know, with extra onions."
"I always liked mine with extra pickles and mayonnaise."
"Oh, I hate mayonnaise. But I wanted a Whopper that day."
"So why didn’t you just come and buy one instead of blowing the place to bits?"
"When you’re broke and hungry, you’ll do anything for some food. I asked the girl for a Whopper and she said no and I told her I was gonna rape her ass with the shotgun in my pants and I showed her the stock and she screamed so I shot her."
Ilka and Hochner both leaned closer to the glass between them. Their noses were both almost touching. He had blue eyes. She had dark roots around the perimeter of her blonde head.
"Louis…"
"…Hochner. Please."
"Hochner, was it worth it?"
"Why did that little cunt scream when I said not to?"
"A man’s arm landed on her chicken sandwich."
"Two minutes," the guard leaning over Hochner’s shoulder mouthed at Ilka. She nodded.
"We gotta stop soon," she said, leaning back in her wheelchair. Her palms were sweaty.
"Why did you come here, Ilka?"
She shrugged. "I originally came to tell you how awful you are, but I saw you in a wheelchair, too, and I saw a man. Just a man. A man who didn’t testify on his own behalf, but who is clearly insane. And they never knew. They let homeless people speak on your behalf. If you had testified, they would have known that you were crazy."
"I want a Whopper for my last meal. You think they’ll do that?"
Ilka nodded. "Do you have running dreams?"
Hochner smiled. "Yeah, I do. They’re great. I dream I’m running on the beach."
"I dream I’m running into your arms."
The guard came around and put his hands on Hochner’s wheelchair. Hochner strained his neck to the receiver as the guard started to pull him away.
"Are they warm, at least?"
The guard pulled the wheelchair back and Hochner threw the receiver at the glass. Ilka jumped and yelled, "LIKE HELL! HOT LIKE HELL!!"
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City, NJ.
March 22, 2004
rancor.
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2004
The guy who shot up the Burger King on Washington Street, they called him Hochner.
Ilka never saw him walk in the place. How could she have? Nothing separated Hochner from the rest of the old white homeless men who hung out there. He walked over to the counter to place an order, leaning close to the girl behind the register. Ilka had just finished a phone call to her boyfriend and was snapping her phone shut when she heard the scream. By the time Ilka turned around, the wispy black girl behind the counter had the back of her head all over the fry station. Hochner was waving his gun at the crowd in the restaurant.
"Any more of you motherfuckers scream and I'll put your brains on the walls!!" he bellowed.
A fat Hispanic woman had her hands over each of her two children's mouths and had tucked her chin into her chest. Two young black guys, thugged out in red, had stopped their chatter about "bitches and benjamins" and were staring at Hochner, jaws slack. An older white man had moved to the other side of the booth to sit with his wife, who had vomited onto her tray. The place was silent. A man walked in through the front door and when he saw the crazed homeless guy pointing a sawed-off shotgun in his direction, he changed his mind and headed for the McDonalds down the block.
The bathroom door opened out into the silence but Hochner didn't seem to notice.
"Hochner, man, what the fuck are you doing?"
Hochner swung his arm at the other homeless man standing in the half-opened bathroom door. A moment froze between them and Ilka watched it in slow motion as Hochner pulled the trigger of the shotgun pointed at the shoulder of the man before him. The range was so close that his arm was shot off and went flying into a table of trembling Japanese girls. They screamed in unison and Hochner shot one of them in the back.
Sirens were blaring up the street and Hochner's head snapped to the door. He just started shooting at the door and as the screams rippled from the front of the restaurant to the back door, he shot at them, too. Ilka dove under the table and a bullet nicked the head of one of the little Hispanic boys with his fat mother and nailed Ilka in the back of the knee.
As Ilka lay curled in a ball under the table, blood gushing from her leg and tears streaming down her cheeks, three police officers barged through the doors of the Burger King and shot Hochner five times in the legs, and as his finger tightened around the trigger of the shotgun, a stray bullet ricocheted off the hot, white tile and took out the leg of an empty baby stroller.
Ten patrons of the Washington Street Burger King lay dead and eight severely wounded as five more cops came running in and stopped cold in their tracks, surveying the carnage. Whimpers and sobs of the wounded rang through the restaurant, but the police officers just stood there. Some of them looked at the front windows, wondering when the EMS would arrive, and some glanced at their bloody boot prints as they approached the barely breathing homeless man, a sawed-off shotgun still in his left hand, finger limp and curled around the trigger.
"He dead?" a young, stunned rookie cop asked the air.
"Don't think so," an older, black cop mumbled.
Hochner was alive, blood bubbling out of his nose at every weak exhale, both legs shattered in a million places. His brown coat was stained by years of living in the streets, but remained otherwise unmarred by the bloodshed of the last five minutes. Squeaky breaths came sore out of his throat as the cops stared at him in muted shock.
"I've seen this guy around the neighborhood."
"Yeah, me too. He's been on the street for years."
"Where the fuck did he get a Beretta?"
Two ambulances screeched to a halt in front of the Burger King and as four medics came running in with stretchers, one of them was already on his radio, calling for three more vans. The EMS guys went to work, running over to each person on the floor. They felt the pulses of each one. If they were dead, the medic would move on to another. When they found one who was alive, they'd holler for a stretcher and another guy would come over and they'd get the person into the ambulance. Ilka watched from under the table as the medics ran around the room like Doozers, methodical and smooth, as though this kind of thing happened every day. It occurred to her that none of them knew she was there. Every time she blinked, Ilka saw Hochner standing at the counter, screaming "any more of you motherfuckers scream and I'll put your brains on the walls!!" His warning flew through her brain, his face full of strained anger and fear. Don't scream! Don't fucking make a sound! Ilka put her hand on her left knee and felt bone and blood, hot and cruel between her fingers.
She screamed into the blackness.
The media went insane with witness' accounts of what they had seen that day at the Washington Street Burger King. There was the man of the old couple - his wife had puked on her tray that day and had had a heart attack and died when the cops burst through the door - talking to the press about the tragedy. The Mayor, the reporters, the idiots who saw everything and nothing through the blood-soaked windows. Ilka watched their images and heard their words go by with mild disgust. The reporters had tried to talk to the fat Hispanic lady whose little boy had been hospitalized after getting his head skimmed by one of Hochner's bullets, but she was too hysterical. The reporters came out of nowhere almost immediately, and had interviewed the friends of the Japanese girl who had been shot in the back. They cried a lot. The reporters from Channels 6 and 7 had tried to interview Ilka, but her father had intercepted them in the doorway of her private room, threatening them with bodily harm.
Ilka's father spent most of his time in his daughter's hospital room, and when he wasn't there, he was drinking Jameson's out of a silver flask that had belonged to his own father. It had been years since he'd gotten drunk on a regular basis, but seeing his only child in such a state of wounded shock had gotten him started again. His wife, Ilka's mother, disdained his behavior in public, but even Ilka knew that she had been sucking at the same flask behind her husband's back for 20 years.
Ilka had been in the hospital for only one day before she lost her left leg just above the knee. Ten days after she arrived at the hospital, Ilka was drifting in and out of sleep while her mother read in the chair next to her cot, and the Channel 6 news ran their afternoon report.
"…he was severely wounded by police and as soon as he is released from the hospital, Louis Hochner will go on trial for the murder of ten and the shooting of eight others in the Burger King downtown."
Ilka stirred to the sound of her mother's choking gasp.
"What is it?" she murmured.
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. Go back to sleep."
Ilka's eyes fluttered open and she glanced at the television over her bed. To the right of the anchorwoman's head was a photograph of an angry white man, thickly wrinkled brow and receding hairline. Her mouth opened at the sight of Hochner's face and she watched in silence as the anchors shook their heads and frowned, as they commented briefly on what had happened to "those poor, poor victims."
Her mother saw the way Ilka was looking at the television. It was the first time she had seen or heard anything about the shooting. The one thing she had been sure of was that the man who shot her in the leg had been killed by the cops that day. The reality of his life and the fact that he was actually going to get a fair trial for what he had done absolutely devastated her. Ilka started crying. Her mother rushed to her side and rubbed her shoulders, but Ilka could not be assuaged. Sobs wracked her body as she choked on her tears.
"He's alive… he's alive…" she whimpered.
Ilka was still feeling the twitch of her missing leg, and as she slept after crying herself into heavy sleep, she dreamed of running through the summer streets, hot concrete beneath her bare feet, both legs churning as she pounded the pavement with her steps, knees bending beautifully in pure liquid grace. She had had this dream nearly every night in since the doctors had amputated her left leg, and every night it ended the same way: running smack into the doors of the Washington Street Burger King and falling on the ground in pain before waking up. But after seeing the face and hearing the name of her assailant on the mid-day news, the end of her recurring dream took a dynamic turn. This time, instead of running into the doors of the Burger King, she ran right into the arms of Louis Hochner, who grabbed her and screamed into her face, I'll put your brains on the walls!! In the dream she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. In the real world, as she twitched and cried in her sleep, the nurse came in and gave her a swift 10cc shot of Valium.
By the time Hochner's trial began, Ilka had been home from the hospital for a month. Severely depressed, she had been unable to return to her job as a travel agent. She had been forced to break the lease on her studio apartment and went back to living with her parents. They hated the circumstance, but they were more than happy to take care of their convalescing daughter. Not that Ilka would have noticed. She was in a wheelchair while waiting for her wounds to fully heal before she could get a prosthetic leg. Her father worked and drank and her mother stayed home with her all day. Ilka watched soap operas and talk shows and CNN. She barely spoke. A young woman who had been the president of her sorority, who had graduated at the top of her class just a year and a half earlier, who had a loving boyfriend, who was extremely popular among her peers - was now reduced to a frightened, silenced, frail little girl.
Her friends came by all the time with CDs and books and catty gossip. Her boyfriend would stop by on occasion with pink roses and Toblerone chocolate, her favorites. They would all talk and tell stories and laugh at the things on TV. But Ilka wasn't interested. She stared into space or at the flashing images and thought about Hochner. His murder trial was being televised on Court TV. She had made the mistake of lingering too long while flipping through the channels one day, and had seen his face, framed by an orange polyester collar against the backdrop of the pale wood paneling of a courtroom. The mere sight of his face and his name etched on the bottom of the screen over the word "Defendant" sent Ilka into a crying, shaking, terror fit that lasted two hours. Ever since then, she avoided that end of the dial and mostly watched The Weather Channel.
It was a quick trial, lasting only about three weeks. The jurors barely deliberated. Hochner was found guilty on nine counts of first degree murder, eight counts of attempted murder, and one count of manslaughter, for the old lady who puked and had a heart attack. His lawyers had hoped for an insanity plea, but there were six character witnesses, all of them fellow homeless (tested for mental capacity before appearing on the stand, of course), who all testified that Louis Hochner was a perfectly normal guy whose only real fault was that he liked Macallan scotch, and probably would have done anything to get some. But Burger King doesn't serve whisky, does it? So why would he go in there…?
And that's where the questioning would often end.
To Be Continued...
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City, NJ.
The guy who shot up the Burger King on Washington Street, they called him Hochner.
Ilka never saw him walk in the place. How could she have? Nothing separated Hochner from the rest of the old white homeless men who hung out there. He walked over to the counter to place an order, leaning close to the girl behind the register. Ilka had just finished a phone call to her boyfriend and was snapping her phone shut when she heard the scream. By the time Ilka turned around, the wispy black girl behind the counter had the back of her head all over the fry station. Hochner was waving his gun at the crowd in the restaurant.
"Any more of you motherfuckers scream and I'll put your brains on the walls!!" he bellowed.
A fat Hispanic woman had her hands over each of her two children's mouths and had tucked her chin into her chest. Two young black guys, thugged out in red, had stopped their chatter about "bitches and benjamins" and were staring at Hochner, jaws slack. An older white man had moved to the other side of the booth to sit with his wife, who had vomited onto her tray. The place was silent. A man walked in through the front door and when he saw the crazed homeless guy pointing a sawed-off shotgun in his direction, he changed his mind and headed for the McDonalds down the block.
The bathroom door opened out into the silence but Hochner didn't seem to notice.
"Hochner, man, what the fuck are you doing?"
Hochner swung his arm at the other homeless man standing in the half-opened bathroom door. A moment froze between them and Ilka watched it in slow motion as Hochner pulled the trigger of the shotgun pointed at the shoulder of the man before him. The range was so close that his arm was shot off and went flying into a table of trembling Japanese girls. They screamed in unison and Hochner shot one of them in the back.
Sirens were blaring up the street and Hochner's head snapped to the door. He just started shooting at the door and as the screams rippled from the front of the restaurant to the back door, he shot at them, too. Ilka dove under the table and a bullet nicked the head of one of the little Hispanic boys with his fat mother and nailed Ilka in the back of the knee.
As Ilka lay curled in a ball under the table, blood gushing from her leg and tears streaming down her cheeks, three police officers barged through the doors of the Burger King and shot Hochner five times in the legs, and as his finger tightened around the trigger of the shotgun, a stray bullet ricocheted off the hot, white tile and took out the leg of an empty baby stroller.
Ten patrons of the Washington Street Burger King lay dead and eight severely wounded as five more cops came running in and stopped cold in their tracks, surveying the carnage. Whimpers and sobs of the wounded rang through the restaurant, but the police officers just stood there. Some of them looked at the front windows, wondering when the EMS would arrive, and some glanced at their bloody boot prints as they approached the barely breathing homeless man, a sawed-off shotgun still in his left hand, finger limp and curled around the trigger.
"He dead?" a young, stunned rookie cop asked the air.
"Don't think so," an older, black cop mumbled.
Hochner was alive, blood bubbling out of his nose at every weak exhale, both legs shattered in a million places. His brown coat was stained by years of living in the streets, but remained otherwise unmarred by the bloodshed of the last five minutes. Squeaky breaths came sore out of his throat as the cops stared at him in muted shock.
"I've seen this guy around the neighborhood."
"Yeah, me too. He's been on the street for years."
"Where the fuck did he get a Beretta?"
Two ambulances screeched to a halt in front of the Burger King and as four medics came running in with stretchers, one of them was already on his radio, calling for three more vans. The EMS guys went to work, running over to each person on the floor. They felt the pulses of each one. If they were dead, the medic would move on to another. When they found one who was alive, they'd holler for a stretcher and another guy would come over and they'd get the person into the ambulance. Ilka watched from under the table as the medics ran around the room like Doozers, methodical and smooth, as though this kind of thing happened every day. It occurred to her that none of them knew she was there. Every time she blinked, Ilka saw Hochner standing at the counter, screaming "any more of you motherfuckers scream and I'll put your brains on the walls!!" His warning flew through her brain, his face full of strained anger and fear. Don't scream! Don't fucking make a sound! Ilka put her hand on her left knee and felt bone and blood, hot and cruel between her fingers.
She screamed into the blackness.
The media went insane with witness' accounts of what they had seen that day at the Washington Street Burger King. There was the man of the old couple - his wife had puked on her tray that day and had had a heart attack and died when the cops burst through the door - talking to the press about the tragedy. The Mayor, the reporters, the idiots who saw everything and nothing through the blood-soaked windows. Ilka watched their images and heard their words go by with mild disgust. The reporters had tried to talk to the fat Hispanic lady whose little boy had been hospitalized after getting his head skimmed by one of Hochner's bullets, but she was too hysterical. The reporters came out of nowhere almost immediately, and had interviewed the friends of the Japanese girl who had been shot in the back. They cried a lot. The reporters from Channels 6 and 7 had tried to interview Ilka, but her father had intercepted them in the doorway of her private room, threatening them with bodily harm.
Ilka's father spent most of his time in his daughter's hospital room, and when he wasn't there, he was drinking Jameson's out of a silver flask that had belonged to his own father. It had been years since he'd gotten drunk on a regular basis, but seeing his only child in such a state of wounded shock had gotten him started again. His wife, Ilka's mother, disdained his behavior in public, but even Ilka knew that she had been sucking at the same flask behind her husband's back for 20 years.
Ilka had been in the hospital for only one day before she lost her left leg just above the knee. Ten days after she arrived at the hospital, Ilka was drifting in and out of sleep while her mother read in the chair next to her cot, and the Channel 6 news ran their afternoon report.
"…he was severely wounded by police and as soon as he is released from the hospital, Louis Hochner will go on trial for the murder of ten and the shooting of eight others in the Burger King downtown."
Ilka stirred to the sound of her mother's choking gasp.
"What is it?" she murmured.
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. Go back to sleep."
Ilka's eyes fluttered open and she glanced at the television over her bed. To the right of the anchorwoman's head was a photograph of an angry white man, thickly wrinkled brow and receding hairline. Her mouth opened at the sight of Hochner's face and she watched in silence as the anchors shook their heads and frowned, as they commented briefly on what had happened to "those poor, poor victims."
Her mother saw the way Ilka was looking at the television. It was the first time she had seen or heard anything about the shooting. The one thing she had been sure of was that the man who shot her in the leg had been killed by the cops that day. The reality of his life and the fact that he was actually going to get a fair trial for what he had done absolutely devastated her. Ilka started crying. Her mother rushed to her side and rubbed her shoulders, but Ilka could not be assuaged. Sobs wracked her body as she choked on her tears.
"He's alive… he's alive…" she whimpered.
Ilka was still feeling the twitch of her missing leg, and as she slept after crying herself into heavy sleep, she dreamed of running through the summer streets, hot concrete beneath her bare feet, both legs churning as she pounded the pavement with her steps, knees bending beautifully in pure liquid grace. She had had this dream nearly every night in since the doctors had amputated her left leg, and every night it ended the same way: running smack into the doors of the Washington Street Burger King and falling on the ground in pain before waking up. But after seeing the face and hearing the name of her assailant on the mid-day news, the end of her recurring dream took a dynamic turn. This time, instead of running into the doors of the Burger King, she ran right into the arms of Louis Hochner, who grabbed her and screamed into her face, I'll put your brains on the walls!! In the dream she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. In the real world, as she twitched and cried in her sleep, the nurse came in and gave her a swift 10cc shot of Valium.
By the time Hochner's trial began, Ilka had been home from the hospital for a month. Severely depressed, she had been unable to return to her job as a travel agent. She had been forced to break the lease on her studio apartment and went back to living with her parents. They hated the circumstance, but they were more than happy to take care of their convalescing daughter. Not that Ilka would have noticed. She was in a wheelchair while waiting for her wounds to fully heal before she could get a prosthetic leg. Her father worked and drank and her mother stayed home with her all day. Ilka watched soap operas and talk shows and CNN. She barely spoke. A young woman who had been the president of her sorority, who had graduated at the top of her class just a year and a half earlier, who had a loving boyfriend, who was extremely popular among her peers - was now reduced to a frightened, silenced, frail little girl.
Her friends came by all the time with CDs and books and catty gossip. Her boyfriend would stop by on occasion with pink roses and Toblerone chocolate, her favorites. They would all talk and tell stories and laugh at the things on TV. But Ilka wasn't interested. She stared into space or at the flashing images and thought about Hochner. His murder trial was being televised on Court TV. She had made the mistake of lingering too long while flipping through the channels one day, and had seen his face, framed by an orange polyester collar against the backdrop of the pale wood paneling of a courtroom. The mere sight of his face and his name etched on the bottom of the screen over the word "Defendant" sent Ilka into a crying, shaking, terror fit that lasted two hours. Ever since then, she avoided that end of the dial and mostly watched The Weather Channel.
It was a quick trial, lasting only about three weeks. The jurors barely deliberated. Hochner was found guilty on nine counts of first degree murder, eight counts of attempted murder, and one count of manslaughter, for the old lady who puked and had a heart attack. His lawyers had hoped for an insanity plea, but there were six character witnesses, all of them fellow homeless (tested for mental capacity before appearing on the stand, of course), who all testified that Louis Hochner was a perfectly normal guy whose only real fault was that he liked Macallan scotch, and probably would have done anything to get some. But Burger King doesn't serve whisky, does it? So why would he go in there…?
And that's where the questioning would often end.
To Be Continued...
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City, NJ.
December 24, 2003
A Novel Review: The Blind Kangaroo
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2003
Tenzin McGrupp’s third novel, The Blind Kangaroo, is by far, his most profound work to date. In an email written to friend Jerry Engel, McGrupp says,
“I think (The Blind Kangaroo) is my most mature novel yet. I have tried to shy away from some of the outlandish sexual connotations and explicit drug use of the first two novels...”
Indeed, McGrupp’s first two novels, Jack Tripper Stole My Dog, and Sweet Nothing, revolve around over-the-top sex scenes and heavy drug use. The Blind Kangaroo breaks away from that formula. For the first time in Tenzin McGrupp’s novel-writing career, he concentrates on strong character development. Not to say that the characters from his other novels aren’t strong, but those from The Blind Kangaroo are the most diverse.
The Blind Kangaroo tells the story of a week in the life of “The Norwegian Nightmare,” Orsino Fletcher, a 30-year old, former college and Olympic hockey player. In this week, Orsino, known to all simply as Fletch, learns about life from a bathroom book about Buddha, realizes his own purpose, and learns how to let go. He spends time with his girlfriend, Ophelia, and comments on society and its morals (or lack thereof) via his fellow Catholic high school alumni and a through visit to Hollywood, full of realization and revelation.
Others of McGrupp’s critics have mentioned that the women in his stories are “either pregnant, crazy, or both.” In The Blind Kangaroo, his main female characters – Cordelia, Juliet, and Ophelia – are all different, and each complex in her own way. Ophelia is Fletch’s younger girlfriend. It is clear from the beginning that they have deep feelings for each other, but both are too guarded to express them. The underlying tension that comes through in their dialogue and other relations is apparent through the telling of Fletch’s story. Ophelia’s friends, Cordelia and Juliet, are perfect compliments to her and each other, and the three make a charming triumverate of feminine wiles and female intelligence. In one scene, where Fletch is driving to Foxwoods with two of the three girls, he and the bull-headed Cordelia get into an argument, and Cordelia holds her own. In McGrupp’s previous novels, the female characters were so constructed that they might have backed down when confronted by the verbal strength of men the likes of Ivan in JTSMD and Winky in Sweet Nothing. But as I smiled with glee at the barrage of insults flying between Fletch and Cordelia, I realized that in Fletch’s world, he would have had no idea how to handle Kelly and Baby from the aforementioned works. Cordelia, Juliet, and Ophelia, in the ways in which they interact with Fletch – and with each other – are perfectly tailored to the setting and mindset of The Blind Kangaroo.
In McGrupp’s other works, short stories and novels alike, he always seems to be striving for a grand symbolism to be represented by locale – the seedy underbelly of New York City in Jack Tripper Stole My Dog and the white trash life in both Seattle and Alabama in Sweet Nothing – or by characterization. The Blind Kangaroo is not lacking this symbolism, but it seems to be a lot effortlessly illustrated, and much more subtle. In the story, Fletch is struggling with his history as an Olympic hockey player, the fame of which seems to be a haunting burden to him, while for others, it is a mark of local and national pride. Fletch hides from it, while every other character in the story, it seems, is striving for his or her own recognition. Ophelia is a struggling actress, many of his fellow high school alumni have made or are trying to make names for themselves in the world, and even the people Fletch meets on his trip to Hollywood seem to be searching for themselves, for their place in the world – or at least at their parties.
Aside from the complexites of McGrupp’s female characters, the other players in The Blind Kangaroo are also exciting and different. While some of his fans may argue that the locations and the characterizations are semi-autobiographical, McGrupp admits that his characters are each an amalgam of people he has known and met in his life. Most of the characters get the time they deserve, and when we’ve seen the last of them (in this volume, at least), the timing of their departure is perfect. The one character who doesn’t seem to linger long enough is Adriana, the personal assistant to Ophelia’s Hollywood-producer father, Duncan. Adriana is the most developed character with the least face time. She appears only in the last two chapters of The Blind Kangaroo and while the story covers it’s points in its seven, full, comprehensive chapters, Adriana’s presence makes the case for the continuation. I recently spoke with McGrupp, and he tells me that there is a chance that we will see Adriana again, perhaps in a story of her own.
Another character who makes a far too short appearance is Imogen, the Icelandic flight attendant who Fletch meets while living in Denmark. The story of the relationship between Fletch and Imogen takes place in the past, and the way McGrupp tells the story is with love and passion. The telling of the tale of their love affair seems a moment of calm in the whirlwind of Orsino Fletcher’s life. Their story and its aftermath barely lasts a whole chapter, and leaves the reader wanting more from Imogen and the passionate affect she has had on our hero.
The final two chapters are set in Hollywood, where Fletch puts into practice the things he has learned from reading the bathroom book about Buddha. He speaks honestly and candidly with Duncan, Ophelia’s father, and also with Ophelia, to whom he finally opens his heart. The major concept of Buddha’s teachings is to let go of all attachments, and that is exactly what Fletch is able to do by the time we get to the end of the week. He goes from being hung-up and obsessed with his fame, to being free of its implied burdens, and getting down to what is important in his life: respect and love. And keeping with the theme of strong women, the one who seals his realization is Ophelia, who points out,
“...as much as everyone is focused on the Norwegian Nightmare, you always took the time to tell me how lucky you were to be wherever, with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Her statement speaks of the message in The Blind Kangaroo, which is appreciation for the things around you – from generously tipping a waitress to playing in the fall leaves in New York’s Central Park – and having less attachment to the things in your life by which you have felt burdened, but that you know will fade just as the moments.
All in all, The Blind Kangaroo is, by far, Tenzin McGrupp’s mature, real-life novel. It is not only about fame and celebrity, and the struggles therein, but also about relationships with others and with the self, and learning about life through life.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City. She is also the assistant editor of Truckin'.
Tenzin McGrupp’s third novel, The Blind Kangaroo, is by far, his most profound work to date. In an email written to friend Jerry Engel, McGrupp says,
“I think (The Blind Kangaroo) is my most mature novel yet. I have tried to shy away from some of the outlandish sexual connotations and explicit drug use of the first two novels...”
Indeed, McGrupp’s first two novels, Jack Tripper Stole My Dog, and Sweet Nothing, revolve around over-the-top sex scenes and heavy drug use. The Blind Kangaroo breaks away from that formula. For the first time in Tenzin McGrupp’s novel-writing career, he concentrates on strong character development. Not to say that the characters from his other novels aren’t strong, but those from The Blind Kangaroo are the most diverse.
The Blind Kangaroo tells the story of a week in the life of “The Norwegian Nightmare,” Orsino Fletcher, a 30-year old, former college and Olympic hockey player. In this week, Orsino, known to all simply as Fletch, learns about life from a bathroom book about Buddha, realizes his own purpose, and learns how to let go. He spends time with his girlfriend, Ophelia, and comments on society and its morals (or lack thereof) via his fellow Catholic high school alumni and a through visit to Hollywood, full of realization and revelation.
Others of McGrupp’s critics have mentioned that the women in his stories are “either pregnant, crazy, or both.” In The Blind Kangaroo, his main female characters – Cordelia, Juliet, and Ophelia – are all different, and each complex in her own way. Ophelia is Fletch’s younger girlfriend. It is clear from the beginning that they have deep feelings for each other, but both are too guarded to express them. The underlying tension that comes through in their dialogue and other relations is apparent through the telling of Fletch’s story. Ophelia’s friends, Cordelia and Juliet, are perfect compliments to her and each other, and the three make a charming triumverate of feminine wiles and female intelligence. In one scene, where Fletch is driving to Foxwoods with two of the three girls, he and the bull-headed Cordelia get into an argument, and Cordelia holds her own. In McGrupp’s previous novels, the female characters were so constructed that they might have backed down when confronted by the verbal strength of men the likes of Ivan in JTSMD and Winky in Sweet Nothing. But as I smiled with glee at the barrage of insults flying between Fletch and Cordelia, I realized that in Fletch’s world, he would have had no idea how to handle Kelly and Baby from the aforementioned works. Cordelia, Juliet, and Ophelia, in the ways in which they interact with Fletch – and with each other – are perfectly tailored to the setting and mindset of The Blind Kangaroo.
In McGrupp’s other works, short stories and novels alike, he always seems to be striving for a grand symbolism to be represented by locale – the seedy underbelly of New York City in Jack Tripper Stole My Dog and the white trash life in both Seattle and Alabama in Sweet Nothing – or by characterization. The Blind Kangaroo is not lacking this symbolism, but it seems to be a lot effortlessly illustrated, and much more subtle. In the story, Fletch is struggling with his history as an Olympic hockey player, the fame of which seems to be a haunting burden to him, while for others, it is a mark of local and national pride. Fletch hides from it, while every other character in the story, it seems, is striving for his or her own recognition. Ophelia is a struggling actress, many of his fellow high school alumni have made or are trying to make names for themselves in the world, and even the people Fletch meets on his trip to Hollywood seem to be searching for themselves, for their place in the world – or at least at their parties.
Aside from the complexites of McGrupp’s female characters, the other players in The Blind Kangaroo are also exciting and different. While some of his fans may argue that the locations and the characterizations are semi-autobiographical, McGrupp admits that his characters are each an amalgam of people he has known and met in his life. Most of the characters get the time they deserve, and when we’ve seen the last of them (in this volume, at least), the timing of their departure is perfect. The one character who doesn’t seem to linger long enough is Adriana, the personal assistant to Ophelia’s Hollywood-producer father, Duncan. Adriana is the most developed character with the least face time. She appears only in the last two chapters of The Blind Kangaroo and while the story covers it’s points in its seven, full, comprehensive chapters, Adriana’s presence makes the case for the continuation. I recently spoke with McGrupp, and he tells me that there is a chance that we will see Adriana again, perhaps in a story of her own.
Another character who makes a far too short appearance is Imogen, the Icelandic flight attendant who Fletch meets while living in Denmark. The story of the relationship between Fletch and Imogen takes place in the past, and the way McGrupp tells the story is with love and passion. The telling of the tale of their love affair seems a moment of calm in the whirlwind of Orsino Fletcher’s life. Their story and its aftermath barely lasts a whole chapter, and leaves the reader wanting more from Imogen and the passionate affect she has had on our hero.
The final two chapters are set in Hollywood, where Fletch puts into practice the things he has learned from reading the bathroom book about Buddha. He speaks honestly and candidly with Duncan, Ophelia’s father, and also with Ophelia, to whom he finally opens his heart. The major concept of Buddha’s teachings is to let go of all attachments, and that is exactly what Fletch is able to do by the time we get to the end of the week. He goes from being hung-up and obsessed with his fame, to being free of its implied burdens, and getting down to what is important in his life: respect and love. And keeping with the theme of strong women, the one who seals his realization is Ophelia, who points out,
“...as much as everyone is focused on the Norwegian Nightmare, you always took the time to tell me how lucky you were to be wherever, with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Her statement speaks of the message in The Blind Kangaroo, which is appreciation for the things around you – from generously tipping a waitress to playing in the fall leaves in New York’s Central Park – and having less attachment to the things in your life by which you have felt burdened, but that you know will fade just as the moments.
All in all, The Blind Kangaroo is, by far, Tenzin McGrupp’s mature, real-life novel. It is not only about fame and celebrity, and the struggles therein, but also about relationships with others and with the self, and learning about life through life.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer from Jersey City. She is also the assistant editor of Truckin'.
October 24, 2002
Nebraska
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2002
The sun was setting in The Middle of Nowhere. The Jeep’s right rear tire lay exhausted on the ground next to me while the bare break drum bearing one-quarter of the car’s weight groaned against the pavement. The tire had had a slow leak since Sacramento, and I had been stopping every 250-or-so miles to fill it. I was in a rush to get out of Nebraska, because as I was approaching the central part of the state, a handsome young man in a Pinto rolled up alongside me and yelled,
"Your tire’s low!"
and frantically waved at the back of my car. I got off at the next exit and stared at my tire, which stared back at me, depressed and sad. It was getting dark so I hastened to remove the deflated tire and replace it with the donut. The Jeep was loaded with bags and boxes containing my entire life, and when I was ready to put on the donut, there was not enough room between the brake drum and the pavement. I looked skeptically at the jack. I was sure that it was taking all it could with the 4,000 pounds on top of it, but I took a deep breath and cranked it once…twice…a third tenuous time and…SMASH!! The Jeep and all it’s weight came crashing down on the exit ramp, the brake drum actually bounced a few times before settling.
A trail of ear-scorching expletives came out of my mouth, and I even surprised myself with my own vulgarity. Looking over the highway, I saw that there were no cars, no people, nothing. I was decidedly in the middle of nowhere.
Gingerly opening the back of the Jeep, I began to look for the flashlight as the sky quickly turned from lavender to dark blue, but became quickly deflated as I realized it was buried under some bags. I walked around the car a few times, checking the signal on my cell phone, and one tiny dot told me that it was a lost cause. The stripped jack lay buried under the car, which was looking weaker by the second. My watch read 8:15 PM, and my stomach warned me that it was time for dinner. Feeling the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, I noticed a glimmering pair of headlights coming off the exit. Nebraska State Police. I started jumping up and down, frantically waving my arms until I had been spotted. The officer parked next to me and as he approached, his platinum buzz-cut and bright blue eyes shining, I tucked my Star of David pendant into my shirt.
"Good evening, sir," I said, running my hands through my hair.
"Good evening, miss. A little car trouble?"
Talking way too fast, I told him about the tire and the stripped jack, the brake drum slamming against the pavement, and about the last 200 miles I had driven from Denver, Colorado to this small town in Bumblefuck, USA.
"Where am I?" I asked, as the cop reached into his trunk and retrieved an industrial strength car jack.
"Giltner, Nebraska."
We made small talk about cross-country travel and Jeep Cherokees as he jacked up my car and I helped him to ease on the donut. Thoughts of the three ounces of Humboldt’s Finest in my glove compartment flitted around my brain like the lightning bugs zipping through the thick, humid air.
When the car was stable, the officer wished me well and pointed me to an auto repair shop in Aurora, about 10 miles away. I thanked him and got on my way, eager to get my tire repaired, knowing that I would not get too far in a two-ton vehicle riding on three wheels and a 13-year old donut.
When I arrived in Aurora it was 10:00 PM and the auto repair shop was the only thing open. A mulleted man, almost too closely resembling Jake "The Snake" Roberts (who had died some months earlier) patched and attached my tire for $15.
"How far to Lincoln?" I asked, swatting moths from my head.
"Oh, a little ways," he replied, lighting my cigarette and then his own.
"Like…how a ways?"
"About 75 miles or so."
I glanced at my watch. It was 10:45. I groaned along with my stomach.
"You could get there in less than an hour if you know how to drive, miss."
I thanked Jake "The Snake" (as he would henceforth be called in all my recollections), and got on the road. The speed limit in Nebraska is 65 miles per hour. I took the empty highway at 85, some fuzzy country tunes blaring from my busted stereo.
When I arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska it was 11:30. For a capital city and college town, it appeared to be abandoned. I sang along with "Pink Houses" as I drove under the lights of factories in the downtown area. I found a hotel on the outskirts of town, checked in, and drove down the street to the Village Inn, the midwest’s answer to Denny’s. It was 1:00 AM and they were putting up the chairs in the non-smoking section. I found a booth on the other side, ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese with tomato. As I lit a cigarette, two teenage girls walked in, dressed to the midwestern nines in silver and purple dresses, their streaked hair teased beyond the Aqua Net Corporation’s wildest dreams. They sat down in front of me and I watched one of them order a bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a pot of coffee. I watched her simultaneously smoke and eat as I inhaled my grilled cheese with tomato. The acne-faced waiter never brought my ketchup, but instead flirted with the teenage girls. By eavesdropping I learned that it was prom night, and they were just getting a quick bite before heading out to another party where there would be beer. The girl in the silver dress was lamenting her evening to her friend, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Man, I want a beer so bad. And I’m fucking pissed off."
She shoved a handful of cheese fries in her mouth, washed them down with a gulp of coffee, and took a drag of her cigarette, all at the same time.
"I mean, man, it’s, like, the biggest night of my entire life, and I can’t even have a beer."
She took a bite of her bacon cheeseburger.
"I can’t wait to get this baby outta me so I can have a fucking beer."
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
The sun was setting in The Middle of Nowhere. The Jeep’s right rear tire lay exhausted on the ground next to me while the bare break drum bearing one-quarter of the car’s weight groaned against the pavement. The tire had had a slow leak since Sacramento, and I had been stopping every 250-or-so miles to fill it. I was in a rush to get out of Nebraska, because as I was approaching the central part of the state, a handsome young man in a Pinto rolled up alongside me and yelled,
"Your tire’s low!"
and frantically waved at the back of my car. I got off at the next exit and stared at my tire, which stared back at me, depressed and sad. It was getting dark so I hastened to remove the deflated tire and replace it with the donut. The Jeep was loaded with bags and boxes containing my entire life, and when I was ready to put on the donut, there was not enough room between the brake drum and the pavement. I looked skeptically at the jack. I was sure that it was taking all it could with the 4,000 pounds on top of it, but I took a deep breath and cranked it once…twice…a third tenuous time and…SMASH!! The Jeep and all it’s weight came crashing down on the exit ramp, the brake drum actually bounced a few times before settling.
A trail of ear-scorching expletives came out of my mouth, and I even surprised myself with my own vulgarity. Looking over the highway, I saw that there were no cars, no people, nothing. I was decidedly in the middle of nowhere.
Gingerly opening the back of the Jeep, I began to look for the flashlight as the sky quickly turned from lavender to dark blue, but became quickly deflated as I realized it was buried under some bags. I walked around the car a few times, checking the signal on my cell phone, and one tiny dot told me that it was a lost cause. The stripped jack lay buried under the car, which was looking weaker by the second. My watch read 8:15 PM, and my stomach warned me that it was time for dinner. Feeling the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, I noticed a glimmering pair of headlights coming off the exit. Nebraska State Police. I started jumping up and down, frantically waving my arms until I had been spotted. The officer parked next to me and as he approached, his platinum buzz-cut and bright blue eyes shining, I tucked my Star of David pendant into my shirt.
"Good evening, sir," I said, running my hands through my hair.
"Good evening, miss. A little car trouble?"
Talking way too fast, I told him about the tire and the stripped jack, the brake drum slamming against the pavement, and about the last 200 miles I had driven from Denver, Colorado to this small town in Bumblefuck, USA.
"Where am I?" I asked, as the cop reached into his trunk and retrieved an industrial strength car jack.
"Giltner, Nebraska."
We made small talk about cross-country travel and Jeep Cherokees as he jacked up my car and I helped him to ease on the donut. Thoughts of the three ounces of Humboldt’s Finest in my glove compartment flitted around my brain like the lightning bugs zipping through the thick, humid air.
When the car was stable, the officer wished me well and pointed me to an auto repair shop in Aurora, about 10 miles away. I thanked him and got on my way, eager to get my tire repaired, knowing that I would not get too far in a two-ton vehicle riding on three wheels and a 13-year old donut.
When I arrived in Aurora it was 10:00 PM and the auto repair shop was the only thing open. A mulleted man, almost too closely resembling Jake "The Snake" Roberts (who had died some months earlier) patched and attached my tire for $15.
"How far to Lincoln?" I asked, swatting moths from my head.
"Oh, a little ways," he replied, lighting my cigarette and then his own.
"Like…how a ways?"
"About 75 miles or so."
I glanced at my watch. It was 10:45. I groaned along with my stomach.
"You could get there in less than an hour if you know how to drive, miss."
I thanked Jake "The Snake" (as he would henceforth be called in all my recollections), and got on the road. The speed limit in Nebraska is 65 miles per hour. I took the empty highway at 85, some fuzzy country tunes blaring from my busted stereo.
When I arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska it was 11:30. For a capital city and college town, it appeared to be abandoned. I sang along with "Pink Houses" as I drove under the lights of factories in the downtown area. I found a hotel on the outskirts of town, checked in, and drove down the street to the Village Inn, the midwest’s answer to Denny’s. It was 1:00 AM and they were putting up the chairs in the non-smoking section. I found a booth on the other side, ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese with tomato. As I lit a cigarette, two teenage girls walked in, dressed to the midwestern nines in silver and purple dresses, their streaked hair teased beyond the Aqua Net Corporation’s wildest dreams. They sat down in front of me and I watched one of them order a bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a pot of coffee. I watched her simultaneously smoke and eat as I inhaled my grilled cheese with tomato. The acne-faced waiter never brought my ketchup, but instead flirted with the teenage girls. By eavesdropping I learned that it was prom night, and they were just getting a quick bite before heading out to another party where there would be beer. The girl in the silver dress was lamenting her evening to her friend, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Man, I want a beer so bad. And I’m fucking pissed off."
She shoved a handful of cheese fries in her mouth, washed them down with a gulp of coffee, and took a drag of her cigarette, all at the same time.
"I mean, man, it’s, like, the biggest night of my entire life, and I can’t even have a beer."
She took a bite of her bacon cheeseburger.
"I can’t wait to get this baby outta me so I can have a fucking beer."
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
September 18, 2002
San Francisco
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2002
San Francisco, Golden City, Enshrouded in her own mist. She beckons me, Mistress. I left part of myself there the first and every time. How mysterious that I should be lost in her:
Ochre Bridge
Silky Bay
Homosexuals
and
Hippies.
Muni and Bart, siblings on wheels and children of hills, bow down to the Patriarch Trolley Car. The bus came by and I got on, spinning down to The Haight where it all began, where the air is spiked with history and hash, reeking of Lunacy and sound. Amoeba Records, that towering inferno, four walls bleeding music, appropriate on that street. The 24-hour bus, my bus, writhes and rolls down Divisadero where I eat alone, filling my face with lentils. I see families walking and I say, "Come with me to The Castro, where heathens dance wrapped in their rainbow flags. Where children sit on the steps of Hizzoner’s train station, drinking vodka from soda bottles, praying that the fog will lift. Where Leather Daddies and Mama’s Girls cross against the light with people like you." The owl bus, at 2:37 AM, rumbles down Mission Street, casting its yellow glow on Drunk Mexicans crying into bowls of menudo and plastic cups of horchata. Take me home, I tell the bus, to Bernal Hill, to the site of my Sight. To my neighbors, one in gold and the other in drag, and to their cat, mink-black and toothless. To my job that I had in a store filled with dykes buying pens and Post-Its. To the lazy-eyed Arab offering hummus that makes my tummy squeal with delight. To the Tweakers with their murderous dog who killed my mink-black pal. To spark-and-blaze nights on Bonview Street, my friends and I flying high, Baseball Tonight backdrop to our laughter. San Francisco, sensual Queen, the sky sheds its skin to cover you, but you resist. Your blue face an indelible memory at the center of the world. You wrap me up in your soft white arms, "come here, little one" you croon, your salty tongue lapping at my wheels, drawing me in, calling me home.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from NYC.
San Francisco, Golden City, Enshrouded in her own mist. She beckons me, Mistress. I left part of myself there the first and every time. How mysterious that I should be lost in her:
Silky Bay
Homosexuals
and
Hippies.
Muni and Bart, siblings on wheels and children of hills, bow down to the Patriarch Trolley Car. The bus came by and I got on, spinning down to The Haight where it all began, where the air is spiked with history and hash, reeking of Lunacy and sound. Amoeba Records, that towering inferno, four walls bleeding music, appropriate on that street. The 24-hour bus, my bus, writhes and rolls down Divisadero where I eat alone, filling my face with lentils. I see families walking and I say, "Come with me to The Castro, where heathens dance wrapped in their rainbow flags. Where children sit on the steps of Hizzoner’s train station, drinking vodka from soda bottles, praying that the fog will lift. Where Leather Daddies and Mama’s Girls cross against the light with people like you." The owl bus, at 2:37 AM, rumbles down Mission Street, casting its yellow glow on Drunk Mexicans crying into bowls of menudo and plastic cups of horchata. Take me home, I tell the bus, to Bernal Hill, to the site of my Sight. To my neighbors, one in gold and the other in drag, and to their cat, mink-black and toothless. To my job that I had in a store filled with dykes buying pens and Post-Its. To the lazy-eyed Arab offering hummus that makes my tummy squeal with delight. To the Tweakers with their murderous dog who killed my mink-black pal. To spark-and-blaze nights on Bonview Street, my friends and I flying high, Baseball Tonight backdrop to our laughter. San Francisco, sensual Queen, the sky sheds its skin to cover you, but you resist. Your blue face an indelible memory at the center of the world. You wrap me up in your soft white arms, "come here, little one" you croon, your salty tongue lapping at my wheels, drawing me in, calling me home.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from NYC.
August 23, 2002
Playland
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2002
When I was a little girl, my father and I used to take weekend trips in the summer to Playland in Rye, NY. These Sunday car trips were always exciting and full of heavy anticipation. My dad would pick me up at my mom’s apartment in a shiny rental car (usually a Chevy Lumina) and we’d head up to Westchester. Riding in a car with my father is a special thing. When I was growing up in New York City, neither of my parents ever owned cars, so if we ever wanted to get beyond the five boroughs, we would have to go to Avis or Hertz and rent one. A gooey, glistening, sweet-smelling newish car, with soft cloth seats, clean dashboard, digital radio and automatic windows, and my father in the driver’s seat is one of the most decadent childhood pleasures I can remember. We would drive along the highway, watching the trees breeze by the Jersey barriers, the windows down, Oldies music blaring from the radio. My father would sing along with The Supremes, The Beatles, Jay and The Americans.
You could always tell which cars on the road were also going to Rye Playland: one or two (usually one) parents in the front, a gaggle of kids in the back, lots of action and mouths moving in excitement. Everyone on the road to Playland is equal, having the same expectations of hot sausage vendors, cotton candy, and The then-54-year old Dragon Coaster. If you’ve ever been to Playland, you know The Dragon Coaster, and as a child you’ve looked forward to your first ride on its rickety white tracks, circa 1929.
It was a warm day in mid-August 1983 when I took my last trip to Rye Playland. In years prior, I had gone on many rides: The Himalaya, The Kiddy Coaster, The Thriller, The Whip, and The Spider (I puked on this ride), but I had always stood before the gates of The Dragon Coaster ("You Must Be This Tall To Go On This Ride"), gazed up at the screaming patrons, and would shake my head no when my father would ask if I were ready to ride it.
On this day in August, as we drove up the Hutchinson River Parkway listening to "You Can’t Hurry Love," I turned to my dad and said,
"I’m gonna ride The Dragon Coaster today."
He glanced over at me and raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure, pussycat?"
I nodded, staring at the road. I wasn’t all that sure, but I figured that it was time for me to do it. The Dragon Coaster is one of the oldest roller coasters in New York State, and I was feeling that I was probably the oldest kid who had not yet been on it. The rest of the drive flew by after I uttered those words, and when I saw the sign for Rye Playland, Next Exit, I began to panic. I knew that I had no obligation to ride it, but something told me that this was the day, regardless of my fear.
After parking the Lumina and muddling through crowds of excited kids and their parents, my dad and I got our day passes for all the rides. I visited one of my dearest friends, The Whip. You sit in a two-seater car and ride on an oversized, over-greased bicycle chain to the end of a narrow median where you get whipped around at top speed. This ride is safe and easy; you’re strapped in and on the ground. After that, my father took me on Derby Racer, a 25-mile-an-hour Merry-go-Round with brightly colored horses lurching and thrusting. After a hot dog and a spin on The Himalaya, I sat with my dad on a bench outside the entrance to The Dragon Coaster. He placed his hand the back of my cool, clammy neck and said,
"Look, pussycat, I know you say you want to go on The Dragon Coaster, but don’t do it just to make me happy, just because I want you to."
I stared at my shoes for a minute, very aware of the hot dog I had eaten, nervously bubbling around in my stomach.
"No," I said, "I’m ready. I’m scared, but I’m ready. I mean, I’m eight and three-quarters. There are seven-year olds on that ride. Why not me?"
He smiled and took my hand in his. "All right. Let’s go."
I approached the ticket-taker slowly, my knees wobbling. She glanced at my daily bracelet, loose on my tiny wrist, and waved us through. I sat on the inside of the car behind a fat woman and a boy who was a little older than I.
"Oh mom, this is so cool! Four times on The Dragon Coaster in one day!! Can we go one more time after this? PLEASE???"
"We’ll see, sweetheart," the woman mumbled, sounding as though she had answered that same question three times that day.
When the ride’s operator came by, pulled the bar down over our heads, and secured it, I put both hands on the cool metal, gripping it for dear life. I glanced over my shoulder at the sign by the gate: was I really tall enough for this ride?
"Daddy," I said, my nose burning with the sting of tears, "I don’t know if I can do this."
"Baby," he replied, as the cars started moving slowly down the track, "it’s too late."
As the car started moving up the lift hill, I felt my stomach churning, not with nausea, but with terror and excitement. After a smooth turn, the cars fell down the first drop, 128 feet of gut-wrenching terror. I was screaming so loudly, I couldn’t even hear my father telling me to hold on. The ride turned again and started up the slope to the Dragon’s Mouth. The best part of this ride is a dark tunnel, it’s exterior painted with the head, scales, and tail of a dragon. The car entered the mouth and surrounded by pitch black, I started crying and laughing at the same time, euphoria taking the place of fear. As we barreled out of the Dragon’s tail, my father ran his hand over my hair.
"You O.K., baby?"
"I LOVE IT!!" I howled, tears streaming down my hot cheeks. He laughed and put his hand over mine, still white-knuckling the bar, as the white-paint chipped tracks shook and rattled under us.
After coming out of the dark tunnel, the sun seemed brighter than ever, and I squinted and laughed against its brilliance. A few more small dips and turns brought us back around to the station. The cars came to a screeching halt and I sat for a minute, watching kids leaving the ride, talking about how they were going to get back in line for another go. The ride’s operator came by again and lifted the bar for us to get out of the car. My father extended his hand to me and I stood up, my knees still wobbling, my cheeks crusted with tears, a broad grin etched across my face.
I decided, after a few minutes of serious consideration, that I was not going to ride The Dragon Coaster again. When we left Rye Playland that day, I slept the whole way home while "Oh, What a Night" lulled me down the road.
The Dragon Coaster was the last roller coaster I ever went on. Today, nearly 20 years later, there are many more new and sophisticated rides at Playland, but none of them could ever compare to The Dragon Coaster: terrifying, thrilling, almost pure.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
When I was a little girl, my father and I used to take weekend trips in the summer to Playland in Rye, NY. These Sunday car trips were always exciting and full of heavy anticipation. My dad would pick me up at my mom’s apartment in a shiny rental car (usually a Chevy Lumina) and we’d head up to Westchester. Riding in a car with my father is a special thing. When I was growing up in New York City, neither of my parents ever owned cars, so if we ever wanted to get beyond the five boroughs, we would have to go to Avis or Hertz and rent one. A gooey, glistening, sweet-smelling newish car, with soft cloth seats, clean dashboard, digital radio and automatic windows, and my father in the driver’s seat is one of the most decadent childhood pleasures I can remember. We would drive along the highway, watching the trees breeze by the Jersey barriers, the windows down, Oldies music blaring from the radio. My father would sing along with The Supremes, The Beatles, Jay and The Americans.
You could always tell which cars on the road were also going to Rye Playland: one or two (usually one) parents in the front, a gaggle of kids in the back, lots of action and mouths moving in excitement. Everyone on the road to Playland is equal, having the same expectations of hot sausage vendors, cotton candy, and The then-54-year old Dragon Coaster. If you’ve ever been to Playland, you know The Dragon Coaster, and as a child you’ve looked forward to your first ride on its rickety white tracks, circa 1929.
It was a warm day in mid-August 1983 when I took my last trip to Rye Playland. In years prior, I had gone on many rides: The Himalaya, The Kiddy Coaster, The Thriller, The Whip, and The Spider (I puked on this ride), but I had always stood before the gates of The Dragon Coaster ("You Must Be This Tall To Go On This Ride"), gazed up at the screaming patrons, and would shake my head no when my father would ask if I were ready to ride it.
On this day in August, as we drove up the Hutchinson River Parkway listening to "You Can’t Hurry Love," I turned to my dad and said,
"I’m gonna ride The Dragon Coaster today."
He glanced over at me and raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure, pussycat?"
I nodded, staring at the road. I wasn’t all that sure, but I figured that it was time for me to do it. The Dragon Coaster is one of the oldest roller coasters in New York State, and I was feeling that I was probably the oldest kid who had not yet been on it. The rest of the drive flew by after I uttered those words, and when I saw the sign for Rye Playland, Next Exit, I began to panic. I knew that I had no obligation to ride it, but something told me that this was the day, regardless of my fear.
After parking the Lumina and muddling through crowds of excited kids and their parents, my dad and I got our day passes for all the rides. I visited one of my dearest friends, The Whip. You sit in a two-seater car and ride on an oversized, over-greased bicycle chain to the end of a narrow median where you get whipped around at top speed. This ride is safe and easy; you’re strapped in and on the ground. After that, my father took me on Derby Racer, a 25-mile-an-hour Merry-go-Round with brightly colored horses lurching and thrusting. After a hot dog and a spin on The Himalaya, I sat with my dad on a bench outside the entrance to The Dragon Coaster. He placed his hand the back of my cool, clammy neck and said,
"Look, pussycat, I know you say you want to go on The Dragon Coaster, but don’t do it just to make me happy, just because I want you to."
I stared at my shoes for a minute, very aware of the hot dog I had eaten, nervously bubbling around in my stomach.
"No," I said, "I’m ready. I’m scared, but I’m ready. I mean, I’m eight and three-quarters. There are seven-year olds on that ride. Why not me?"
He smiled and took my hand in his. "All right. Let’s go."
I approached the ticket-taker slowly, my knees wobbling. She glanced at my daily bracelet, loose on my tiny wrist, and waved us through. I sat on the inside of the car behind a fat woman and a boy who was a little older than I.
"Oh mom, this is so cool! Four times on The Dragon Coaster in one day!! Can we go one more time after this? PLEASE???"
"We’ll see, sweetheart," the woman mumbled, sounding as though she had answered that same question three times that day.
When the ride’s operator came by, pulled the bar down over our heads, and secured it, I put both hands on the cool metal, gripping it for dear life. I glanced over my shoulder at the sign by the gate: was I really tall enough for this ride?
"Daddy," I said, my nose burning with the sting of tears, "I don’t know if I can do this."
"Baby," he replied, as the cars started moving slowly down the track, "it’s too late."
As the car started moving up the lift hill, I felt my stomach churning, not with nausea, but with terror and excitement. After a smooth turn, the cars fell down the first drop, 128 feet of gut-wrenching terror. I was screaming so loudly, I couldn’t even hear my father telling me to hold on. The ride turned again and started up the slope to the Dragon’s Mouth. The best part of this ride is a dark tunnel, it’s exterior painted with the head, scales, and tail of a dragon. The car entered the mouth and surrounded by pitch black, I started crying and laughing at the same time, euphoria taking the place of fear. As we barreled out of the Dragon’s tail, my father ran his hand over my hair.
"You O.K., baby?"
"I LOVE IT!!" I howled, tears streaming down my hot cheeks. He laughed and put his hand over mine, still white-knuckling the bar, as the white-paint chipped tracks shook and rattled under us.
After coming out of the dark tunnel, the sun seemed brighter than ever, and I squinted and laughed against its brilliance. A few more small dips and turns brought us back around to the station. The cars came to a screeching halt and I sat for a minute, watching kids leaving the ride, talking about how they were going to get back in line for another go. The ride’s operator came by again and lifted the bar for us to get out of the car. My father extended his hand to me and I stood up, my knees still wobbling, my cheeks crusted with tears, a broad grin etched across my face.
I decided, after a few minutes of serious consideration, that I was not going to ride The Dragon Coaster again. When we left Rye Playland that day, I slept the whole way home while "Oh, What a Night" lulled me down the road.
The Dragon Coaster was the last roller coaster I ever went on. Today, nearly 20 years later, there are many more new and sophisticated rides at Playland, but none of them could ever compare to The Dragon Coaster: terrifying, thrilling, almost pure.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
July 26, 2002
Réjouissance
by Jessica E. Lapidus © 2002
There is a french word that I often use to describe the feeling I get from Paris: Réjouissance – exhilaration. To me, Paris is a sexy, beautiful, fickle woman, rich and lush, full of passion. One of the first things I ever did in Paris was stand under the Eiffel Tower, her four legs spread wide in welcome as I strained my neck to get a better look under her dress. I felt like an International Gynecologist, gazing wide-eyed and slack-jawed into her gaping gash of steel.
There are a lot of things to do in Paris, but a favorite of the locals is to drink wine. Parisians like to drink, and they like to get drunk. I loved to stand on a streetcorner, smoke Gauloises, and listen to drunk men speaking in French. Parisian French, in particular, has a lovely, tangy sound, thick and dense. When it is spiked with a bottle or two of good Cabernet, it becomes almost sludgy.
“Eh, minou, petit minou, quelle heure?”
They slur to me, “little kitten, what time is it?”
I tell them, and when they ask me next if I am wearing underwear, I just laugh at them. And then they remind me that even swearing (catin!) sounds beautiful in their language.
The minute the sun sets, the lush, passionate Paris becomes a whore, dark and mysterious, with glistening eyes. The Bateaux Mouches, the “Fly Boats” that move down the Seine, float through wealthy, riverside residential areas. Sitting in the bow of the boat, you can see people eating dinner by candlelight under the high ceilings of their apartments. As the boat comes around to return to port, it passes a graffiti-ridden wall, lined with kids sparking joints filled with high-quality Parisian hashish, and if you’re lucky the cool wind will blow some smoke to you. But the kids are not afraid of you or the gendarmes, because it seems that somehow they feel they are safe in the cloak of the Paris night, under her bridges and resting on her shores.
The last time I visited Paris I was traveling with my mother. She was feeling ill one evening, so I took a bus to Pigalle. Pigalle is an area of Paris akin to the old Times Square. Henry Miller had lived there, and I had always wanted to visit the neighborhood, if only to get a sense of where he had been when he had done some of his best (not to mention raunchiest) writing. Every movie theatre in Pigalle is showing 1970s porn, and standing under every marquee are men hawking “spices” to perhaps make your moviegoing experience a little more enjoyable. Around every corner in Pigalle is a hooker in a red fur coat, and crossing the street toward her is a john, fresh from “Deep Throat” and thoroughly spiced.
When I returned to Boston from my last visit to France, I raved about Pigalle, and a friend asked me to describe it. I told her, “Pigalle looks, sounds, and smells like a whore, high on her own stench, ready to fall in love.”
And then I thought, that’s really what Paris is to me, too. Paris is extravagant, overdone, wearing too much eyeshadow. The Champs Elysées charges too much, the Eiffel Tower has been climbed too many times, and the entire city is drunk. And yet, despite it all, I cannot resist her.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
There is a french word that I often use to describe the feeling I get from Paris: Réjouissance – exhilaration. To me, Paris is a sexy, beautiful, fickle woman, rich and lush, full of passion. One of the first things I ever did in Paris was stand under the Eiffel Tower, her four legs spread wide in welcome as I strained my neck to get a better look under her dress. I felt like an International Gynecologist, gazing wide-eyed and slack-jawed into her gaping gash of steel.
There are a lot of things to do in Paris, but a favorite of the locals is to drink wine. Parisians like to drink, and they like to get drunk. I loved to stand on a streetcorner, smoke Gauloises, and listen to drunk men speaking in French. Parisian French, in particular, has a lovely, tangy sound, thick and dense. When it is spiked with a bottle or two of good Cabernet, it becomes almost sludgy.
“Eh, minou, petit minou, quelle heure?”
They slur to me, “little kitten, what time is it?”
I tell them, and when they ask me next if I am wearing underwear, I just laugh at them. And then they remind me that even swearing (catin!) sounds beautiful in their language.
The minute the sun sets, the lush, passionate Paris becomes a whore, dark and mysterious, with glistening eyes. The Bateaux Mouches, the “Fly Boats” that move down the Seine, float through wealthy, riverside residential areas. Sitting in the bow of the boat, you can see people eating dinner by candlelight under the high ceilings of their apartments. As the boat comes around to return to port, it passes a graffiti-ridden wall, lined with kids sparking joints filled with high-quality Parisian hashish, and if you’re lucky the cool wind will blow some smoke to you. But the kids are not afraid of you or the gendarmes, because it seems that somehow they feel they are safe in the cloak of the Paris night, under her bridges and resting on her shores.
The last time I visited Paris I was traveling with my mother. She was feeling ill one evening, so I took a bus to Pigalle. Pigalle is an area of Paris akin to the old Times Square. Henry Miller had lived there, and I had always wanted to visit the neighborhood, if only to get a sense of where he had been when he had done some of his best (not to mention raunchiest) writing. Every movie theatre in Pigalle is showing 1970s porn, and standing under every marquee are men hawking “spices” to perhaps make your moviegoing experience a little more enjoyable. Around every corner in Pigalle is a hooker in a red fur coat, and crossing the street toward her is a john, fresh from “Deep Throat” and thoroughly spiced.
When I returned to Boston from my last visit to France, I raved about Pigalle, and a friend asked me to describe it. I told her, “Pigalle looks, sounds, and smells like a whore, high on her own stench, ready to fall in love.”
And then I thought, that’s really what Paris is to me, too. Paris is extravagant, overdone, wearing too much eyeshadow. The Champs Elysées charges too much, the Eiffel Tower has been climbed too many times, and the entire city is drunk. And yet, despite it all, I cannot resist her.
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
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