the contest

He was my first crush. I mean, I had had other crushes before - the Greatest American Hero, the Karate Kid, Will from Land of the Lost. But this was my first real person crush - Keith Carter. He was 14, I was 10. He was tall and lean and athletic, with dirty blonde hair he was always sweeping out of his face. He was quiet and serious, not dumb and silly like the other boys. I would watch his basketball practices and stare at him in church when he was an altar boy. I wasn't sure which uniform looked better. The basketball jersey showed off his broad shoulders, but he looked so pious and pure in those holy white robes.

My best friend Nadine and I were obsessed with him. We would sit on her bed and stare at her Adam Ant poster, speaking to Adam as if he were Keith. We would have imaginary conversations with Keith (disguised as Adam Ant) which went something like this:

"Hey Nadine, I think you're the prettiest girl in school. Wanna ride on the back of my bike?"

"I don't know Keith. I've never had a boyfriend before. But I think I love you."

"I love you too. Let's go to the park."

Or,

"Noreen, I'm afraid if I start to kiss you I'll never stop."

"It's okay Keith. I can hold my breath for 127 seconds. Start kissing."

Then Nadine and I would take turns making out with the poster of Adam Ant, pretending it was Keith. We would moan and giggle because we weren't really sure what the moaning was all about. We were sorry to be so young, and feared that our tender age would keep Keith away from us. So we tried to rush maturity along. We would wear her mother's bras and stuff socks in them while wearing maxi pads. We would grab our stomachs and say, "I think I just felt a cramp. I'd better go check my underwear!" We were always disappointed to see the dry, white underpants signaling that we were indefinitely stalled in childhood.

Nadine and I had a "Keith Carter box". In it, we collected anything we associated with him. We would follow him around the school yard and pick up his discarded candy wrappers. Milky Way was his favorite. Nadine stole a pencil out of his book bag, and I picked up a broken bit of shoelace he had thrown in the garbage. Anything he had ever touched was precious to us.

Our most prized possession was a blank and white passport photo of Keith when he was five. When we were little, the Hoboken Reporter held an annual "charming child" contest. Mothers would primp and preen their small children and bring them to the Photo Shop to have a picture taken. All of the pictures were then laid out in the newspaper, and the most charming child was chosen from among these photos. The photo we had of a five-year-old Keith came from this contest. He had a long bowl cut and a thoughtful look on his face. We took turns sleeping with it under our pillows.

We had come into possession of the photo because Nadine's father owned the Photo Shop and he kept all of the charming child photos he had ever taken. Nadine's father was much older than her mother, and he looked like Ichibad Crane. The Photo Shop was littered with portraits of Nadine - playing the piano in a gown, swinging from a tree branch, running on the beach. I thought the pictures, and Ichibad's adoration of Nadine, were a little creepy. But he gave us the run of the shop so I didn't mind him so much.

One day while Nadine and I were doing homework in the back of the shop, Ichibad announced that he was holding a contest. He was going to fill an entire window with empty film canisters, and the three people who came closest to the exact number would win brand new cameras. I became obsessed with the cameras. I had to have one. It was all I talked about to Nadine. I would ask to hold one of the canisters, feeling its weight, and I would try to calculate the dimensions of the window. Keith Carter and Adam Ant were forgotten. It was all about the contest.

I was too embarrassed to come out and ask Nadine to help me win the contest, so I dropped painfully large hints. "Nadine, nothing would make me happier in the world than if I had a camera," or "Maybe I wouldn't need to sleep with Keith's picture anymore if I had a camera of my own. Then I could take a picture of him myself." This was the tactic that finally worked. Nadine agreed to tell me how many canisters were in the window on two conditions: I had to let her keep the Keith Carter picture always, and I had to devote my first entire role of film to capturing images of Keith playing basketball. I easily agreed to the terms.

511 canisters. That was the winning number. Nadine and I didn't want to be obvious about cheating, so we decided that I would guess a number that was a little off but would still win me a second or third prize camera. It was risky, but we couldn't chance being caught. I even went into her father's shop on three separate occasions and made three separate guesses. On my first visit I guessed 240 and handed the slip to Ichibad. During my second trip I puzzled over the display for twenty minutes, and finally plunked down a guess of 312. On my last and final visit, I burst into the store in a frenzy, proclaiming that I had had a dream that revealed the exact number - 480! I handed over my final guess and paraded out of the shop, glad that the charade was finally complete.

One day Nadine and I were in the front of the shop playing Battleship. The door opened and Keith Carter glided in. We were mortified to be caught playing such a childish game. Keith was picking up a role of film for his mother, and Ichibad went into the back to find it. That left us alone with Keith. He glanced in our direction, but immediately became fixated by the contest display. He picked up one of the prize cameras and looked through the viewfinder. "Cool. I've always wanted a camera of my own." Since no one else was in the shop, Nadine and I took that to mean he was talking to us, and we swooped to his side.

"That camera looks really good on you Keith!" I practically shouted.

"Here. Take a guess. Take a few guesses. Take as many as you want. I bet you'll win. You're really really smart." Nadine thrust some papers in his hand. After looking at the display in deep concentration, Keith wrote down several guesses and stuffed them into the guess box. Nadine took the pen back and hugged it to her chest.

Ichibad returned with Keith's mother's film. Keith paid and turned to leave without a word. Nadine shouted "Good luck Keith!" and I added "We hope you win! You deserve it." When the door shut behind Keith Nadine and I collapsed into a pile of giggles and shrieks. Ichibad looked at us as if we were diseased.

The winners were to be announced on a Friday afternoon at 5pm. Nadine and I waited in the shop for the inevitable crowd to gather for the announcement, but no one else showed up. At 5:15, Ichibad unceremoniously announced the three winners by hanging a sign in the window. First Place - Jerome Jordan. Second Place - Ana Morales. Third Place - Noreen H. Thanks for Playing! The Photo Shop. I had won! I had won! Nadine and I held each other and danced up and down. We tried to feign surprise but quickly gave it up. Ichibad looked at us with a knowing smirk and crouched behind the counter. When he stood back up he was holding my brand new instant camera. He congratulated me and handed me my prize. He then took a picture of me holding my new camera and said it would be displayed in the window with the other winners' photos. I hadn't expected this little bit of notoriety, and I was ecstatic.

By Monday afternoon my photo hung alongside those of the first and second place winners. Students and teachers congratulated me all day Tuesday. I was so happy that I had all but forgotten how Nadine and I had cheated. I was basking in the fresh glow of local celebrity, and it felt wonderful.

After school on Wednesday, I ran home to get my camera and went straight to the gym, where the boys were having basketball practice. This was the first time I was going to use my camera, and I would keep my promise by using all of my film on Keith Carter. I sat high up in the bleachers and affixed the flash bulbs to the top of the camera. When I looked up at the court, Keith Carter was staring directly at me. I felt a cramp in my stomach and feared that I was about to get my first period, but then recognized the cramp as fear. He stared at me as he dribbled the ball. I bit my lip and looked at my feet. When I looked back up, he was bounding up the bleachers towards me. This was it. He was finally going to be my boyfriend!

He stood over me and looked down at the camera. I didn't know what to do with my eyes. I would look up at him, then look away, blinded by his beauty.

"Cool camera," he said without a smile.

"Thanks."

"I know what you did." I made full eye contact and saw that he was angry. The cramp in my stomach intensified.

"What do you mean?" I stammered.

"I'm not stupid you know. You and Nadine are best friends. Her old man owns the Photo Shop. I know she helped you cheat. I know that's how you won the camera".

My face burned. I was losing my boyfriend. We were breaking up before we even went out. I couldn't speak, but I think a noise similar to "eek" arose from my lips.

"I'm just saying," he glowered, "that's messed up. I really wanted that camera. I didn't cheat. I played fair and square".

My voice was barely a whisper.

"But I had a dream. The number came in a dream."

"Yeah, well. Whatever. I just want you to know I know."

With that, he turned and raced back down the bleachers and rejoined the practice. I looked down at the camera in my lap and I couldn't touch it. It was dirty now. The shame burned my face. Keith Carter knew I was a cheat and a liar. Keith Carter would never be my boyfriend. I carelessly picked up the camera by the strap and snuck out of the gym.

It took a few weeks, but I eventually convinced Nadine to let me sleep with Keith's picture a few nights a week. We had both lost some of our adoration for Keith, but we tried to keep it going anyway. We still talked to Adam Ant, but we didn't make out with him as much. We collected Keith's used candy wrappers, but only brands we didn't already have. I couldn't bring myself to take pictures with the camera. It sat on my shelf for years, unused, like a trophy.

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gold digger

My desk was piled high with charts to complete. My phone was ringing off the hook - patients requesting transportation, hospitals with patients being discharged, home health aides calling out for the day. The temperature was over 90 degrees and humid. I wished that I had called out.

While trying to complete some paperwork, I received an irate phone call from Mr. Dubois, my patient's son. Although I had never met the man, we talked at least four times a week. He was a professional complainer. No, really. He collected complaints for some big company's quality assurance department and compiled the complaints into reports. He did the same with the care his mother received. There were complaints about the home health aides - they were early or late, too fat or too frail, too dark, too hispanic, too nosy, too aloof. There were complaints about the meals on wheels - too salty, too bland, too hot, too cold. It was endless. Mr. Dubois never identified himself on the phone; he merely launched into a five-minute monologue of fury. I would listen quietly and when he stopped for air, I would ask: "I'm sorry, but to whom am I speaking?" He would then become a typhoon of grievances.

I was actually scheduled to visit Mrs. Dubois that morning. Her son was happy to hear this, and said he would meet me at the house. He wanted to discuss some matters face to face. I had somehow managed to avoid meeting this man for several years. I saw no way around the meeting, and agreed to see him at 11. The avalanche of charts on my desk would have to wait.

Mrs. Dubois' house was only a few miles from my office, but traffic was awful. While fidgeting with the radio, I glanced in the rearview mirror at a middle-aged man driving a convertible BMW. Ours cars were at a standstill, and I watched him groom himself in his visor mirror. He smoothed down his eye brows and brushed his hair. There was a stripe of gray hair down the middle of his head that made him look like a skunk. The air conditioning in my truck was not working, and I felt a puddle form in my bra. Several cars ahead, I saw that the congestion was due to a road block. I again looked for a song on the radio and looked at the beamer behind me. The man had his right hand in front of his face, and he seemed to be missing a finger. I focused my eyes on his hand, confused. After a long moment, I located the missing digit. It was far up his nostril.

I screamed and pounded on the steering wheel. I wanted to be anywhere but in that truck in that traffic. Don't look, I told myself. Think of something pretty and clean - babies, kittens, rainbows. But I couldn't stop myself. My eyes were magnetically drawn to my mirror and the nose picker in the beamer. It was horrible. I was transfixed. His face contorted with the effort of reaching far up into his nostril. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped open. Just when I thought the worst was over, he removed the finger, slick and shiny with snot, examined it, and PUT IT IN HIS MOUTH!

I could no longer hear the traffic around me or feel the heat crushing me. I was instantly transported back to third grade where we had two notorious nose pickers: Jack Turner and Moe Cardiello. Both were committed to the act of picking, but varied greatly in their particular styles. Jack was an unabashed nose picker. He would raise his hand to answer a question with his forefinger firmly wedged up a nostril. He was so proud of his work, he actually saved it. He had what we called a booger board - a piece of cardboard he kept in his desk where he smeared his snot and let it dry like macaroni art. Moe, on the other hand, was a stealth picker. He would jab his finger so quickly up his nose he would sometimes miss and poke himself in the eye. Then, to destroy the evidence, he would eat his boogers. Some days he was not as vigilant. He would allow himself to leisurely poke a pretzel up his nose as if he were dipping it in sauce and then suck the tip of the pretzel.

I was startled by the blaring of the beamer's horn behind me. The cars in front of me had moved ahead. The nose picker was gesticulating wildly at me and pounding on his horn. The truck and I shuddered back into action and I sped away from the beamer.

Sitting in the truck, I dreaded going into Mrs. Dubois' house. She was 95 and very sweet, but was extremely hard of hearing and had no small degree of dementia. One of the many complaints Mr. Dubois lodged frequently was that the home health aides stole from his mother. Once, it was a Cartier wristwatch he had given his mother for her 90th birthday. Then it was a bag of tube socks. Finally, it was a gold-plaited fountain pen. Mr. Dubois never apologized when his mother produced these items sooner or later.

I reluctantly walked up the steps and expected Mr. Dubois to be hiding behind the door brandishing a riding crop. I knocked (which I knew Mrs. Dubois couldn't hear) and entered the house. She was hanging up the telephone when she noticed me. I smiled and shouted hello to the plump old lady. She smiled and motioned me to sit next to her. I screamed pleasantries at her, smiling and gesturing wildly. She probably understood every fifth word, so I sounded something like: "How....today?....humid....cars....swimming...." She didn't seem to mind.

From behind me I heard the door creak open. The familiar, dreaded voice called out "Hello, mother." I stood and smoothed my skirt, preparing for the onslaught of complaints and questions that were headed my way. The first thing I noticed was the gray skunk stripe heading towards me. The next thing I noticed was the right hand extended, reaching out to shake my hand. The smile dropped from my face and I clasped my hands behind my back. The picker in the beamer smirked at me. I prayed for a seizure to strike one of us down.

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barracuda v. the boys club

I had had a great year debating. I came in first or second place at every meet. My school had started out as the bad news bears of forensics, but we were coming back strong and we were now real competition. Miss Kelly put a lot of pressure on me, because debate wins actually brought in the most points for the entire team. Thanks partly to my debate success, our school was now placing third or fourth overall at every competition.

It was the last debate of the season. This was the most important competition of the year. We were no longer playing for bragging rights. The competition this day would decide who would go to the nationals in Chicago. No one from our school had ever gone to the nationals before. I was the only member of our team in contention. I wanted to win for my team, but I really wanted to win so that I could go to Chicago. I had been virtually no where in my life, and I was itching to see anything outside of Hoboken and Jersey City.

There were a total of four debates that day - three before lunch and one after. I wish I could say that the debates were especially noteworthy or nail biting, but they weren't. Even the topic of debate eludes me now. It had something to do with legalizing marijuana or drug control or some such nonsense. I can't even recall my first three competitors. I do remember the mounting excitement I had after each of those three debates. I knew I had won. My opponents knew that I had won. I became dizzy with the thought of going to Chicago. Was it really a "windy city"? What would I wear? Would I have to pay for the trip? If so, how?

During lunch, Miss Kelly and my teammates crowded around me and celebrated my inevitable victory. We screeched and squealed the way only teenaged girls can. I couldn't eat a bite. My adrenaline was vibrating through my veins and my blood was pulsing in my ears. My friend Kay promised me a celebratory meal at Burger King after I secured the trip to Chicago. It was going to be a good day.

The bell rang. I walked down the hall to my final debate for the year. I knew my opponent Dan, from Preparation H (St. Peter's Prep). I had previously debated and beat him three times. He was cocky and bland, not worthy of a nickname. Whenever I saw him, he greeted me with a chortle, as if he had actually defeated me. During every debate, he used some sort of a prop to illustrate a point or throw his opponent off kilter. Once, he tossed a coin throughout the entire debate. He punctuated his final assessment by flipping the coin up into the air, catching it, flipping it over onto his wrist and nodding knowingly. "Tails," he smirked. The judge and I actually looked at one another in confusion.

Walking into this final debate, I felt calm and confident. The judge, Mr. Harris, was an affably fat teacher from Hudson, a nearby boys' school in Jersey City. He had judged me several times before and had given me high marks. When I entered the room, he smiled warmly and said, "It's always a pleasure to judge your debates, Noreen. I look forward to hearing what you have for us today". I thanked him and felt my posture lengthen and straighten further. At three minutes after two, Dan opened the door to the classroom. He kept his back to us and finished a conversation he was having in the hallway. Mr. Harris bristled at this. Hudson and Preparation H were mortal enemies. Hudson was considered the white trash school for boys who couldn't get into Preparation H. The Prep boys not only thought they were smarter than the Hudson boys, they presumed their intelligence surpassed that of the Hudson teachers as well. The rivalry was intense and sometimes violent at sporting events. I knew Mr. Harris would consider Dan's behavior an affront and I felt electrical excitement buzzing all around me.

Dan sat next to me and settled himself in without acknowledging me or Mr. Harris. He busied himself unpacking his briefcase (yes a briefcase!) and arranging his notes on his desk. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses several times. Mr. Harris was not amused. After a moment glaring at Dan, Mr. Harris cleared his throat and said, "Are we ready now, Dan?" Dan stood, nodded at Mr. Harris and said "Quite". "Quite?" I thought only characters in Merchant Ivory movies ever responded to a question with a "quite" response. This was going to be "quite" the debate, and I was going to have "quite" the time in Chicago.

The debate was, for the most part, uneventful. Dan's tactic was to look at me with disdain during cross-examination. He actually guffawed at some of my questions, without answering them. His approach was to behave as though my questions were too contrite to acknowledge. I persisted, however. I countered that his silence equalled ignorance. Stealing glances at Mr. Harris, I knew that I was on my way to Chicago. He nodded approvingly whenever I made eye contact with him. He regarded Dan as gum on his shoe.

Dan's prop for this debate was a bottle of prescription pills. He kept one hand in his pocket and jiggled it throughout the debate. During his closing statement, he produced the bottle, shook it, and tossed it at me. I caught it and had to fight my street-girl urge to whirl it back at his head. I had no idea what point he was trying to punctuate with his theatrics. And from the look of disgust on Mr. Harris' face, neither did he.

The debate ended. Dan tipped his imaginary hat to Mr. Harris and actually bowed to me. I shook Mr. Harris' hand and thanked him. He held my hand between his two plump paws and said, "Well done. Very well done". His eyes twinkled. My heart jumped. I was going to Chicago! I nodded curtly at Dan and threw his prescription bottle in the trash on my way out.

My entire team was waiting for me at our table. We hugged and fell on the floor and screamed and chanted "SDA! SDA!" Everyone else stared at us. We didn't care. I was going to Chicago.

We sat as the winners of all the other categories were announced. We cheered loudly for our friends and teammates who placed in their categories. Debate was announced last. Only the first place winner would be going to Chicago. I had never felt as confident as I did in that moment.

A quiet, serious boy came in third place. I was glad. He was courteous and almost apologetic whenever he did well in a debate. My vision became fuzzy and I felt as though I would actually vibrate off my chair. Hands all around me squeezed my hands and shoulders. I felt faint. I remembered my fear of flying. For a brief moment, I wished that I would lose so that I could avoid a trip on a plane.

And then, I heard my name. But I didn't hear it. I couldn't. My name was called for second place. Miss Kelly and my teammates were equally confused. A steely silence descended upon our table. I had lost.

I somehow walked to the podium and accepted my second place trophy. My gaze was blank and my fingertips were numb. I spied the arrogant smirk of Dan adjusting his tie as he prepared to collect his first place prize. I clutched my trophy to keep from bashing his head in.

I sat stunned at my table. My teammates were crying. Miss Kelly assured me that I had tried my best.

"No," I said, "I didn't try my best. I did my best. I don't understand what happened. I know I should have won".

She looked at me pityingly and packed to leave.

I sat alone at the table while everyone else headed out to the van. I replayed the debate over and over again in my head, unable to wrap my head around the loss. A hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to find Mr. Harris smiling down on me.

"You did very well, Noreen. Very well indeed. You should be proud of how close you came. You deserved that win. You should be going to Chicago".

I couldn't understand what Mr. Harris was saying. My loss was ultimately his decision. "I'm sorry, but I’m confused.”

"Noreen, you're very talented. But I just don't think we're ready to have a girl represent us in the nationals. We need a competitor with real weight, someone who will be taken seriously.”

"I lost...because I'm a girl?"

I started crying, the kind of crying that burns your whole face and makes you start gulping for air. I wasn't crying because I was hurt or upset. I was crying because I wanted to kill someone. I felt small and insignificant and helpless. I had been the best. I had worked the hardest. I should have won. I had won.

I railed against Mr. Harris. "How dare you steal something from me that I earned! You have no right! I deserve Chicago!"

I collapsed into incomprehensible sobs. I wanted to say so much more, but my head was swimming. I didn't know what else to say.

Mr. Harris patted my hand, trying to console me. "You should be very very proud. You're the best we have." And then he walked away.

As we drove out of the parking lot, I choked out the story to Miss Kelly and my teammates. There was cursing and crying, fury and disbelief. Everyone had a similar story. Miss Kelly told of a job lost to a lesser qualified male teacher at Preparation H, where her father actually worked as an English teacher. (The only female teachers on staff at Prep taught typing and health). One girl told of being benched on her baseball team, although she was the strongest pitcher. Another's father had put money aside for her younger brother's college education, but not for hers. (Her father didn't see a need for a girl to go to college). My own father refused to watch my softball games, but never missed my brother's little league.

As we drove home in silence on the highway, Kay spotted the Preparation H van. We begged Miss Kelly to speed up and drive alongside them. Once we were directly next to them, Miss Kelly honked the horn furiously. Dan and the other boys stared, bemused. We rolled down the window, screamed obscenities and flipped them all the bird. Even Miss Kelly called them "goddamned motherfucking cocksuckers". We dumped all of our disgust and frustration and rage out onto that highway. Brother Frank, the Preparation H moderator, made the sign of the cross in our direction, changed lanes, and sped ahead. We collapsed into a heap of laughter, tears and cheers. With all of the windows open, we sang our alma mater, fingers still flying high out the open windows.

"Raise her banner, wear her emblem. Pledge to God and country too. Keep her spirit, keep her counsel. She will ever follow through. St. Dominic Academy we pledge our hearts in loyalty. Our alma mater here's to thee. We love our school devotedly. In all our efforts during life, in all our triumphs and in strife. By the patron of our school blessed be....St. Do My Dick Academy!"

We may not have behaved like ladies, but we began to know what it meant to be women.

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barracuda

I was pretty intimidated when I started high school. Surrounded by a lot of rich and beautiful girls, I was neither. I went to St. Dominic Academy, which was also known as St. Do-My-Dick Academy by our brother school, St. Peter's Prep (Preparation H). SDA was an all-girls Catholic school. My favorite class, (as it always was and has been) was English. I loved to write essays and stories. Our English teacher, Miss Kelly, was well-intentioned but weird. She was one of those teachers that really wanted to be hip, so she made disparaging comments about the "establishment" and encouraged us to rebel against authority. I liked her because she was passionate about books, and she liked the stories I wrote.

Miss Kelly was the moderator of the forensics team, and she was always looking for new members. She approached me after class one day and asked if I would consider joining the debate team. I immediately declined, feeling the pit of fear in my stomach. I wasn't afraid to speak in public; I was cowered by the thought of having to argue against sophisticated loafer-and-blazer types who did the New York Times crossword puzzle with their lawyer and CEO parents. (The only newspapers in our home were the Post and the New York Daily News. My mom was good with the word jumble).

Miss Kelly persisted. She stopped me after every class and wrote notes on all my papers and tests "Join Debate!!!" She finally roped me into attending a forensics meeting so I could observe a practice debate. I only went to placate her. Two juniors were debating the topic of abortion, a topic I was passionate about. (Little did I know that topic would never be allowed in an actual debate. Most of the schools in our league were Catholic, and therefore unable to fathom a reason to debate the topic). The debate itself was really intriguing. Each debater got a chance to read a prepared speech, one pro-life, one pro-choice. They then challenged one another on their views, and read their conclusions. I was enthralled. It all seemed very civilized and orderly, much like writing a persuasive paper. Miss Kelly caught my eye during the debate and knew she had me hooked.

All of the girls on forensics were cool. We were all sort of outcasts, not knowing where we belonged in the social stratosphere of St. Dom's. We found ourselves and each other at forensics, where we were free and actually encouraged to be dorks. We recited Shakespeare and played literature games at the meets (if you could have sex with any character in literature, who would it be and why?) We had nicknames for all of the other debaters. Nancy Regan was 15 but looked 40, dressed for every meet in red, white and blue. Pants nervously picked at the front of his pants during every debate. Fish, well, looked like a fish. I was the barracuda. This name was bestowed upon me by the boys at Preparation H. (I was unsure what a barracuda was. I thought it was some sort of fish, but then I couldn't understand the appropriateness of the nickname. When Miss Kelly explained that it was a compliment because the boys actually feared me, I swelled with pride).

I debated and beat them all. Make no mistake, they were all smarter that I was. I just happened to be a better liar. When they asked me for proof of a statement I had made, I calmly and quickly pulled supporting data out of my ass, like so: "The support for that assertion can be found in a July 14, 1989 New York Times article entitled "Legal Precedents Protecting Flag Burning Under the First Amendment", which stated...." I had an answer for everything. I just pretended that I was confident and strong and correct, and I projected that. The more debates I won, the better I felt about myself. I was less shy and more willing to meet new people. I felt myself becoming the person I knew was locked away somewhere.

During one meet, I was standing outside a classroom preparing for my next debate. I was approached by a handsome boy named Vito, and he started a conversation with me. I felt butterflies as we talked about school and friends, everything besides debate. (One of the bonuses of forensics was meeting and talking to boys. Going to an all-girl school, you didn't have to worry about wearing make-up every day. The disadvantage was, however, not having any boys to wear make-up for!)

During meets, we were constantly on the look-out for potential prom dates.

I was beginning to think Vito had potential. He actually seemed to be flirting with me, although I wasn't sure because no boy had ever flirted with me before. After about ten minutes, during which I was sure we were in love, the judge for my debate opened the door and said, "Noreen, Vito, are we all ready?" Vito looked at me and winked. He held the door open for me as my face reddened with embarrassed nerves. As I walked past him, he whispered, "I've always wanted to debate the barracuda". He had set me up, flirting with me to throw me off. I should have been furious, but I thought it was hysterical. I lost the debate pretty much as soon as it started. Every time Vito had his back to the judge, he would wink and smile at me, and I would collapse into giggles. I wasn't able to make any eye contact during my speech, and I couldn't put together any coherent arguments during rebuttals. I kept fantasizing about what would happen after the debate: where Vito would take me for dinner, what dress would offset my eyes at the prom, what college we would both attend. I was willing to sacrifice a victory to ensure our future happiness.
Vito was friendly but aloof after the debate. He wished me luck for the day, and hoped we had a chance to debate again. I looked wistfully after him as he walked down the corridor, my prom corsage wilting in my imagination. I placed third in the competition. Nancy Regan came in second. As Vito walked back to his friends with the first place trophy hoisted high above his head, he gave me one last boyish wink. My heart fluttered with the hope that my prom fantasy might still have a chance.

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hickey

It wasn't my fault. I didn't "want it". I did nothing to provoke it. I wasn't dressed provocatively, and I wasn't giving off any "vibes". But it happened anyway.

I was relatively new to home visits. I was open and friendly, wanting to make the clients feel at ease. I didn't want to come across as some insensitive bureaucrat. I was all smiles and reassurances. My clients loved me. Some more than others.

The first time I went to visit Mr. Mouth, I was unsure of what to expect. I knew that he had alcohol-induced dementia and he was unable to speak. Although he had several children, none wanted anything to do with him. At the time, I remember thinking how awful his children must be, to abandon him when he needed them the most. I would learn, over time, that lack of family involvement was a sure sign of a problem client.

In his late 70's, Mr. Mouth looked more like 100. His toothless mouth gaped open. His frail frame was paper thin. His eyes looked wild and hungry. He looked at me like I was a juicy sirloin sizzling on the grill. He eerily shifted his weight from one foot to another, side to side. I found myself mimicking this self-soothing behavior. The apartment was populated with roaches, so I conducted the entire interview on foot. A neighbor was present and helped to answer my questions. The interview went smoothly enough, but I was unsettled by the way Mr. Mouth fixated on me with x-ray eyes. Once my business was concluded, I assured Mr. Mouth and his neighbor that he would now have all the necessary home care services, and I promised to return in three months.

Mr. Mouth, however, was not anxious to see me go. He motioned to his neighbor that he wanted to follow me. When I become nervous, I tend to smile so wide that my cheeks burn from the effort. I smiled brilliantly at Mr. Mouth the whole way down in the elevator. He shuffled closer to me, leering and salivating. I smiled bigger and backed up against the wall.

The elevator door finally opened and I rushed out into the lobby of the senior building. I turned to again say good-bye to the neighbor and Mr. Mouth, but they followed me outside. It was a beautiful bright spring day. The courtyard of Ocean Towers was littered with residents, mostly men, on benches and in wheelchairs. Mr. Mouth waved around at his neighbors, and they saluted back. I turned for the final time to say good-bye. I extended my hand, but Mr. Mouth opened his arms wide for a hug. Despite the shudder of disgust that shot up my spine, I walked in for a quick embrace so as not to be rude.

It was sudden and unexpected. For a moment, I couldn't fathom what was happening to me. I felt tremendous pressure on my neck and tried in vain to pull away from Mr. Mouth. His gummy lips were sucking on my neck like a wet/dry vac. I tried to force him off of me, but he was much stronger than he looked. Finally, I had to knee him in his swollen groin to get him to release his death-like grip on my neck. When I faced him, he was as proud as a toddler who has taken his first poop in the toilet, pointing and grinnning ear to ear. The surrounding neighbors sent out congratulations, whooping and whistling their approval.

I stumbled back to the car, revulsed and dazed. I drove away quickly without buckling my seatbelt . Once I was several stop signs away, I pulled over to recuperate. I fumbled for the wet ones I keep in the car for just such an occasion, and I scrubbed my neck vigorously. Looking in the mirror, I saw something I hadn't seen on my body since I was 14. A hickey! It was purple and angry-looking, in the shape of South America. It was the largest, brightest hickey I had ever seen. Mr. Mouth put 16-year-old boys to shame. I drove back to the office, wondering how I would explain this aberration to my coworkers, and my husband.

For months, nay years, I was known as the slut of Ocean Towers senior building. I was propositioned and groped in hallways. Although I could not repair my greatly soiled virtue, I did bring an escort to subsequent visits with Mr. Mouth to protect myself. Several months later, Mr. Mouth was admitted to a nursing home. He could no longer handle his affairs. His children refurfaced long enough to have him committed.

My manner has changed somewhat since those early days. I am a bit more professional. I am not as quick to accept the embrace of a male client (although I have found that the female clients can be just as grabby with their hands). Instead, I plant my feet firmly on the ground and offer a steady handshake. If this does not placate the clients, I gladly offer them my mace.

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curiosity (almost) killed the case manager

It was a cold morning in March. I pulled up in front of a dilapidated building on one of the worst streets in one of the most dangerous neighbhorhoods in Jersey City. I got out of my truck and looked around. The building was surrounded on either side by vacant lots with waist-high weeds. A few crack whores stood in front of the building sucking on pipes. Their small children played on the sidewalk, coatless. Across the street, several young thugs looked from me to my pick-up truck. The hair bristled on the back of my neck. I had a gut reaction to get back in the car and drive away, but I couldn't look like a punk. No. Better to have a shiv stuck in my back than look like a punk. I realized that my location was as remote as a hermitage in the middle of the Sahara. No one would hear me if I screamed for help. No one would care. As I walked past the crack whores into the building, I heard teeth sucking and a chorus of "white bitch". It always felt good to be recognized in these neighborhoods.

Mrs. Walker was a new client. The only information I had on her was that she was 93, completely blind, and had mild dementia. Opening new cases is always a challenge. You never know who, or what, you're walking into. The vestibule of the building was littered with bullet holes. There was no doorbell, and the inside door had shattered glass and no door knob. I pushed the door open with my foot. I didn't want to touch anything with my hands unless it was absolutely necessary. Garbage littered the hallway. I heard dueling rap songs on the floor above. I walked slowly and cautiously to the back apartment.

I knocked, and the door opened to 1953. The apartment was immaculate. The hard wood floors glistened with wax. All of the furniture was at least 50 years old, heavey and dark, in mint condition. The walls were papered with a delicate peach pinstripe. Dignified black and white portraits hung on the walls. The apartment appeared fresh and welcoming, with the exception of the lighting. Because Mrs. Walker was blind, she only had one bulb burning in the entrance to the apartment. However, all of the drapes were flung open and sunlight burst into the dark museum of a home.

Mrs Walker stood smiling in the open door, frail and bird-like. She wore a neat navy dress and pumps. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a tiny bun. She seemed both proper and down-home, someone you would never curse in front of, but who you would feel comfortable confiding your secrets in.

"I've been expecting you. Can you help me kill a rat?"

The tingle began in my toes and quickly traversed my veins all the way to my brain. I felt as if my head were encased in bubble wrap and I couldn't turn my head. The terror had me in its teeth. I am absolutely petrified of rats. There is nothing I fear more (except maybe elevators, planes and traffic, but those all relate to my claustrophobia and are thereby rational). Rats are a somewhat unfortunate necessary evil in my field. I visit homes and neighborhoods that are neglected and all but forgotten by the rest of the community. Where you find poverty and despair, there you will find rats. I gritted my teeth and walked stiffly into what I now viewed as the pit of hell.

Mrs. Walker held my hand and patted it as she told me her tale. I knew it was impolite not to look at her as she was speaking, (even though she was blind), but I couldn't help myself. My head was like a lighthouse lantern scanning the horizon for furry rodents. She calmly explained that, for the past few nights, she had smelled a rat in the apartment.

"What does a rat smell like?" I inquired.

"Like the sewer. It must be a great big old sewer rat. But I can't seem to find it. Can you help me find it?"

What could I do? Mrs. Walker had no family to speak of. I could report it to the city, but who knew how long it could take. I couldn't bare the thought of this sweet, senile old woman being trapped with a sewer rat. Then again, she did have dementia. How did I even know there was a sewer rat?

"Have you heard it making any noise Mrs. Walker?"

"Indeed I have. Like a squealing. And a chewing. Nearly kept me up all of last night."

"Okay ma'am. Let me see what I can do".

I said the rosary, well, my rosary. It sounds something like this: holy motherfucking shit. Jesus Christ Almighty. Fuck. Please don't let there be a goddamned motherfucking sewer rat in here or I'll motherfucking die. I then wielded a broom and began my search.

I went room by room. Drapes were beaten, couches were molested, deep closets full of suspicious-looking furs were stabbed. The apartment was very well kept. No furniture had been chewed and no holes poked through walls anywhere. I began to relax as I declared the rooms safe one by one.

Mrs. Walker waited for me at the kitchen table, silent and stoic. Her face betrayed none of the loathing and fear that was causing my colon to drop. Finally, I entered the kitchen. Gulping down several mouthfuls of air, I systematically opened every cabinet, top and bottom, expecting a wildebeast to eat my face off at any moment. But nothing happened. I even checked inside the refrigerator. This house, (as Tangina proclaimed in Poltergeist) was clean. Both she, and I, were dead wrong.

I sat at the kitchen table and assured Mrs. Walker that there was no evidence of a sewer rat in her home. She respectfully shook her head.

"Child, I know a sewer rat when I smell one. Can't you smell that? Take a good strong wiff".

I did as she asked and breathed in the air. She was right. Underneath the pine sol and floor wax, I could smell something vaguely dirty. Almost like the sewer when it backs up. I jotted a note down on my pad to call the building super and ask him to check the plumbing. I was satisfied, and continued with the rest of my interview.

After 20 minutes, with all of Mrs. Walker's needs documented and a plan of care in place, I got up to leave. As I did, I looked into her darkened parlor at her open window, the cold breeze blowing her drape. I walked towards the open window intending to close it for Mrs. Walker. The temperature was too low to keep that window wide open. As I approached the window, I saw a large cat napping on the windowsill, its paws crossed politely under its head.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a cat Mrs. Walker".

"I don't dear. It's just a stray I feed. I call him Walter. He keeps me company. I leave a bowl on the window and he comes up and visits with me".

I walked closer to Walter and his weight shifted. The paws extended slothfully to reveal long, sharp claws. The head turned in my direction, and a filthy rodent face stared red-eyed at me. I swallowed my tongue as a scream escaped my throat.

"That's no stray. That's the biggest sewer rat I've ever seen!"

Walter the rat stared at me with contempt. I raced back to the kitchen and grabbed the broom. Like a knight on a horse I raced back into the parlor with the broom poised as a lance and knocked Walter right off the windowsill. I slammed the window shut, locked it and closed the drapes. Panting, I dragged myself back to the kitchen table. Mrs. Walker patted my head saying:

"Oh lord, thank you lord. Thank you Jesus lord. Bless this child".

Once outside on the sidewalk, the thugs looked more ridiculous, the pipe-sucking, white-bitch-muttering crack whores looked less intimidating. I climbed back into my pick-up truck and rested my head on the steering wheel. I had defeated Walter. It was a triumphant moment. As I pulled away from the curb, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Walter stood on the sidewalk, his red eyes blazing defiantly in the cold March sun.

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finger lovin

Be forewarned - this is a work story. And it ain't pretty.

I stood in the hallway. My hand was poised to knock, but I was frozen. Stuck quick to the spot by the smell. Like a thousand cigarettes smoked by a thousand hobos in one train car. I did some quick lamaze breathing to steel myself against the wall of Marlboro that would assault me once I walked through the door. I knocked. There were muffled shouts, then a long, slow dragging noise. I took one last deep breath and tried to breathe through my mouth the way my mother taught me whenever we used a public bathroom. The door creaked open.

Before I go further, I must point out that I really liked Mr. and Mrs. Santoro. Both were very polite and sweet. In their mid-60's, they were younger than many of my clients, but sicker than most. Mr. Santoro had a host of health problems related to diabetes, not the least of which was that he had lost a leg above the knee to an infection. His toes dropped off one at a time, and he collected them in a coffee cup (yup, that guy!). The infection then traveled up his leg until he lost most of the leg. Mrs. Santoro was morbidly obese. Her 5 foot 1 frame carried around 350 pounds. She was on continuous oxygen, (though this did not staunch her two-pack-a-day cigarette habit), and she had a foley catheter permanently in place for reasons that were never explained to me. (Quick note: a catheter is a tube that is inserted through the urethra directly into the bladder. Urine then flows through the catheter to a bag that the patient carries around and empties out as need be. Eww, and oww.) Nonetheless, Mr. and Mrs. Santoro were very much in love, and hated to be apart, even for a day. Mr. Santoro often told of how he had first seen his wife at a dance, and stole her away from her then-boyfriend to marry her a month later. Sweet, right?

The door opened, and Mrs. Santoro welcomed me inside. The apartment was dark and close. No windows were ever opened. No daylight ever penetrated the haze of cigarette smoked that hung like a curtain. Mrs. Santoro was clutching her walker. Her house dress fought against her belly and sagging breasts. She had her urostomy bag resting in a basket on her walker, half-full of orange urine. A cigarette was clamped between her lips. Her oxygen canula hung out of her nose, its base dragging behind her on wheels. Her face was red and bulging with fury. She and her husband had been having a fight, one of several they had daily. The fights were often due to the money Mrs. Santoro spent on the Home Shopping Network, the affection Mr. Santoro withheld from her, and as I was about to find out - sex.

"He wants to put it in my ass!" She spit this sentence, and the cigarette, out of her mouth. I plucked the still-lit cigarette off of the linoleum floor and stubbed it out. I needed time to compose myself. Behind Mrs. Santoro, her husband sat, face buried in his hands, on the ravaged couch where he spent every day and night. The bed could barely hold Mrs. Santoro's bulk; therefore, her husband was relegated to the couch. Mr. Santoro was a sad sack. In all of the years I visited him, I never once saw him smile. His skin was pasty and his teeth were nicotine-scarred. His fingernails were long and yellow. His greasy hair hung below his shoulders. Despite the fact that the couple each had a home health aide to assist with personal needs, waves of body odor floated about them.

I walked into the living room and solemnly sat on the couch next to Mr. Santoro, with his wife close on my heels. She was too large for any of the chairs in the dark and dank room, so she stood in the doorway leaning on her walker. I looked at them both with as much compassion as I could muster, and asked how I could help them, dreading the answer.

"Karen won't have sex with me!"

"I have a tube up my hole!"

"You could at least put your lips around it".

"That thing hasn't seen a bar of soap since Carter was president!"

I swallowed a vomit burp. The complaints continued ad nauseum. I called for a time out and asked them both to be quiet for a moment. In all of my years of schooling, I can honestly say that this topic never came up. How would I improve, let alone discuss, intimacy issues with a couple who were both physically restricted? More importantly, how would I broach this very sensitive subject with two clients whom I found physically revolting?

I stared at the couple until my vision blurred and I could no longer see them sharply. I practiced the open-mouthed breathing my mother had taught me. I pretended a professor was observing me, and I launched in head first.

"Well," I began, "I hear a lot of frustration coming from each of you." There was emphatic nodding and "You got that right" coming from the clients. "Let's see what's bothering each of you and see if we can't come to some sort of compromise". I hated myself for the psychobullshit that was spewing from my mouth, but in times of professional crisis I reverted back to a shrink from one of those educational videos. Oh the horror.

"Karen, let's start with you."

"Al only wants sex sex sex".

"What're you talkin about? It's been four goddamned years!"

I interrupted as Karen looked as though she would fling her full urostomy bag at her husband. I asked him to let Karen finish speaking.

"He never wants to hold me."

"So," I ventured, "you're feeling neglected and you wish you were closer to your husband".

"Exactly!" Karen waved the bag around excitedly.

"Bullshit!" Al slapped his knee and pointed a yellowed nail at his wife. "She won't let me near her. All I asked for was a blow job and she threatened to bite it off if I came near her".

"Oh sure, you get a blow job. What do I get out of it?"

I could go on, as this conversation did for an hour and a half. I'll cut to the final resolution, as the tone of the conversation has pretty much been set. It concluded as follows: we surmised that Karen wanted sexual attention as much as Al did, but she was afraid of the pain that might be involved. Thus, she rejected any and all of her husband's advances. Al, in turn, missed the intimacy of sleeping next to his wife. Since that was no longer possible, he felt the only way they could achieve any intimacy was through sex. We had finally come to some common ground, and it was now my turn to offer some possible solutions.

"Karen, what type of physical touching do you feel comfortable with?"

"Well, I guess I would like it if Al used his fingers on me. As long as he doesn't pull my tube out". (Shudder shudder).

"Okay, good. Al, what would make you feel more satisfied?"

"I really do miss a good blow job. Karen used to go down on me any...."

"I ain't touchin that thing unless you scrub it with a wash cloth. Good and hard".

"All right already. I said I'd wash!"

"Good. I think we've gotten a lot accomplished today. So, what I suggest is that the two of you practice what we've just talked about. Find your comfort levels, and most of all, talk to each other. Let me know how it goes".

I refocused my eyes and got up to leave. My head was swimming. I needed to take a shower and watch Bambi to erase the filthy images that were polluting my brain. Mr. and Mrs. Santoro thanked me and promised they'd start practicing right away. I couldn't get to the car fast enough.

For the next year, Mr. and Mrs. Santoro settled into a new intimacy. Unfortunately, they kept me abreast of all developments.

"I just thought I'd call and tell you that Al finally learned how to touch my button just right."

"Karen's not afraid to swallow anymore".

I was proud of the monsters I had created, but I encouraged them to keep some of the details private to maintain the intimacy.

Not long after this breakthrough, Mrs. Santoro was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died in the hospital within a few weeks. Mr. Santoro, who hadn't been out of the apartment for years, was by her side, stroking her hand as she left. He never recovered, and followed after her three months later.

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the last girl scout trip

My best friends were Lisa, Mary and Val. We had all decided to room together on our upcoming girl scout trip to Boston. We were so excited to be off on our own, (sort of), in a big city. We talked about who would bring which snacks, and what mix tapes we'd listen to on the bus ride. I packed and repacked in anticipation.

And then, just like that, everything changed. The hormonal tide of pre-adolescent girls had turned, and I was out. I walked into school a few days before the trip only to find that Lisa, Mary and Val were no longer speaking to me. I stood in front of them, waving my hand in their faces. They stared through me, smirking out of the corners of their eyes. Rose was sitting in my usual seat, and the newly formed foursome talked about how much fun they were going to have rooming together in Boston. What? I protested, but I was invisible to them. I pleaded throughout the day for an explanation. I apologized for whatever I had done wrong. I passed notes begging for another chance. I hated myself for doing it, but I saw no other way out. I desperately wanted to fit in. The girls breezed past me at the end of the day, pinching their noses and saying, what is that smell?

Once home, I threw myself on my bed and cried. When my mother asked what was wrong, I choked out the story of how I was "out". She stormed to the phone, muttering something about "little bitches" and what she would do to them. I heard her voice rising and falling on the phone. Within a minute, she came back in and assured me that everything had been taken care of.

I hugged her with relief, glad that she was able to find the words to soothe my friends. She then dropped the bomb that she had called my scout master, who was going to assign me to a new room. I was mortified. What if I had to bunk with the nose picker-eater? Or the girl who always had lice? Worse still - the bed wetter? I burrowed under my blanket and swore off the trip to Boston.

On the morning of the trip, my mother piled my bags by the door and told me to get a move on. I wouldn't budge. My mother persisted. She sat on my bed and told me I couldn't let those little "brats" (the way she said it I knew she meant "bitches") get the better of me. She told me I had to show them what I was made of, bla bla bla, and all that other confront-the-bullies stuff. I swallowed a sob that was making my lip quiver and agreed.

I waited next to the bus outside of the girl scout house. Girls flitted about excitedly. I stood off to the side, my head hung down, as Lisa and the others leered at me. I was ready to call it quits when someone hip-checked me from behind. I turned to see Viv, Ali and Sue smiling at me. They were the older, cooler girls, at least 13, maybe even 14. Ali and Sue were all open smiles. Viv looked me up and down and said, Cool. We like you. Let's get on the bus. She then put her arm around my shoulder and we boarded the bus. Lisa stared with her mouth open. I knew she was afraid of Viv. Actually, we all sort of were. She had a boyfriend who had given her a promise ring and lots of hickies. There were rumors that she had gone all the way. My body relaxed as I felt Viv's protective hand on my shoulder.

The bus ride was long and educational. We sat in the coveted back of the bus, away from the prying eyes of the scout masters. Viv smoked out the window and talked about her boyfriend. I was in awe. She described the first time he put it in her, the burning sensation, the blood. But now, she said, it no longer hurt, and she couldn't get enough of it. My eyes widened with fear and reverence. She talked about different positions and places they had done it. The school cafeteria, the roof of her tenement. I had no idea what "69" meant. I had only recently learned what it meant to be 86'ed.

My favorite part of the ride was the utter fear Viv inspired in Lisa and my other friends when they came to use the bathroom at the back of the bus. When Mary, Val or Rose used the bathroom, Viv would scream at the smell they left behind on their way out. Lisa, however, was not permitted to use the bathroom. Twice she shuffled towards us, and twice Viv placed her foot on the door and said, Out of order. Lisa winced with desperation, but she didn't dare protest. When we finally pulled into our hotel in Boston several hours later, Lisa ran off the bus in pain. It was the best bus ride of my life.

The trouble started as soon as we got to Boston. Viv, Ali, Sue and I went to our room to unpack. Ali and Sue were best friends, so they decided to share a bed. That left Viv and I. I was intimidated. Viv talked about sex constantly. She said she couldn't go one day without it. Her boyfriend was hundreds of miles away. Would she bring some strange man back to our room? Or worse, would she turn her voracious appetite loose on me?

While we were unpacking and getting ready for our fancy welcome dinner, Viv decided to strip down naked. She hated to be restricted in clothing. At first, I averted my eyes nervously. I wasn't sure what a body that had sex looked like. Then, I accidentally saw her fully naked in the mirror, and I let out an audible gasp. I thought she must have lied about her age, because I didn't know girls could look that way. She was all fleshy curves and hair, with enormous breasts and a shelf of a butt. My posture sagged when I thought of my own angular frame. I watched her the way I watched the polar bear at the zoo - with awe and fear and utter amazement.

Ali and Sue didn't seem to mind Viv strutting around naked. They busied themselves dressing for the night's swanky dinner. Viv grabbed her pack of cigarettes and threw open the curtains. The hotel was U-shaped, and each room had a balcony. Ali reminded Viv that she was naked and other rooms could see into our room. Unphased, Viv slid open the balcony door and walked out onto it in the fading sunlight. We all screeched and begged her to come in, but she ignored us and sucked on her cigarette. She walked back and forth on the balcony, shading her eyes from the sun shining on her. Within minutes, she had attracted the attention of every man staying at the hotel. There were catcalls of, Oh baby, come to my room. Look what daddy has for you! and What room are you in? To our horror, Viv shouted a response. 814. Come on over and see us. With that, Ali and Sue ran out to the balcony and wrestled Viv back into the room. We berated her nervously, fearing the inevitible knock on the door of the 40 horny men who would be coming to visit Viv, and us. The phone began ringing off the hook. One after another, men called and whispered dirty things into the phone. Viv talked dirty back, and made dates to meet different men in the lobby. After about ten calls, Sue took the phone off the hook.

Once we finally convinced Viv to put some clothes on, we headed out to meet the rest of the group in the lobby and proceeded to a fancy French restaurant. It was the first time I had had chocolate mousse, and I fell in love. Halfway through the dinner, Viv excused herself from the table and disappeared. After 20 or so minutes had passed, our scout master Marge went to search for her. Sue, Ali and I looked at each other nervously. Marge eventually came back with her thick sausage fingers clutching the back of Viv's neck. Viv's scarlet lipstick was smeared across her face, and she grinned with satisfaction. The rest of the meal passed in silence. We couldn't wait to get back to the room to hear what Viv had gotten in to.

A waiter, it turned out, is what Viv got in to. Or rather, the waiter had gotten into her. In the bathroom. And Marge walked in on it. We squealed with disgust and delight as Viv went into the details of her anonymous encounter with the waiter. Marge had threatened to send Viv home, but VIv pointed out that her mother would want to know how Marge had let her young daughter be molested by an older, more experienced man. Marge relented but promised dire consequences if Viv acted out again.

Once back in the room, Viv again stripped off all her clothes and strode out onto the balcony to smoke. The balcony was now strewn with Playboy magazines that some of Viv's fans and thrown there. Some had phone numbers and propositions on them. We begged Viv not to call, as we had all had enough excitement for the first day.

We all settled into bed to watch television before going to sleep. I slept as close to the edge of the bed as I could, afraid that I would accidentally graze against Viv's naked body in my sleep. Viv lit up a cigarette in bed next to me. I asked her to be careful with it right before I drifted off to sleep.

I was awakened by a wailing noise and felt the bed convulsing. I fell onto the floor and looked up to see my bed on fire. Viv was smacking the flames out of the blanket. Ali and Sue were jumping up and down on the bed, waving the smoke away from the screaming smoke detector. There was a banging at the door. We heard Marge demanding that we open the door, wanting to know what was going on. Viv stomped out the fire and I opened the balcony door wide open. We tried to wave the smoke out of the room, but it was futile.

Marge and a hotel manager opened the door and stared in amazement. The bed was a charred mess. Playboy magazines were strewn about the floor. Viv was still naked and smudged with soot. The manager covered his eyes and barked into his walkie talkie. Marge's voice was so shrill it became indecipherable. The four of us broke out in church giggles, the kind that you know are totally inappropriate but still escape you like a fart. The rest of the night was a blur. Marge became breathless with insults and threats. We packed up our room and moved into another. All except Viv. Although none of us would say who had been smoking, Marge knew it was Viv. She punished Viv by making her bunk in her bed. Viv called her a lesbian, and threatened to call Girl Scout headquarters, wherever that was.

Sue, Ali and I missed Viv in our new room, but we got to spend all day with her. As punishment for our involvement in the fire, the four of us were forced to hold hands everywhere we went for the rest of the trip. We traipsed around the House of Seven Gables, the Salem Witch Museum, and Harvard, the four of us in a line, united in our shame. Viv spent the nights bunking with Marge, but she spent the days telling us how she spent the nights torturing Marge. One day she scrubbed the toilet with Marge's toothbrush. The next she threw all of Marge's underwear off the balcony.

I know the purpose of making us hold hands in public was to shame us, but it sort of made me feel like a rock star. I now had a "reputation". Stories swirled about what had actually happened that night in our room. There was talk of drug use, a fist fight between Viv and Marge, and an orgy. (Ali and Sue explained that one to me). Lisa and the others no longer leered at me. They averted their eyes when our chain gang of disgrace walked by. They seemed so childish and immature to me now. I sneered at the idea that we had ever been friends.

Getting off the bus back at the girl scout house, I walked a little taller and felt a whole lot older. I high-fived Viv and the others good-bye. Viv didn't come much to the meetings after that. A few years later I saw her on the street, and she had just had her first baby. She seemed happy, with her daughter on her hip and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. Ali, Sue and I soon tired of girl scouts too. All of the girls there were so immature. They both looked out for me, comforting me when I first got my period and advising me about high school. When my mom's friends would ask if they should sign their daughters up for girl scouts, there was only one answer I could give. Definitely.

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girl scout perv

I loved our girl scout house. It was behind the board of health on a little dirt path. It smelled of earth and paper mache. The building itself was sort of decrepit - with two large rooms and a small kitchen. There was a large tree outside that we would climb and jump rope beneath. Meetings were held on Tuesday nights at 7. If we had nothing scheduled, our scout masters would just let us play and run around. Our favorite thing to do was to shut off the lights in the back room and play hide and seek.

One night, with only a few of us at the meeting, we were playing in the dark. A light flashed on and off through our window. We started screaming and giggling. Crouched beneath the window, we held hands and wondered who, or what, was shining a light in the window. The back of our building faced the back of a run down tenement. At first we could only see fire escapes and a bright light peeking at us. Once our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we were able to make out a hairy, pink....thing. We squealed and threw ourselves on the floor beneath the window. Some girls covered their eyes. (I covered my ears. I always did when I got scared). We weren't sure what we had seen, so we held hands and stood up defiantly to face our fear.

It was a man. A big fat hairy man. He was naked. His "thing" was poking straight out from his body. He stroked it and licked his lips. We all screamed in revulsion and ran around in circles in the dark. We collided into one another and fell into a heap on the floor. Each girl looked stricken and confused. The light continued to cut through the dark, searching for, or signaling us. Our screams were relentless. Finally, the scout master Marge came in, flipped on the light and asked why we were screaming. We all remained silent. Marge glared at us. She asked a second time, but none of us could meet her eyes or confess what we had seen. She gave up after a moment, saying it was time for us to go home.

I got a ride home with my friend Lisa and her mom. We were uncharacteristically quiet. Lisa and I stared at each other in the backseat. We were sullen. When her mom asked what was wrong we said nothing, then burst into a fit of giggles. She shrugged and dropped me off at home.

All week at school we whispered about the naked man. What did he want? Would we see him again? Why was his thing out like that? Could we get pregnant if we looked at it for too long? We avoided everyone who hadn't seen "it". No one else could understand our intense preoccupation. We somehow felt older, wiser, too mature for tag and recess.

We went straight into the back room and shut the lights off when we got to the girl scout house. We sat clustered beneath the window, waiting for his signal. After several minutes, there was no movement. We decided to laugh and yell to attract his attention. Still nothing. Finally, Lisa began flicking our light off and on. Within seconds, he answered us with his light.

We peered through the window and stood transfixed. The man was again fully naked, with his thing sticking straight out. This time, he was lifting a barbell. He let his thing rest on the barbell and lifted it along with the barbell. He did this several times, huffing and puffing, his face red and contorted. I felt cramps in my stomach, and I feared that I would vomit. The hair on the back of my neck prickled and I wanted to tell someone. But I could not look away.

We heard Marge call us from the other room and ran away from the window. Our faces burned with shame and excitement. The next several weeks passed in a blur. Every week the man would shine the light in our window. Every week we would stand there, watching him naked, lifting weights, stroking himself, smirking into the darkness at us. One week Lisa even taunted him by lifting her shirt and exposing her belly button. He dropped the barbell as if he were in pain.

I became more and more uneasy and withdrawn. I felt we were doing something wrong and I was afraid. The man had become more animated, pleading with us to come outside. He would gesture wildly and when we would refuse, he would bang on the wall angrily and point a threatening finger at us. Several of the girls stopped coming to meetings altogether. Our mothers were becoming suspicious.

One night, Lisa and I were the only two at the meeting. We walked into the back room reluctantly, keeping the light on. After a few minutes of Monopoly, the light searched us out. Lisa and I looked at each other with dread. We dragged ourselves to the window and looked out. Again, he was fully naked, grinning at us through the darkness. He held up a magazine that had naked pictures of women. The pictures shocked and scared me. The women were bent over in some, tied up in others. The man looked at the pictures, licked them, and pointed at us. We ran away from the window and hid in a closet.

On the drive home, Lisa and I were both shaking. Her mom pulled over and asked what was going on. The dam burst. We told all about the man, his thing sticking up, the barbell, the magazine. Her jaw tensed and her eyes narrowed at us. We cried and shook, expecting to get into serious trouble. Instead, Lisa's mom assured us that everything was okay, we weren't in trouble, and the man would never bother us again. I wept with relief.

A few days later, Lisa and I accompanied a few police officers to the girl scout house. They asked us to point to the man's window, which we did. We cried and held hands. The officers told us we were brave. I did not feel brave.

The man never shone a light in our window again. The girl scout house lost some of its charm for me. It felt cold and bright, exposed, uninviting. We didn't play in the back room so much after that. Sometimes, though, we would dare each other to go in there alone, flicking the light on and off, on and off. We would then crouch by the window, breath drawn in, waiting for the light to shine in on us again.

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girl scout camp

I was 10. It was my first time away from home alone. The bus pulled away as our mothers waved on and we made our way to camp for the weekend. I was excited and nervous. We were meeting up with Girl Scouts from all over New Jersey. There would be games and competitions, bug juice and latrines. I secretly hoped to come home with poison ivy as proof that I had done my time in camp. I had listened to the Boy Scouts in my class brag about the tents and camp fires and bear attacks they had survived. I was ready for my first adventure in the wild.

The bus ride was long and loud. We ate junk food and sang 99 Bottles of Beer on the wall. The bus drove down a long stretch of tall trees surrounded by dark woods. We all became still and silent with anticipation. The trees opened up to a dirt parking lot surrounded by small cottages. We hurried off the bus and unloaded our bags. The noise of 200 preteen girls was thunderous. A few had already begun to cry for home and mom. A large woman with a whistle and a wide-brimmed hat directed us to our cabins. Cabins? Where were the tents we would pitch? Where were the camp fires we would roast our roadkill over?

Disappointed, we trudged to our cabins, dumped our bags onto our bunk beds and raced off to our welcome lunch. I sat at a table with the other 20-odd girls in my troop. We were supposed to mix and meet girls from other troops, but apparently our reputation preceded us and everyone was afraid to sit with the girls from "the city". For some reason, girl scouts from Hoboken were said to carry knives and chains. We wore the fear we inspired in others like a merit badge.

The day was a blur of songs and slogans, bad food and bugs. There was no camp fire. Instead, we sat around a lodge hall and learned about the history of the Girl Scouts. At the end of the night (no smores, just a bag of chips passed around) we recited the Girl Scout pledge and trekked back to our cabins in the dark.

Once we were tucked into our bunk beds, the fun began. I was on a top bunk next to my friend Carmen. Our three scout masters stood guard outside our cabin, smoking and drinking coffee. Some of the girls told ghost stories. We got scared. Others told stories of bloody periods and cramps. We got more scared. One of the older girls started giving us a lesson on sex, and we erupted into hysterics. Twice our scout masters came in and shushed us, with threats of "If you girls don't quiet down this instant...."

The noise began to die down. Carmen and I stared out the small window near our bunk. The darkness was cut in half by a flood light right outside our window. We scared each other with stories of the New Jersey Devil lurking outside in the shadows. Then, we saw something. Someone. We couldn't see his face, but it was definitely a he. Maybe an it. There was a leather jacket, lots of hair, and a broad back. We each started whimpering, but decided to say nothing, close our eyes and hide under the covers. Neither of us could fall asleep. Somewhere a girl farted and the cabin erupted in a frenzy of giggles. Carmen and I chuckled nervously, trying to push out the fear of what we had seen. Our scout masters screamed and threatened and cajoled us to be quiet. We were silenced by an urgent knocking on the cabin door. Our scout masters opened the door. The big woman with the whistle and the hat was now holding a walkie talkie and looked serious. She pulled our scout masters outside. We all waited to be told to pack and leave camp immediately.

A few moments later, our scout masters charged back into the cabin. Their eyes were wide with panic and they flipped the light on. The youngest, Kris, was crying softly. Marge, the head scout master, looked at her with disgust. She then told us all to listen very carefully as the other two scout masters began to push empty bunk beds against the door. Marge explained that no one would be allowed out of the cabin until morning. No one, under any circumstances. She held a walkie talkie and wielded it like a sword. She produced two buckets from a closet and said we could use the buckets if we needed to "make". The previously giddy group became hysterical, crying out for mommy and home. Carmen and I held hands, perched on our top bunks nervously looking out the window. Marge assured us that we were safe and that everything would be fine, but we all needed to be very quiet and calm for the rest of the night.

Muffled cries were heard throughout the night. Carmen and I stood watch at the window, straining our eyes into the darkness looking for him or it. There were whispers of devils, ghosts, Sasquatch, escaped convicts and communists. We slept little, if any, all night. Carmen and I were woken up before dawn by the crackling sound of walkie talkies. We peeked out the window and saw two policemen sweeping flashlights across the darkness.

After what seemed like days, the sun spread across the trees and erased the shadows from the night. One by one, girls tiptoed over to the bucket. Eventually, another knock came on the cabin door and our scout masters pushed away the barricade of bunk beds and let in the big woman. She explained that everything was okay, but our weekend trip was being cut short. She asked us to quickly pack our bags and make our way to the buses. Our parents were being called and would meet us back at the Girl Scout house.

We moved like lightning, forgetting our fear and hunger and bladders. Once outside, we saw several police cars spread around the camp. We raced onto the bus and cried with relief as we drove back to the highway on our way home.

The ride home vibrated with whispered conjecture. Someone heard that a Girl Scout from the shore was killed in the latrine. Another speculated that devil worshippers hiding in the woods had sacrificed an entire troop from Short Hills. I wondered if the Boy Scouts ever had to contend with devil worshippers.

Our mothers were waiting for us as we pulled in, biting their lips and sucking on their cigarettes. Most of us began to cry as we ran off the bus into their open arms. No one ever told us exactly what had happened at camp. There were rumors pieced together from overheard whispers between the mothers. Something about a motorcycle gang breaking into camp and stealing money, maybe killing a guard in the process. The murdered girl in the latrine story was the most persistent, replete with details of the girl's blood used to spell "Murder!" on the bathroom wall. Carmen and I told our story over and over. How we saw him or it lurking outside our window that night, looking for virgins to slaughter. Everyone nodded solemnly and said we were lucky to be alive.

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long island summers

On summer weekends when I was a kid, we would often drive to Aunt Ellen's house on Long Island. The two hour drive was usually slow and stale, with no air conditioning and the smoke from my mother's Salem Lights stifling us. My father would miss the exit and we'd have to turn around at Jones Beach. We'd stop and buy a box of Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies when we were almost there.

Aunt Ellen and Uncle Joe had seven kids. All of my cousins were older than me, except Liz, who was two years younger. She was fun but had a bad temper. When she got punished in her room she would scream so loud we could hear her in the backyard. When she was really mad she would slam her door into the wall, creating a doorknob-sized hole in the wall. If she was mad at you she'd throw something of yours down the hole. Mostly she threw Aunt Ellen's cigarettes into the void. I wanted to marry my cousin Bill. He was cute and once gave me a black eye while playing frisbee. Kay was my favorite. She would give me rides on the handlebars of her bike and let me hang out with her friends. Hers were the first boobs I saw in person. They were huge.

When Mom was pregnant with my sister Erin, Dad took me and my brother Chris to Aunt Ellen's. It was fall so the cover was on the pool. Chris tried to walk on it and fell under the cover. Dad and Kay jumped in, fully clothed, and saved him. Afterward Dad hung his money on the clothes line to dry. (That was the same day Bill gave me the black eye). When we got home Mom saw my black eye and heard that Chris had almost drowned. She said Dad could never take us there alone again.

Aunt Ellen had a huge in-ground pool with a diving board. All the kids in the neighborhood would come over to swim. Aunt Ellen would grease up a watermelon and throw it in the pool to see who could lift it up and out of the water. An elderly couple whom we called Uncle Frank and Aunt Mitsy would visit for drinks. Uncle Frank would sit on the diving board and act as lifeguard. He was legally blind. Dave, the boy next door, would always ask us to swim in his pool. We wouldn't because it was small and above ground. He had a crush on me. Kevin, the boy across the street, had no pool and would swim in ours. I had a crush on him.

Some weekends we would sleep over. We'd have dinner around a large round table with a lazy susan. It was the only one I'd ever seen and I loved it. There was a large organ in the living room that no one knew how to play and we'd get into trouble for touching it. Aunt Ellen had HBO, and we'd all sit on the floor watching Saturday night movies. I first saw Grease and Terms of Endearment sitting on that floor. (I thought Debra Winger got cancer from having too much sex). Some nights we'd skip the movie and chase fireflies in the yard. We would always have sparklers, even when it wasn't the Fourth of July. We would sleep in my cousin Rob''s room. It smelled of incense and had glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He was a stoner. In the morning, we would run barefoot into the yard and step on sticky slugs. We'd sprinkle salt on them and watch them bubble and die. I would always feel bad but I'd do it anyway. We'd spend the day swimming, riding bikes and chasing the ice cream truck. We'd eat hot dogs, Dad would drink and tell stories, and Mom would smoke and swim without getting her hair, or her cigarette, wet.

We would all fall asleep under a blanket on the drive home. Mom would yell "John!" every time Dad would swerve or close his eyes. I would keep my eyes closed and guess where we were - on the highway, on the bridge, in the tunnel. When I would hear the turn signal being used more often I would know that we were close to home. When I was really little, I would pretend that I was asleep so Dad would carry me up the stairs and into bed. I would sleep and dream that I was swimming.

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The Karate Kid Part II

The day after my kickboxing debacle, I looked into ballroom dancing classes. Ram and I had watched Mad Hot Ballroom, a documentary about NYC public school kids who compete in ballroom dancing. So I started surfing the net, looking for classes in town. The first and only listing I was able to find is taught my Mr. Avery. As soon as I saw the name a tinkle of urine escaped down my leg.

When I was little I wanted to be a ballerina. Or a professional bowler. The tutu and cute slippers won out over the greasy BLTs at the bowling alley. My mom enrolled me in classes with Mr. Avery. The dance studio was above a store and smelled strongly of cat food. I worried that the smell would cling to my pink leotard and follow me home. While waiting for the first class to begin, I watched a mother spoon feed her 5-year-old daughter a can of tuna. I swallowed my revulsion as Mr. Avery entered the waiting room with ball-bulging tights and what I thought was a cane. He smiled and spoke softly to the mothers who wanted to escort their daughters into class. Oh no, he purred. We don't allow moms inside. We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for the recital, would we? The mothers, all starved for any male attention, swooned at this charming, bearded man stroking their arms delicately. Like lambs to the slaughter they led us through the door, which slammed shut behind us with finality.

Once inside the studio, the smile and smarmy charm vanished. Mr. Avery lined us up in two rows: taller girls in the back, shorter girls in the front. I was in the back. He then paraded past us, looking us up and down with a steely eye. I heard actual whimpers from the girls around me. He did this for what seemed like hours. He then stood in front of the class with the same look of disgust and demanded that we all take off any jewelry we were wearing. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets. Thankfully, I had no jewelry, but the girls with jewelry looked around in teary confusion. He repeated, Take it off, and deposit it at the front of the class. More hesitation from the girls. Now! he screamed. That elicited actual hysterics from several of the girls, who busied themselves taking their jewelry off as quickly as possible. There was a flurry of activity as the girls raced to drop their goods at the front of the class. I had heard about muggers, but I didn't realize my mother would actually pay for me to be mugged.

Class began. There was pounding of the cane, screaming, forceful manipulation of ankles, feet, arms and wrists. First position, now! What is wrong with you? Are you stupid? Do you speak English? (In fact, two of the girls did not). The torture went on and on. The cane pounded the floor. Mr. Avery smacked our butts if they stuck out too much. Hair was tugged to improve posture. There were threats. Okay, no specific threats. He didn't say, I'll let my german shepherd eat you for dessert if you don't get into third position. Rather, there was the threat of a threat, in the tone, the look, the reddened vein about to explode. If we truly angered him, Mr. Avery would pick up one of the stray pieces of jewelry and throw it at us. Anything not nailed to the floor was flung so hard at us it would actually leave a mark if it made contact.

I will never forget one girl - Heidi. Like the movie Heidi. She was absolutely beautiful with pin straight white blonde hair and a pink and white leotard. She had milky white skin and pink cheeks. I stood behind her just to stare at her hair. Heidi was sweet and painfully shy. It was torture for her to make eye contact. After being berated by Mr. Avery for several minutes, she asked to go to the bathroom. He erupted in a rage and refused, saying we had to take care of that before class. Heidi's little lip quivered and she held her legs closer together. Please, she whispered. He said a perfunctory no and turned away. When we were instructed to perform the next movement, Heidi froze in place. We all stared at her as Mr. Avery screamed, and that's when it happened. Her pink leotard darkened as urine flowed down her legs into her white ballet slippers and puddled around her. Heidi cried noiselessly as Mr. Avery looked as though he were about to have a stroke. Then, it was as if a cloud had passed and his face softened with concern. He picked up a towel and bent over Heidi with it, whispering reassurances. Heidi kept her head down and sucked on her finger as her pink cheeks turned scarlet. He delicately picked Heidi up and carried her out of the class. We never saw her again.

Surprisingly, when my mother asked how the class had gone I lied and said fine. I was terrified to tell the truth. Apparently, I was not alone. The following week the entire class, with the exception of Heidi, were present. The incident with Heidi did not soften Mr. Avery at all; rather, he became even more determined to break us down. The year went by in a blur. There was a recital with an Arabian nights theme. Pictures remain of me stretched out in my little silk outfit, Borderline-era Madonna belly sticking out proudly. I was more relieved when class ended for the summer than when we had a snow day at school.

The next year, however, I could not face the torture again. I sat in the waiting room for the first class, surrounded by the same traumatized girls as the year before. There was the mother, spoon feeding her now 6-year-old daughter a can of tuna. There were the Italian sisters, who now spoke a few words of English. There was the cat food smell sticking to my pretty leotard. And then the door opened. My stomach was full of cement. There was the beard. There was the cane. There was the forceful hand that would push the ball of my foot hard onto the floor. I let out a cry the likes of which my mother had never heard from me. Everyone stared with concern, including Mr. Avery. I sobbed and begged my mother to take my home. I told her I hated ballet, I hated Mr. Avery, and I had to go home and pee before I ruined my new ballet shoes. My mother was so confused that she actually agreed. Mr. Avery bent down to me and asked me to reconsider. I saw a glint in his eye, a glint that promised punishment for my outburst once we got past the mothers with their purses and their concern. I wailed louder and harder, hiding behind my mother. He reached over to the table and plucked a bouqet of flowers out of a vase and handed them to me, wishing me well. Again, the neglected mothers swooned at this compassionate gesture. I refused the wet offering. My mother grabbed the flowers and led me sobbing out of the studio, apologizing to Mr. Avery for my unexplained outburst.

Out on the street, free in the sun, once the hiccuping sobs had subsided, I danced and spun on the sidewalk in my leotard and slippers. I had never felt such joyful freedom in my little life. My mother bought me ice cream and it dripped down my leotard all the way home.

So here I am, almost 30 years later. I still don't know how to dance. And now it looks like I'll never learn.

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