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Redemption From Beyond III

Last Chapter of a Three Part Novella

It was no longer about what Steven had asked of him, it was much bigger than that. Jake was more driven, less concerned with what others thought of him. He was beginning to feel more alive, more empathetic, more like himself. He noticed his interaction with others was becoming fluid and genuine. What had brought this about he’d wondered.

When he left Esther’s house, he was feeling euphoric. The look on the old woman’s face was imprinted in his memory. In the car, on the way back to Berlin, he called Eric at Arolsen to let him know what happened in Rüdesheim. He felt that he could trust Eric at this point and share everything, but before he could tell Eric the details of what took place, Eric asked him to meet him for dinner.

“Jake, this is exciting news, can you tell me all about it over dinner tonight?”

Jake was pleased to be able to ask Eric for another favor in person. He could probably do some research on Rachel’s child himself, but Eric had been such a big help and he seemed eager to do whatever he could for Jake. Jake was grateful for Eric’s invitation. He thought to himself, what a great guy that Eric is.

They met at a very nice Thai restaurant close to Jake’s hotel. Eric was probably the most soft spoken man that Jake had ever met. He realized only moments after Eric arrived, that he was both nervous and excited; feelings about another man he had not had for a very long time. And then Eric said this:

“Jake, I hope you don’t mind my inviting you to dinner. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we last met. I’m usually not this forward, but then, I’m usually not this smitten.”

Jake felt himself blushing. He did not hesitate to let Eric know that the feeling was mutual. He proceeded to fill in the Esther Roseman story with more detail. He watched Eric’s smile grow broader with every word — together they shared a moment of absolute satisfaction.

Eric knew this dinner was not just to spend time with Jake, although he was happy to do just that. He asked Jake what it was he wanted to speak to him about.

“I was able to find out that Rachel Schwartz was moved to one of the other camps, but also that she was pregnant when she left Auschwitz . I know this won’t be easy, but I was hoping you could help me find out if her child is still alive. Also, if he or she is living, where they currently reside. I’d like to find the rightful owner of Rachel’s ring.”

There was no question in Eric’s mind that although he’d need to do quite a bit of digging, he’d eventually find one of Rachel’s relatives. The rest of the evening would be all about getting to know one another, indeed they did just that.

Eric dove into the files the very next day. There were so many Rachel Schwartz’s listed in the database, but he had an approximate age, her pregnancy, and hopefully a record of her having given birth. He combed over the files from each camp for hours. Finally it was at Bergen-Belsen in Northern Germany where he finally got somewhere. Rachel Schwartz was recorded as deceased, however, she left behind a baby boy named Ian, with the same last name. Unfortunately, Ian’s whereabouts were unrecorded. Hmm, another common Jewish name, but he had an approximate age and a possible location. Ian was hopefully still in Bergen-Belsen when the war ended.

Eric discovered that anyone who remained alive at Bergen-Belsen, was put on a train to be processed in Berlin. He’d go through those records in the morning. He phoned Jake to let him know that he had made some progress, but that Jake shouldn’t get his hopes up. Jake was happy to hear Eric’s voice; this time it was Jake who asked Eric to dinner. Eric happily accepted. The two were enjoying getting to know one another.

When he got back to his hotel, Jake called his friend Ashley in New York and told her he’d met someone in Germany. Ashley could only say,

“Well it’s about fucking time.”

Dinner was even better than the night before. Jake surprised himself by not thinking about little things that bothered him. By now there were usually red flags and petty considerations; Jake had a huge crush. Eric didn’t want Jake to leave Berlin, but he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to prolong the inevitable.

The next morning he sat down with his laptop and found Rachel’s son — Ian Schwartz was living in Vienna. Ian was in his early seventies, director of the Holocaust Museum Vienna, and he was married to Isabel. Eric went straight to Jake’s hotel and called him from the lobby. Jake could tell Eric had good news from the sound of his voice. They had coffee and the hotel’s café and Eric shared what he’d learned.

Jake jumped up to hug Eric; Steven’s task was nearly complete. The two sat with one another in silence. Hope and adoration filled the air around them.

“Eric come with me to Vienna to meet Ian. We need to do this together.”

“Are you kidding, I would have gone whether you’d asked me or not, but you’ve made it easier.”

They arrived on a Friday afternoon. The next few days were some of the best days of Jake’s life. They stayed in a very sweet boutique hotel across from the Holocaust Museum. Eric knew and loved Vienna; showing it off to Jake was a pleasure for him. They were having a wonderful weekend while waiting for the museum to open. They weren’t certain Ian Schwartz would be at work on Monday, but at that point Ian didn’t know about Steven and the stolen ring, a few more days before he’d learn of the found ring wouldn’t make a difference.

When Monday morning came, they had a quiet breakfast at the hotel. They had more time at the hotel than seeing the sites and they were both okay with that. At 9:30 a.m. they crossed the street to the museum. They both realized they were a nervous wreck; Eric even more so than Jake. The Museum staff led them to Ian’s office where they waited to see him. They had informed a staff member that they had urgent business and that Ian Schwartz would be interested in their news; Eric’s Arolsen Archives business card didn’t hurt.

After five minutes with Ian, it was clear that Ian was Rachel’s son and he had survived the camps. When Jake told him about his mother’s ring, he fell silent. When he spoke, he informed Jake and Eric that he had no memory of his mother whatsoever. His life’s work had been about bringing this atrocity to light. For Ian, the ring represented his journey and how it had come full circle. For Jake and Eric to experience Ian’s joy was a true gift; an experience that would be a part of their story.

After a few more days of exploring Vienna, Jake and Eric held each other at the airport knowing that this was the beginning of a love that would have pleased Steven; perhaps it was part of his plan.

The Camps

I know, it was a shmaltzy fantasy, but I’m in a good place and I wanted this story to have multiple happy endings. I also realize I speed up my stories at the end — I’m enjoying the writing, but I’m ready for the next thing. Thank you for indulging me.

State-of-Mind

Personal list — does not apply to all. I prefer to stay out of trouble lately.

Ten Things I Care More About As I Get Older (not in order of importance)

  • My health and the health of the people and pets I care about
  • How I spend my time
  • My finances (can I stretch my savings/retirement allocation until my death?)
  • My safety
  • My comfort (physical, mental, and emotional)
  • The well-being of my friends & family (beyond health)
  • What I will be remembered for (but I care about this less and less each day)
  • Being more practical
  • Peace and the quality of my sleep
  • Good food & wine

Ten Things I Care Less About

  • What others think (I stopped shaving every day)
  • Partying excessively
  • Things I have that would impress others
  • Expensive meals
  • Doing risky things that might put my life in danger (no more skydiving, hang gliding, climbing tall ladders, running across the street, recreational drugs, etc.)
  • Fancy products
  • Checking every item off off my bucket list (I destroyed mine a few years ago — self-imposed pressure)
  • The past (in terms of reliving or regretting)
  • What I could have accomplished
  • Finding the right partner

What did I forget?

“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” 

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Redemption From Beyond II

A Three Part Novella

Jake was normally not the type to beat himself up. Steven’s letter left him with undeniable and painful guilt. He thought about all the times he hated Steven for his silence. Finding the owners of the jewelry pieces would at the very least give him something to focus on. Besides, this sort of sleuthing was right up his alley.

Tyler, Steven’s attorney, made two things clear: first, what Steven shared with him beyond what was in Jake’s letter was client/attorney privilege, and second, no matter who came around asking, Tyler knew nothing. Jake asked Tyler if he had any idea what the pieces were worth. Tyler said that the age, craftmanship, and size of the diamonds made them valuable; he estimated a few hundred grand. He suspected it wasn’t the monetary value Steven was thinking about when he reached out to Jake for help.

Jake cleared his schedule for the next few weeks. He didn’t think it would be wise to go straight to Germany. He’d start with some on-line research and see what came up. He had an alarm system installed at his apartment, just in case whomever was looking for the jewelry knew of his existence. Thieves stop at nothing and Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

Assuming Rachel Schwartz and/or Esther Roseman lived in Germany at some point in the last 50 years, finding them or their families would not be easy. Jake hoped that once he learned more about one of the two, finding the other or their family should not be that difficult.

Jake realized he was being cagey with friends; he trusted no one — not that anyone he knew would try to steal the jewelry, but that they might blab it to the wrong person.

Not knowing where to begin, he went to Facebook and entered the two women´s names. In fact, there were several of both with their names (also the same family name) living in or near Frankfurt. He didn’t see either woman in Rüdesheim.

It was time to reach out to Steven’s cousin Marie whom he hoped still lived in Berlin. Fortunately, Tyler was able to provide him with her contact information. When Marie got back to Jake, he found her to be very warm and personable. He was surprised to learn that Marie knew about him. She even relayed that Steven had hoped to someday marry Jake; obviously news to Jake. After speaking with her, he decided to take a trip to Berlin to learn more about Steven and his family. Hopefully, the information she would provide would help him in his search.

Marie picked Jake up from the airport and brought him to a hotel in the center of Berlin. She was fully aware of Jake’s motives for being there. She’d of course known Steven since he was a boy, but Steven and his parents did not visit Berlin often and Marie did not visit them in the States. Still, there were things spoken throughout the years that might be helpful to Jake. Marie was anxious to get to know someone who cared for her cousin.

They met over drinks later that evening. Marie found Jake to be personable and sincere. She told Jake that as children, Steven was always laughing and that he loved practical jokes. This was not the Steven he remembered. It made him smile to think that Steven was once lighthearted, even playful. Marie also shared that Steven’s father was not a likeable person. She said that most of the family stayed away from him. He was her father’s brother, but they were very different. Marie was aware of the war crimes and trials, but it all took place before she was born. Marie was 20 years older than Steven.

Jake wanted to tell Marie about the two pieces Steven’s father stole from the women in Germany. He was hesitant to jeopardize his goal of finding them or their relatives. Marie knew nothing of the town Steven’s father served in; in fact she didn’t seem to be aware that there were still people looking for survivors and relatives of victims. Jake didn’t understand how detached people could be; perhaps it was a survival tactic.

Being in Germany was very strange. He of course knew about the six million or more Jews who were murdered under Hitler’s orders during the Holocaust, but as a gay man, it was the knowledge of the thousands of homosexuals and suspected homosexuals who were tortured and killed. The idea that anyone could be murdered for their religious beliefs or sexuality was abhorrent to Jake. Beyond these groups, there were also people with disabilities, opposing political views, other religions (Jehovah’s Witness), and those labeled as Gypsies. More than one person marginalized or persecuted, was too many. For the first time in his life, Jake felt empowered to do something.

Jake thanked Marie for seeing him. He sincerely hoped that someday they’d have the opportunity to meet again. While in Berlin, Jake learned of the Arolsen Archives which is a mainly on-line organization that houses files and documents on individuals who were victims of Nazi persecution. The organization had a major presence in Berlin and Jake knew someone in the U.S. Department of State whom he hoped could make a connection. His hunch panned out.

Jake met with Eric Haverman at his office. Eric was one of Arolsen’s archivists and, as it turns out, someone who could be a big help in Jake’s search. Again, Jake was cautious about sharing too much information, however, considering Eric’s credentials, he was certain he could provide some background that might help him get to the two women or their relatives more quickly. It was clear that Eric could offer great guidance.

Jake decided to spend one more day in Berlin after meeting with Eric. Eric’s words were promising; any information could be helpful. Eric called Jake on his cell phone later the same day. He was fairly certain that Esther Roseman was alive and still living in Rüdesheim. Esther was 94 years old. She’d never been on Facebook and she had escaped from Auschwitz in 1944; she was 14 years old. Both of Esther’s parents died or were killed in the camps.

Jake asked Eric how he could contact Esther without invading her privacy. Eric told Jake that Esther had agreed to interviews in the past and that she might still be up for a conversation. Eric was willing to call her. Jake was impressed with how respectful Eric was; he didn’t pry or ask questions. Feeling hopeful and determined, Jake waited to hear back from Eric. He found himself thinking about Eric a lot. He seldom met men with such integrity and empathy.

The next morning Jake received a call that unbeknownst to him, would change his path for months to come. Esther’s daughter Tovah Schneider was currently living in Frankfurt. Fortunately, she spoke English and she was eager to learn about Jake’s reason for wanting to speak to her mother. Not knowing for certain that this Esther was the “right” Esther. He told Tovah that he was the friend of someone in the United States who might have some information about Esther’s parents and their home in Rüdesheim. It was not entirely true, but a rationale he was certain she’d later understand. He told Tovah that he was in Berlin and that he could be wherever she needed him to be as early as the next day.

Tovah told Jake that her mother was frail, but very sharp. She’d apparently spent her entire life educating people about the Holocaust: ensuring nothing of its kind would or could ever happen again. She would try her best to arrange a meeting within the next few days. She was also happy to accompany Jake as interpreter; Esther spoke very little English. That afternoon, Jake hopped a train to Frankfurt.

Tovah was able to arrange a meeting at Esther’s home the day after he arrived in Frankfurt. She told him that Rüdesheim was one hour outside of Frankfurt and that she’d be happy to drive him to her mother’s house and take him back to Berlin. Jake was certain she was concerned for her elderly mother, he would be too if he were her. She had also let Jake know he’d have one hour with Esther. At this point he wasn’t even 100% certain that she was the right woman he was looking for; one hour would be more than enough.

At 9:00 a.m. Tovah arrived at his hotel in Frankfurt. He was surprised to learn she was in her 70s. It made sense, but up until now, he hadn’t thought about it. She was very welcoming and she seemed eager to get to know him. They talked about Esther and her parents and their lives before she was born. She told Jake that her mother met her father at Auschwitz, but unfortunately, he didn’t survive the camp. Her mother escaped pregnant with Tovah, after learning that her husband had been killed. At the time, Esther did not know that he was more than likely killed in a gas chamber.

By the time they arrived at Esther’s home, he was certain she was the woman he was searching for. Esther was old and frail, but clear headed, she received Jake with open arms. After some tea and small talk, they began their conversation.

“Esther, it means a great deal to me that you were willing to meet with me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your life before and after Auschwitz. I know your life’s work has been to help others who went through WWII and to help all of us better understand what it was like to be sent to the camps. I’ve read several transcripts from talks you’ve given and I have to say I am humbled by what you have been through.”

Esther spoke slowly, with great care. Tovah was a good interpreter; she was happy to add details and clarify when necessary. About 15 minutes into the conversation, Jake asked the question that would give him the answer he was looking for.

“Esther, when you were a young girl living here in this town before you took the train to Auschwitz, was anything of yours taken from you?”

Esther’s eyes teared up. She looked down, composed herself, turned to Tovah and said,

“When I was 14 years old, my mother gave me a diamond and jade necklace that she had received from her parents as a wedding gift. My mother was fairly certain that she and my father would soon be taken away — several neighbors had already disappeared. She told me that the necklace was very valuable and that it might someday help her purchase a house. My mother told me to hide it in a safe place and to not tell a soul that she had it. I hid it in a box under my clothing. Two days later, my parents were taken away. The night they left home, I was alone in the house. In the middle of the night someone came into the house, covered my eyes and told me to stay quiet. Minutes later, the man left with whatever valuables were left in the house, including my necklace. After having said goodbye to my parents, losing the necklace sent me into a very deep depression. I couldn’t tell anyone about the stolen necklace. I knew that when I saw my mother, she would be very upset. The town was small, but I couldn’t imagine who would have known about it and taken it.”

Jake took a deep breath. His heart was beating quickly. He took Esther’s hands, realizing he was trembling, and looked at her and Tovah,

“Tovah, please tell your mother I have the necklace. It’s waiting for her in a safe place in New York.”

Tovah gasped, “Are you sure Jake. I don’t want to break my mother’s heart. She has spoken to me of this necklace, but she let go of the notion that she might never see it again, a long time ago.”

Jake nodded and Tovah relayed the message to Esther. Esther stopped breathing, then sobbed with her head in her hands for several minutes; finally looking up at Jake with immense joy. She reached over to take Jake’s face in her frail hands.

Tovah shared what her mother said to Jake.

“You have made an old woman happier than you could ever imagine. I have no other words.”

Esther sat in silence for a while. Jake used this opportunity to speak to Tovah about Rachel Schwartz and where she might be. Jake learned that the Schwartz family lived in the house next to the Roseman’s before they were all taken away. Esther and Rachel were inseparable, even in the camps. Esther told Tovah that Rachel was raped by a Nazi soldier; they were told she was moved to another camp after she started showing signs of pregnancy. Tovah thought it would be best not to bring up Rachel in front of her mother. The old woman deserved some time with the news that her stolen necklace would be returned after all these years.

Yes, there will be a Part III. Thank you for staying with me.

Why write a story with the Holocaust as a backdrop? My mother’s mother was a Russian Jew who migrated to the United States in 1906, converted to Catholicism when she met my Sicilian grandfather in Brooklyn. She was blind, which explains how a Russian and Sicilian ended up together. She lived in the U.S. during the Holocaust; oddly, she never spoke of it to anyone. I was nine years old when she died. Jewish history has always been a fascination and the realities of the Holocaust remains a part of history I will never fully grasp.

State of Mind

I am sensitive. I’m not embarrassed about it or ashamed of it; it’s who I am — took lots of therapy to get here. Sometimes friends or acquaintances make a comment to me about it, as if I’m either unaware or hearing it for the first time. If I confront you because you have failed to respond to me or you have shown no emotional or empathetic support when I’m in need, that’s not me being sensitive, it’s you not being accountable for your bad behavior. Most of you out there are smart enough to know the difference. It seems impossible to address these issues with individuals lately, people are either incapable of looking within or they dismiss the issue as your problem and not theirs. My tolerance for this sort of behavior from a “supposed” friend is waning. We all have problems and insecurities. There are a few things I need to tell myself as I consider this reality. First, I need to be patient and remind myself that I am not the center of the universe. Second, I can sound judgmental and impatient when I speak my truth, and lastly, forgiveness after sincerity is the caring and compassionate way to proceed. If you find a friendship becoming too difficult to sustain, address it or walk away. Ironically, the friends who will read this and nod their heads, are not the friends I am speaking to.

“It seems a lot of relationships fail, because when tough times come around … People want to give up too easily (sic). The fact of the matter is every relationship is going to experience difficult times sooner or later. Don’t throw away a potential good lasting relationship just because things got a little hard.” — Bryan Burden

I agree with this quote, but I believe there are red line values and situations. For example, if you believe (for whatever reason) that homosexuals are an abomination (def.: An abomination is a thing or action that inspires disgust, hatred, or loathing due to being vile, wicked, or offensive.), that’s a red line.

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Redemption From Beyond

It took his death to get to know him. I’m not sure why that’s such a big surprise. Do we ever truly know someone? I say I “know him” because when it was over, after he’d taken his last breath, I read the words he couldn’t speak.

Steven died on Sunday morning after a six month battle with pancreatic cancer; ironic because it’s the only cancer I fear. I had recently found out he was sick by accident. I was on line at Walmart and a mutual friend told me. He apparently kept his illness to himself; Steven was always very private and he despised people who shared private matters publicly. Out of respect for Steven, I waited.

I received a call from his family’s attorney on Wednesday, after Steven was cremated. Tyler asked that I stop by his office at my earliest convenience. I was eager to know what it was all about, but I knew Steven had no money and no other assets. Maybe there were diamonds in a vault somewhere. I had been Steven’s partner for over ten years, so if he owned anything, I would have known. We stayed in touch after we split and there was never talk of money under the mattress; Steven was a civil servant.

In truth, Steven and I didn’t talk. We chatted about this and that, we kidded one another about every imperfection, we talked over one another, and we argued, but we didn’t talk. I recall this one time when I thought we’d had a breakthrough. Steven came home from work, took a shower, spent some time at his desk and finally ended up in the kitchen. He was more quiet than usual, so I asked him if everything was okay. Whenever I would inquire he’d just shrug his shoulders and grunt. But this time he looked right at me and told me that his father died that afternoon.

“Oh Steven, I’m so sorry, what happened?”

Steven looked down and said, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

When I tried to continue the conversation in bed, he turned away. I knew from experience not to prod. I thought we’d be attending his father’s funeral and that perhaps I’d be meeting his family, but none of that happened. His father never came up again. And this was the way we communicated for ten years.

I was anxious about the visit with his attorney. Was Steven leaving me the task of clearing up his hospital bills? Did he have a child I didn’t know about? It could be anything and a part of me did not want to get involved. But curiosity was getting the better of me, so a 2:00 p.m. appointment that day was scheduled.

It was a few hours until my meeting with Tyler. I had time to kill, so I decided to take a walk downtown to see if the loft Steven rented was empty. I arrived at his building, checked the front door, found it open and climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment. The entrance was taped off with police tape. I was confused and concerned. I knew Steven died in hospital from cancer. I assume someone would have told me if there had been foul play.

I tried his neighbors, but no one would answer the door. Feeling frustrated and anxious, I went downstairs to a coffee shop a few doors away. I ordered a coffee, sat for a bit and then decided to ask the guy behind the counter if he knew anything.

“Hi. I have a friend who lived in a loft a couple of doors down. His name was Steven and he used to come here for coffee. I’m pretty sure he sometimes also used your internet. If I show a photo can you tell me if you know him?”

“I think I know who you’re talking about. Yes, he came here quite a bit. I hear he died a few days ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I went up to his apartment and it was taped off with police tape. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Only neighborhood gossip. I’m not sure if what I heard is true, only that it happened in the middle of the night; sorry.”

“Wow. Do you know anyone around here who may be able to give me more information?”

“I don’t know man, you might want to go to the police.”

At that point I was even more anxious than I had been earlier. What the hell. Steven was quiet, but I cannot imagine him mixed up in anything illegal. It was getting close to my meeting with Tyler, his attorney, I figured I’d learn more then.

Tyler was a one person operation; no secretary, no assistant, no colleagues. He shook my hand and asked me to have a seat. I told him that I was surprised by his call. He told me that this sort of thing happened fairly often; the living are reluctant to share certain aspects of their will for fear of a negative reaction. I shared my experience at Steven’s apartment prior to meeting with him; I watched for a reaction, but Tyler had none.

“You’ll soon learn why Steven wanted you to come and see me.”

The silence although only seconds seemed like an eternity. Tyler then slid an envelope across his desk and asked me read the contents. He left his office to give me privacy.

Dear Jake,

If you’re reading this letter, I have passed. I apologize that I did not tell you about my illness. As you know, I have never been able to communicate my feelings very well. Rather than make a big mess of the whole thing, I figured it would be better for you to discover who I was, after I died.

I didn’t ever expect for the two of us to become serious. I tried to push you away; I hoped you’d walk away, but now matter how horrible I was, you stuck with me and endured the torture. I’m sorry for what I put you through. I’m not sure I ever had the capacity to be a good partner. I did have tremendous respect for you and no doubt a strong attraction.

Things happened before we met that I was not able to speak to you about; circumstances I was born into and did not choose. Nonetheless, I was forced to deal with it in my own way and now I have to pass it along to you.

If you recall, when my father passed I was unable to speak about him. My father was a Nazi war criminal. He hated Jews and homosexuals. You being both, made it especially difficult to discuss. I hated my father, I hated his ideology and I hated the pain he’d put others through. I’d always considered my mother was complicit, as she knew of his crimes and stayed silent.

My father was on trial in Nuremberg, however, they were unable to prove his guilt. I did not learn of any of this until I was in my 20s. A first cousin currently living in Berlin made me aware of his atrocities. Marie shared things with me that I knew I had to take to my grave. He was a horrible human being with no redeeming qualities. This is where you come in Jake.

In addition to being a murderer, my father had the habit of boasting about anything and everything. He had a friend who would come to the house when I was a teenager. My father was not aware that I was listening. Even though I had no idea what his words meant, I heard them and they remained with me. My father spoke of having a ring and a necklace in his possession. He said the ring was from a woman by the name of Rachel Schwartz and the necklace was taken from Esther Roseman. He joked about how no one could have possibly known that he had the jewelry; he also said that they were probably both dead anyway. I had not even thought about what he’d said until I was informed of his death. He didn’t have much money when he died, but he had a safe deposit box at a bank in Cleveland where he lived prior to his death.

I lied to you and told you that I was going to Cleveland for work. I apologize for lying, but again, I couldn’t speak of my father. In the safe deposit box were three things, the two pieces of jewelry and a letter my mother had written to him, blaming my father for all of the bad things they experienced in their marriage. She said that it had all to do with his devotion to Hitler. My mother said that she’d hoped he would have been convicted of war crimes. She further regretted not testifying against him. It brought me some comfort and closure, at least when it came to my mother.

Finding the jewelry reminded me of the stories he repeated to his friend. I can hear my father bragging as the names of those women were stamped in my brain. I can’t imagine that these two Jewish women could still be alive, but I’m certain they have family somewhere. I’m hoping you can find the rightful owners of these pieces. My father often spoke of a small town outside of Frankfurt where he’d spent most of his time serving in the German army. The name of the town is Rüdesheim. I hope you will be able to find their families or someone who knows them.

I know this is a lot to take in. I’m hoping you understand why these memories couldn’t cross my lips. I didn’t want to lose you Jake. I suspect my father’s friend shared that my father possessed the jewelry; these meaningful pieces in the wrong hands would not allow us to make this right. My attorney has the two pieces for you when and if you are ready to find their rightful owners. If for some reason you cannot do this, Tyler will donate the jewelry to the Jewish Museum in Berlin.

I loved you Jake; I know not the way you would have chosen to be loved, but I loved you the only way I knew how.

Yours,

Steven

I sat holding Steven’s letter for a long time. Tyler stayed away from his office to give me time to take it in. I thought about all of the moments I was furious with Steven for his silence and avoidance. I felt his love, trust, and absolute kindness; it filled me with hope. I would do what Steven asked of me without hesitation.

When Tyler returned he told me about the break-in at Steven’s apartment the day he died in hospital. He assured me that no one else knew where the pieces were. He brought them out to show them to me. It was obvious that they were beautifully crafted, fine and valuable pieces. I held them and asked Tyler to keep them safe until I could locate their owners.

There will be a Part II to this story . . .

State-of-Mind

I have recently been to the pyramids, satisfying a lifelong desire. It’s a strange feeling. On one hand you’re glad you did it, but on the other, you feel a little let down. Don’t get me wrong it was a surreal and extremely rewarding adventure. It was the hours and hours it took to get to Cairo and what I went through to make it happen.

The most notable of all obstacles was strep throat. Two days before arriving in Egypt my throat was so sore I was fairly certain Cairo and the pyramids were not in the cards. A major mind fuck and disappointment. A member of the ship’s crew told me about an English speaking Egyptian doctor I could see in Alexandria. I was achy and drained of all energy, but the pyramids were only hours away. The doctor diagnosed strep throat right away, prescribed antibiotics and he told me they’d start working quickly; indeed they did. The treatment cost me less than two American dollars. Grateful, surprised, and relieved, I had a 13 hour hazy experience in Cairo I’ll never forget. One day earlier and it would not have happened . . . probably ever. Life is a strange and glorious proposition.

I visited many other places on this trip (mostly documented on Facebook and Instagram).

Not looking for sympathy, that’s not my style. I think there are times in life we are afraid to share our feelings for fear that others will judge us. Judge me if you wish, I’m finally getting to the point where I don’t care. It’s amazing how much happier you can be when you decide what matters and what doesn’t.

“Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”

— Mahatma Gandhi

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Kyle’s Final Moments

It was another ordinary work day. Kyle showered, dressed, and drank his coffee in two large gulps before heading to the subway. It was the kind of day New Yorkers loved to hate: hazy, hot and humid. Kyle’s thoughts were all over the place; yesterday’s work screw-ups, not answering Lily’s texts, the laundry he hadn’t touched in two weeks and all of the other potential calamities he had no control over. The subway platform was crammed with faceless commuters he was happy to never meet. Large droplets of sweat ran down his back as he boarded the train. With only a tiny bit of space between two other passengers, Kyle closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

About 10 minutes into his ride, the train screeched to a grinding halt. Everyone in his subway car was propelled forward and then backwards. He had to apologize to several people whom he nearly knocked to the ground. Subway riders normally show no signs of concern when this happens; it being an almost daily occurrence. Seconds after the stop, all of the lights in Kyle’s car went dark — this too happens often. Everyone held their breath while they waited for the lights to go back on and for the train to start moving again.

Kyle started feeling anxious after several minutes of no lights and no announcement. It was normally the one thing you could count on, a moment of quiet and then you’re on your way.

“Passengers, we are experiencing some signal problems, but we will be moving momentarily.”

What Kyle waited for, but no announcement was heard. Passengers began talking to one another. The AC had gone out when the lights went out, the subway car was quickly becoming sweltering hot — it felt as if the air was being sucked out of the train. It was a faint odor, but Kyle thought he smelled smoke. Someone yelled,

“Does anyone else smell smoke?”

At this point they’d been sitting in the dark for about eight minutes. Kyle asked the people around them if they were okay. He assured one of his fellow passengers that this happened all the time and he was certain they’d start moving in a matter of moments. A very pregnant woman on his right seemed distressed. He asked her if she was okay and she shook her head from side-to-side.

People started coughing as the subway car filled with smoke. The emergency lights had come on, but it was too dark and smoky to see anything. It wasn’t until that moment, that Kyle realized they were in a tunnel. He was surprised how quiet the car was despite the circumstances. Coughing and sniffling were the only sounds heard. And then finally an announcement:

“Passengers, this is your conductor, please remain calm as we assess our situation. I’ll be back with another update soon.”

I began to sense panic all around me. People were opening the doors between the two subway cars only to discover the car next to us was also filled with smoke. The pregnant woman grabbed my arm and spoke,

“Estoy embarazada de ocho meses y tengo mucho miedo.”

My high school Spanish kicked in and I told her to stay calm. I let her know that I would help her.

“No te preocupes, solo quédate cerca.”

She squeezed my arm and put her head down. I was happy to see that she had a bottle of water. She held it out to offer me some, but I was too preoccupied to think about how thirsty I was. It had to be 110 degrees and there was no ventilation. A few passengers managed to open the windows, but the smoke had filled the tunnel as well, so it made no difference.

“Okay people, here’s the situation: there is a fire about 50 feet in front of the train. The fire department has been notified and they’re on their way. Sit tight and drink water if you have any; and if you have extra, share it. The train can’t move so we just have to wait for help.”

After the announcement people started screaming. Kyle was concerned about the amount of smoke filling the subway car and how packed it was. He could hear children crying in another part of the car.

He started thinking he might not get out of this alive. He looked at his cell phone, but he had no bars; who would he call anyway? Kyle was a low-key kind of guy, but he loved outdoor adventures; he hadn’t yet had a chance to skydive, hang glide, or rock climb in Thailand. These thoughts entered and exited quickly, bringing him sadness and remorse. Why hadn’t he been more aggressive about pursuing his dreams.

Of course he knew the answer. He just buried his father weeks ago. Sam, Kyle’s father, had been suffering with a rare bone disease for the past two years. At first it was just minor aches and pains, but by the time they figured out what was wrong, Sam was in a wheelchair and his bones were brittle. Kyle made the decision to spend every weekend and all of his free time with his father. That was a decision he’d never regret. Another announcement interrupted his thoughts:

“Okay people, help is on the way. They’re putting out the track fire, but we won’t be able to move. We’re going to have to evacuate the train and make our way through the tunnel to the station. The good news is that the station is not far away.”

The pregnant woman holding onto Kyle started quietly crying into his elbow. At that moment, he stopped caring about his own escape; his life. This young woman needed him, that’s what mattered. He asked her what her name was. She told him it was Cara. He calmly whispered,

“Listen Cara, we’re going to get out of here. I promise I won’t let you go. You’ll be breathing fresh air in a few minutes.”

Cara nodded and moved closer to Kyle. Everyone around them was crying. The heat and smoke were causing some people to pass out; Kyle was hoping Cara would stay awake. He removed his t-shirt and told Cara to cover her mouth with it. She did as he asked and once again offered Kyle some water — this time he took a big gulp.

A commotion could be heard in the tunnel. Kyle wasn’t sure if they’d started rescuing the passengers, every second seemed like an eternity. Kyle heard one of the doors of the subway car opening. People were slowly exiting the car; the hacking coughing sounds were drowning out all of the other sounds. The smoke inhalation was keeping the passengers from rushing to the open door. Kyle signaled Cara to walk toward the door. She held onto his arm and motioned for him to lead. When they reached the door it was too smoky to see the inside of the tunnel, but someone was telling them to step down carefully.

Once in the tunnel, people were shouting:

“Get as close to the ground as possible.”

Kyle was hoping the smoke was killing the rats — he hated rats and he knew from seeing them race across the tracks daily, that they were well fed and large. For now, getting Cara to safety was his priority; he erased all other thoughts.

“Stand wherever you are and wait for a first responder to get to you. If the electricity returns, you could be killed by the third rail.”

Cara was shaking at this point and he could feel her tear drops on his arm. They stood in silence for a long time. Kyle decided he should shout out to the rescuers:

“There is a very pregnant woman here. Please come for her first.”

Cara seemed to understand the message. Moments later a masked first responder was asking where she was.

“She’s here, she’s here.”

The responder approached them asking for the woman to wave her arms in the air; Kyle did it for her. He stepped up to them saying,

“Put this mask on and hold onto my belt.”

The man told Kyle to wait and someone would get to him. It was too dangerous to walk in a group. Kyle told Cara in Spanish that he’d see her soon. She didn’t want to leave him and he had to almost push her away. Cara reached over and kissed him on the cheek,

“Muchas gracias, amigo. Nos vemos pronto.”

He hoped Cara was right. People all around Kyle were being led away, he’d assumed to safety. Each time an emergency worker in a mask approached him, he told them to go to someone else. After some time Kyle felt sleepy. He got down onto the edge of the tracks and closed his eyes. He knew at this point that he wouldn’t make it out alive, but he was certain Cara would. He was grateful to his family and friends for having been in his life. Kyle was not a religious man; however, he knew that the natural order of things would make things right. The thought that gave him comfort, was that he’d made a difference; he closed his eyes with the absence of fear and regret.

_________________________

When I lived in New York City, there were two things I thought about every time I took the subway: fire and rats. This fictional story has probably actually taken place in reality several times. We live among heroes.

Current State-of-Mind

A bit anxious about Barcelona on the 9th. Portugal’s airport staff is striking until midnight on the 9th and apparently they will be cancelling many flights. If mine gets cancelled, I’m not sure how I’d get there. I haven’t travelled for a while and I’ve been looking forward to this trip. And even if they don’t cancel my flight, the strike starts back up the day before I’m scheduled to return home. Not much I can do except wait and hope that it works out. I wish there were other ways for workers to impact corporate management. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

My Paco has had a left ear and left nostril infection for six months. Two different vets have tried multiple medications and the problem is not going away. It’s either a resistant bacteria, mites, allergies, or a bigger issue in his ear canal or nostril. They’ve suggested invasive surgery, but for me, that’s a last resort. It bothers me because it bothers him.

The political situation has me wondering how bad it will get before it gets better. When I consider the plight of the people of Gaza and Ukraine; my personal concerns seem small in comparison.

“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.” – Alphonse Karr

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Closure in Unexpected Places: A Martini Glass Story

I purchased a single martini glass for several hundred dollars this week. Before you judge me, let me explain. I was speaking with a friend of over thirty years about this; she pointed something out that I hadn’t thought much about, she said,

“You normally don’t attach yourself to things, so I know this martini glass means something to you, so the cost doesn’t matter.”

Yes it does; it means a great deal to me. The person who gifted me a set of four of these gorgeous Salviati Murano glasses is no longer with us. The two of us had the most complicated relationship of my life. It lasted 16 years and however twisted it was, it will reside in my memory for the rest of my life.

As with all relationships, both she and I had our own baggage. When I started working for her, I was young and naive. I did not report directly to her; therefore, there was a buffer between us — my immediate supervisor both protected me and shielded me from her darker side. Early on, I only got to experience the compelling and positive aspects of her narcissism — when the narcissist treats you as if you are the only one in the room. Praise, gifts, promises; all showered upon me whenever in her presence.

When anyone said that she was opportunistic or loved the spotlight, I would argue that it was difficult for women to stand out in a man’s world. I defended and deflected for a long time. As the years progressed, she and I became closer. I spent time with her at her country estate and she introduced me to celebrities, famous writers, and artists. If she needed something from me, it was always a gracious request. It took me years to realize that I had fallen in love with her. Not romantic love, but the love you might feel for someone you idolize.

People warned me not to get too close. I would either tell them they were wrong or I’d tell myself they were jealous. My supervisor had warned me as well, but he modeled similar behavior with her. I was promoted with salary increases several times; to the best of my knowledge, always merit based. In my 13th year of employment, my supervisor left his position and I found myself working directly for her. We had a honeymoon phase that lasted a few months. During this period, she pulled me off to the side at a party and told me that she loved me. I remained on a delusional cloud until the shit hit the fan. She had a personal situation in her life that made her angry and bitter. The softness faded and the edges became sharper. I started to see what others had warned me about.

I’d like to interject that she gifted the martini glasses to her executive team during a time of tremendous business success. We were at the height of profit and industry awards. I cherished those glasses; one because I’d felt I’d earned them and two, they were one of the most beautiful gifts I’d ever received. A few months after getting the glasses, I actually visited Murano in Venice where they were hand crafted. That trip made them even more special to me.

Returning to my final years working with this woman: I went back and forth between being blown away by her intelligence and power, to disgusted and bewildered. She started asking me to do things that I didn’t think were good for the business; nothing untoward or illegal, just not in our best interest.

I realize I’m being somewhat cryptic; I promise to explain why later. Life is not black and white and I have come to realize that living in the gray is not easy for me. I like things to be near perfect; neat and tidy and tied up in a bow.

When it became impossible for me to comply with her direction, I pushed back — not easy, she was a force and I was expendable. Of course I didn’t think so, but I knew from how she treated others, that I most certainly was. We traveled to Italy together for work. I didn’t need to be there, so I suspect I was being tested. Her loyalty test was beyond brutal and I failed. It was at that point that I realized if I didn’t resign, I would be terminated. I’d seen many before me go through similar trials. When we returned from Italy, I resigned. Sixteen years of passion for the work, compromise, falling in and out of love, and brutal disillusionment.

I’m fully aware that I was equally responsible for the disintegration of our relationship. I could have sucked it up, massaged her ego, acted as if all was honky-dory, but at the time, I was both in therapy and seeing a life coach. I felt as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I was finding it difficult to grin and bear it. I caved and my world shattered. That position defined me in every way. I withdrew, relocated, and reinvented myself. Survival mode can either break you or force you to see the world in a new way.

A couple of years after I left my position and my New York City life, this individual died in a tragic automobile accident. I took it harder than I imagined I would. No matter what my misgivings about my final months with her might have been, I would have never wished her to perish. That is why I chose not to name her in my story. I never had closure; therefore, I will never know what drove her to do the things she did and why she tossed me aside before I resigned. I couldn’t even bring myself to attend her memorial.

When I decided to relocate to Portugal, shedding 99% of my belongings was easy; I was seeking to start anew. One of the few gifts I could not walk away from was those martini glasses. They were the one part of that relationship I couldn’t let go of. I love these glasses, I love martinis, and I loved the former life they represent. Prior to leaving the United States, I shipped two boxes to my new address in Portugal. One of these boxes contained the four well wrapped martini glasses. Little did I know that they’d have to go through customers when entering Portugal. It took months and many telephone calls to finally locate the boxes. Because I did not have receipts for the contents, it cost me a small fortune to get the two boxes out of customs. When they were finally delivered to my home, one of the four martini glasses was broken. I wept openly and lost several nights of sleep.

I engaged in a failed search for a replacement glass. I contacted all of the other executive team members who had received the same gift; none of them still owned the glasses. I learned that Salviati only made a limited number, explaining why they were impossible to find. I gave up. I placed the three remaining glasses in a prominent spot in my new home. I have never used a single glass from the collection.

It’s been eight years since I placed those four glasses in that mailed box. I have checked eBay no less than a dozen times over the years. A few days ago, just for giggles and laughs. I looked on eBay. There it was, a single Salviati martini glass. The irony is that each of the four glasses has a different design and the one listed was the same glass that broke in the box that was shipped. I made an offer and after a bit of haggling, the glass was mine. It will arrive any day now and I will happily complete my collection. Early in my story I asked you not to judge me, I hope now you understand. I’m not sure why (and I may never know), but for me, this helps bring closure to an open wound. Sometimes an object can represent a time in your life, a person in your life, or a notion you’re hanging onto. These four glasses are all of those things for me. The challenge will be to keep them from breaking — they are extremely fragile. They mark a time in my life with tremendous growth and the ability to walk away when my integrity depended on it.

Is it true that everything happens for a reason? I would answer that sometimes it does seem so. The missing glass pictured above, will soon arrive.

State-of Mind

The story told here is non-fiction.

An individual I care about recently informed me that it was inappropriate for me to flaunt my lifestyle on social media. A part of me knows that I do not over-post. My intention has always been to stay in touch with people in my life that I do not see on a regular basis. When I moved to Portugal it seemed even more important to share my life experiences for the benefit of those in my circle of friends and acquaintances. But this comment shook me to my core. Perhaps a part of me thought I might be over-sharing or that people in my life that did not have the means to travel as I do, might feel that I am rubbing it in their faces.

I ran this by a few of my friends who told me to ignore the comment. They said that my travels inspire them and others. No one I spoke to seemed to believe that I over-post. But if I’m going to be honest, there are a few people in my orbit that I believe should pull back a bit on social media. Usually because they post on Facebook everyday and sometimes very superficial (i.e., I lost my keys and found them) posts. Or they post a different selfie daily. I feel very judgmental and that I might be a bit unfair about this subject, but still, it’s how I feel. And so, I have not posted about my travels or adventures in a long while. Last week a good friend said that I should go back to posting. He said that people like him missed seeing what I was up to. I heard him loud and clear, however, as I mentioned earlier, I was stung badly. I guess I’m searching for some middle ground. Perhaps I will use this platform for social sharing. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s very easy to be judgmental until you know someone’s truth.”

Kate Winslet

I hate proofreading, therefore, please excuse any grammatical or typographical errors.

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Luck or Earned Success

People have called me a lucky bastard my entire life. If I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure how to take it. My friend Mark was told he couldn’t board a Cessna to the Maldives last year because the plane had a weight limit and they had met the limit. The plane went down on route and everyone was killed; Mark is lucky. I ask people why they think I’m lucky and they tell me it’s because everything comes to me so easily.

I beg to differ. First and foremost, I was born black. I was born blacker than any other black person within 1000 miles of my town. Second, I was born poor. I’m talkin’ about the kind of poor you never shake; like third world poor. And lastly, I was a foster child. Do you still think I’m lucky? Do you think the shade of black you are doesn’t matter?

Yes, maybe I was lucky that I was born in the good old U.S. of A.; a country where your skin color only matters if you need a job, or you want to live anywhere, or you want to marry anyone. Needless to say I had my struggles growing up. I want to tell you about all of my foster homes, but a few stand out.

The Mississippi department of Social Services decided that my single mother was unfit to raise me. She worked at McDonald’s and left me home alone a lot. I guess our neighbors heard me crying and reported my mother to the police. I was only two years old when I went into my first foster home so there’s not much I can tell you about it. Subsequent foster parents told me that I was one of 12 fostered children in that home — Social Services had to lock those people up because they were trafficking the kids. Fortunately, I was too young to even be groomed.

When I was five years old I ended up with this older couple that took me to New Jersey. They were nice people, but they were too old to take care of me and I ended up with people who were younger, but they only took kids for the money. Social Services figured out their scheme and shipped me back to Mississippi. My dark skin made it difficult to find parents for me.

When I was 12 years old I was brought to a nice house Outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I could tell these people had money because they had five bedrooms in their house, wood floors, and a couple of nice cars. It was a Caucasian family of four — their two children were not adopted. I liked this family and this house a lot. I realized the only way they’d ever adopt me, was if I behaved well and showed them I was worth having around. They were kind people from the start, not allowing me to do more chores than their own children. There were rules, but they were fair and easy enough to follow. I was actually happy for the first time in my life. But, it wasn’t all good and easy.

People stared wherever we went. Bonnie and Everett made it clear that Anne and Mark were their parents and I was a social experiment. I was meant to make them feel better about their abundant lives. I was fully aware of my role and I was determined to play the part well.

The first thing I did was ask Anne and Mark if they would call me Scott and sign me up to junior high school as Scott. They said they’d do it with no questions asked. I mimicked Everett’s every move so that I wouldn’t stand out; blending in was the only way to survive. When Anne took me clothes shopping, I picked out clothes Everette would wear. Lastly, I pretended to enjoy every dish prepared for the family. No signs of the food I was familiar with and I certainly wasn’t going to ask for it.

What I did ask for was writing utensils and notebooks. Anne was happy to purchase them for me. I was quiet, studious, and I stayed out of trouble — never mentioning my past and keeping my eyes on the future.

About a year after I joined the family, Anne and Mark told me that I should dress for a nice restaurant because we were all going to dinner in the evening. It seemed like an ordinary family get together, therefore, I didn’t anticipate what was to take place that night.

We were all seated and two bottles of bubbles arrived, one had alcohol and the other didn’t. Glasses were filled and the waitstaff left the table. Mark asked us all to raise our glasses. I had no idea what was going on, having never seen this sort of ritual.

“This is to officially welcome Scott into the family. That is of course if Scott wants to be a part of this crazy crew. Do you Scott?”

I was thrown off-guard; shocked really.

“Scott, what do you say?”

“Umm, ummm, yes, I would like that.”

“Well, Scott says yes, after some surprising hesitation, he agrees.”

Anne gets up from her seat at the table and runs over to hug and kiss me. Bonnie and Everett were coaxed by Mark to join her. This is what I’d always wanted, why wasn’t I thrilled? It didn’t take long to find out why my intuition was right.

That was one wild rollercoaster of a year. My last name was changed to Stanton and my new parents had to figure out how to hide their regret. Some friends stopped calling, others made excuses. Invitations to parties and dinners became less frequent. My newly dubbed siblings were suddenly distant.

For me it was an old, familiar story. I knew exactly why the honeymoon was over; I was once again alone; fighting for my right to exist. Anne and Mark tried. They said nice things, bought me nice clothes, they talked to me about piano lessons, soccer camp, and a racing bike. I could tell they wanted this arrangement to work, but I was cautious and dubious. I stayed in the shadows. I kept my head in the books. I focused on the prize.

By the time I started Harvard, my parents had adjusted to the hate and Bonnie and Everett barely tolerated me. I did everything I could to stay out of everybody’s way. I got a full scholarship based on my SAT scores and academic record. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) was not a factor, but I’m certain everyone assumed that DEI got me in. So once again, I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself worthy.

I joined every club, competed in athletic programs, and I considered the things in life that were attainable. During my quiet moments I often thought about my birth mom: why did she give me up? Was she alive? Where did she live? I’m not sure why, but my biological father didn’t enter my thoughts; perhaps I was fed too much propaganda about black fathers.

I was sitting in Harvard’s main dining hall one day and a beautiful woman sat across from me. She said hi and asked me if I was enjoying Art History. I realized she must have been in the same class, but there were over a hundred students in that class and I had long ago taught myself not to look around or get distracted. She introduced herself as Claire.

“Nice to meet you Claire, I’m Scott.”

Claire noticed that I was socially awkward, but it didn’t stop her from talking. I listened, asked a couple of questions, and hoped she’d move on. Claire eventually stood up.

“Scott, it was nice meeting you, I’ll see you in class.”

I nodded and went back to finishing my sandwich.

For the next few weeks, Claire sat next to me in class. She was friendly, but not pushy; I remained somewhat distant. I was attracted to her, but the number of red flags made me very cautious. Claire was white, ambitious, outspoken, and attractive. Any sort of closeness was way too risky. I concentrated on Art History.

I noticed Claire’s absence for the next few lectures. At the start of her third absence, our professor asked if anyone had seen or heard from Claire. We all looked at one another and then I noticed everyone looking at me. Our professor asked me to stay after class; he once again asked if I’d see her. He told me that she had been reported missing a few days prior. I told him that I had not had any contact with her since the last lecture she’d attended.

That night the police came to my dorm room. They asked me if I would go with them to the Cambridge police station. They escorted me out of the dorm while several of my fellow students watched. At the station, they informed me that several students had reported seeing Claire and I together. I shared how we were acquainted, however, that did not seem to dissuade them. The media got hold of the story and I was vilified.

The police couldn’t actually charge me with a crime being that at that point Claire was only reported missing. Still, my photograph was all over social media and I was guilty in the eyes of a jury of my peers. In fact, the University was considering suspending me, I assume in order to show that they were being proactive about Claire’s case.

My birth mother read about the adoption story and figured out that I was her son. My mother was in a much better place, often wondering about me throughout the years. She did a bit of research and found me at Harvard. When I received her message, I was elated. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding her. My adoptive parents claimed that the records of my birth mother and birthplace were sealed.

We met at a coffee shop on campus the next morning. Her name is Cassandra. She’s smart and beautiful. She expressed no regret about her youth, having had a very difficult upbringing and very little opportunity early on in her life. She is currently an advocate for single mothers in Mississippi. Cassandra believed me when I told her I had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance.

A few days later, Claire returned to campus. She had apparently met a guy a couple of weeks prior. They decided to take his boat out to sea; she failed to tell anyone where she was going. Once she did think about it, she was already halfway to the Caribbean with no cell service. When she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered family, friends, and the authorities were looking for her. Claire immediately flew back to New Haven and apologized.

What I found disturbing was that no one contacted me to apologize. All that I had known and worked for was in jeopardy at that time. I had no support from anyone except for my birth mother. I truly believe my parents and siblings thought that I was somehow involved with Claire’s disappearance.

Years later Claire did manage to find me and apologize. She had some lame excuse about being caught up in her homecoming and not knowing I was questioned by the police. For a time I had considered suing Harvard and the New Haven police department, however, Cassandra advised me to move on. She said that I should channel my anger into graduating and finding the right professional position.

Today I am a U.S. Congressman for the state of Georgia. My parents have often reached out to me, but I am guarded. Turning my back on them would come to no good. My brother and sister have their own lives; they have never shown remorse or interest and that’s fine with me.

Cassandra and I visit often. I credit her with being elected to Congress. She is often by my side for official ceremonies. I consider her opinions and advice in everything I do. Someday soon, I hope to introduce her to my future wife.

As a Congressmen I have fought for DEI; not because I am a product of its practice, but because I know and believe that the world is a cruel place for anyone who is different. Creating ways to ensure some resemblance of equality and fairness, is my life’s work.

By the way, please call me by my given name, Jamal Jackson.

State-of Mind

You might be thinking, “How can he write in the first person, as a black American male?” Truth is, I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to be a black man in America. It’s all conjecture and creative writing, but isn’t that usually the case? Men writing female characters and vice versa. A straight writer writing gay characters; you get the picture. I’m angry about the current politicizing of DEI in the U.S.; politicians and citizens wishing to further divide the country along racial and ideological lines.

Being a minority in the U.S. is at a huge disadvantage on many levels. White men hold the power and they are afraid of losing it and they will do everything they can to keep it. Of course there are good white men and of course there are people of color who should never have been put in positions they weren’t skilled for; however, the numbers are disproportionate. Sadly, it has been this way since our forefathers won the revolution and wrote the constitution — all men are not created equal and they never have been. DEI is an woke attempt to level the playing field. As a woke white male, I support protecting the rights of individuals; further, I support any opportunity to ensure diversity, equity and inclusion in all aspects of life.

I’ve shared this before and I still believe it to be true. I applied for a position over thirty years ago, when affirmative action was the law in federally funded institutions. I lost out to a woman of color. At the time I was angry. I thought myself the better candidate. I soon after realized that I was not the best choice and that the administration at the university had done the right thing for many reasons. White men have had the advantage in the U.S. for centuries, why not ensure that everyone is given an equal opportunity to succeed.

I’m enjoying my stable life in Portugal; my home, Paco, my friends, and Portuguese/EU Politics (flawed, but progressive and working toward making life better for its residents). Dwelling on the rise of authoritarian rule in the U.S. is difficult, tragic and more than I choose to handle. Choose your platform and fight for what you believe in.

“One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.— Franklin Thomas

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When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

It started with an occasional glance over his shoulder. A crazy feeling, an odd sensation that someone was watching. Each time Peter would dismiss this notion, knowing that being paranoid is neither reasonable nor founded in truth. After all, he was a nobody, a non-entity.

Two weeks went by and his cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Peter looked down at his phone and saw that it was an unknown caller; he ignored it. It happened again the next night and the next. He’d tried blocking the number, the same ring at the same hour, the caller persisted. It got Peter thinking about several people he might have pissed off over the years; there have been a few. There was that car he sold to this guy on Facebook Marketplace. It was a Dodge Dart that looked pretty good on the outside, but had been a lemon from the start — let it be someone else’s lemon he thought. The buyer’s name was Steve; Steve wasn’t very happy. Then there was this woman Sharon he’d met on Tinder. Sharon was a bit too needy and Peter tended to be emotionally unavailable. Her free flowing tears became a problem and he forgot to leave a note. Then there was this cousin who couldn’t handle who Peter voted for in the most recent election. He told Peter that blood was everything and Peter told him to fuck off and search for his soul, being certain he’d lost it some time ago.

The ‘do not disturb button’ on Peter’s phone did not deter the caller. He became incredulous; refusing to consider how far this person would go. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should pick up the phone the next time. Later that evening, as predicted, Peter’s mobile phone rang and he answered, “Who is this?”

Beth said, “No need to be rude Peter.”

“It’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m being rude? What the fuck do you want Beth?”

“Just to say hello, it’s been a long time.”

Peter cut off the call and turned off his phone. He sat and mulled over what he had done to Beth to drive her to this point. She’d stalked him, annoyed him with middle of the night calls, what else had she done that he was unaware of? Peter couldn’t recall how their relationship had ended. He recalled meeting Beth in Art History at Uni. She was attractive, opinionated, and approachable. They’d gone out for a coffee after a lecture on Caravaggio. Beth found him to be provocative and progressive and Peter believed him to be subversive and propped-up by the far left of his day. They’d had a heated conversation that got him all worked-up and horny; he had to have her.

Peter hadn’t given her much thought lately, but come to think of it, Beth did seem a bit off; maybe that’s why he had run away so fast. There were moments he’d checked out, but to be fair, there was that intense passion; hard to resist and Beth knew it. When he did finally leave her, she wasn’t having it. They had a bit of a public screaming match and she finally got the message. Peter had been through similar break-ups before, so he shrugged it off. He knew he could be an asshole, but he was young and cocky.

A week after he’d hung up on Beth, there was an incident that had him confused. He was sitting at his desk at work and a DM popped up on his Mac. It was from a woman he had dated over five years ago; her name was Lisa. Lisa insisted they meet as soon as possible. Peter was half hoping she was interested in seeing him again and half hoping it was something completely unrelated to their romantic involvement. He had a drink with Lisa the following night. She told him that she’d been contacted by the FBI. She had agreed to talk to an agent who questioned her about Peter and their history. At the end of a 15 minute phone interview, the agent told her that Peter was being investigated for treason. Lisa said that since she never had a problem with Peter and because she was certain he wasn’t capable of treason, she´d decided to tell him. Peter was upset about what Lisa shared, but he considered it ridiculous and probably a mistake. They both agreed that he was a schmuck, however, not cut out for crimes against his country.

Then it happened again a few days later with Lauren, a girl he’d dated briefly in college. Lauren said the conversation with the FBI agent was brief, but concerning. It had gotten to the point where Peter thought he should contact the FBI to find out more about what they were investigating — thinking cooperation would help his case.

The D.C. FBI office had no record of these phone calls. They told him that this sort of thing happened all the time; scorned lovers and angry neighbors. Peter put two and two together and decided to speak to Beth. He didn’t think calling her would be very effective, so he went down to the bar in the Village where they’d met.

Sure enough, there she was having a drink at the bar. Peter casually walked over to say hello. Beth was unapproachable, in fact she behaved as if she’d never met him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He quickly realized she was playing games with him and he wasn’t interested in taking part. He told her to stay away from him.

“If you continue to harass me Beth, I’ll involve the police.”

Beth looked straight into his eyes, “I’ve never even met you, let alone harass you.”

Peter just walked away. Things were quiet for a few days, leading Peter to believe his threat worked. That Saturday, he decided to visit his mom at her home in Queens. He usually just showed up and let himself in. As he entered the house, he heard voices in his mother’s living room. Peter walked in and there was Beth just chatting with his mom.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Beth didn’t flinch, “I came to see your mom, is that not allowed?”

“Mom, can you come to the kitchen right now please.”

Peter’s mom followed him to the kitchen. She told him that Beth had shown up at the door saying she just happened to be in the neighborhood. Beth had only been at the house ten minutes before he arrived. When they walked back into the living room, Beth was gone. Peter told his mom what had been happening and insisted that she not let Beth in the next time she showed up.

Peter was out-of-his-mind with anger, having no idea how to handle the situation. After some thought he remembered that Beth had a small Lhasa Apso. He’d never been to Beth’s apartment, but he followed her home from the bar one night and found out where she lived. He watched her walk the dog from a few houses over. Beth seemed annoyed, practically dragging the dog down the sidewalk. Peter knew what to do and he had to do it sooner than later.

A friend once showed him how to pick-a-lock; a skill he knew would one day come in handy. Peter wore a hoodie and sunglasses and looked down, in case she had a camera at the door. Getting in was pretty easy. Peter thought Beth had said her dog’s name was Pippin, so Peter called out his name. Pippin came over to him wagging his tail — he scooped him up and carried him to his car. The neighborhood was quiet. Peter drove off with Pippin’s head out the window, enjoying the breeze. He figured he’d have to keep the whole affair on the downlow; Beth knew where he lived. Peter fortunately had a roof garden, making it easy enough to stay away from the streets. He was certain that two weeks of keeping Pippin would shake Beth up a bit.

Peter didn’t feel great about what he’d done, but clearly this woman needed to be taught a lesson. Pippin was a delight to have around the house. He was well-trained and a great companion, but after a week Peter’s guilt was too much to bear. He had searched social media to see if Beth had put out word that Pippin was missing, but he saw nothing. Still, he thought it best to return him to Beth. When he brought him back to her neighborhood, he didn’t see any street signs asking for help finding Pippin. It didn’t seem like Beth cared that he was gone.

Peter quietly returned Pippin to Beth’s house. The little guy was whimpering and giving him the saddest face he’d ever seen. It hurt Peter to leave him. The following morning Peter was leaving his building and there Pippin was sitting with his doorman Sal. Sal asked me if Pippin was his dog because he’d seen him carrying him out the day before. He said that he was and Peter took him upstairs to his apartment. He unblocked Beth’s phone number and texted her that he had Pippin and that she should come for him. An hour letter he received a text from her:

“Hey Peter, I know you took Pippin, but he seems to prefer you to me and to be frank, I don’t want him anymore anyway. So keep the little runt. I’ll stop bothering you, but you should know the gonorrhea you left me with was pretty shitty. I hope I never see you again . . . ever!”

Ironically, Peter was fairly positive she didn’t get the gonorrhea from him, seeing that he’d never had gonorrhea. He didn’t return Beth’s text or Pippin. Pippin turned out to be a great companion and Beth became a distant memory.

Side Note: My medical doctor ex read my story and wrote to tell me that he loved it, but that I should know that one could be a carrier of gonorrhea; however, not be aware of it. So then, Peter could have left Beth with that unwanted present. I thought it added a nice little twist and now I know all I needed to know about gonorrhea.

State-of-Mind

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

It’s been a while and I’m tempted to share why that is, but I’m thinking it’s boring and tedious and it might be best to just leave it behind.

I recently had the great pleasure of hosting two new friends who live in my neighborhood. Both women went to the high school across the street from my apartment. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I’ve shared for a long time. A reminder of the joy of getting to know new people, the pride in sharing your nest, and the warmth felt when realizing you are in the exact place where you should be. It’s quite an amazing feeling and I am grateful for recognizing it.

There has been a major shift in my life and my priorities. This new direction will inform me of my choices. I have come to realize I’ve been spending way too much precious time concerning myself with matters I cannot control. I have never been one to spend a great deal of time on regrets, but I also do not spend enough time on gratitude. My focus for now is taking stock of all that is good and satisfying and real in my life. After all, what else matters?

“Enough is a feast.” Buddhist proverb

Sometimes people write and tell me that I should either finish a story or expand on one; that’s fair. I will if the spirit moves me, until then, they will remain as they are.

Thank you for reading and have a great summer.

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A Sperm Donor’s Life Is Suddenly Turned Upside Down

Marc was the kind of guy that nobody noticed. His quiet demeanor and average looks made him almost invisible in most social situations. Marc’s life goals were not meant for public consumption; he was discrete. He didn’t mean to hide anything from anyone, but he rarely mentioned his intentions or personal details about his life. People didn’t ask and Marc didn’t tell.

His life was absolutely boring, just the way he liked it. He’d wake up early, read the news on his phone, turn on his computer and work remotely. Marc had very little contact with humans, his work being all about numbers and moving money around for clients he’d never met. As long as he completed his quota for the day, nobody bothered him.

Marc pretty much ate the same food at the same time everyday. He had no desire to try new restaurants, drink at bars, meet friends for a walk, or watch sports on television. Marc’s aspirations were simple: keep breathing and stay out of trouble. There was one thing he truly wished for:

Marc dreamed that he’d one day own a Ford Mustang. He had seen one when he was at an automobile show with his father when he was ten years old and it had been the only material thing he had ever wanted. Sadly, his job didn’t pay him well enough to afford a Mustang. He began passing time by thinking up ways to acquire enough money to buy one. He figured $30,000 might get him a fairly nice 1965 model.

Marc had been able to save about $20,000 over the last ten years, still short, he was feeling anxious about whether or not he’d ever get there. One spring day, on the bus on his way to the barber, an ad caught his eye — a nearby fertility clinic was looking for sperm donors. He had once read that this sort of thing paid fairly well, so he decided to check it out.

The following Monday he made an appointment and began pondering what they’d think about his candidacy. He already knew he’d probably never marry and therefore, never father a child. Donating sperm would be a very practical way to increase his savings.

A few days later he met with a clinician, he fulfilled all that was required, and was told he could donate twice per week for $850 per month. By his calculations, he could purchase the Mustang in one year. Marc didn’t get excited very much, but he found himself smiling on the ride back to his apartment.

The year passed fairly quickly; thoughts of that Mustang still very much on Marc’s mind. He had been scouring the internet for the right vehicle for months and had finally found one 45 minutes away on the city bus route; Detroit was known for excellent public transportation. Marc made an appointment to see the car and it did not disappoint. He was able to purchase the red 1965 Mustang for $28,000, leaving him enough money to have it detailed.

Marc parked his Mustang in his driveway, where it was safe and where he could admire it from his living room window. He thought about building a carport. The old man he purchased the car from, told him about an antique car show that would take place in Detroit in three weeks. At first Marc dismissed the idea of going; however, after some thought, he decided that it wouldn’t hurt to attend.

The Detroit Coliseum was huge and filled with many beautiful antique cars. Marc spoke to a few of the owners and he showed them photos of his new acquisition. People seemed to know his car, further, they encouraged him to show it off. Marc decided that he liked the other car owners, they were friendly and he thought that they all had a lot in common. He found himself diving head first into the culture. He found himself traveling with June (the name he’d given to his car, named for the month in which he purchased it), to various cities in the midwest. June was very popular at automotive shows; featured in many attendees photographs. Marc found himself making friends easily and enjoying his new life.

When he purchased June he thought he’d give up sperm donations, but staying in hotels and dining out could be costly. He continued to donate several times per month. Marc had not given any thought to what happened with his sperm until one day long after he quit making donations.

After twenty years of enjoying his beautiful automobile and making his way around the antique car show circuit, Marc experienced something that rocked his world to its core. Marc was walking around the Toronto Coliseum floor admiring the other antique cars on display and he recognized a young man standing by a beautiful aqua blue 1952 Chrysler Windsor. Marc was surveying the automobile when its owner, Stephen, walked up to him. Marc said hello, but he couldn’t recall how he knew the young man. He was frustrated and flustered as he listened to Stephen describe the overwhelming amount of attention the car had been receiving at the show.

Marc tried to be engaging, however, he was stuck on Stephen’s familiar mannerisms. He decided to ask a few questions in order to determine how he knew Stephen. Unfortunately, none of what Stephen told him resonated with Marc and he walked away baffled.

Some time passed and Marc forgot about the encounter. Fast forward a few months and Marc was shopping at a Kroger in downtown Detroit. Stephen, whom he had met in Toronto, saw him and approached him. They exchanged pleasantries and decided to have a coffee next door. Marc realized their car connection was strong and he wanted to know more about Stephen’s involvement.

The conversation at the coffee shop was fairly ordinary by any measure. Marc would occasionally go back to the feeling that he knew Stephen. At one point he point blank asked him. Stephen didn’t want Marc to feel badly, but he suspected his response may have been considered obtuse.

“You’re not that old to already have memory problems.”

Marc just laughed it off, knowing he must have met Stephen a while back and has just forgotten where and how. They said their goodbyes and agreed to meet for breakfast the next day. Marc didn’t sleep well. Something was bugging him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

The next day, they met at the dining room in their hotel. It was a buffet breakfast and Marc kept bumping into Stephen at the breakfast bar. When they sat down at the table, Marc looked at Stephen’s plate and it looked like a mirror image of his own. They realized it at about the same time, chuckled, and shrugged.

At about halfway through breakfast, Marc asked Stephen about his parents.

“What does your father think about your expensive hobby?”

“I don’t know what my father thinks, I never met him.”

“That’s a shame, he might have enjoyed antique cars as well. Did he die before you were born?”

“No,” said Stephen, “I was conceived in a lab, my father was a sperm donor.”

Marc suddenly became very disoriented. He had to excuse himself from the table for a breather. Was he Stephen’s father? Is that why he thought he knew him so well? What are the odds? Should he say something? He never imagined this could ever happen; he was overwhelmed and confused.

This Story From Here

I’m somewhat invested in this little piece of fiction. I’ve thought a lot about these sperm donors who may have fathered many, many children. I’m going to expand on the story sometime soon. As I’ve said before, writing has been an organic process for me; I suspect I’ll be motivated to finish the story sometime soon.

AI Feedback I will consider in the future:

– The narrative has a unique and engaging premise; consider refining character development to enhance emotional connection with readers.

– Ensure consistent pacing; some sections might benefit from tighter editing to maintain reader interest.

– The transitions between Marc’s story and the personal reflection sections could be smoother for better flow.

– Consider adding more sensory details to descriptions to create a richer atmosphere.

From the www:

A sperm donor could potentially fertilize a large number of eggs, with guidelines suggesting a limit of 25 births per donor in a population of 800,000 to minimize the risk of consanguinity. 

Here’s a more detailed explanation:

  • No Universal Limit: There isn’t a uniform limit across the US on the number of donations a single donor can make, but the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) recommends restricting conceptions by individual donors to 25 births per population of 800,000. 
  • ASRM Guidelines: The ASRM guidelines state that clinics and sperm banks should keep sufficient records to allow a limit to be set for the number of pregnancies for which a donor is responsible. 
  • Minimizing Consanguinity: The ASRM’s recommendation aims to minimize the risk of inadvertent consanguineous conception (where children are genetically related). 

Current state of Affairs

I’ve been very introspective lately; more so than usual. I think it’s mostly related to politics and feeling helpless. I know I’m not alone in this. I remain hopeful that a bleak outlook will somehow change into something more positive. A good friend reminded me that history shows us that we go through cycles; therefore, no matter what this is or where it takes us, this too shall pass. I’m hoping the collateral damage is not irreparable.

Two things happened this week, both initiating reflection: first, someone close to me accused me of flaunting my lifestyle online. The next thing surprised me: someone I know well and think very highly of, asked me why I haven’t written a story in a while. I’ve thought a great deal about both of these occurrences. I don’t want to disappoint any of you, but I am going to choose to keep my thoughts on these topics private. I will say one thing and leave it at that: I am at a point in my life where what people say matters, because I think it should; however, what I think and feel about my own life matters more. I will do as I please and work toward goals I set for myself. I’m happy to know that there are people who would like me to continue writing.

“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. He who cannot look into himself cannot look into the world.” – Carl Jung

Posted on by CP · 6 Comments

Coping with Politics: Finding Peace Amid Chaos

Keep in mind: my thoughts, not gospel, not all based on fact, and not meant to persuade or dissuade. Merely suggestions for getting through the muck & mire.

First and foremost, no matter how bad it gets — and it will get worse, I cannot allow what is happening in the United States or the world, to drag me down. I honestly believe Trump and his sycophants are attempting to distract, exhaust, confuse, and lead us to helplessness. To the point where many will just give up or even worse give in.

Next, I realize as a childless, older adult living abroad, American politics has less impact on my life, then it does for others. Having said this, I would also add that the influence of American Politics is felt throughout the free world. Further, any discrimination, stripping of basic human rights, corruption, and/or abuse of power, directly impacts my life.

Some ways that I have learned to cope (in no particular order):

  • By filtering all that I read, see, and hear. There is currently a lot of noise, news, and opinions about the Trump era. Some of it is of course factual and has grave consequences. To be well informed, one must be certain to sort out what is hearsay or false. I feel empowered by standing with those that know what they are talking about.
  • I cannot control those members of my family that have decided to stand by and support this administration. I can, however, distance myself from them and/or insist that they not try to persuade me to join them.
  • When you are in pain or discomfort, the best thing you can do is find a healthy way to soothe the pain. Go to the gym, immerse yourself in your hobbies, watch mindless films, have a glass of good wine, a well-made cocktail, or a cold beer, read, go for a hike or walk alone or with a friend.
  • Keep a journal. Clear out your mind on paper; it helps keep things in perspective without sweeping your thoughts under the carpet or worse, denying they exist.
  • Speak your truth when questioned. Hiding your thoughts or your truth, can ruin a relationship and make you feel guilty or angry with yourself.
  • Always keep in mind that this too shall pass. There have been times in history when adversity led to more progressive change.
  • Get away. Nothing is better for clearing my head than a change of scenery.
  • Make a worst case scenario plan. Always better to be prepared.
  • Be a bit frugal, just in case you need funds in the future.
  • Pick your battles. You cannot take everyone and everything on. Write to your congressmen and senators, vote in every election, and campaign if you can — even if it’s on a grass roots level.
  • Celebrate the small victories.
  • Cook and/or eat comforting food.
  • Spend time with a friend or loved one that is like-minded and supports one another. Try to avoid a negative rabbit hole.
  • Having taken advantage of therapy for much of my life, I am a strong advocate of finding a professional you can trust and talk to. A psychiatrist may be more appropriate; especially if medication is to be prescribed. Medication can be a lifeline for those suffering from depression or mental illness. No shame in self-care.
  • Meditation is a very effective tool. I find sitting in a quiet space and concentrating on my breathing, works well for keeping outside influences in perspective.
  • I discovered gratitude not too long ago. Taking stock of all of the people you love who love you in return, and the gifts provided by the universe, is an excellent reminder of how good it is to be alive. And then there are pets to bring you joy.
  • Lastly, getting rid of toxic individuals in your life is essential for good mental health. People in your life who are broken, may attempt to bring you down with them — don’t allow it. If necessary and when necessary, walk away.

Whatever works for you, is the way to manage the chaos and strife; so long as you have tools.

What we have is worth fighting for

Oh How these words spoke to me

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

T.S. Elliot

I’m worried about a few people in my life that are feeling defeated and suffering from intense melancholy. I hope that they come to realize that there are ways to rise above the negativity. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough.

I’ve been enjoying listening to Mel Robbins on her podcast. The Let Them Theory makes a great deal of sense. https://www.melrobbins.com/podcasts/episode-70

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From Spin Class to Suspicion: A Cautionary Tale

Peg sat at her kitchen table pondering how she was going to get to work. Her car died in the driveway the night before and her bank account was pretty much depleted. She’s had a rough time of it lately; she’s had a rough time of it her entire life. Born in Detroit, immigrant parents from Slovenia, nothing had ever come easy. Except that she is smart; she’s smart and she’s resourceful. And despite the dead car and her financial situation, things were looking up.

About a year ago, when Peg was cleaning up after a spin class, she was approached by someone who had been with her in class.

“Hi, I’m Sheila. I think we both take the same spin class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Hi, I’m Peg.”

“Tough class today, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat.”

“Would you be interested in getting coffee after class sometime?”

Peg was tentative; she told Sheila that it would be nice, but she usually had to run to work after class. The two agreed to try to work it out.

Weeks went by, Sheila would wave to Peg in class, but neither woman would ask the other for coffee. On a beautiful spring day in April, Peg decided to go into work a bit later than usual. After spin, she walked over to Sheila to see if a walk over to the coffee shop might be possible. Sheila seemed delighted and ten minutes later they were sitting across from one another at Cuppa Joe’s.

Peg was curious to learn more about her new acquaintance. Sheila seemed so sure of herself and not at all vain. Peg also wondered why Sheila had approached her in the first place. She was suspicious of anyone who seemed to want anything to do with her. But Sheila was different, genuinely sweet and engaging.

Sheila asked Peg where she worked, if she was married and whether or not she had children. There seemed to be no judgment, only a desire to learn more about her new acquaintance. Peg held back. She was afraid to scare Sheila away.

Sheila wouldn’t have been scared away. She looked for people like Peg and preyed on them. It would start with coffee. She played a mean game of finding unsuspecting women at their lowest and bringing them down further still. Each successful takedown, empowered Sheila more. Prior to meeting Peg, she has destroyed the lives of over ten women. Perhaps Peg would be her next victim.

After several weeks of coffee dates and pleasant walks, Sheila asked Peg if she’d like to come over Saturday for dinner and a sleepover. Peg had never been asked to share this sort of intimate evening before. She hesitated accepting Sheila’s invitation, knowing she’d never be able to reciprocate. Before she could even respond, Sheila said:

“Listen Peg, I know you hardly know me, but you don’t have to worry, I’m not expecting that you’ll have me over to your place. I have a guest bedroom with an ensuite and I love having people over. It will give us a chance to really get to know one another and share some silly girl time.”

Peg happily agreed to Sheila’s invite. She said she’d be responsible for the cocktails, having tended bar out of high school. Sheila seemed delighted.

Sheila’s home was absolutely gorgeous. Everything was in its place and the decor was tasteful. Peg was shy at first, hesitant to look around and barely touched the appetizers Sheila put out. She liked her own cocktails and Sheila seemed to enjoy them as well — Sheila sure did knock them back.

As the evening progressed, they ate less and talked more; well it was mostly Peg who talked. Sheila asked a lot of questions, complimented Peg a lot, and listened. Peg had never had a friend care so much about how she felt and what she thought. She believed she had hit the jackpot. They finally went to bed at 3:00 a.m. Sheila got up early, letting Peg sleep until noon. Peg felt terribly guilty and made an excuse about having an appointment.

The two texted one another that night and the following day. Peg didn’t want to be pushy, but she was anxious to make future plans. Sheila sensed Peg’s excitement, making sure to fill Peg’s dance card for the next two weeks. After five or six ladies outings, Peg started to question Sheila’s character. She rarely spoke about herself and after all that time, Peg knew little to nothing about her. Being mysterious is one thing, but Sheila was almost certainly hiding something.

The second sleepover was scheduled for Saturday, three weeks after the first sleepover. Sheila was as excited as the first time and requested Peg’s bartending magic be repeated. The two were about an hour in and Sheila realized she had no coffee beans for the morning. Peg told her not to worry, but she insisted that she could be at the grocer and back in 10 minutes. She asked Peg to watch a bit of television, promising to return quickly.

Peg sat on the sofa for a bit, thinking about the house and how stunningly beautiful it was. She also realized that she had never seen Sheila’s bedroom. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to venture upstairs for a peek. She opened Sheila’s bedroom door and her jaw dropped. She had never seen a more beautiful bedroom, wondering why Sheila had not shown it off. She walked around the room admiring all of Sheila’s beautiful things. Out of the corner of eye she spotted a vanity in an adjacent dressing room. She had always dreamed of having her very own vanity. She walked over to glance at Sheila’s jewelry and cosmetics, noticing many labeled glass vials. She picked one up to examine it. It was a stick on label with a female name. She didn’t recognize it as a perfume; in fact she had no idea what the vial contained — it was clear and odorless. It bottle read, The Essence of Susan. She picked up another, The Essence of Lisa, and there were a dozen others like this. Peg found herself confused and frightened by this discovery. She went back downstairs and waited for Sheila to return.

As she waited, Peg realized that she needed to somehow find out who the names on the vials represented. Were they friends of Sheila? Did Sheila formerly work for a perfume company? Where did these bottles come from? She sensed something was off, but she couldn’t quite shake her worry. She decided to stop drinking that evening without letting on to Sheila. She would discreetly pour out the contents of her glass in the bathroom sink. She needed to be fully alert for the rest of the evening.

Sheila returned with coffee beans and some other things she said she needed. She didn’t waste any time asking Peg to make some cocktails. She even said,

“We are going to get drunk tonight.”

Peg just laughed and started their drinks, making sure to put very little vodka in her own glass. Sheila prepared dinner, providing Peg with an opportunity to ask her some probing questions. Sheila was evasive and guarded. She danced around responses about friends, past boyfriends, and family. Peg acted as though it didn’t matter. She even started slurring a bit to throw Sheila off. Sheila did eventually let down her guard just enough to reveal a bit of her past.

Sheila accidently mentioned two friends that she said she no longer spends time with. Peg had an idea where she might find them. She behaved as if she was about to pass out and told Sheila she was going to bed. Later, she sensed Sheila was in the bedroom, but Sheila stayed far from the bed. She spent about ten minutes in the ensuite. Peg was now certain something was not right and she needed answers.

Peg spent the next few days tracking down Sheila’s friends. She asked around at Cuppa Joe’s and learned that two of Sheila’s friends used to go to the coffee shop after spin class. She spoke to their spin instructor and found out where at least one of the two women lived. She decided she’d pay Leila a visit that week.

Leila answered her door. She was obviously very weak and out of sorts. Peg asked her if she could come inside and speak to her about Sheila. Leila said that she didn’t really see Sheila anymore, but she was happy to speak to Peg. They sat down in Leila’s living room. Peg was struck by how this young woman looked older than her years. It was also clear that Leila was once very beautiful. Leila described how she had become friends with Sheila and how little she knew about her. She said she’d slept over Sheila’s a few times and that they’d had a great time. Leila said that she recently became very ill, unfortunately unable to work or see people. Peg asked her if she knew of any other friends in Sheila’s life. Leila told her she had once met Angela who lived across from Cuppa Joe’s. She gave Peg a description of Angela and the two said their goodbyes.

Peg went to the coffee shop the next day, sitting and watching the building across the street. Finally, after a couple of hours of hoping to spot Angela, she left her building and walked across the street toward the coffee shop. She didn’t seem to be stopping there, so Peg had to leave the shop and chase her down. Angela was not as cooperative as Leila had been. She was in a big hurry and appeared extremely disoriented. The only thing she would say is that she had not seen or heard from Sheila in a long time. Peg asked her if Sheila had ever done anything to hurt her, Angela replied:

“Not to my knowledge, but I haven’t been the same since meeting her.”

Peg was convinced that Sheila had done something terrible to these women. She suspected that Sheila may have copied her keys the night she went out for coffee beans. She decided to have a conversation with Sheila about having to leave town for a few days. Then she sat in her apartment, waiting to see if Sheila might show up.

The next morning, Peg was in her kitchen and she heard someone keying into the apartment. She quickly hid in the pantry and called the police to let them know someone was breaking in. Sheila had only been in the apartment a few minutes when the police arrived. The police arrested, handcuffed, and took Sheila to the police station. Peg provided a statement and assured the police that she would be pressing charges.

The following week, a detective contacted Peg to let her know that they had done a search of Sheila’s apartment and discovered the personal effects of over a dozen women. They found hairbrushes, tooth brushes, underwear and other items. It appeared that Sheila had been collecting the DNA of these women and creating some sort of liquid potion from each woman’s DNA. The police had never seen anything like it. They assured Peg that they would further investigate what Sheila was up to. They found no evidence of a vial made from Peg’s essence.

Sheila was eventually charged with breaking and entering several homes. She was convicted and pleaded guilty to all charges. Sheila refused to explain what she was doing with the DNA. She would serve several years for her crimes.

Peg could only speculate about Sheila’s motives and intentions. She found strength in knowing she had stopped Sheila for at least a few years. She and a few of the other women involved formed a support group. She watched them slowly regain their strength and confidence and eventually their essence.

Sheila posing for Instagram

Storyline Thoughts

I may or may not have been thinking about The Substance and Demi Moore when writing this piece. It is more likely that I ponder and think about society’s obsession with physical beauty — not just women by the way, men as well. This obsession with beauty haunts me. When I lived on the Upper East Side in New York City 25 years ago, I witnessed the wreckage of cosmetic surgery, now I’m afraid it has spread to the rest of the world.

I realize when I write these short stories character development is an issue. I wish I could say I was more committed to going on to write a novella or novel. For now, I’m just having fun indulging my warped imagination. I appreciate those of you who have stayed with me. Who knows what the future brings.

By the way, this time I used the title AI suggested. The photo is not AI.

The horrific airplane/helicopter crash this week and T’s attempt to blame DEI and the previous administration, the bogus cabinet confirmation hearings, the numerous executive orders designed to remove necessary programs, and the execution of Project 2025; I’m truly at a loss. The worst is knowing I have family who fully support the dangerous reality unfolding daily. To call these trying times is an understatement. I can’t help wondering just how bad it will get before Americans wake up. I know that I’m not overreacting.

Pornic, France in a few days. I know a change of scenery will do me some good. Not to mention the French food & wine.