3
I’m watching this movie on cable. Cinemax has these bullshit dirty movies that aren’t really dirty, just tits and ass. But sometimes I watch them. Suddenly, I smell talcum powder. The air fills with the sweet aroma and I look around and there’s no reason for the smell, but it’s there and powerful just the same. I close my eyes and drift with the fragrance, analyzing it, trying to determine if it’s real or another aura. I get them sometimes. I remember waiting in the subway one time and I suddenly smelled apples. Like on a farm or a country roadside vegetable store. The air is musty and cool because that’s when you buy fresh apples—in the fall. And the air has that apple smell, not sweet like applesauce, but a little zippy, maybe from the slight fermentation that may be going on in the bottom of the buckets. I don’t know why I smelled apples that day.
That’s when I learned about auras. In the subway. I asked someone if he smelled apples too and of course he didn’t. But we talked about it while we waited for the train and he said they were called auras. I don’t know, instead of feeling that it was a problem, my having auras once in a while, I like it. It's like a special sense. I think of it as a gift. Not a talent, because I had no conscious claim to the ability. But a gift, handed to me for nothing, for me to enjoy.
The talcum powder smell soothed me and made me feel clean and I remembered my mother drying me with a big towel after my bath. She didn’t pat me dry the way I’ve since seen grown women dry themselves. She’d rub me briskly instead, shaking my little body, getting the circulation going as she dried me. I never liked that part of it much. But then I’d stand there in the brightly lit, warm, steamy bathroom and she’d take the container of talcum powder and she’d sprinkle it on my body and very gently spread it around and the air would fill with the sweet scent as I stood there naked with my mother completely dressed and I’d formulate in my mind how to ask her why it was okay for her to see me naked, but not for me to see her naked. But I never dared actually ask her because I sensed it was a dangerous question, better left unasked. I don’t know what I feared when I didn’t ask her that, but something kept me from asking and my intuition tells me now it was probably just as well. My mother scared me about her body when I was only five or six years old and the talcum powder reminded me of it.
I remember another time, when I was older. A bunch of kids and I were huddled discussing a bit of news related to a partially overheard remark leading one of my fellow nine-year-olds to claim that for some exotic reason a man will sometimes push his penis into a lady's bellybutton. None of us could make any sense out of this unusual behavior, but my friend swore he was conveying it on good authority. This was too strange and too interesting to let alone and clearly did not involve anything, in my young mind, my parents would be doing to each other so I did not feel any precautionary restraint. I told my mother what my friend had said, expecting we would both laugh about this silly story. Instead she looked uncomfortable and mumbled something that I no longer remember. But the next day she gave me a book on the facts of life written for children. My mother was a firm believer in books and I got this trait from her, for which I am grateful. I dutifully read the book, but what it told me no longer sounded as strangely fun as my friend’s version.
My mother and father usually slept late on Sundays. I would get up and play quietly in theroomI shared with my older brother, Leon, or go to the living room and listen to records like “The Little EngineThat Could” on our big Zenith console. Or I’d listen to the radio. My favorite show was “Big John and Sparky.” Big John would play children’s records with stories or fairy tales. I’d sit with my head practically against the huge speaker because I played it very low so as not to disturb my parents. I don’t remember what Sparky was. A person, an elf. I don’t remember.
Usually I would listen to the radio or the phonograph or play with my toys until my parents came out of their bedroom ready for our special Sunday morning breakfast. Once, I was very excited because Big John was playing songs from the Uncle Remus album and we had just gone to see “The Song of the South” at the Radio City Music Hall the weekend before. I heard my parents stirring in their bedroom and excitedly I ran to tell them what was on the radio. I opened the door and burst in. My father was still lying down on the bed, the blanket covering him, but my mother was sitting on the edge of the bed facing the door. Naked. It was like a psychic explosion, like rolling off the bed in your sleep and suddenly in an instant you’re falling and sensory experiences get crammed into a microsecond and fill you with an entirely unexpected experience. There was a startled scream from my mother, a look of horror on her face and a wild clutching of cloth or blanket to cover her large bare breasts and a sudden mid-flight paralysis by me followed instantly by abject apologies for I knew not what and ahasty retreat, backing out the door and closing it, my continuing stream of apologies trailing behind me like the glistening trail of a slug on the sidewalk. It’s possible I did that once or twice more before I learned to utterly curb my enthusiasm if it led to barging into their bedroom.
I did, however, realize that I must have stumbled onto something interesting here and tried unsuccessfully by subterfuge, with mirrors and so forth, to catch her naked again to see what it was that was so forbidden to me. The task was beyond my abilities. So I continued to pose my question to my mother only in my head. Why could she see me and I couldn’t see her? But I never asked and I never found out.
There was no such problem about bodily parts with my father. I remember my mother frequently reminding him to take me to the bathroom with him when he pissed so I’d see how it works and learn to do it the same way. I remember standing by the toilet after my father had done his business, holding my little penis going “wee, wee, wee.” Toilet training, you see. Well, my dad had the biggest cock I ever saw, which wasn’t really saying much because the only other cock I’d seen was my little one. I was impressed as hell that mine would some day grow that big.
My mother had terrific breasts as I recollect even from my brief encounters. I wonder if all boys at some time or other see their mother’s breasts and that’s why we all love tits so much. It reminds us of our mothers. Because there’s no doubt that we do love breasts.
Tits and ass. Men are so predictable. I remember getting a CB radio for my car shortly after getting divorced. It would be fun, I thought. But it wasn’t. It was scary and embarrassing. Scary because of the violence it exposed you to. I live a fairly sheltered life amongst fairly educated people. Professionals mostly. So I was unprepared for the anonymous voices spewing out, in their protective isolation, the hatred, the threats, the accusations that emerge from what must be their terrified, horror-filled lives. It frightened me that these people were restrained only by fear of the law, from acting out their frustration and aggression and suppressed violence. Those who tell you, “It can’t happen here” when referring to Nazi Germany never owned a CB radio.
Also, it’s embarrassing that men are so easy. You’re driving along listening to the CB for colorful communications such as "Smokies down the road with a picture taker." (Translation—State police with a radar unit.) Listening to the half-hearted banter of the heading-home crowd, suddenly a female voice comes on the air. All it takes is a “Howdy, boys” and she’s got half the drivers within range knocking on her signal trying to get directions for a good time, like a bunch of mindless dogs after a bitch in heat. One whiff and they’re all there sniffing and jerking and shaking with anticipation. They’re so easy and so undignified. Had they no self-respect? God, they behaved like Pavlov’s dogs, slobbering and dripping all over themselves for they don’t even know what. Probably a case of the clap. Or worse.
So I’m watching this dumb movie. Tits and ass. And talcum powder.
But I’ve learned to respect the power of associations and enjoy the paths it can lead you down. It can help you get a hook into a piece of a lost or long forgotten memory. A pinky, as it were, is all it takes. And once you’ve got your pinky in you can gradually expand your awareness, little by little, like a fragrance spreading to fill the room, until gradually the complete memory returns and you are there and it’s all within your conscious control again and you can turn it around or circle it, feel it, see it in whatever detail you like. All it takes is an association, a hook to regainthatlong-dormant memory.
Take, for instance, a soft, cool, misty rain. I’ll never think of misty rain without associating it with Linda. Sharon and I had been going to a folk dancing group pretty regularly for a number of years. In fact most of the people we socialized with were involved in this folk dancing group. I was never very good at it. But I enjoyed the exercise and the people were interesting and usually intelligent and accomplished. I have no theory for why this is true. It is merely an observation. There also seemed to be a randy undercurrent. This may not have been a product of the folk dancing so much as a product of the type of person it attracted.
There was a dance-weekend at a beautiful, rural location that Sharon and I went on that comes to mind along with the mental image of Linda. I did some dancing, but mostly just walked around enjoying the countryside, socializing with the dancers who were taking a break. That’s how I met Linda. She was, like me, the spouse of an avid dancer and like me, mostly an avid observer. So, we had time on our hands and walked and talked and found we were quite comfortable with each other. In fact we spent a lot of time with each other. I was not really on the make, but when she told me her biggest regret for the weekend was not having brought her diaphragm, I understood that if I was interested so was she. I was still married and did not feel ready for such a bohemian lifestyle. I ignored the implications of her remark. She took it well. We continued a very friendly and cordial relationship for the rest of weekend. On the last day we experienced together a moment of unexpected awe.
It was Sunday morning, early. Linda and I met and decided to take a walk while our spouses did their dancing thing. A misting rain kept the trail and the surrounding grounds pretty much for us alone. Or perhaps the lack of company was just a further indication of our uninspired commitment to folk dancing. In any event, moved by the freedom that solitude encourages, we walked off the trail, into the encompassing forest. As we walked, we came upon what I quickly recognized was an expansive field of May apple plants growing beneath the overhanging trees. Never having seen these plants before, but knowing of them from my wildflower studies, I stooped to examine the beautiful green inverted wishbone shape of the stem. At the crotch of the wishbone was a single, white, dainty bell-shaped flower. Above, at the tops of the two arms of the upward pointing wishbone large, green, fan-like leaves projected, creating a sort of green canopy..
Looking down on this field, I could see only the green canopy formed by the leaves, about eighteen inches from the ground. I stooped to look under the canopy and saw hundreds of white flowers, like ballerinas inside a tent, dancing in the green, tinted light, while the gentle rain continued. I stood up: green canopy; I stooped: white ballerinas dancing. I turned my head up to feel the gentle rain refreshing my face with its cool moisture. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, and felt even then the moment burrow deeply into my memory where the soul exists. Linda and I turned to each other and kissed. It was just one of those inspired moments, an opportunity too perfect to be missed.
I get up now and turn the television off. Stupid waste of time! My apartment is completely dark. And quiet. The evening is sultry and warm and I’ve left the front door open so that the cool evening breeze from the river can come through the screen door and out the back window. The apartment has great cross ventilation.
I walk to the open front door. A cool breeze blows through the screen and I hear the sound of a plane in the distance. The night and the plane remind me of a time in Florida of carousing with frogs by the pond at my parent’s condominium one evening and looking up to see a jet, very high and with glowing lights, silently streaking across the star-speckled sky, a testament to man's godlike achievements.
Tonight my mind seems filled with memories and associations. Perhaps it’s from my recent visit to the shrink. Every sense in my body reminds me of something in my past. I am bursting with memories. I return to the living room and sit on the couch. I lean my head back and close my eyes. It’s no use. The governor is off and my mind is racing with images and memories flashing by, above the speed limit as it were. I need to slow it down again and the only way I know is to take an aspirin and a shot of scotch. I don’t know if the aspirin and scotch really do anything or whether it’s just a ritual I’ve developed that my brain recognizes and goes along with. But it always works and in a few minutes I’m usually finally able to fall asleep if I’m in bed, or able to read once again if I’m not.
It’s nine-thirty and I’m too restless to go to sleep. I close my eyes again and think of Linda. I like to remember her unspoken offer of a sexual dalliance and fantasize about what it might have been like had I taken her up on her obvious willingness. I think of it with mixed emotions. Despite the May apple moment, missed opportunities or no opportunities seem to characterize my life. Linda, in general, was just one more. Yet, my time with Linda was among the most concrete of my several-jack off scenarios and therefore the most suitable for service.
My personal contempt for my lack of success with women lasts only so long as I drift into a reverie of Linda and me. In my mind I am free to explore her body and pursue my pleasures, and ultimately, to relieve my sexual tension.
I doze off.
When I open my eyes it’s eleven o’clock and I’m wide awake. I hate masturbating. Whenever I do I feel disgusted with myself afterwards. I need air. I need to move around. I need to feel something real. My apartment begins to stifle me. Suddenly I feel panicky about breathing, about getting sufficient air. I get up and pace the living room. It won’t help. I know that from experience. I go to my hall closet and put on a light jacket. Taking my keys and my wallet, I lock the apartment and walk into the cool night air to my car just down the street.
As much to reassure myself that I can now do things like this without having to explain or get permission, either overt or implied, I decide to drive to the town pier. It’s a ride of only ten minutes, and with my nap, I’m sure I won’t be too tired for work tomorrow.
The streets are quiet and mostly empty. I leave the windows down and drive with the air conditioner off. The breeze washes my face like a cool splash and my breathing is regular again. I feel daring and free for this simple act of self-determination.
From the well-lit residential streets I pass to the dark commercial streets bordering the harbor area. I know the way and find the entrance to the town beach. The parking lot is empty except for two cars parked together under a light with young people standing around, radios playing. I park away from them and walk to the pier. The air is now decidedly filled with the fragrance of ocean. Walking onto the sand, the soothing, periodic whoosh of the waves washing the shore draws me closer and closer to the water’s edge. I walk along the strand line of the incoming tide. There is a full moon and everything is bathed in its silvery light. Moonlight is special because it is reflected light. That’s what makes moonlight unique and why everything seems eerie and lifeless in bright moonlight. Some parts of the spectrum are missing—the parts that reflect life and hope.
The tide’s edge is not enough for me. I must get closer. I walk onto the rock breakwater jutting out into the bay. As I walk, it gets narrower and narrower. I walk to the very last rock. I crouch down and listen to the sound of the edge of the surf rolling its way along the breakwater to the shore. I notice an inexplicable chillness of the air as the moon moves temporarily behind a cloud. Soon, the moon reappears, but the chill remains.
Looking out over the black and ageless water, I am overwhelmed with the sense of my own isolation. For all my memories, for all my freedom, I am alone. I sit on the wet rocks and listen to the sea gulls circling overhead, searching.
