“Not here. People are looking. Let’s talk inside.”
“I don’t want to go inside. I don’t care if the whole world knows.”
“Oh no? And what about Lisa?”
“Let Lisa find out. Where’s the security camera? Let her see us on our TV at home! Let her know everything.”
“You WANT Lisa to find out this way, don’t you, so you don’t have to tell her? Why don’t you be a man and TELL her to her face rather than trying to be caught on Fifth Avenue?”
“Soon. I promise. Soon, I’ll tell her. I’m being serious here. By January. By January, I’ll file for divorce.”
“Then let’s discuss this matter again in January.”
“No. Don’t go. I can’t let you go. I need you. My body yearns for you all day.”
“Get a divorce.”
“I know. I know. It’s just, It’s complicated. I know it’s a cliche. But it really is complicated.”
“You’re not going to leave Lisa and the kids.”
” I will. I promise. I just want to do it the right way, with everyone happy. Because I’m a good man.”
“If you were a good man you wouldn’t be fucking me every Tuesday night at the Hyatt.”
” I am a good man. I’m a kind, moral person who wants to do the right thing. My marriage has been dead for years.”
“So leave it already.”
“Beth, you’ve never been married. When you’re married for 15 years, you’re connected in so many stupid ways. It’s like a web that needs to be untangled. But I promise, at the end, everyone will be happy – me, you, Lisa, and the kids. We’ll all be happy because happiness is the most important thing in life. Right? I make you happy. I know I do. I see it in your face. I see it in your eyes right now. I see it in your blushing. I’m a good man. A good man who wants to make things right. A good man who has fallen for the most amazing and beautiful woman in the New York City. You do see me as a good man, right?”
The man sitting next to me on the F train was fidgeting with his iPhone, nervous sweat on his face.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
I don’t usually talk to strangers in the subway, but this man caught my attention. Well-dressed with shiny shoes, he had a charisma that built trust, like a Great Gatsby of the 21st Century.
“Read this,” he said, and pushed his iPhone into my hand.
It was a personal email to a woman friend of his, a girlfriend.
“My dearest Emily,” it started.
“I’m not sure I should be reading this,” I said.
“Please,” he replied, touching my shoulder. “Read this. For me.”
I understood his need for sharing, even with a complete stranger. Matters of the heart can consume the strongest warrior, bringing him to his knees, begging for mercy. This moment of intimacy closed the deal. I started reading the email again, drawn into the world of this mysterious stranger.
“My dearest Emily, our night together last week transported me to places I never knew. As we made love, your breasts against my chest, our mouths devouring the other, my manhood thrusting into your heavenly tunnel, a mixture of pleasure and pain that only the Gods of Olympus had ever attained, I knew you were the answers to all my prayers. Ever since the death of my wife three years ago, I saw a future of loneliness and despair, but now I know True Love. God has blessed us with tears of happiness. Before we met each other, we lived on dry land, uninhabitable. Now we have received the rain to grow our bounty, to make our petals open to the sun and our flowers bloom. I cannot go another day without your body next to mine, your whispers in my ear. Let’s get married! Meet me at the Fulton Street Station tonight at 8:00PM and we will toast our future together. I pray to God that your answer is YES.” Your one and only, Michael.”
I lowered the iPhone, not sure what to think. Sure, it was melodramatic and as clichéd as a pulp novel, but who can think clearly when love has engorged the heart and groin? During passion, a man’s blood cells rush from his brain as fast as commuters leaving midtown at rush hour. Back when I was an English major in college, I distrusted the famous poets who wrote well-constructed love poems. No one experiencing passion can convey it with cohesive sentences and grammar. Here on the F train, I found a man who was truly stung by Cupid’s burning arrow.
“What did you think?” he asked, seeing that I had finished reading the email.
“I thought it was powerful,” I said. “You make your point very forcefully.”
My new friend was sobbing. Now I touched his shoulder as a sign of camaraderie.
“Don’t cry,” I told him, consoling him like a brother. “I think a woman will eat this up. I guarantee that Emily will say yes. I’m sure she’s there waiting for you at the subway station right now.”
“Yes, but what about Melissa and Anna?”
“Who are Melissa and Anna?”
“They are the other two women I had sex with last week, and accidentally cc:-ed the same message.”
I was watching a documentary on Helen of Troy last night, and the narrator reminded the viewer that much of what we know about the famous beauty comes from Homer’s Illiad, even though he wrote it four hundred years after her death. By then, many of the details were forgotten, or changed with the morality of the time.
During the Bronze Age of the Trojan War, warriors fought in chariots, but by Homer’s era, it was considered unmanly. Hand to hand combat was the norm, so the heroes of the Illiad fight on foot. The famous vivid battles in Homer’s Illiad are from a Trojan War re-imagined for a later time, much like Hollywood dressed up Charlton Heston as a twentieth century Moses. We are always changing our visions of our heroes according to our needs. Look at the many portrayals of Jesus throughout the ages – from wordly to godly, from emaciated to a long-haired hippy, from a black man to a white one.
Our personal memories are our own stories, and like Homer, we are just as eager to revise, edit, and mythologize as we grow older. In order to live happy lives, we often emphasize the positive moments of our lives and forget the painful.
I recently found a box with some cassette tapes from my childhood. I had no idea they existed. One cassette tape was particularly intriguing. It is from my first year at sleepaway camp. I am about seven or eight. It is visiting day, halfway through the summer in the Catskills, and my over-the-top father is interviewing me on his cassette recorder, as if he is Edward R. Murrow interviewing Eisenhower on the field of battle.
The cassette tape is very surreal, so I won’t play it all for you, but there is one section that shook me up, and I’d like to share it with you.
First, some background.
A few months ago, I wrote a post on the TueNight site titled, “Hey, it’s Juice! How My Camp Nickname Gave Me Confidence.” It’s about how I received a camp nickname that lasted for many years. I always considered it a special part of my identity because it made me unique, and gave me confidence when I was young. I even thought it gave me some sort of superpower. The story of how I got my nickname “Juice” is one that I have told often throughout my life.
Here is the full post, originally published on TueNight on April 23, 2015.
When I was eight years old, I attended my first year of Camp Kinder-Ring, a sleepaway camp in upstate New York. Our first breakfast of the summer was served in a wood-framed dining room, where bunkmates sat together at large oval tables. The waiters, 16-year-old campers, served us soggy scrabbled eggs and individual boxes of Kellogg’s cereals, my favorite being Sugar Pops. In the center of each table was an aqua blue plastic pitcher which held the watered-down orange juice.
“Can you pass the juith?” I asked another bunk member.
“The juith?” he asked, and the rest of the table laughed at my slight lisp. “Do you mean the JUICE?”
Now I know some of you are already gripping your easy chair, preparing for an unsettling Lord of the Flies-type essay about mean boys and the bullying of the weak, but that is not the story here. I was lucky that the story veered off course into one of empowerment. Within a week of the incident, no one remembered WHY I was called Juice; it was just my nickname. When I returned the following summer, the lisp gone, I was still “Juice,” and for the next eight summers that I attended this camp, even when I finally became one of the waiters who served soggy scramble eggs to the other campers, the name remained.
The nickname gave me a special identity, despite its origins. It was my first experience of having an alias, much like Clark Kent had his Superman. During the winter, I was a goody-two-shoes, Citizen of the Month, grade-A student named Neil, but in the summer, I put on my shorts and tube socks, and became Juice. Yes, my mother still sewed my real name into a label attached to my underwear, but during the summer, I was only known by my camp name.
In many traditions, the naming of the child is an important statement, because tradition believes that it molds the child’s personality. My parents named me Neil. It was an OK name, but uninspiring. For every Neil Armstrong stepping on the moon, there was a Neil Sedaka or Neil Diamond singing sappy pop songs about love. To me, Neil was a nice Jewish boy who listens to his parents and teachers, and doesn’t smoke pot or drink beer.
But during the summer, I became Juice.
Juice, to me, meant energy, a spark, like currents of electricity. On paper, my personality didn’t change much from winter to summer. I was still a goody-two-shoes who was awful at sports, but my nickname transformed the perception of myself. Neil wouldn’t play football, go sailing, or build a tent, but Juice would. Neil wouldn’t take chances, but Juice might try pot or kiss a girl. Neil inhibited me, bounding me to responsibility of city life, while Juice freed me to be as wild as nature (within limits, of course). At school, I was invisible. At camp, everyone knew my name. Gradually, I learned to integrate some of this “Juice” into my “Neil” world, and learned that our personalities can be fluid. My nickname was my introduction into adulthood, and the complexities of identity.
I was lucky. My nickname, based on a lisp, transformed me in a positive way. Some children are not as lucky. A name like “Fatty” or “Freckles” can torment a person for a lifetime. Whether for good or bad, names ARE always powerful.
I use my full name “Neil Kramer” on my blog and in social media. I have friends who only use aliases, which helps them express their hidden personalities, away from their families and workmates. The anonymity of the internet is a problem culturally, because it tends to lead to abuse and bullying, but for many, an alias allows someone who is normally a Clark Kent to find their Superman.
Last summer, I traveled to upstate New York to attend a reunion of friends from my sleepaway camp. I was nervous while driving up the Taconic because I hadn’t seen some of these people in 30 years!
I rang the doorbell.
“Hey, it’s Juice!” said one of my long-lost bunkmates.
Neil is the name my parents gave me at birth, but ever since that breakfast in that camp dining room when I asked to “pass the juith,” I have also been Juice. I have two names, and I wouldn’t be the same today without both of them.
You can imagine my shock when, a few months after writing this post, I hear my father ask me about my new nickname. My mouth flew open. I was confronting my own personal history. The “Juice” story was coming alive. At the time of the recording, the nickname was brand new, and now here was my voice, reappearing — dozens of years later – – like a surprise witness at my own court case, about to corroborate the story I had just published!
But the truly shocking part is the sound of my voice. It wavers. It creaks. This is not a child who feels like a superhero, confident with a brash new nickname. He sounds like an insecure kid about to cry.
What happened to the story that I have been telling forever, where I was instantly energized by my new name? Was the nickname hurtful at first, and I never acknowledged it ?
In the retelling of my tale, why do I always distinguish my cool nickname from those like “Fatty” or “Four Eyes?” Yes, my camp nickname eventually became a positive one, but how long did it take? At what point did I rewrite my own narrative, erasing the discomfort of the beginning? And would I have gone to my last days believing every detail of this story if I didn’t stumble onto this cassette tape?
“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” – Marcel Proust