I NEED
FOUR MEN
©
2004 Matuschka
Adventures of
a German American girl.
The first 15 pages.
This manuscript and story is also available in a German translation and
as a moviescript.
Yesterday, I was so happy, so
full of hope. It was the weekend and I went out big, first the theater
and then
dining at the Mark. I wore my new evening dress for effect, short as I
had
tailored it. My streamlined legs and my deepest
décolleté, not to mention my
hips my rear and my curves from top to bottom are displayed. At age
twenty-six
without question, I am the classiest woman in San Francisco. That is unless Marilyn Monroe shows up. But
she
won’t, because she is dead.
Dinner was great, company
passable and with a good bottle of Napa Bordeaux at the end not much
could be
done to improve the day, or should I say night. Life, the thought went
through
my mind, was rather quite bearable.
Now it is Monday morning. A
hundred times I have told Jake, my husband of what, eighteen months,
that this
tiny studio of his is too small for the two of us. Rarely does a day go
by
without me getting a new bruise. I have not found a way of avoiding the
corners
of the few pieces of furniture. ‘Ouch’, there I go again and how this
always
hurts. I could just simply scream. All Jake offers is a grunt and
admonishment
to be more careful. That is all I need to hit the roof, the tone of his
voice
is what really burns me.
“Just shut up.” Is what I
yell, my face half turned back through the now closed bathroom door.
With the
pain, and one look show a rapidly growing purple spot, I am fit to be
tied. I
know it is payday today, but under these circumstances, a tear runs
down my cheek,
I am beyond myself with anger when so early in the week everything goes
bad.
Jake, my mate, has learned to do this to me and by now it seems he
enjoys it.
The devil take him. He is such a stubborn man.
One fleeting look at my
watch
tells me I am late for the office. Damn it all. Just as I run out of
the door,
the window open it’s drafty like hell, so that the door slams with a
sound as
if a cannon fired a salute to the president. It is such a devastating
thunder
my ears ring and I am shocked myself.
I am at my spirits limit.
“The hell with him” I think. “With luck maybe, this exit of mine, will
wake him
up out of his Snow White slumber. On top of it all I, not wanting to
get a
reputation for being a bitch, swear in German. I do this as if out of
the
gutter. I curse him, the apartment, the day I met him, my new bruise
and all my
other bad luck.
This time it is two a.m. when he comes home. It just simply gets
later and
later each morning. Jake comes from the Julius castle a block below
Coit tower.
The restaurant isn’t his, he is just the maitre D’. What is he doing
all that
extra time? I know the place closes at midnight.
My thoughts dwell on my bad
luck with men. The collected experiences from two marriages and a slew
of
lesser relationships, I have to sadly admit, have been wanting badly.
Why is it
that no matter how talented, how nice, how good looking, how rich,
there is
always something missing in the men I fall in love with? With luck I
always
seem to find a few endearing character traits or what have you. Yet
after a
while the empty spaces rear their ugly heads.
So I
have been thinking if I add it all up it
shows an odd picture which is a new recipe for me. I have come to the
conclusion, a woman needs four men. She needs four men to satisfy all
the four
requirements a woman has. More than that, they are needs for being
happy.
My eyes are roaming from
sausages, cheeses, and salads cleverly sorted by the deli in these
glazed and
refrigerated displays. Each type of ham, each sort of cheese or sausage
and
whatever else there is on display, has a little shield with the name
and price
per pound stuck to its top. The joke is that the German word
Lachsschinken is
missing an ‘s’ in the middle. This changes it from ‘Lox Ham’ to
‘Laughing Ham.’
What is particularly
pleasant
with my job here, is the location of my office. This location is the
Fisherman’s Wharf of the San Francisco Bay. When I step out of the building I am in the
middle
of vacationland. There are restaurants, street-vendors, artists,
magicians,
tourists, vacationers from around the world. This is better than Disneyland.
I am basically in the next
door deli at the Cannery. While scrutinizing the selection of cold cuts
I cannot
help, but be aware of a leisurely elegant man at the periphery of my
vision
about six feet to my right. He is wearing a fishbone pattern, light
gray single
front suit. His hair is sparse. His shoes, on close inspection, are
light gray
suede. The red tie is, I can tell from the way it falls at the knot,
sheer
silk.
In this environment he
sticks
out like a sore thumb. Then again I get this funny feeling that this
man fits
in anywhere in the world. A closer look brings me recognition. I have
seen this
man in the building where I have a job in a small advertising agency.
He has an
office there ,I am sure. The voice of the saleslady behind the counter
breaks
through the noise. “Who is next?” is her query.
Her question wakes me up to
the here and now. My eyes flick to her and then to this gentleman; with
this
slight move of my mouth which indicates him to be that next. Gentleman,
ridiculous, when did I last think of a man as a gentleman. He is aware
I can
see when he moves his head in agreement with a certain smile in my
direction. I
believe it indicates a silent thank you. And then he does the
unthinkable. He
orders a roll that is more the size of a small loaf and has the girl
put what
looks like a pound of smoked ham between its top and bottom-slices.
What a pig this guy is. Then
again I cannot help but check him out for qualifications. Is this man
one of
the four needed types? Is he good for bed, for going out, for the
money? Who
knows, to be sure, this one is not that easy and fast to tell.
The present is my second
marriage running halfway into the second year. Jake my husband is kind
of
finished with his life, it seems to me. He has two grown children from
his first
wife. His lifestyle is that of a bachelor I have learned, with me as
something
between an also ran and a hangout shield.
I should say this is not
exactly what I had expected. His job keeps him up till midnight when he closes down the Julius place. I have
made a
mistake alright. That is where I unwittingly have landed myself in a
dead end.
It’s a soap opera without a happy ending. Okay, Jake pays the rent so
that my
eight hundred, after tax, pay are mine to split between clothes and
going
out as
I see fit.
A cold north-wind blows from
Alcatraz down the bay through the courtyard that
separates the Cannery and the
Haslett warehouse. The Haslett, its upper two floors are offices, which
is home
to some hundred businesses. The lower two floors are empty and unused
except
for rats, I suspect. The building is owned by the state so no one is
worried
about low revenue.
The cannery, formerly
housing
a fish packing plant, situated with the bay less then a block from the
north
side of the building, has a new life. For a good number of years
already it has
been a favorite tourist meeting spot. The red brick structure is fully
rented
to restaurants from fast food to super elegant. There are shops selling
kitsch,
jewelry, from costume to expensive, wines and foods of at least ten
nations.
Soft drinks, ice cream to shish kebab and of course the fabulous deli
not
excluded. The place is kind of the western part of the Fisherman’s
wharf just
east of the Aquatic Park. To make it safe, thick long beams hold up
both
buildings secure against any earthquake.
It is noontime for me. There
is ample seating on weather-beaten wooden benches in the center
courtyard. That
is where I am in the midst of tourists from half a dozen countries. I
have
finished with my lunch some minutes ago. To keep my hands warm I have
squeezed
them between my legs. It is not perfect, but it does feel warmer.
Mark is a handsome man, his
age probably close to my twenty-six. He makes a scarce living as a
street
magician on Beach Street.
There he is in a stork-like prancing gate approaching me. His well
worn, brown
leather jacket hangs oversized from his shoulders. His blue jeans cover
most of
his worn cowboy boots. A haircut and a manicure would be a good
investment for
this boy who looks more like thirty-something, rather than his real
age.
I judge him to live near the
poverty level despite the six girlfriends he has, who I suspect, house
him and
feed him on successive days. He does not
let up on his straight line for my bench. He has, and that seems odd,
the
unknown known man from last weeks deli experience in tow. Now the two
stand at
my table in front of me. Today the man I labeled gentleman that day
seems so
very different from last week. Is this the same man I wonder? He is
dressed in
a green brown tweed-suit, the material of his tie this time is raw silk
and as
the pants leg rides up in his stride I see there is this rare type of
riding
boot I have heard called Jodhpurs.
Mark introduces the man with
a somewhat left-handed wave. “Hey Susan, this is John. When my magic is
short
of providing for me I get to put in some time with him.” He half turns
to John
and continues. “This is Susan.” John’s eyes are full on me, slowly his
gaze
slides down from my face to neck and bosom, past my bellybutton to the
warming
hands between my legs. Today I am wearing a white blouse with a warm
wool skirt
and shoes with half-high heels. I am used to man inspecting me. My
figure is of
the kind that is almost magnetic to a man’s wandering eye. If anything,
I find
it amusing when this brings about an embarrassment after the initial
perusal.
This especially when it is followed by an attempt to distract from the
excitement I seem to elicit.
Good old John in his tweed
suit does not follow suit. His eyes are resting on me in an utterly
relaxed
fashion. He must be a foreigner or something like it. Pulling my hands
from my
legs I am quickly checking my watch before I shake John’s fingers.
There is
this large, warm hand of his, inside of which mine disappears. My eyes
fly up
to his smiling bearded face.
“Susan, your hands are kind
of chilled.”, are his first words in a low clear voice, which doesn’t
hide a
strange accent. I nod briefly at him with a short glance over my
shoulder into
the chilly north-wind, then back to the two men, I explain. “It is high
time
for me to go; my lunch time is more than up.” John frees my hand, which
I had
left in his warming one. He nods slightly at me. “It is a pleasure to
meet you
Susan.” These common words coming from him have an unexpected formality
to
them.
**********2
CHAPTER******
Next time I meet John I am on
my way along the corridor to my agency’s office. It gives me sudden
fright when
he suddenly steps from what appears to be a rear entrance to his
offices. John
has a glint in his eyes when he sees my consternation. He nods just
barely
warning me, “Susan, better watch out for the crocodiles.”
Somehow this John strikes me
as comic, quite different from what I would call my usual fare. Next
time I see
him it is my payday and I have planned to splurge for lunch at the
Cannery
French style. On the second floor is the Old Brittany a crepe and
casserole
place which also has the most fabulous French Onion soup this side of
the Mississippi.
As I come in the door all by
myself I find the bar on the right, on the left the room is shaped like
a
reverse large L. As a restaurant it is not so big in size maybe about
eighty or
so chairs is all. The waiter strikes me as a touch too friendly. My
quick
glance around comes to rest on no other than John the crocodile man.
This time
he is in a dark blue double-breasted serge suit with waistcoat. His
shirt has
French cuffs and he has no doubt the ultimate seat in the place, at the
best
window, to himself.
It gives me a slight twinge
when he looks up at me. My usual self-confidence is somewhat disturbed
as I
walk toward him. I feel better when he makes a motion I could take for
an
invitation towards me. With a light smile he moves the chair next to
him back
an inch or two. With a look back I assure myself that this is meant for
me. As
if this was not enough the waiter suddenly passes me and by the time I
am close
he has already pulled back the chair for me at John’s table. I am not
quite
that ready yet. So I stop questioning him. “You are expecting someone
or?”
There is the quickest
flicker
of a smile as John denies my question with a subtle move of his head.
Then
there I sit with an unexpected suddenness. Without pause the waiter,
who I now
realize is the maitre d’, presses a menu into my hand. This man is way
too
friendly for my taste or is it just subservience. I lean slightly
forward
asking “Aren’t these people a little too much?”
My face, I am sure, shows concern. Now John has a genuine
friendly smile
crossing his eyes while he shakes his head. “Never mind Susan these are
all gay
French types. I am, I fear, the only one with grounds to be concerned.”
My first surprise turns to
amusement. It is great, this way I don’t have to take so much care
about my
skirt riding up on my thighs or my blouse buttons bursting open from
the
pressure of my generous upper torso while I sit back. It is an extra
feeling of
comfort this brings with it, which I can truly appreciate. No greedy
eyes
searching my cleavage. Not that I am a prude in general, it’s just that
I can
value a peaceful meal at a time like this. For a change I can be
totally
comfortable, it’s just simply great.
Maybe I am too fast with my
expectations. The Maitre D is at my side with a menu asking. “A glass
of wine
Ma’am?” It is after all just my lunch break and I had not planned to
imbibe
returning with a cloud on my breath. However there John sits nipping
from a
glass of white wine the slight pink of which tells me it is Inglenook.
So I nod
at the frog-eyed man agreeing “Yes, I’ll have the same.”
I am pointing at Johns’
glass. Barely are the words out of my mouth and the little French man
is gone.
My eyes are perusing my Vis a Vis while my head forms a strange conclusion. I
am
experiencing a feeling of peace and comfort I have not had for quite a
long
time. One of my mother’s proverbs slithers into my conscious. ‘Tell me
who you
associate with and I’ll tell you who you are.’ With this man the other
side of
the table I get the feeling you can go anywhere and be okay. Does this
mean he
is type number three? The man to go out with. It is too bad there is
not the
slightest indication of deeper interest in me as a woman. All I see is
some
almost smooth level of friendly courtliness. Oh yes, there is a lack of
a
wedding band on his manicured hand as well as any other kind of
Jewelry. The
only embellishment I can detect is a simple gold watch held to his
wrist by a
stiff ladder like gold band.
Why, I ask myself, do I find
myself paying attention to other men. Is it possible that my feelings
of love
for my present mate Jake are dwindling? Is my powerful libido at work
of
finding new fields of venture? My attention is diverted when our
bugeyed maitre
d serves John a casserole and my wine is placed in front of me. The
waiter
turns to me as my nose gets a whiff of the dish across the table. It
helps me
to make an instant decision. “I would like to have the same.” The waiter still stands there. “Certainly
madam, do you still wish to keep the menu?”
It is I who nods now,
because
frankly, I am at a loss for words, can’t think of anything to say to
this man
across the table, except, “What did I just order there for myself?”
John offers
without me asking. He folds his napkin once then places it over his
dish
explaining. “It is Coquille St. Jack, something you will find difficult
to find
a match to anywhere else.” As I see that he intends to wait for me to
get my
order I find his courtesy too much to take.
“John please don’t wait for
me. Your food will get all cold.” His eyes rove to the kitchendoor then
back to
me while he let’s the serviette slide down on his lap. “It’s coming
already. I
much prefer to have company while dining.” My brain storms. That is it,
he is
the type three all right. ‘Christ, the man actually says ‘I dine’
instead of
having lunch.’
But he is right, the little
Frenchman is at my left serving what I discover with a second look is a
dish of
scallops. What really astounds me is the speed with which this food has
materialized in front of me. I think a look of puzzlement is plainly on
my face
as I look from casserole to waiter and across at my table partner. The
waiter
lifts his head with a show of what is a cross of pride and pleasure at,
no,
it’s more a kind of triumph, triumph over me I wonder? His fingers are
reaching,
I come to understand, for my menu as he asks. “Anything else you wish
ma’am?”
What else can I do. I slide the folder over to him shaking my head.
“No, thank
you not at the moment.”
The meal runs pleasantly
enough. It is with an elegance and comfort not so common even here in
our city
of plenty. Desert turns out to be Chocolate Mousse. I have to excuse
myself
since my bladder is at its limit. That the toilette is upstairs anyone
at the
Cannery here knows. Upstairs it is and I have to wait quite a while.
When
perhaps ten minutes later I come back to our table I find my friendly
lunch companion
John has disappeared. First I think he had the same need as I. The
closer I get
to the end of my lunch-break the less can I keep my feelings about this
calm.
Thousands of feelings and
thoughts flash through my mind. This miserable guy, he is stiffing me
with the
bill. This John is not my third type he is a user. I am sure, he knows
it is
payday for me today and he took advantage of me. Memories of so many
other
dates, which this hadn’t even been, run through my mind. If I had him
here this
minute I would smack him in the face. I am going to tell him what I
think of
him when I see him next time. In front of as many people as possible
too. I am
going to make him feel like a mouse. What a creep this John is. I just
never
would have expected this from him. Not from this man, never.
Am I ever mad. The anger
drives my blood to my face. Deep down there is a fountain of tears. I
can not
stop them either, slowly one rolls from my eye. I don’t want anyone to
see me
like this. So I lift my napkin and dry my face careful so as not to
ruin my
makeup, little as it may be. Then I lift my head, raise my finger a bit
to summon
the Frenchman. In the soft swaying fashion of his ilk he swiftly comes
to my
side. His Frogeyes seem to get bigger as I ask. “My bill please?”
What the hell is wrong with
the man? He acts as if a rattler were striking. He twists himself as if
on a string
while giving me a very strange look. Ah yes he knows and feels some
remorse. He
must have known. His face turns stiff. “Pardone moi madam, there is no
bill for
this table. Is there anything else I can do for you?” I shake my head
thinking.
‘What is this, a new scam. Did I make a mistake here?’ My eyes scan the
restaurant for a mouse-hole. I need a place to hide, damn it. The
bug-eyed
maitre D is twisting his hips. I am so mad I want to scream, to swear,
to break
something, push over the table, anything.
“Sorry madam, your table
companion Mr. Bechau, was called away. He asks for you to excuse him.
This is
unfortunately the first opportunity for me to tell you.” Now I shake my
head at
him “I at least want to pay for my own bill.” Again he winds himself I
think he
is going to dislocate his spine. He rubs his hands, wipes his head
looks around
as if he were looking for help. He takes a large napkin from his apron
wiping
the tabletop. I am sure in a second his eyes are going to pop out. Now
he steps
back. “I am terribly sorry madam. It is against my better judgement to
refuse
taking money. This case is a very different matter. Mr. von Bechau is a
regular
guest here. We do not question his wishes?’
After taking his stand with
me there is a new level of satisfaction on his face. Proudly he stands
there,
his chest pushed forward as if he were minister to the Emperor of China. I still have an empty feeling in my stomach
about
this issue. I have lost my trust. However there is no doubt the
Frenchman is
holding his position. Slowly I get up with that uneasy feeling still.
Already
he is behind me moving my chair back. I take a couple of dollars from
my bag
carefully placing them on the table. Then with my head high I walk to
the door
where the other waiter is already opening it for me.
Well what do you know. No
question in my mind, John is a member of the clan of gays, a
homosexual. I am
sure they are going to talk about this laughing and giggling how they
showed
this woman. It is a rather disappointing experience for me. It was
unpredictable for me, no way to see it coming, not from this John.
Unfortunately I can not
avoid
him since I work in the same building as he has his office. The good
part is
the manager of WHW at the Ghirardelli Square has been talking about an offer there as
exec
secretary with advancement potential. Whatever may happen I am not
going to let
on how I felt, should I inadvertently run into him.
*************3
Chapter************
Every year once a special
friend of mine visits me from Montreal. He invariably stays for a week. This has
always been
a guaranteed success no matter where or what I have been doing. Nothing
has
been an obstacle to this once a year reprieve from the day’s hazards of
my
life. Neither work nor marriages have I allowed interfering with this
exhilarating week of fun, adventure and vacation. Jacques is a rare
specimen of
the romantic era. He is not so much for sex, though he is quite the
stand up
guy there as well. He is the ultimate for fun making the rounds from
one restaurant
to the next variety show or what have you. It is explosive show after
show with
jokes thrown in for spice and little sleep throughout the week. It is
Vegas, Reno, Los Angeles
and not to forget the Sierras. It is by far the freshest wind I ever
get when
Jacques shows up on the peninsula.
No matter what, I take off
from work, make excuses from my Mom’s health to funerals in the East,
problems
with my sister. This always works with friends as well as with my
husband or
steady companion. If all fails I get my doctor to send me for a cure
out of
town. For this I can be the most inventive woman in California. What a liar I can be that one time each
year, mom
would hate me for it if she knew. Dad is a very different man. A type I
have
never met out there. I have this suspicion that he knows. Why do I
think this?
He never says a word when I lie to him, he just keeps quiet with that
steady
look in his eyes. Whatever Jacques does for me, it is what the doctor
prescribes.
Amazingly it is a whole two
months later, that I, still in high spirits from the Montreal visit, run into John. I am just returning
from the
bank when I hear the steady step of a man behind me. Then his voice,
unmistakably with that light accent and without the soft tinge I
associate with
the gays.
“Hi Susan.” He has caught up
with me and falls back to my step and speed. What now I think, but I am
determined to keep my cool responding. “Good morning John.” His voice
is merry
and carefree when he adds. “Do you and I have an urge for a coffee?” It
is a
friendly enough offer. I cannot hear the slightest innuendo or mockery.
Quite
the opposite, he sounds warm, friendly and pleasant. Nevertheless I am
sure he
is laughing at me deep down. I hate him. I will absolutely not have
anything to
do with the bastard. Odd thoughts stream through my head about my
clothes? What
am I wearing, what do I look like right now. I am wearing high boots
with a
tight skirt, green cotton blouse and my buckskin Vaquero jacket. I know
vaca
means cow, but that is just the style not the leather.
Nothing wrong with me and my
dress I definitely look chic even in the eyes of a sophisticated and
elegant
gay guy. Damn it all, I refuse to think of him as a gentleman. When I
take it
straight, this is not even an invitation. My head is filled with hate,
add to
this I am vengeful, there is a trace of fear too. Fear to be taken
lightly,
become the butt of a joke. Someone should beat him up for his miserable
deed
back there at the Old Brittany. I am sure he has been avoiding me all
this
time; the only way to explain the long span of time since our last
meeting.
If I accept now it’ll be as
if I was unaware, not in the know. Perfect, I think. I lift my head
looking at
him with my face like a question mark. “Hot chocolate?” I make it a
point to
look at my wristwatch while hearing him say. “Okay, let’s do the
Ghirardelli.”
The Ghirardelli is a
chocolate factory of old. It has largely been turned into a tourist
trap of
shops, restaurants and you can shop there much like at the Cannery,
with the
chocolate manufacturing part getting smaller each year. Sitting there
you have
a fabulous view of Alcatraz, Angel Island, Sausalito,
Belvedere and Tiburon. On a clear day you can even see Oakland from the upper stories, though the Golden Gate Bridge is not easy to spot in the west. To go there
is good
for my plans with WHW. It is where the station has its offices. So I
am,
disregarding all else, quite happy with the invitation. Maybe I’ll see
Bob, the
manager, there and get to have a third job offer. Being seen with the
kind of
man John appears to be is definitely a plus.
There I sit with John the
impossible gay, on the terrace, sun and wind on us in the midst of
dozens of
tourists from all over the world. A huge quart sized glass of hot
chocolate with
whipped cream two inches thick on top. One story down the crowd gets to
see
magicians, musicians, and artists. It is a regular full time show, as
you would
find at a renaissance fair. There are a majority of Californians true,
but
there are unmistakably Japanese, Germans, English, Koreans and Swedish.
The
whip cream runs down the side of my glass so that I feel I must reach
out and
skim it with my finger. I lick it drawing my finger through my mouth.
John
explains how he has bought a partnership in the Santa Clara valley, which these days is often called Silicon Valley. It is, he explains, a turnaround which is
needed and
his job to archive.
I don’t quite know what to
make of all this. At best it explains why I haven’t seen him around. So
there
obviously was no attempt to avoid me on his part. The question is, is
there
anything to this story of his. If yes what does it all mean? I know
from my own
observation that these homos quite often have exceptional
talents, it
seems,
superior to the heteros. Whatever, one thing for sure is John will be
never be
more than good for a round of drinks or a free lunch.
Suddenly I am very happy to
sit here on the terrace with this John von Bechau. Were it not for the
debacle
at the Brittany I would not even know his full name. My
first
conclusion, I have convinced myself, he certainly had no interest to do
me any
harm that day at the Old Brittany. It was a misunderstanding. Second,
Bob from
the WHW station is coming toward us. Johns’ serious gaze seems to sweep
it all
until at last it fastens on Bob.
Bob excuses himself to John,
more than to me, for the interruption. He explains that he has a
genuine
serious need for me at the station. Additionally he offers to improve
the offer
substantially. John has the typically executive type friendly pokerface
while
Bob, poor Bob, slowly step by step, loses it. I have in all my time
that
I have
known Bob the manager of WHW not ever seen him so out of his depth. I
cannot
help it but my eyes fly back and forth between the two. It leaves me
speechless. I finally promise to come and see him at the station. I
will, I
say, come to a settlement with him and if it’s smart, change over and
take this
job offer. What I actually say is. “Okay Robert, I promise. Next Monday
I’ll
come and see you to make a final decision.” He seems relieved.
It is only now that I
introduce the two. “Oh, this is Robert, WHW’s manager. “This,” I nod my
head at
John, “is John von Bechau; he has an office at the Haslett for business
consultation and runs a firm down in Santa Clara valley.” I
hope I didn’t overdo it about John. The two shake hands. Bob makes some
small
remark about it being a pleasure and leaves. Ouch I think. John didn’t
even do
more than nod his head in reply. These people at the top have a culture
of
their own. They can be so smooth and still put it all across and the
sparks are
flying for anyone who has an eye for it. I cannot hide my pleasure.
This was
excellent. The advantage had shifted to my side in a most unexpected
fashion.
Meanwhile it has gotten
late.
My eyes move from the disappearing Bob to John. The man has a look in
his eyes
that is most intriguing. Is it a grin or is it just a smile. Then I
decide he
knows exactly what went on here and how his presence helped. John is
about to
pay and as I leave he takes my hand as he did last time. It is a gentle
grasp,
which lasts for that perfect small moment with just so much warm
pressure. He,
I am sure, didn’t press or squeeze it, he just framed my hand into his.
I am
wondering, did he learn this in school or is it just this man’s aura of
John,
my gay friend. All I know is that shaking hands with him is a
thoroughly
pleasant experience.
Much of this comes to me in
these next few hours. Never in my life have I given so much attention
to a
simple handshake.
.
*********4
Chapter**********
It is at least three months
later when I see John again. I am on my way to the Buena Vista. The Buena Vista is at the corner of Hyde Street and Beach Street right across from the Haslett. From its
windows you
look out across the bay with the cable car turnabout just the other
side of the
street. You see ships coming into the bay from the Golden Gate as much as wind surfers with their
multicolored sails beating in the
wind. The street is lined with vendors who sell an unbelievable variety
of
trinkets.
John is just coming out. He
hasn’t called me a single time since the hot chocolate at the
Ghirardelli. But
what the hell I think that is how those gay guys are. Regardless, I am
overjoyed to see him. His presence had been crucial with Bob. That last
offer
had made my transit more attractive. By god, I had made the jump into
WHW with
a thirty-percent raise. Disregarding all future chances for
advancement, it had
been a hell of an improvement.
Funny thing about this was
that next Monday Bob warned me. “Don’t
let this John talk you out of working for us. WHW is a subsidiary of
GE. You
can’t get into a more solid firm than that. It means more money and
security as
well as advancements.
So my first words are. “I
owe
you one.” He stops with a slight grin on his face. “I take it you took
the job
with WHW with a reasonable improvement in pay.” I can only nod. I have
leaned
forward and am kissing him right and left on his cheeks. John takes my
face in
his hands, his eyes are on mine. Ouch, I think, my gay friend John is
going to
kiss me and I decide to let it happen, because I am so deliriously
happy.
It comes not as I expected.
Instead of having his wet lips on mine John places his dry cool mouth
on my
nose. “Susan, I am so very glad for you. I don’t have time today, but
next time
I promise we’ll celebrate and you can tell me all about it.” I look at
the man
and think, if you weren’t gay, I would tell you that I left my husband.
I would
tell you I have my own place. I shake my head in wonder at myself. Then
you
will think, what a stupid bitch I am and I will stand there like an
idiot. No,
I am not going to make that kind of fool out of me. John now has his
hand on my
shoulder, which he strokes like a child’s. Then he is gone.
*********5
Chapter*********
Bob my new boss has let me
know he has time for me privately. Cripes, I think, if I have children
with
this man they will have his chinless face. I know it looks all right
now. Fact
is I saw him four year ago and he had a face as unbelievable as I have
ever
seen before. They did quite a job on him, but this kind of thing is
hereditary. Then there is Willie at the
radio
station. He is our technician. A while ago we had some coke together.
We were
halfway through with our drinks when he volunteered. “Susan you are a
dreamboat, but I cannot afford someone like you.”
To tell me that must have
cost him because he turned all red. That much insecurity from a man in
his
forties I found surprising. Other than that at times I find him
pleasant
company. I take it more as a compliment than anything else. A man who
is short
on spending money is not my type of guy anyway.
There is, among my
coworkers,
a very neat looking boy by the name of Sonny. To say boy is perhaps an
understatement.
Sonny’s’ age is, I believe, twenty-six; the same age as I am. I take it
for
granted that, seeing the way he uses every opportunity to check out my
legs, he
is ripe. I think he is the perfect candidate for the discouragement
plan I have
for my boss Bob. Autumn is not really the best time to start a new
relationship, but Bob has given me more than enough reason to create a
scenario
using the tactic of being already taken. That ought to cool him down.
Sonny has some inhibitions
unless it is Bob’s interest in me, which makes him hesitate. So if he
doesn’t
hit on me I’ll have to add something to the chase. At first it’s
nothing but a
maneuver to keep Bob off my neck, though his interest is in an area a
bit lower
than my neck. Then I start to find Sonny a lot more attractive. He is
making
the transition from sheer tool to the man with romantic potential. I
counsel
myself to this unexpected change. It is not the smartest thing I have
ever
done, but then at times I tend to make some less then perfect choices.
Now that the gloves are off,
so to speak, I find my pleasure at seeing Sonny rise from day to day. I
have
started to watch him first without giving him more encouragement than
my daily
presence. After all I am not in any particular hurry. When two weeks
have gone
by without any action on his part I start to become concerned. The boy
has
withstood my plain natural attraction. I have seen his continued
glances at my
legs and, when opportunity existed, down my blouse. So I puzzle, what
is wrong
in this picture. Am I losing it?
You poor boy, I think, what
are you thinking? I use the next opportunity to go to his desk and ask
for
help. I have taken a station program with me and lean over him to have
him
explain the new strange terminology used in the radio station business.
What
else can happen when I am so close to him or anyone for that matter?
From what
I have learned in the past, a cloud of my pheromones is sure to do what
just
seeing me each day has so far failed to accomplished.
Good old Sonny is not too
bright about what goes on, that much I can determine. He shows a
natural talent
in going through the pages explaining the various terms. At the end I
thank him
profusely, but with some doubt showing as to my ability to absorb all
this in
one sitting. I am not sure whether I succeed in fooling him or if he is
just
happy to grab the opportunity to spend time with me. He offers to buy
me lunch
and with the help of the booklet help me get a more complete
comprehension of
the radio station vernacular.
To be sure I bring a pad of
paper and the manual with me. Then as we sit, I have picked a bench for
this
purpose, with our lunch, I lean close to him with questions while
making notes
on my pad. It is a perfectly innocent setting. From time to time I lean
closer
our bodies touching to show serious interest in a specific word
thanking him
repeatedly. In the end he places his arm around me in brotherly
fashion. I once
more thank him for his help and to top it all off I pay for his lunch
despite
his objections.
Next day he walks past me
four times, I assume to make sure. Each time I smile at him like we are
buddies. At last he has gained enough confidence. He comes over to my
desk and
suggests. “Oh Susan, do you have any plans for dinner?” I give him an
encouraging
look but give him a dumb look. “If not,” he pauses, “We could get a
bite to eat
together.” I give him that look of mine showing surprise to the
fullest. Then
after a small pause I nod vehemently. Holy cow, I think this is the
first
hurdle now we shall see what Sonny is made of.
That evening I pay attention
to every word he utters as if it were the bible. Forgetting about the
original
purpose of scaring off Bob this is becoming a pleasant outing and my
feelings
for this boy are starting to mean more than a maneuver of convenience.
Hell, if
I don’t watch out I may fall in love with Sonny. Wouldn’t that be
something? I
think this may turn into a trap of my own design and I may end up being
the
sacrifice.
After dinner he takes me
home
and I let the goodnight kiss linger till our passion is hot enough to
take the
next step. I have got him. That is how I see this whole affair. He
stays to
spend the night. There is no question this is the beginning of a
relationship.
At the office our new way of greeting and spending time together is
soon
recognized for us being a couple. One result is Bobs pulling back from
his
pursuit of me.
Altogether it straightens my
relationship out with all of the male employees. Peculiar is that I
hardly ever
know where Sonny is except when he is in the bathroom while visiting.
The guy
takes three times as long in there than I do. We have a neat love-life.
I find
out Sonny is only twenty-four years old which makes him two years my
junior.
This puts a bit of a damper into our developing love. I have a special
feeling
for older men. My comfort level has always been influenced by the
special aura
older men seem to exude.
Sonny is a great friend to
have, he is neat, clean and loveable so much I sometimes want to take a
bite
out of him, yet I don’t quite trust him enough to give him a key to my
apartment.
***********6 Chapter************
I should tell you about my
family. Well not about them all at once. There is of course my mom. She
is from
Bavaria and was born in Garmisch Partenkirchen if we
want to
be exact. So from the time I was a toddler I have been calling her
Mutti. Today
would be a good day to call her on the phone. When I turned twelve she
decided
to send me to my Grandma in, you guessed it, Garmisch Partenkirchen.
Her reasoning
was that here in California we have too dangerous a lifestyle. What she
means is
drugs and our loose society. Additionally she thinks our school system
is
lacking and worse yet our teachers are mentally limited. Talking about
prejudice, that is my Mutti. Not enough, she judges us to be deficient
in the
cultural arena as well.
Endeffect is, that I spent
three years with Oma and Opa going to school in southern Bavaria. Garmisch is about a hundred kilometers
south of Munich. Oh yes, that comes to about sixty-two miles
by our
way of reckoning. This whole chapter of my life is an experience I find
hard to
describe. So what I want to do is bring you just sections cut out for
you to
fill in whereever it is needed. Then I hope the added in parts of my
past education
will give the picture of what it is to be transplanted from here to Europe
and in particular to Germany with a pinpoint in Garmisch Partenkirchen.
My Mutti says she is not
prejudiced. She only wants what is best for me. I bet you have heard
this before.
What does it mean that Hanna my sister was exempted from this best
thing and
not sent to Bavaria? Is it that I
am a problem child and therefore someone to be deposited somewhere
else? Does
this signify she loves me more than Hanna or that she loves me less? In
my
memories from those years it is all largely a kind of Disneyland trip. I see just what kind of a timid,
little girl I had been.
At the beginning my path
appeared to be full of potholes., what with my German, not to mention
my
Bavarian. Yes Bavarian is something else. If you think you will
understand a
Bavarian speaking this language which they call a ‘Dialect’ you better
think
again. Not the least was the ‘der, die, das’ thing where you have no
reasonable
rule to use for finding out which to replace our simple word THE with.
Then
there was Opa swearing when he felt something wrong with my
comprehension or my
pronunciation. I must have heard his ‘Kruzifix Sakrament Madel’ a
hundred times
a day during those first ten months.
As long as Opa says Madel it
is still quite all right. Bad it gets when he calls me Susan, which is
the time
I better get my act together. Opa calls my dad the ‘Sau Ami’ and that
this
abomination Colonel dropped his goddamn bombs from his flying fortress
on his
beloved München is something he will never forgive him.
Oma only says, that the men
here are all either dead, crippled or starved to death POWs in Siberia. That is to explain why her daughter, my
Mutti, had no other choice.
She had to get out of Bavaria and out of Europe. That is the
reason why I was born in California
and lived there to the ripe age of twelve. That also was why Mutti had
to marry
an Ami instead of a Bavarian schoolboy, as so many other German women
did. Oma
is from Silesia that makes her a Silesian. You probably
never heard
of this province. It is the one that Maria Theresia, Empress of Austria gave to Frederick the Great, King of Prussia. Not
now, dummy, that happened around the middle of the eighteen’s century.
Oh yes,
it does not exist anymore, its name has been changed and Opa says the
Pollacks
have it now except for the part the Czechs have, but this wasn’t part
of the
deal then anyway.
The story here is the same.
These people called Silesian speak another dialect correctly named
Silesian. If
you ask me, it is just one more language which no other German has a
chance to
understand. Dialect my foot. If and when Oma curses not anyone
understands her.
Opa doesn’t either. Only the tone of voice tells you she is mad,
madder, and
maddest. Rarely as this happens, if it does, Opa gets up takes his hat
and goes
for a Münchener Bräu. I still have the ring of it in my ear
today,
“Nehal’dochdeluffe” is always the first word. I think it means shut up.
Once in a while Opa takes me
with him. Then he sits there with his beer mumbling. After the third
half liter
he starts to curse. First it is the Romans, then the Italians, then it
is
Attila and his Huns. So far so good, but not the end. The rotten
Napoleon
followed by the stinky French, the rotting Prussians, the dumb
Americans and
worst of them all the damned Church-bandits. All those who failed to be
mentioned are, I am sure so, only because of lack of time.
**********7
chapter **********
Most of the time I am in a
quandary. Who is right and who is not. Vati has long since been
divorced from
Mutti. I told him what Opa accuses him of. Vati is my daddy. I think he
is half
European and half American. He is a real no nonsense type of guy. You can ask him, but please don’t expect
an
answer other than some sarcasm about humanity. What his background is,
is a
real puzzle. Is it German, Hungarian or Bohemian or all three? Maybe
that is
the reason why my full name is Susanne Maria Freiin von Pappelhain.
At home in the States I
don’t
ever tell anyone about my name or they will think I have a screw loose.
About
the bombs I got Vati once when he was soft. First he says he was only a
lieutenant at the time. With his head shaking he let it out that he
dropped
those bombs carefully and accurately in various fields and some of the
rivers.
His eyes were far away when he told me about the air raids as if he had
gone
back to the very minute it all went down. The way the Flak was at the
time, he
told me, he thought this was both humanistic and benevolent to his
crew’s life
expectancy. It is not something I have
much comprehension for. For the rest Opa approves of Mutti marrying a
Baron
even if it is not a valid title any more and the man is an Ami.
Vati is, I think, almost as
old as Opa. In response to my query about Opa he had only one answer.
Your Opa
is first class and your Mutti is a fantastic woman. Everybody is going
to be
tickled pink if you get to be half as good as she. There I made the
careless
mistake of asking him. “Why if this is so did you two split up?” At
first he
just grunts, and then he gives me one of those looks fixing me as if I
am in
his sights. I feel he is taking my age in consideration when he answers
my
question. “Susan, your Vati is a hard boned man. This type of man is
likely to
be hard on a woman’s nerves. As far as you are concerned this all
happened more
than half of your life’s time ago.
In many ways my going to
high
school in Garmisch was a blast. For the difficulties with my lack of
good
German there was a price to pay. I took a lot of ribbing. Then there
was
English class. That is where I made up for it. What struck me, as the
most
peculiar was that most of my invitations by school friends were from
the
bluebloods. One that stuck out was Hildegard von Ogertschnig whom I
even today
regard as my best friend from those days.
Visiting Hildegard was to be
my first lesson in a lifestyle that, I am sure, dates back to the
crusades.
Manners are a mix of formal and yet as warm as I have ever experienced
anywhere. My first call at their castle, which is called a
Schloß, this has
first of all the meaning of lock like doorlock; then the second use you
get out
of this word Schloß, is mansion or castle. Once I stepped out of
the car, which
had picked me up at the railroad station I started to feel out of touch
with
reality.
My reception by a butler in
a
mix of Trachten and Loden hunting suit set me back a while. It struck
me as if
I was on a movie set in Hollywood.
I was slightly shocked when he helps me out of the car saying.
“Baroness
Susanne you are already being expected.” Then when I want to take my
luggage he
protests. “No, no Baroness; Stefan will take care of that.” Not ever
before had
I been addressed by our old defunct title. All I can say it’s a strange
feeling
for a twelve-year-old to be greeted by an older man with such respect
and
politeness, especially when you come from the good old USA.
As I start up the steps I
see
this adorable cute boy, hardly older than I, stepping out from behind
the
butler. The most decorative suspenders I have ever seen hold up his
Lederhosen.
Above the short socks he has a separate top which covers just his
calves. The
shoes have a row of odd heavy hails around the soles and heels. He
picks my
heavy bags out of the trunk with a light speedy flick of his wrist.
That is my
experience at Hildegard’s parents. Oh yes so I don’t forget: I got an
immediate
invitation to stay the week.
Well that was absolutely
cool
for me. To get a week, a whole week of this kind of life. Only flaw is
Oma. She
will be worried. On second thought Mutti will be calling. She does this
once a
week. The Ogertschnigs agree. It’ll be taken care of.
The von Ogertschnigs have a
kind of secretary which they call Fräulein. She is a lot more than
a secretary.
She takes car of servant hiring, training and firing, I guess, as well.
Once my
longer stay has been established Hildegard’s father nods to her mother
who
turns to me advising me. “Okay Susi, be a sweetheart and find
Fräulein and tell
her to call your Oma and Mutti too. So we can be sure there is no
reason to
worry about you.”
I am so happy at the time;
just thinking about it even now makes my heart jump. Right there and
then I
wanted to jump up and hug somebody, but I controlled myself. I bit my
lips and
got up slowly and ladylike to go and find Fräulein. What I
wondered does a
secretary do in a private household? Where do I find this
Fräulein?
Almost at once I luck out
running into that handsome boy Stefan who just a while ago fetched my
luggage.
I am sure I can ask him and I only hope it’ll take him awhile to find
out.
Stefan is polite and eager to please, but also fast with the
information. He
informs me with a certain air, out of which I can detect a large amount
of
manly superiority. I also find that the boy is not only a foot taller
than I,
but I judge him to be a couple of years older that I as well. Well that
is all
right too since, even when I was twelve, I preferred older Boys.
Stefan explains to me about
Fräulein. “Yes Fräulein, right now she is in the kitchen
putting the weekly
menu together.” He makes a face as if he had told me some world-shaking
news. I
give him a nod, half agreement half questionmark. “She is always
pertinent to
have it all run to perfection.” I was about to learn this in just a few
days
and much more. When I found her, Yes, in the kitchen I told her about
the
needed phone calls, she got on the phone to Oma without delay. “Yes
Madam this
is Miss Novachek at Schloß Windhausen. I am calling for Baroness
Susan, the
Ogertschnigs are asking her to stay for a week if this is agreeable.”
There is
a short pause. Fräulein nods saying “Then I shall make the call to
her mother,
thank you.”
She hangs up starts dialing
again and then turning to me she asks. “Baroness tell me please, your
Mother is
in the habit of getting up by eight in the morning, yes?” I nod
silently. I
hear the familiar ring from home in California. It is just a few seconds I can tell the
ringing has
stopped and Fräulein informs my Mutti. “Good morning, this is
Fräulein
Novachek. I am calling to tell you Baroness Susan is spending a week
with us
here at Schloß Windhausen at the von Ogertschnigs. Our telephone
number here is
49 7845 63423.” She listens for a while and in answer to god knows what
she
says. “She is right here with me. I’ll put her on and thank you very
much. I
will tell the family.”
What really catches me by
surprise is that Fräulein Novachek has switched to perfect
American when she
speaks to Mutti. Well I should say it was mostly New England I heard in her voice. She gives me the
receiver. I hear Muttis worried
voice from California. “Susan listen to me. Watch your manners.
Don’t make
an ass of yourself with our American behavior. Be good.” I interrupt
her with
some less patience that I should have. “Okay, okay Mutti I’ll watch
myself; bye,
bye.” There is still doubt in her voice when she says “Good bye Susan.”
I hang
up eyeing Fräulein with new respect. “It’s all okay, thanks a mill
for
calling.” Fräulein nods briefly. "Not a problem, Baroness, no
thanks necessary.”
I turn with one last look at her and go back to the salon. Oh yes the
living
room is called a salon. Frankly it’s the size of a school mess hall or
a fair sized
hotel lobby. Go figure.
***********8 chapter***********
These memories of my
childhood in Europe ring me back to the now and today. I push my
fingernail against the speed dial button and then I hit the one twice.
Now I
hear the dialer click itself through the ten numbers. There is the hum,
the
ring, once, twice and at three Mutti lifts the receiver. “Susan how are
you, what
are you doing?” I hope to sometime learn to understand how she can be
so sure
it is I who is calling. “Good morning Mutti. I am fine thank you, and I
am
talking to you on the phone.” I say it and know I should not have.
“Susi I have
told you a thousand times don’t you get fresh with me. Well, talk,
talk.”
That is how it goes for me
with my Mutti. I tell her about my career, details about my change from
advertising to the radio station. When I mention John, my gay friend,
and how
knowing him and having him there has helped me, she gets curious. Mutti
getting
so nosy it is hilarious. “This John is about the most solid man you
have met so
far, Susan.” I have landed myself in a groove with her I would have
rather
avoided. Knowing her as you can only know your mother, I am in for it.
She
isn’t going to quit till, yes till I pour the cold water on her new pet
theory.
Mutti, Mutti, slow down
please, slow down. John is a homosexual, a gay guy.” I repeat it slowly
to
drive it home to her. Finally she grasps it and it stops her cold. I
start
counting the seconds. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty-four,
twenty-five, twenty-six. That is where it stands; six seconds until I
give up I
talk to her just to see if she is still on the line. “Mutti, hallo,
hallo?” it
wakes her up from wherever. “Yes Susi, I am still here. One of these
days I
will have a stroke. Are you sure this John is a, …a…?” She can’t get
herself to
say the word gay or whatever. She sounds so serious, so mixed up and
unsure.
Yes unsure, Mutti, she is unsure, for her that is a first all right.
“Okay Mutti listen to this.
He never calls me, I mean not even once. Men don’t do that with me.
Second item
he doesn’t ogle my legs. Men do it always and guaranteed. Number three,
he
doesn’t even take a peak down my blouse. The way I am equipped all men
do this.
Hey, that is not all. He doesn’t put his hand on my knee. That is what,
number
four. The best he does is a kiss me on my nose.” Mutti breathes deeply
which is
a bad omen. I think hard. Mutti doubts
my words, no, my judgement. Why the hell does she? I mean I am not
stupid, not
about men, am I? “That is it?” The way I
see it, what she says, it isn’t fair how she comes at me out of
nowhere. “You
have found out he is not pushy and he has good manners?” Mutti likes to
pause
for thought. I have always disliked this trait in her. She queries. “Is
he
married?”
“Mutti, he wears no wedding
band. Besides, he is thick with the gay guys at the Old Brittany.” She
can’t be
stopped “Come on girl don’t be naïve. Good food is just a sign of
a potential
gourmet no matter where it comes from. Go and ask him.” That is it for
me.
“Mutti you are nuts, no worse, you have a screw loose. I should go and
ask John
‘Are you gay?’ Like ‘why haven’t you jumped me yet?’ Hello!”
Mutti is so exited as if she
had caught me at something. “There, you see. You don’t want to
embarrass
yourself because he impresses you. I knew this the moment you started
talking
about him.” I don’t know why, but I can concede a point when I see a
reason for
it. “Okay Mutti, he is neat or attractive. John is an elegant man, but
he is
not interested in women. That is the end, finish. If you want him, you
can have
him.” I have that sick feeling I am getting into it, too deep.
My
Mutti has a condition.
She
actually believes she has a certain precognition. This brings her an
unreasonable self-confidence. I don’t mean there is anything wrong with
self
confidence. It is just with her it goes beyond reasonable
self-assurance. Opa
had a way of labeling it. He said she can hear the grass grow. I
deserve it
when she tells me what to do because she knows. I should learn to keep
my mouth
shut. She gets to this point where she tries to talk me into doing
something
which I know better, not to do; hell for that matter, not even to get
close to.
It takes me awhile alright to fill her in with my priorities. It is not
just to
get her off my back. I genuinely want her to know about my life. I
mean, after
all, she is my mother.
So, once more I talk to her
and explain. “Mutti I have to wait to the first of the month for my
paycheck
before I can do anything.” I know how the mention of money is a way of
getting
her attention. My next is I tell her I have a date with the hair salon
to keep.
She pauses and I wonder if she is catching on to my ruse. Have I used
it one
time too many? So I bring a new reason up for her that is not a repeat.
“Mutti
listen I have a heavy date for a party to celebrate my new job at WHW.
I have
been planning this for months.” I am so happy. She finally takes my cue
and
concedes this is important. “So, you are going to do the town and
celebrate
your change of jobs and going upward in the world. Good night Susan.”
As quick
as I can I squeeze out my. “Good night, Mutti.” I put the receiver down
with a
deep sigh of relief.
At first I
take Friday to go
out with Sonny. After a while we go out twice, that is, I decide
to make it for
Wednesday and Saturday. As time goes by, we add a third day to it. It
works out
fine for me. We split it so we do a movie in the middle of the week,
the other
two days it’s dinner and bed. Of course bed. Sex twice a week is
important.
Time flies and it is Fall so quickly. Slowly I get to be aware that
Sonny, my
sweet friend, is not at home on the days we are not together. When I
confront
him he admits to sleeping with another girl. But he assures me he loves
me, not
her. I had just thought of giving him a key to my apartment. Well I
caught it
just in time.