TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 87

[Tobie Shapiro]

December 12, 200000006


Dear People of the Tree,

	I was dreaming that someone stole my 
suitcase.  There are many dreams I have in which 
I'm living out of a suitcase.  I'm at camp.  Or 
I'm living in a boarding house.  Or I'm 
temporarily living outside in a warehouse that is 
indoors but outdoors.  I'm living with a whole 
group of other people whose identities are 
unknown to me.  And of course then, there's the 
suitcase, something necessary if you want to 
change your clothes and function.  So someone 
stole it.  It was there right after I got up, 
even though the bed fell apart.  The bed was on a 
platform with other beds right next to it, in a 
row.  Mine was the second to the edge.  Now it 
was in a shambles and someone had taken the 
suitcase which I'd had my hands on only seconds 
before.  I'm still trying to shake the feeling 
that something has happened that I have to 
correct.  I have to go looking for something 
essential.  This dream will fade.  Maybe I should 
change my clothes?



 
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Cheap

	Andrew was cheap.  Andrew was so cheap 
that he was a legend among his acquaintances. 
Andrew was cheap of pocket and cheap of spirit. 
In fact, if he'd known what pleasure his circle 
derived from talking about how cheap he was, he 
wouldn't have been so cheap because he would 
never have wanted to give anyone such happiness. 
Andrew always got up to go to the bathroom when 
the check arrived, never paid his fair share, 
pinched half pennies.  He never gave presents and 
managed to get someone else to pay for him at 
movies, museums, events of every kind.  He never 
gave of his time and energy and was famous with 
me for having said in his clipped British accent, 
"Surely, you ought to know by now, that I have 
only so much to give and only at certain times."

	What a strange combination we were.  I 
was generous to a fault, buying for others what I 
would never purchase for myself, leaving big 
tips, loving my friends openly and lavishing on 
them all my energies, willing to drive people to 
the airport at odd hours, even foolish with my 
profligate ways.  Andrew must have been attracted 
to me for that reason as well as others, but this 
was the sticking point that stung.  He begged 
meals off of me.  We'd go out on his invitation, 
his ticket.  He'd promise that this time, he was 
paying.  After all, I'd been so generous with 
him.  It was the least he could do to repay me. 
He'd order the most expensive thing on the menu, 
encourage me to be bold and spare no expense. 
Then it turned out he'd forgotten his wallet, 
"borrowing" again from me what he'd never pay 
back.  I remember him reclining in his bed, 
flossing his teeth and spitting out the flecks of 
food he caught onto the wall.

	What on earth did I see in him?  For so 
many of the men I went out with, so many that I 
convinced myself I'd fallen in love with, I 
cannot fathom in hindsight what on earth 
attracted me.  Invariably, the affairs ended in 
disaster, with broken hearts and bad feelings, 
bad feelings.  With Andrew, I finally got sick of 
his mooching and his puny offers of himself.  I 
told him at last, in a desperate mood, that he 
was cheap, and he hit the roof.  His reaction was 
swift and nasty.  He swore at me, called me names 
and threw things.  He stamped his feet and cursed 
some more.  I stood there, not inspiring him any 
further, hoping he would soon wind down and think 
about it.  When he quieted, he ushered me out the 
front door, keeping all the gifts I'd given him, 
plus a lamp and rocking chair that were on loan 
from me.  But he called in a day and apologized. 
He said he was maybe a little on the cautious 
side, but not cheap, and to make amends, he'd 
take me out to dinner.

	"No losing your wallet?"

	"I have my wallet.  This one's on me, love."

	I swear that I accepted out of morbid 
curiosity.  How would he get out of this offer of 
generosity?  He took me to the Chinese restaurant 
on the corner near his house, and he ordered one 
dish.  He did pay, but he left a tip so low it 
was embarrassing and I added into the pile while 
he wasn't looking.  After that I lost interest 
altogether.  I told him he was incurable and 
before he could throw a tantrum, I left, telling 
him I didn't want to see him again.  He accepted 
this with some shock, but also with what appeared 
to me to be a degree of grace.  A couple weeks 
later, he timed his arrival in my favourite haunt 
so that he could bump into me.

	"I thought right about now you'd be 
wanting to see me again," he said, his hat 
actually in his hands.

	"You're wrong," I said, not looking up for very long.

	"I've been very upset since our 
denouement," he continued, emphasizing denouement 
with an exaggerated french pronunciation.  "I 
realize how much you mean to me."

	The stinginess of the whole relationship 
had worn a hole in my patience, and a bit in my 
humanity.  I told him to leave, and to stay left, 
that I didn't want to see him about then, and 
that I felt much better since our denouement, 
which I pronounced in English.  Please go away, 
and then I took back the "please".

	"Don't come crawling back to me," he muttered as he left.

	I could look at that whole episode as if 
I were a victim of this man's stinginess, the 
niggardly withholding of any thing or essence 
within his power to give.  But there I was, 
continuing on in a relationship with this miser, 
well after I knew all about his ways.  What was 
it that kept me there?  And I routinely invited 
him out if we were going to go out.  Staying with 
him was like hitting myself over the head with a 
flashlight.  It was punishment.  What had I done 
so awful that I needed punishing?  Or why did I 
want to credit myself with being a victim of this 
man's minginess?  Friends used to blanch when 
they learned I was going out with Andrew.  They 
couldn't believe it.  He was that famous.  And 
then they'd warn me to keep my distance from him, 
that he'd bleed me dry.  But I didn't listen 
until that final straw.  Still, I left the lamp 
and the rocking chair behind, just to avoid 
having to deal with him.  When it was over, it 
was completely finished.

	I wonder how he's fared, going through 
life like that.  I know only one thing about him 
since I told him to leave that coffee shop. 
Years later, I read an article written by him 
under a pseudonym that I recognized.  It was all 
about being a cocaine dealer, and how popular 
that made him, how the women gathered round and 
the men clapped him on the back.  How he'd gone 
through how many grams of coke while writing the 
story.  Now, there's a drug that would be a 
nightmare to a cheap old bastard.


 
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Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net