TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 43

[Tobie Shapiro]

October 29, 20000000006

Dear Loveds,

	I am humbled this morning by having read 
through nine e-mails from my lawyer.  They 
arrived yesterday, but it was Shabbos, and I 
refused to upset myself.  But I read them this 
morning.  I got up early because I'm not adjusted 
to the new time yet.  I tackled the e-mails one 
after the other.  They were mostly profligate 
verbiage from villainman's lawyer.  They have 
redefined anal and it borders on OCD.  It's like 
watching someone wash his hands compulsively 
twenty times, and expecting others to follow 
suit.  I was accused of taking some of 
villainman's possessions purposefully, just 
tucking them under my arm and proceeding to my 
mother's house with them.  These were accusations 
spouted by villainman's new wife (my ex friend). 
I knew she lied, casually even, but why stir up 
legal trouble when there is no basis in fact?  It 
baffles me how petty and wicked some people can 
be.  By his lawyer's own count, villainman has 
been spending $2,000 a month on legal expenses. 
Most of this is in this proliferation of letters 
from the lawyer, and detailed spread sheets 
documenting minutia that only they could possibly 
care about.  I've saved a lot of money by being 
reasonable.  It wearies me watching the back and 
forth between the lawyers.  What good can come of 
it?  Still, it makes me nervous.  Luckily, the 
hired judge finds them tiresome, too.  She was 
the one who suggested that they had redefined 
anal.  It is helpful to remember that there is a 
real world which continues on course, and that 
kindnesses do abound as well.

	The world is my oyster (where did that saying come from?).


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The All Oyster Meal

	Warner Jepson's reputation preceded him, 
so that by the time I met him, I believed he was 
more famous than he actually was.  My first 
introduction to him was in viewing a movie that 
Harry and I went to at an art cinema in San 
Diego.  "Luminous Procuress" was an art film made 
in San Francisco to which Warner Jepson wrote the 
score.  It was a fantastical film, surreal in 
some ways, over colourful, and erotic in some 
sneaky way.  There was no furious fucking, and 
very little nakedness, just sensuousness and 
foggy scenes.  Harry and I talked about the score 
to the movie, and he mentioned that he was 
familiar with Jepson's work.  He was a prominent 
composer in the bay area who had won many awards.

	And there I was at his door in Diamond 
Heights in San Francisco.  He was going to be my 
composition teacher.  I was excited and a little 
nervous, but that all went away as soon as he 
opened the door.  His house was dusty and 
disheveled.  I could see past him to the clutter. 
There he stood with his Chihuahua, Chazumo, 
standing on his shoulder.  Warner had nystagmus, 
which meant his eyes wobbled in their sockets 
back and forth.  This caused his head to wobble 
back and forth in compensation.  He was tall, six 
foot four, with a head of grey and brown hair 
that poofed out in all directions.  It was your 
standard Einstein cut.

	I think I fell for him as soon as he 
opened his mouth.  His voice was soft, almost a 
whisper.  He sounded like he was sighing when he 
spoke.  He introduced himself and introduced his 
piano.  We sat on the bench together and he began 
my lessons.  I was an execrable pianist, so this 
slowed me down quite a bit.  But the courtship 
came along with some speed.  We'd sit there, 
burning on the piano bench together, going over 
scores by Mozart and Tchaikovsky.  (He said, 
"Mozart thought he could do anything," with some 
disdain, and was agape at chords constructed by 
Tchaikovsky.)  He was impressed to say the least 
with my music, and thought I had the most 
beautiful voice the world had ever known, which 
meant he was prone to exaggeration.  I was busy 
with a thousand distractions during the week, and 
avoided doing my assignments.  It came out in our 
lesson like this:

	"I love what you do write, but I wish so much that you'd do more."

	And I looked straight at the score on the 
piano stand, and I said, "But if I write more, 
who will love me?"

	He said, slowly, "Who       will 
love      you," and then he leaned down and 
kissed me gently on the lips.  I kissed back.  We 
kissed back.  There was a lot of kissing.  And 
then there was the touching.  How to remain more 
or less proper while feeling each others' skin 
under our clothing.

	I promised Warner I would make him a 
meal.  I planned a seductive meal, one made 
entirely of oyster dishes:  raw oysters with 
burningly hot sauce, oyster chowder, oysters in 
oyster sauce with black mushrooms and scallions, 
oysters sauteed with leek and black bean.  If I 
could have thought of a dessert with oysters in 
it I would have done that.  The whole idea was 
seduction.  We'd kissed and smarmed and fumbled 
about under our clothing, but I was after the 
full throttle consummation.  This was going to be 
tricky because I was living in my parents' house 
at the time, and there wasn't a great number of 
places to consummate anything.  consumé, yes. 
Consummate, no.

	I invited him on a Friday night so there 
would be no early rising the next day, no 
obligation to send him home early.  And I made 
sure my parents cleared out of the kitchen and 
dining room while I entertained my guest.  Warner 
showed up late, which was usual.  I'd devised and 
written out a formal menu which I'd illustrated 
with stamp art and coloured pencil.  I handed it 
to him upon his arrival.  Then I carefully hung 
up his leather jacket in the front hallway and 
led him into the kitchen where I was busy tending 
the meal.  I offered him one of the bar stools 
that sat around the central island in the 
kitchen, and he took his seat, watching me as I 
ran around the kitchen, stirring and chopping, 
sauteing, pouring, dancing with the wok.  I had 
oysters compressed in a colander, and oysters 
diced into a creamy soup.  I was soaking black 
mushrooms, and setting out the little bowls of 
ingredients from which I concocted the meal.

	We spoke in unveiled seductive tones, 
playing on words and generally exciting each 
other.  He loved oysters and knew the folk 
legends about them being powerful aphrodisiacs. 
I brought the first course, raw oysters in 
burningly hot sauce, into the dining room, where 
I'd set a formal table with candles and flowers. 
There were three small oysters apiece.  The hot 
sting on the tongue was invigorating, and set the 
mouth on fire.  Then I brought in the oyster 
chowder to cool us down.  We slurped the chowder 
and the diced oysters slid down our throats. 
Next was the oysters in oyster sauce with black 
mushrooms.  We  let the whole oysters slither 
down the backs of our throats.  Dish by dish was 
accompanied by white wine.  We must have shared a 
bottle of good German Alsacian wine.  And by the 
time the last dish was served, we'd left the 
table and pushed aside a chair or two on the 
floor near the heating vent, where Warner pressed 
me down on the rug, pulled his pants past his 
knees, leaving his shoes on (he always left his 
shoes on).  We fucked like oysters must fuck when 
they set their minds to it.  There was a lot of 
bumping around, groaning, wild grabbing and soft 
talk, too.  There we were, right next to the 
heating vent, our noises being carried upstairs 
to my parents' bedroom where they had been sent 
in exile.

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Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net