TheBanyanTree: more stories

[Tobie Shapiro]

September 13, 20000000006


Dear Writers,

	Here.  Have more stories.  True.  All true.  I haven't bent them yet.

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	My father's mother, Lena  -- Alta Lena (Werksman) Shapiro -- 
came to visit us in Washington, D.C., or more accurately, Silver 
Spring, Maryland.  She stayed in the spare bedroom.  I don't remember 
what the occasion was for her visit.  After Grampa David's death, she 
moved from New Jersey to Portland, Oregon to be with Selma, my aunt 
(her daughter, my father's sister).  It may have been from Portland 
that she was visiting.  That means I must have been four or five 
years old, very young.  But even at that age, I found Grama Lena to 
be weird.  She moved slowly and fastidiously, and she wore old 
ladies' clothes.  She smiled even when she couldn't have been 
pleased, and she was old, so old!  I was afraid of her.  Unlike my 
other Grama, Grama Fannie, who was warm and engaging, Lena was 
distant and judgmental,  not attached to us in any tangible way. 
What frightened me about her was that she seemed about to die.  She 
was going to die and fall over on me.  She'd still be wearing that 
smile, too.

	One day during Lena's visit, my sister and I heard the 
ice-cream truck tinkling by.  The bell like melody was instantly 
recognized by every child within a mile.  We knew how long we had to 
get out there with our money, and we knew where the truck would stop, 
and we knew which ice-cream treats we liked.  We knew it all.  It was 
Pavlovian.  We were ready for ice-cream.  Lena was taking care of us 
that day, so we ran to her, leapt about her, rushed and anxious that 
we get the money in time.  We needed two nickels, one each.  She went 
slowly for her purse, and slowly extracted a little change purse from 
it, slowly clicked it open and slowly rummaged for two nickels which 
she then held above our heads while she instructed us, slowly, in her 
careful soporific voice, "Very   well.     You     may     have 
two     nickels     for   ice  -  cream      today,     but     you 
must     promise     me     that     you     will     not    want 
ice  -  cream     tomorrow."  This went right past us.  Just give me 
the money and shut up!  The truck will leave.  Promise her anything! 
So we promised, and she lowered the nickels into our outstretched 
palms.  We shot outside and bought our ice - cream.  The next day was 
years later for us.  A whole new universe is born every day when 
you're five and seven years old (or four and six).  The ice-cream 
truck jingled into earshot again, probably round about the same time, 
and we ran like hell to Grama Lena for ice-cream money.  She frowned 
and shook her head (slowly).  "But     darlings,"  she said in her 
monotone, "you     promised     me     you     wouldn't     want 
ice  -  cream     today."  And  she stiffed us.

	Here's the weird part.  It's not weird to limit ice-cream 
intake for four and six year olds (or five and seven year olds).  But 
it IS weird to make them promise not to WANT ice-cream at a future 
time.  We could have understood and dealt with, "Here are two nickels 
today, but tomorrow I won't give you money for ice-cream."  But this 
twisted command that we swear not to desire something is beyond 
weird, it's sick.  It's the same as my father making me promise not 
to be scared of the pathology exhibit.  Hmmm.  Wonder where he got 
that.

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	USHER THE CHILDREN OUT OF THE ROOM NOW.  THIS FOLLOWING STORY 
IS X RATED, HAS NASTY WORDS IN IT, AND IS NOT FIT FOR TOT CONSUMPTION.


	When I was married to Bernie, I was subjected to all sorts of 
filthy treatment.  In bed, regardless of what I'd asked for, he'd 
spit out a gush of ugly angry words.  He'd say things like, "I wanna 
come all over your eyes."  or, "Beg for it, bitch!"  "My hot dick is 
gonna ram its way into your hot red juicy cunt."  It was more than 
disgusting and less than romantic.  In fact, considering my history, 
it was the perfect thing to make me ill, to swear off sex forever, 
and it certainly poisoned the event.  Yet, I'd go through with it on 
my endless voyage to please the man.  Looking back, I don't know how 
I tolerated it.

	I tried to convince him that I loathed it, that it was 
demeaning and violent, that denigration and violence were anathema to 
making love.  But he'd counter with, "It makes it more exciting for 
me."  "Sandy taught me how to talk dirty during sex.  Women love it." 
I don't remember whether he tried to refute the part about it being 
demeaning, but it didn't matter to him.  We'd close our conversation 
with an understanding of how I felt about it, and an agreement from 
Bernie that he wouldn't force it on me.  Then, the next time we'd 
make love, there he would be threatening me with his big hot tool, 
referring to  my juicy cunt and describing what he wanted to do to 
me.  He wouldn't listen to me.

	But he did listen to me when I talked in my sleep.  I began 
to fake talking in my sleep so I could educate him.  Soon, the 
character that appeared in my place when I was asleep was, "Cloud". 
He listened reverently8 to Cloud.  When we'd get in bed, he'd be 
eager to assist me getting off to a good night's sleep and he'd 
smooth the path for me, be extra solicitous.  "Get to sleep now.  You 
need a good night's rest."  And as soon as my head hit the pillow, I 
could hear him waiting in the dark.  After a while, when I'd steadied 
and slowed my breathing, maybe mumbled a few words, I'd hear him 
calling me.  "Cloud?  Cloud?  Are you there?"  And I'd tell him, yes, 
I was there; I'd arrived.  And I'd talk to him about thousands of 
years ago when I was a poor nomad girl, part of a tribe who was going 
to marry her off to a terrible man.  So I ran away.  I ran away in my 
wedding dress, the one with the coins sewn all over it.  While hiding 
from my family (I was only an adolescent) I met the spiritual 
ancestor of Bernie.  And we sold off the coins on my dress to get by. 
I told my new friend about many things.  Among them was not to talk 
dirty to the nice young bride.  To be respectful.  And to all of 
this, Bernie listened reverently, overwhelmed by the wisdom of Cloud.

	I finally revealed to him that I'd been awake during his 
sessions with Cloud.  And here's the surprise: he didn't believe me. 
He just couldn't handle it.  So he settled on an explanation that I 
put myself in a trance and was channelling my past life as Cloud.  So 
the games could go forward.

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	Go to sleep now, folks.

	Yours,

	and then some,

	Tobie
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net