Vacuum Pact
“We are holding our own…” last words heard from the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Belief is a funny thing…unchallenged it flutters, Old Glory in the breeze, answer on surveys, posts to the homepage or shouts out across a bar in drunken debate—for this I stand, the is of Be, I Am! Most of course, never have their belief tested and go on ad nauseam mouthing unexamined tenets as if fact not fiction, the very foundation and felt motivation for doing what they do or did, universal and true, existing beyond the idea of it. Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said—I think therefore I am. Yet, we all know the world/universe conspires at times to shred the flimsy scrim of whatever sum believed upset its former peace, dispatch will-o’ the-wisp all platitudes previous in favor of the latest updates. But belief is a funny thing and by belief I do not mean the aforementioned sum, bandied about in sanitized settings or lip-serviced in academic lecture halls, where the word represents in measured steps, lock, stock and trade; enshrined and justified itself by itself, as if it could or should obey conclusions made, mean to everyone the same, obvious and true.
The kind of belief I mean is what steps up and drives—sum ergo cogito, when all else fails; runs roughshod over what was—love, reason, ambition, truth, ‘universal’ human values—all dispatched like so much fluff or, it goes the other way too, infused and elevated beyond the pale with energies transcendent. Belief, not concept so much as instinct, invoked when equivocation stops, being and doing are one. That which wills, steps up and enables when all else fails, takes the reins, presses on to the end, stands and defends what, if lost, would mean life not worth living—I am, unable to act, to be or not to be… as Hamlet said.
Cindy understood this like the drowning understand air. Did not yet know she understood it, mired as she was in unfavorable conditions—almost forty year-old woman, living with her parents, jobless, on medication, buried in debt, little drive to do anything about it, “Just until you get back on your feet, Honey,” mother whispered, held her hurt hand and gently rubbed her back, in the line at Walgreen’s as they filled antibiotic and pain prescriptions, post surgery. Embraced and comforted her at first but exhibited increasing impatience, after a few weeks lack of progress in getting back on her feet. Father peeked into her room one night and asked, “How are you planning to pay rent, Honey?”
She’d gained a lot of weight from eating shit, feeling sorry for herself, depressed. Twenty pounds, according to the bathroom scale, clad in matted blue shag, matched the toilet seat cover and bathmats. Blue as most things in the room (Cindy included), towels, little flower soaps in a white pebbled dish, shower curtains, tile round the tub and counter top. She stared at these things in long waits for poop, habituating her system to morning bowel movements instead of taking laxatives, a suggestion from Teacher. Cindy called her Teacher because she hated Therapist or Counselor. “We’re two sides of the same coin, my Dear. I can’t do this without you so I need your undivided attention in exchange for mine. Don’t waste our time.
Cindy understood the eclipse of belief well enough, stared down its black hole and wound up living with her parents, massive debt, stripped of illusions, unsure what to do next, anxiety constant. She pinched skin on the back of her wrist, repeated—If you pinch your skin and it stands up like this… you are dehydrated. Who said that? It had always been at times, like her soul took flight, left her behind—clumsy, short of breath, to flounder around and stand out like an idiot, while it absconded, who knows where, with confidence, meaning and direction, left her to follow whomever seemed to know better than she what to do next. Well… now, things were different. Nothing anybody suggested made any sense, except Teacher. Her father told her if she got a job she’d feel better. He’d feel better…. Cindy hated medication, wanted to but couldn’t call Tom (her ex-). Didn’t know why she couldn’t call him or why she wanted to, really. A reference perhaps for her last memory of normal feelings… had she ever had normal feelings? She hated being on medication but every time she went off, she couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t get her breath, didn’t want to live. Maybe now she could… starting tomorrow, she would. She shook out a pill and washed it down with a handful of water from the tub spout.
I am what I want others to think of me… twisted as that seems, Cindy realized through work with Teacher and if I wish others to think of me then I must think of me. She looked in the mirror, had an aversion to thinking about herself in any way other than how another might see her positively (her father) and shrunk at the first signs of disapproval or conflict. Something she blamed him for (and Tom), always criticizing and correcting, never complementing or waiting until she finished a thought or understood what was said already. That’s bullshit, Teacher snapped, second time she heard it, Everyone wants to be heard and understood. Problem is they want to be heard and understood on their own terms and not bother to adapt. That’s Narcissism, a necessary stage for children, perhaps. You don’t understand yourself, much less know it. Knowledge is always partial and fleeting, yet it’s our own summation and disapproval we suffer most, no? Get stuck in? Cling to ideas we hate? Abuse ourselves and recruit others to? WTF! Go test it. Time’s up! Pay attention! Who is it knows what should have been instead of what was? What a perfect world is and isn’t? Exactly where and how you and everyone else failed…event over but the hurt goes on? Don’t take my word for it. You got a front row seat, Babe. No one’s illumination can match your own. You’re finally growing again, not damaged or diminished, just paralyzed in the face of flux!
How understand a self that undermines my ability to function in the world (my body)? Why should I be ashamed because I’m fat and ugly?
She’d been instructed to write down questions as she was at times unable to recall them in sessions. Teacher intimidated her but was what Cindy aspired to be—successful, attractive, killer body, at ease and confident in bed (she imagined). Teacher was a hot older woman and, Cindy suspected, a lesbian.
Who’s ashamed of whom?
Sometimes answers came back and were at first assumed something Teacher said, until she insisted she hadn’t.
When you trust yourself you will know how to live—Gurda (sp?).
Cindy wrote things down she wanted to remember and/or drew pictures in a small sketchbook when tired of staring at things in the room… Am I being punished for something? Whose punishing whom? Why? My body is punishing me! It even hurts to write this, be awake, can’t sleep, suffer dreams. That’s called original sin—everyone feels guilty. Froid (sp?).
That morning, she’d dreamt of drawing, a small sketchbook at first, but each time she chose a color, the sketchbook grew bigger and she put it down on the floor to fit. The picture started in the lower right corner but seemed hell bent at what was coming opposite (upper left) where only Stori (sp?) was written. At first Cindy felt she could get there because the colors kept getting bigger on pace with the paper, until stacked like 4x4 fence posts dumped in their drive once by a Parr Lumber truck. She noticed, besides needing two hands now to use, it took leaning with all her weight on the colors to move. On top of all that—colors would shift, she’d turn back to the stack, having decided which one to pick, only to forget in the face of a whole different shade.
“Cindy?” The bedroom door cracked open and in popped her mother’s head, “I’m running over to Fred Meyers. Need anything?”
“No… uh… yeah, um… epsom salts and yogurt. Yoplait, please.”
Six months prior Cindy smashed a window with a brick, when she saw through it her girlfriend Maya making love to a woman named Satori. Bad as that move was, she held onto the brick and cut her hand on the way out as well as the way in, almost bled to death in bed and needed emergency surgery the next day to reattach tendons. Rushed to the hospital by police, who showed up early in the morning to arrest her at her parent’s house, where she’d gone after stopping by Lakshmi (their once happy home) to bleed on Maya’s pillows. Those few moment’s out of control cost her $30k on top of what she already owed her father, who paid for divorce, bankruptcy, bail, surgery (all at 3% interest). Maya pressed charges, filed a restraining order and would not even acknowledge, much less talk to or forgive her. Kept Cindy’s half of the $5,000 check from a workshop they co-produced, which her brother, the promoter Pace Turner went along with and signed over, insisting he had contractual obligations, even when Cindy confronted and asked him not to, pointing out it was his fault Satori came there in the first place. Not that she was crazy about the money… but still, a few bucks would come in handy. Not getting it of course added insult to injury. She did learn some lessons like—property damage and violence trump truth and trust. The entire yoga community supported Maya/Satori against that crazy bitch violence, as several facebook posts termed it.
Compassion? I’m so over it… she shook her head… at least while on medication. Last time off, she couldn’t get out of bed, so bad, abused herself with food and drink. Stop using it as an excuse! Teacher lost her patience, on or off, the obstacles you erect, cling to and defend what must be overcome by force of will or suffer endless repetition and revulsion. She remembered Daddy prying her fingers off bootstraps until they snapped, removing her boots before bed. Ladybug boots she loved more than anything else in the world and would take off herself if they just let her get in bed with them. Mommy had but Daddy couldn’t… they’d been outside, in the yard, where things pee and poop! No child of his was going to sleep with boots on in bed!
She finished, wiped up and flushed, even though there was none. Got back in bed with her iPad and looked on the internet for things to do on a date that night—her second, following Teacher’s advice to—Engage men as a practice, work on yourself in action, see what comes up? Get out there and get your… you know what wet and feel it, whatever it is but stop and take notice when you can’t stay present and engaged, able to ask and answer clearly.
“What do you mean by that? Why men?” She knew Cindy identified as lesbian.
Why not? Women then, I don’t care really. It’s just sex but it might be good for you to wrestle with male aggression, a live penis and penetration in the spirit of historical comparison, if nothing else. See if, when and why you check out like you said it started way back when, with your brother and then…she put on glasses, pulled over and looked at notes on her pad, wetness issues and trouble getting impatient boyfriend inside you? You said something similar continued with Tom and led to no sex at all from… being put off so much… he stopped trying? When did you stop trying? Pay attention if you stop feeling and get too much up in your head at any point in the process.
Cindy was never quite sure if what she felt was what she should feel or which came first? Never really settled on what she needs or why she needs it. Always let others direct and felt things would just progress, fall in place for her. She’d follow along until she met her soulmate and live happily ever after. But… it seems things mostly just fell in place, as in collapsed—left her in pieces, a mess, never quite knowing how to put things back together again. She could have fucked Bobby Patterson, her first date off Match.com; sweet, affable, intelligent, good look’n guy, owned a condo on the waterfront. A little thick around the middle perhaps and not the greatest posture but had all his hair and smelled good, like essential oils! Vetiver? Dressed well. She put down her laptop and tried to masturbate without imagining someone doing something to her, like Teacher prescribed—once a day at least. Always strange at first, it got easier and she felt calmed but didn’t finish. The Cinderella pillow she had as a kid drifted in and she nodded off for a bit, dreamt of brightly colored horses going up and down on poles in a giant calliope, like the ones at Jantzen Beach. Watched herself go round and round, checking her figure in the central mirror.
“Life’d be so much easier if I lived down here,” she sighed and leaned out over his balcony rail, whiskey on the rocks in hand, feeling giddy, somewhat dazzled by night light squiggles on the river, near the Steel Bridge. How big everything is, she thought, feeling like a little kid, the world’s not small at all. Cindy had suggested a walk on the esplanade, after their dinner at Higgins, needing to move, too much food and such a nice night. They walked north on the west side, stopped now and then. She showed him how to play hopscotch when they came across a court drawn with sidewalk chalk, couldn’t believe he didn’t know. Wound up at his place for a nightcap, “You could stay here tonight?” It’s a start.” He invited, as it got late.
Naw… she thought, couldn’t get over his name—Bobby? A grown man insisting you call him Bobby? Or his occupation—Dental Hygienist? He must be older than the dentist, “Oh…I wasn’t suggesting,” she backpedaled as he shook his head, disavowing intent, “Thanks… but I, I need to get home, busy day tomorrow… I’m exhausted,” she faked a yawn and felt like a big fat boring mom, except… she wasn’t. Caught off guard by the sudden tense, she wanted to dive over the rail, into the river, try her luck, swim across or sink into oblivion with one last feeble breath. Her chest so heavy… he walked her back to the MAX, said some nice things about their evening as Cindy concentrated on breathing. At the stop, they hugged and she kissed his cheek. His face twitched and he stiffened at her touch. She turned away and got on the train.
On the trip home, she cried, recalled two black silhouettes she’d seen when in high school, hanging from the Steel Bridge, a man and a woman that came into view just as her Amtrak train pulled in—like they had only just been discovered. Passengers were instructed to draw curtains as the train stopped a few hundred yards from the station, like it was taboo to pass below or look at them even. Nobody was allowed off. She had a direct view and couldn’t stop looking, head under the curtain, face pressed to glass, memory burning. Double suicide…Michael Douglas, 29 and Mora McGowan, 26. She looked it up on her phone, Heroin addicts…pawned all their valuables…$200 a day habits, “The steel bridge shall be my gallows,” Michael wrote in a notebook found on him, “Once you start, it's one of the hardest things to get off of. If I don't quit, I'll end up dead,” The article ended with a quote from an addict who knew them. That, plus the evening’s awkward conclusion, left her depressed. Once home, she ate the rest of a box of chocolates her mother had, drank whisky from the liquor cabinet and stumbled upstairs late, passed out in bed.
Teacher responded to her laments at not fucking Bobby—There’s good judgment and bad, Dear. You don’t have to refer your every choice to the Supreme Court of perfect behavior. Pay attention to what you’re feeling and note your thoughts. Grow a reliable memory if you ain’t got one! Write things down until then. Remember, it’s not how much you appeal to him but what you feel in your body that counts, for now. Where does your attention go? Trust the choices made and embrace the consequences, however thorny. Reflect but don’t second guess. It’s the ONE THAT WAS against any number of flickering fantasies imagined more appealing—not a fair debate. Focus on physical sensations—yours, not his. You can’t feel his. Don’t sacrifice yourself to the act. You are there to observe and test hypotheses, experiment, for now. It’s alright to spiral in and out and not form a lifelong partnership or be someone’s porn fueled fantasy on command.
Easier said than done…Cindy had not had sex in six months and not with a man since Tom, however long ago that was? But on Zoloft she felt horny, masturbated twice daily and was not afraid of fucking somebody on the first date. Regretted not staying at Bobby’s but couldn’t bring herself to contact him and he did not call or text again. Was that a second guess? Cindy had zero experience with casual sex. She had been in monogamous relationships since sixth grade, all through college, a long drought and then Tom. The times however seemed propitious, multiple means existed to pursue it and the place, Portland, provided every which way. Men? That felt okay as the thought settled in. Maya had been her first woman but that was because it was Maya. Anyone on the planet of whatever sex would have done the same… I’m so over it.
There were lots of things to do in Portland. She searched movies, theaters, festivals, carnivals, burlesque, circus, street fairs, river cruises, sporting events, art galleries, museums. His Match.com profile said he liked soccer and lacrosse, counted himself a member of Blazer Nation and went to games on occasion but didn’t like how expensive it was, all the flashing lights and waste. An environmentalist, highly educated, he works in the field identifying native artifacts and developing narratives; has rain barrels at every downspout and collects his shower water to flush toilets with, saving both water and money. Born in Iron River, Wisconsin, graduated from Ripon College, trained in BDSM…divorced, no kids.
Cindy hated Blazer games. She looked at who was playing music in Blues Clubs, then Jazz, thought maybe they would have a picnic and watch the sunset from Mt. Tabor, catch some music later at the Rabbit Hole? Or the Doug Fir? Would he come get her? When does the sun set? 7:43… perfect. Except… she would have to make and pack a picnic and go shopping for things. Had no money, no car… scratch picnic. This went on for several hours until he called.
MArmagost calling… OMG! She forgot his first name? Mike, Mark? Lucky she had entered his last name right away, did not pick up if it was just numbers—usually debt collectors,
“Yellow…”
“Hi… Cindy?”
“You were expecting Dominoes?”
“What? This is Matthew, from Match.com, remember? We have a date tonight… don’t we?”
“Far as I know. What’s up?”
“Oh, uh… I was wondering, if you haven’t already decided on something, what you would think about going to ecstatic dance with me? Ever been? Mindful Meltdown at the Red Rose Ballroom. Great exercise. I could send you the link?”
“You think I need to lose weight or something?” She didn’t really say that did she?
“No. What? No…we’ve never met. Why would I think that?”
“JK, smiley face. Yes. That sounds great. Can we meet for a drink first or is that not ok?”
“Well… it’s un… Yeah, sure. Where?
“How ‘bout somewhere close? Alberta Pub? Like 13th or something?”
“And what?”
“Uh… Alberta?”
“Oh yeah, duh. I know where that is. Alberta Pub. I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay, see you five-thirtyish?”
“Great. Look forward to it. Ahoy!”
“B-bye.”
Matthew seemed like a good guy and the invitation to dance, while a surprise, did turn on some lights. Cindy had been to Sacred Circle Sunday Dance, at the Tiffany Ballroom once, before her life hit the skids and had a good time. The thought of shaking her fat ass in front of him and a room full of women, more beautiful and fit than her by far and better dressed… in booty shorts and crop tops… was a challenge. But the very sort of thing Teacher said go do, take risks, get out in the world and get her… you know what wet, experiment and remember, so they’d have material to work with. Cindy called her, “What? I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Well… case in point. What’s up?”
“I got a date tonight and he wants to go ecstatic dance.”
“So? Question? Come on, I got someone on hold.”
“Uh…how can I keep out of self-judgment and comparison and stay open?”
“Dance harder, move faster than you think, observe, scream! Good luck, gotta go. Take notes!
Oh, and…if in doubt? Workout!”
She hung up before Cindy could reply. Dance harder? Move faster? Workout? It seemed a strange answer but kept turning over and over like some dysfunctional dryer. She spent the next two hours thinking about it, getting ready, stretching, choosing her clothes, drawing with her eyes closed, eating ice cream, smoked a little weed she got from her friend, Darci.
Matthew picked her up in a Honda Fit—the bronze color she loved so much, “Amazing,” she said, once in, “This is the very car I’m planning to get! Same color even,” A lie right off the bat—nobody would loan Cindy money, her credit was wrecked but he didn’t need to know that.
“Smart choice. I love it. Great gas mileage, fill up like once a month but I bike a lot. You bike? I thought about suggesting we ride but you never know who has rain gear and such and sometimes riding home after dance I’m wet with sweat. You been to ecstatic dance before?”
“I went downtown once, Tiffany ballroom? Sunday morning? I think that’s ecstatic dance?”
“Oh! Maybe that’s where… you seem so familiar? I go every Sunday to Sacred Circle myself. Maybe I’ve seen you? Maybe we danced together?”
“Hmmm,” was all she could manage and conversation died. She pretended to check out the Fit, turned the radio up when the song ‘Happy’ by Pharell Williams came in, “Wish I could dance to this!” Struck a pose with fists up and elbows in against her ribs. He smiled, looked past her and adjusted the outside rear view mirror. At the Alberta Pub, they discovered an open mike in progress. Matthew wanted to go somewhere quiet so they could talk, get to know each other. But Cindy spotted a striking young woman, just inside the door, straight dark hair, dressed like an Amish girl—black and white clothes, wide brim hat, round spectacles, waiting to read, obviously nervous, papers in hand, rolling and unrolling, very literary, almost Emily Dickensian. She wanted to see her read so they settled at a four-top, mid-back of a half full room, took off jackets and slid into chairs opposite, just as a very old man finished… dry leaves tumble over fallow fields, unfertile. It took him a long time to clear the steps. Cindy faced the stage, Matthew away, turned half around to see. He suggested Cider, Two Towns Marionberry, when the waiter came, which Cindy didn’t really want but agreed to try when he raved about how good it was and ordered her a sample. The waiter brought two pints back instead to save himself a trip and how then could she could say no, knowing he’d dump it?
“So, where you from?” He asked, leaning onto the table, unable to hear as someone, not the Amish girl, read next.
“Here,” she said, in a low voice, uneasy about speaking while someone was reading… but this was their first date and they probably wouldn’t talk much at dance.
“Here? As in Portland?” He seemed genuinely impressed.
“Yeah. That’s where we are, no?” She meant it as a joke but it came across sarcastic.
“I just never meet anybody from Portland. Seems like everyone’s from somewhere else.”
“How about you? Where’d you grow up?” She yawned to get her breath but he didn’t notice.
“Iron River, Wisconsin. My father worked freighters on the Great Lakes, hauling iron ore, was 3rd mate on Big Fitz. You ever hear of the Edmund Fitzgerald? Captain McSorley?”
She felt she had… but nothing clicked, “Yeah, but I don’t remember what?”
“Well, most hear of it from that song by Gordon Lightfoot? The Wreck of the Ed-mund Fitz-gerald!” He sang too loud and Cindy nodded and waved a hand so he’d stop.
“I love that song,” she said and did, as the Amish girl took the stage.
“Yeah, well, I’m not super fond of it,” he went on, “But it is what it is… everybody knows it. Half the song’s about the damn cook—Robert Rafferty, a one time replacement. Their usual cook stayed home sick with bleeding ulcers. What luck, huh? Like he wasn’t even doing anything, “Sorry it’s too rough to feed ye? Fellas its been good to know ye?” Cindy motioned him quiet again, as the Amish girl started to read.
“This is a true story… more or less. It was a long walk out from Forest Park, where they went to end it. Not knowing on the way in it would end—she suspected, she remained hopeful, or at least, not yet so resigned as her. A mile or so from the gate, they found a place, spread a blanket, talked of recent events and argued until she said, “I’m sorry but I just can’t make any promises. I mean I can… but I have no faith I’ll keep them.”
“Then you’re stupid and I can’t do this,” she recoiled on herself, “We are no longer romantically involved. I want to go home now.” She nodded. They packed and headed back down the path, her behind, her ahead. All silence now but for their steps, the crack of occasional twigs, a distant twitter of birdsong. Spring full on, everywhere green, rain fell and hail for a bit but they stayed dry beneath the canopy of towering fir, cedar and redwood trees. A classic case of couldn’t commit… if she’d only get off the fence, throw her weight behind them, choose… embrace the good they share and build upon it… they could both get their needs met. But the relationship, so fragile and delicate, fractured every time she took a step back, withdrew into solitude or explored feelings for someone else. The latest—her ex- and something in her snapped. Twenty-five years younger, she felt threatened, intimidated by a woman older, she imagined hated and wanted her out of out of the picture. Their one year of two dates a week, however steady that might be, paled in comparison to twenty years of marriage and college age kids—the monolith, one year out of which she felt wild, free and about as far from fragile as she’d ever been, no hurry to don that harness again or be monogamous. She wanted stability and kids… couldn’t live not knowing what comes next or think she might never have them.
She thought their relationship fragile because she fell into a funk at the first signs of unsettlement, little resilience, got physically ill and imagined threats where none were except in her head. Of course there were threats, always are, if not from another woman then age difference, relationship inexperience or the triggers of trauma at their previous break up, resolutions to never go through that again. She wanted long term, the realization of dreams, comfort and security in knowing someone very well, who stands by her no matter what. She… not so much, preferred negotiating the currents of actual circumstance and contradictory needs, to idealized plans and untested belief, long able to celebrate mystery’s abundance, along with the realization, as Hamlet said—“Nothing’s either good nor bad but thinking makes it so.”
She was delicate and fragile, yet beautiful, intelligent, full of life and love. They had, by any measure, healthy encounters, passionate, admiration mutual, lovemaking adventurous and could go on having them, far as she could see. Not much about their schedules had changed. Time available remained the same. They seldom spent more than two nights a week together, full day on weekends, a trip now and then, but she couldn’t have fathomed the horror she felt when she pointed that out… the very schedule she’d kept as a kid when forced from the room where she’d slept every night of her life more or less, once her father moved out and she had to visit him two days a week at his shabby apartment in a big complex, where mismatched furniture, hastily assembled, smelled of cleanser and pets, always looked like he just moved in and started to unpack but never finished…
Cindy stood, applauded too loudly and wanted to yell, “Fuck’n Hell Yeah, Girl!” But held back as no one else had anywhere near that level of reaction. Jesus, she loved that girl! Spot on that view… Cindy felt dizzy of a sudden, stood up too fast, listened too intensely. What a ride! Put a hand on the table as her vision swam and blue lights sparkled, “You okay?” Matthew asked and stood to help, just as she sat back down. The little Amish girl gave a nod to her applause, exited stage left, said something to the MC, pulled from behind an ear and went out back to smoke a cigarette. Matthew, irritated at being cutoff mid-sentence, for some amateur poet’s break up story didn’t make sense, sounded like everyone else’s… wanted to start his story over but, after a sip of cider, Cindy said, “Wasn’t that awesome? Wow, I don’t know… but that girl? If I smoked… Whoa! Lets go dance! I can’t imagine anything better being read.”
Matthew glanced at his phone. It was early yet, “Can I finish my story? We’ve got half an hour at least. It’s six blocks away, on 19th. 6:45 warm-up… we leave here by 6:40? Should give us time. I’m not done with my drink. It’s only 6:00. Circle isn’t until 7:15. I usually show up about then, still an hour forty-five left to dance… but we can go early too, walk first, if you want?”
Cindy needed to move and not drink anymore, could feel the weed inside her head, intensified by the cider she’d had and Zoloft, wished she’d eaten something other than ice cream, “Can we walk? I need to move a little, before we get there, I think. Get some air, drink water. Story? Oh yeah, your father and that song, right? Gordon Lightship? Tell me while we walk?”
His face lit up. Enough poetry and he liked to engage in meaningful conversation while walking, liked a change of scenery, little delays to choose direction before you pick back up where you left off. Matthew loved to tell his story, believed in history, thought talk should be about actual things that happened and relations between them, not anything goes like everywhere seems anymore, facts be damned, make it up as you go or just regurgitate what you saw online. Gordon Lightship? Seriously? People would rather cherry pick or deliver loaded one-liners out of context for a laugh, than bother with research and knowing the way something actually occurred. Matthew fancied himself a minister of history. Knew a lot about his father’s death and shipwreck, knew a lot about a lot of things, had a memorial in his basement full of facts, “Yeah, sure… we can walk, get off Alberta Street, it’s so noisy and full of exhaust.”
Once outside, Cindy felt better, able to breathe, night falling, liked walking. A light rain fell, as Matthew told his story, shared personal anecdotes of being on Big Fitz with his father—Michael Armagost, 3rd mate. They moseyed up Wygant to 19th and turned left, stood on the steps of a big blue church. She stood one step up from him, eye to eye in the mist, “26,116 tons of taconite, iron ore in pellets about the size of large marbles,” he demonstrated with thumb and first finger how big. Can you imagine? Plus her weight empty? 39,748 tons total! That’s big displacement but it’s not about the weight,” he laughed and shook his head as if at an inside joke. Spoke of the freakish storm and how they might have ‘hogged’ on a big shoal, ‘broke her back’ or worsened previous damage, split up in a succession of giant waves. They stopped on the corner by Trade Up Music and stepped back into the shadows when cars started stopping for them to cross, “Dad was 3rd mate, that means responsible for keeping everyone safe and the ship seaworthy, standing watch and navigating through dire straits. Imagine what that must have been like, as she took on water and list in giant waves and gale force winds? He must have been flat out living on the edge to the very last tick, went down with the ship, no witnesses but them, just one last radar blip. I know every man’s got a name down there, met most of them. What’s your edge, Cindy? What really gets you going?”
“Um… ecstatic dance!” She pumped a tepid fist. It was 6:45, Red Rose Ballroom across the street—where rubber meets the road. She thought she’d been there before but couldn’t remember when or for what? That whole area was super-sketch when she was growing up, empty storefronts, crack houses, drive-by shootings. They weren’t allowed past Prescott, going north.
“Shall we?” He took her hand and they dashed across the street, entered through double glass doors, skipped down a long hallway on red carpets to a payment podium where Cindy put the ten dollar bill she ‘borrowed’ from her mom’s secret kitty into a basket, happy that Matthew paid for the cider he ordered and she didn’t drink. Down a few steps and thru double doors again they passed into a large ballroom, not unfamiliar. Sometime or other she’d been there, a wedding reception maybe, or fashion show? Slow music played. At one end a small stage, decorated altar in front with flowers, a few dancers already moving. She followed Matthew to a kitchenette in back, dimly lit, where they stashed their outer garments on wide shelves beneath the counter. They both had their dance clothes on underneath. Cindy felt like a cow in a china shop right away, not sure how she was ever going to find her clothes again or what to do next? Matthew seemed eager to get going, gave her a hug, pat on the back, said, “See you onboard!” And shuffled out onto the dance floor, right away engaged with others, laughing, seemed to know everyone. Cindy looked around… she knew no one. Momentarily panicked, she found a bathroom, in the back hall, locked the door, tightened up her look in the mirror, caught a breath and drank some water cupped in her hand, still feeling aftereffects from his story about the shipwreck… what a horrible thing… she didn’t want in her head before dancing. Cindy feared drowning more than anything but fire, maybe. And what did that mean—Where’s your edge? Thought about what the Amish girl read and remembered dancing alone before at the Tiffany Ballroom after fighting with Maya… how Maya collapsed in her absence, confessed her indiscretions and felt terrible, left messages begging her to come home, did all she could to make it up with the greatest sex Cindy ever had, on a trip to the coast… I’m so over that, she wiped away a tear, shook her head and went out to dance.
Kept to a dark corner at first, nursing her heart’s hurt, stretching, watching, checking out the room, those that came in, how they moved, who they knew… Matthew was a really good dancer. About the time she was ready to start, he music stopped and a circle formed, same as it had at the Tiffany. Cindy wanted no part of that, so she went back to the bathroom. It was locked. She waited in a dark alcove by double metal doors as someone explained the rules and talked about the night’s intention. Felt guilty, knew you were probably supposed to be introduced before your first time but she didn’t want too. When the bathroom cleared, Cindy went in, locked the door, dimmed the lights and did some stretching, emerged again when the music started. Two people stood waiting, “Oh, Sorry,” she said, felt bad for hogging it but never heard them knock.
After one more minor panic and a search for her clothes in the dark kitchenette—planned to get dressed quick and run away now but there was so much stuff, she couldn’t find them and was afraid to turn on the light, if she could even find a switch… drifted back out onto the dance floor when more people came in to shed their outer garments. Once moving around, she felt better. Time went quick. Matthew came up behind her, about three songs in and they had a nice swing sort of thing going but the next song, after a pause to get her breath, she couldn’t really get into so he put his palms together, in front of his chest, bowed his head and spun off with someone else. Threading her way through the now crowded ballroom, she went for a drink in the kitchenette. While bent over the sink, guzzling water from her hand, dry mouth from the meds, somebody Cindy knew laid a gentle hand on her back. The touch felt familiar but she could not tell at first, until they stepped together into better light and Cindy realized it was her friend Darci! They hugged and started catching up, music so loud now they spoke directly into each other’s ear. Darci, very stoned already, asked if Cindy wanted to go smoke a joint, just as an old woman snapped at them, “This is not a talking space! Go to the lobby or outside if you need to talk!”
Darci grabbed Cindy’s arm and pulled her out onto the dance floor. Pounding now, the music loud, almost too loud and, with Darci still holding her hand, they started to dance. Barefoot in tight black booty shorts and a crop top tee that bounced up as she came down and showed the bottoms of her small but shapely breasts, Darci moved with incredible energy and was very creative. Cindy, impressed, had seen her dance plenty in the past at parties and clubs but not like this. She seemed so free and unconcerned with how she looked or who was watching. Many women danced shirtless and several men wore only their underwear or a loin cloth. Fearing for a moment that Mathew might be one of them, she scanned the crowd and felt relieved when she spotted him—fully clothed. The whole room seemed to move and Cindy let go, got into it, followed Darci’s lead. Just before the song ended, Darci indicated Cindy should get ready to catch her. So she did and Darci jumped into her arms with such incredible grace, wrapped tight her legs around Cindy’s waist and not missing a beat, arched back, put her hands on the floor, went into a handstand and finished with a walkover to standing. Arms out, she took a bow. Delighted, Cindy clapped and they embraced. Darci said something, Cindy couldn’t hear and ran away, as a new song started. Cindy wanted to know what she said, wanted that moment again and took a second to recall it, as the room exploded into another upbeat number.
By the end… everyone crazy, wild and screaming, Matthew in a pile of bodies writhing, Cindy had a good sweat on and felt happy she came, appreciated his suggestion to dance as a first date. Exercise… Experiment… Enliven… They skipped the closing circle and met outside. She waited a ways away and watched for Darci, while Matthew said his goodbyes. Appreciated seeing him interact and be so well received and widely known at dance but did not want to meet a bunch of people just then.
“That was fun! What next?” She said as he approached her standing on the curb, nodding to others passing by, whose eyes met hers.
“Uh, how about a bite to eat? I’m starving. Ahoy!” He waved to other dancers now departing.
And to this point you felt clear and in control? Teacher interrupted, “Yeah, we went to his house because he said he just made this incredible beef stew with a whole bottle of expensive red wine and the finest beef he could buy, all organic and wanted someone else to enjoy it besides him. It was a cold day and he lived close… even baked his own bread! Fifteen blocks, on 29th and Going. Amazing guy, big house, nice stuff. We ate, drank lots of water, showered—not together. He talked more about the Edmund Fitzgerald, showed me some pictures of it underwater—super creepy. We were sitting at the kitchen table like good old friends, sipping a glass of wine after getting rehydrated, when he said—Would you like to see my studio?”
What did you feel then? You felt in control of what you did and said until then?
Yeah, no… I guess… not exactly? I don’t know? Maybe it was dance got me all juiced up but it was different, felt like high school and he liked me, kept touching my hand, complementing our dance, my dress… old fashion. That felt good and it was like the best stew ever and his place was really cool, smelled great, all decked out in old ship paraphernalia, washed up floats, nets, instruments… super organized though and not dusty. And it really was his dad that died. He showed me pictures of them. And then he tells me he’s a dom and I’m like, “Oh, what’s that?”
Wait, really? Teacher asked, You didn’t know what a dom was?
Cindy put up both hands, “Honest to Goddess, I did not know what a dom was. I mean I knew like that stuff… uh, went on but I didn’t know… uh, how to talk about it, like what the words were. Wasn’t like… I mean, he had a whole protocol, was super chill, talked about consent and my edge and how far out sexually I’d been? Wanted to show me his studio in the basement, so I understood how far he could go. Sure, I said, why not? I trust the guy, he’s not pushy or anything, knows all those good people at dance and I’m just going down the basement to look at where he ties up and whips people… women, presumably, “We can take a sauna after the session or you could sleep over… if things feel right, he said, as he turned on the lights. The basement was…”
A replica of the Edmund Fitzgerald?
“Yes! The pilot house… inside. From the outside not so much, just the part you look out of. He said the outside would come in time but it was almost exact inside. He had pictures and scale models, a standing desk at the bottom of the steps, where he laid out plans. Talked the whole time as we looked around, told me what everything was, what it would have been like that night, sat me in the Captain’s chair. A platform in the middle of the room ringed with stainless steel rail held the pilot’s wheel, attached to a podium and the compass, I think, or radar… maybe he said. A big wooden wheel, padded with black rubber bumpers—the only not historically accurate piece. He showed me how it moved on a custom built armature, could tilt and lock at different angles, all the way to horizontal, “Why horizontal?” I asked, imagined it for steering ships in violent seas. No, “I strap clients to it,” he says, “depends on what we do, which angle we use.”
That’s what he said?
“Yes but I didn’t feel threatened, no more than at dance… probably less. At one point in the kitchenette I had decided to leave, had a mini-panic but stuck it out, glad I did. He was like, want a trial run? First one’s on the house? Okay, what do I do? I said. Well, what do you like? Let’s talk about that. Are your nipples sensitive or not so much? How do you like them touched, licked, pinched? How hard? One to ten, with ten drawing blood? Clothespins? And on it went until we had a TSP—Temporary Sexual Profile. I didn’t know I could answer questions like that, much less co-create a BDS&M session in fifteen minutes with a man I’d just met. But ecstatic dance kind of makes you feel like anything’s possible, I guess. Same sort of thing happened before, when I went—make up sex with Maya after she… I told you that. Anyway, it was awesome! He’s really good at it. I got into the pain and it felt great to push against restraints. Seemed to know when I needed to shift and move on to something else… like hanging taconite balls from my nipples with clothes pins! Oh my Goddess! Ouch! My nipples hurt so much at one point I hit the switch. He gave me this switch, a button by my heel I could stomp on if I needed to stop and check in? “You want it under the heel?” he asked, “Because sometimes leg twitch from electric shock’ll trigger unnecessary stops. I can put it where it won’t get hit by accidental twitch or we could just go without a gag if you can keep from talking?” I mean like, what kind of question is that to be asked on a first date? It was amazing. More pleasure than I thought could ever come from pain. He never touched me skin to skin but I would have never guessed that or probably known the difference! I would’ve done anything, felt completely under his control but he told me he never touches first time clients, so they have a sense of future possibilities.”
And how do you feel about it now?
“I don’t know. Not sure. Not sure I want to pay for it. I liked him but don’t think he’s available the way I’m… used to. And why is he on Match.com? Fishing for clients? Seems a little sketch… I feel a bit… misled. It was in his profile… being a dom, I mean. I don’t know. It’s easy to think he has an agenda and I got a free sample but have to admit, I had a good time!” She laughed and Teacher laughed and Cindy felt great until her belly fat jiggled and she resolved once again to get in shape, couldn’t wait until Sunday for her next chance to ecstatic dance, believing now that good things come from it.
On the way home she bought some Ben & Jerry’s Rocky Road to celebrate feeling so good—4 p.m. and no Zoloft yet. Later, she had a quarter pound burger, fries and two pints of Black Bear stout at the Alameda Brew Pub with Phil, her next date from Match.com. Felt so bad by the end of it, she had to back out of going to a movie with him, said she didn’t feel well, which she didn’t. Sick and bloated, she made herself throw up when she got home. Next morning, back on the toilet, sketchbook in hand, staring into space, depressed… she shook out a pill and washed it down with water from the tub spout, wondering once again—where her willpower went?