300.000

First, you must understand the two beasts we are dealing with. Very different beasts. Which is more beastly? You tell me. The horror came from both of them. One was all milk and honey, the other acid and bile, but the result was, perhaps, the same. You might say Hans was the bigger headfuck, while Cesar was more overtly violent. Those of you who have been there know.

I had the luxury of no contact with my family of origin (called FOO in therapy circles) for ten years. In that time, I got my act together professionally and had a child. Depression is less and less, and gone are the days spent in bed; I also no longer wear clothing randomly selected from the men’s section. I brush my hair and teeth every day. I’m not addicted—then again, I never was. Just lonely. Many of us are addicted. Some pierce their noses like bulls, cover their bodies in reptile-like tattoos, become animals through radical plastic surgery and get drunk or high, strewn like trash on the opera steps. I never did any of that. Know why? Survival. I was more like a refugee. A boat person. I suspect few people commit suicide when they are fighting to survive. They might later, when everything is going well and the world outside doesn’t line up with the world within. I haven’t had to face that yet. I’m still at Survival.

A refugee from what? You don’t know by now? Take a guess. It’s all around you.

Some people who have experienced it also don’t know. They might even be the worst don’t-knowers. That’s just the way memory works.

What do I have to go on? The perfect crime. They will never get caught. The only evidence is what my body remembers. It’s the poison of my life, the sword still hanging over my head, even as I strive for meaning. I build meaning. Day by painful day, I stack bricks of meaning.

I’m a workaholic. Maybe that’s my addiction. I hope through work, I can work my way up to what others receive. A refugee. (Trouble is, I shoot for the moon, and so far, I’ve missed.)

We don’t look like refugees, my people. We look crazy. Ungrateful, retarded, schizophrenic. We look like we are the problem.

Denial. That is a nemesis. My best friend betrayed me. He still denies. He and his wife, an accountant for the federal government who makes big bucks, believe the memories were “embedded” in me. Yes, that’s their word, not mine. I committed the ultimate sin of leaving my family, and for ten years enjoying a happy life. Until now.

$300,000 is a lot of money.

Back to the men. (Oh God, do I have to?)

Well, picture this: a tombstone. A man like a tombstone. His voice is flat. His hair stands on end, but his body is stiff like a puppet. He preaches about morality. He’s a preacher of sorts. He is very rich, but he has never worked. He roams the globe looking for purposes, most of which are not the stuff to build a life with. Let’s go to a nudist colony in Austria. Reunion for a junior college class he attended for a few months back in the 90s. Something called “body mechanics” I think—a healing technique where people get naked and merge with machines. He speaks of genitals with the same flat morality. He holds genitals pre-made at the grocery store. The first time, I was thirteen. My dear cousin, cousin of my mother, actually. Babysat by her—oh, God knows what she did. He lost his virginity with his father’s mistress. When his mother miscarried his little sister, fetus sold to a restaurant, the three of them—father, mistress, son—had champagne. He told me this with a smirk on his face.

I know that smirk. It is imprinted on me. Well, at least I was somewhat infatuated with him. I can’t say that about my grandfather. Does anyone really want to have sex with their grandfather? And don’t get Freudian on me—I hate that stuff. Freud figured out how common incest is, but it was too much, so he backpedaled into disbelieving his patients. They were fantasizing. They wanted it, the raped children. I hate people who turn it back on me. As if I were responsible for any of it. As if.

Dirty old man. Ever since I can remember, he was a greasy old geezer with his pants falling down. Chain-smoker. Whiskey-drinker (was it gin and tonic?) who would sometimes throw his glass, ice-cubes and all, striking anyone who irked his patriarchal nerve. Now, at 100, he finally might die. My friend says, God doesn’t want him so quickly. Who would? You know, who would?

His house is lovely. I mean, it would be lovely if it wasn’t rotted and ransacked by ghosts of memories. Ugh. What is behind those walls? Remember the scene from “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” where Lefty kicks down the fun-house wall and all the guts pour out? I’m not saying Cesar necessarily has corpses cached around—I’m just saying with a monster like that you don’t know, do you?. Otherwise, it’s the kind of house I would like, in the countryside but near a nice town, near the ocean, and even near New York City. (It is set in some picturesque New England woods down a little dirt road where no one hears you if you scream.)

I do not wish to set foot in New England, though I desperately miss the smell of apple cider mulled in wooden barns. Refugee. We always long for home, don’t we?

New York feels safe to me—odd, given the cult of my upbringing. NYC was demonized. Too many blacks. Oh, not all of them would say that. Only the ones on my mother’s side. They were the Republicans and crazy in that way, while the other side were the liberals and equally crazy (but maybe giving it a nicer gloss finish). So, I got a nice balanced upbringing of seeing both sides. Both sides of the knives, the belts, the whips. Fun, huh?

The house. Cesar wants to give me the house. That’s what Hans says.

$300,000, or ten years’ salary. Safety net.

No-yes-yes-no-when does yes mean no? I think maybe never. Yes, never. I dreamed Hans raped me. That was recently, the day before he suggested we share a hotel room before we go over the river and through the woods to Grandpa.

Why would he care that I was raped? He would have some heady psychological explanation. His version would not totally say the rapes were bad, though he wouldn’t say they were good, either. They were… unbalanced. They reflected something about the masculine and the feminine being out of whack, or the patriarch being unable to whack off, or some such gobbledy-gook. Actually, gobbledy-gook is his expression. He is surprisingly self-aware sometimes. (That’s part of the headfuck.) He would analyze those rapes right back at me (my grandfather raping me, that is; his own rapes would not be a topic—he does that too, you see, decides what is a topic).

Stockholm syndrome? It started out I just wanted the money. But I feel myself being sucked underwater.

I have a child to support. You know that. A wonderful boy. Here I sit on the plane. I’m doing it for him, you know. And if I die, it will be for him. And if I am locked in a basement and raped three times a day, I will only think of how to escape—for him. So, even if they tell me poison gases will come out if I force the door (like the rapist father of the woman locked up in Austria for decades), I will put away my fear of death and charge that damn door. I will refuse to believe they are God.'

But part of me does believe it. As the plane gets closer, I want to run.

You know what my mother wrote on a birthday card the year (or two?) before I broke off all contact? “You can run but you can’t hide.” Happy birthday?

Oh no—we are more than half way. This is a nightmare. Actually, it is my most frequent nightmare, and when I have it, I cannot function. In the nightmare, the nightmare, I am either back at my parent’s house or at that house down Summerville Lane—the house he supposedly wants to give me, though the closer we get, the more I feel this is a trap I am falling right into.

What to do? The airport will be full of cops, of course. But would they lift a finger? Even if I met the two rapists at a Starbuck’s near Time’s Square (I thought this out carefully), still risky business. There are lots of crazies in New York, right? If I start screaming, everyone will assume I’m one of them (you see, the problem is that normal people always think it’s the person screaming who is crazy). You have two men, calmly ushering a woman into a car, and the woman is screaming. Who is crazy? Yes, she is—good job. You’ve passed your gender indoctrination test. Will you believe her—that that nice old man is a rapist? He’s 100. Of course he’s not a rapist. And that odd-looking man? He is so dignified. He is so kind in his willingness to help her. What if she screams, “You raped me!” to that nice old man? Isn’t that mean of her, to do that to her nice grandpa when he’s at the end of his rope?

You see my point, don’t you? I thought of the coffee shop option, but it seemed even more dangerous in a way. Police may check our IDs to make sure we are related. Then they will look at the poor men with sympathy when Cesar and Hans say they are just taking this woman on an outing and have to bring her back to the mental hospital. Of course she doesn’t want to go—she was so happy spending the day with them. Central Park. Feed the Pigeons. Statue of Liberty. Coffee.

I watch the plane on the monitor in front of me—I mean the thing that tracks where the plane  I’m in is going. They will pick me up at the airport. How nice of them. Did I tell you they aren’t even on the same side of the family? My father’s father, my mother’s cousin. One grew up rich, one poor. One is pretty open about being an egomaniac (that’s OK for an ageing patriarch) while the other pretends to be humbly saving the world, altruistically interfering in everyone’s business and whacking off about how good he is. One likes to be the bad boy, drinking and smoking his way to 100. He got liver cancer now, they told me (if it’s true). But you’re supposed to get that a lot earlier. When I was a kid there were commercials on TV that said if you smoke they’ll have to drill a hole in your throat, and it’ll also take 7 years off your life every time you inhale. Oh, not to mention the photos of a nice pink lung next to a slimy gray one. I digress. The other man—a health nut. I don’t think Hans eats unless there’s some kind of ceremonial prayer. If he buys food, it’s all organic. I lived with him for a while and nearly starved. If it’s not organic, the blessings will take the toxins away. You get my drift: polar opposites.

So what do they have in common? Please don’t say “you.” Be more specific. They shared a hobby of raping a little girl. Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe that was just Cesar’s hobby. Hans waited until I had slid into puberty, I think. And he got my consent. No need to hit me or tie me up. A thirteen year old girl used to fending off her father and grandfather (always unsuccessfully, of course), who sees her cousin as a nice prospect (it’s all relative, right?). A girl who has learned that her only worth is this thing between her legs. That can make men take a great interest in her.

Worth. Otherwise, she feels worthless. No one sees her. Least of all her mother. Her mother creeps into her room at night. Her mother also rapes her. Her mother calls her a whore. The girl masturbates herself to sleep. Finally gets to sleep at dawn. The fear keeps her up. They do not of course let her lock her door, so one day she rigs up some bells to give her a warning. The worst is when they come in that space between dreams, so she cannot remember. The next morning they act so cheerful. It has been a great night of fun and rest. For them. Someone did things to them, but that was a long time ago, and now they are free of it and no longer get the shit end of the stick. It’s someone else’s turn.

But I didn’t do it. I don’t abuse my child. Thank God, I don’t have that addiction. (Why do I keep saying “Thank God”? I’m a pagan, for christsake—for the record). The record? I’ve been thinking about that on this damn airplane while everyone has their eye patches and blankets on or is engrossed in a film and the flight attendants are gossiping in the back of the plane. I’ve been thinking, this is my testimony. This writing to you is telling the story so that someone out there will know—if I disappear, or if I’m found dead—what happened. You don’t want that kind of responsibility, do you? No one does.

I know something now, about healing. I need to piece together the shredded memories. Only then can I turn Horror into Story. When I do that, the horror will no longer have a hold on me. I know this. (Easier said than done, but I’m trying.)

I don’t have much time. The plane will touch down. The lights have gone on and the people are stretching, lining up for the bathroom. You know what that means.

I realize now it is a trap. They can easily package me off in their car to a dungeon. They can easily throw this computer in a river. My story will be gone. No one will know. My son will be an orphan.

What else? Oh yes. I fell in love when I ran away, with a man roughly my age, though man is an odd word for this little faggot. I mean that affectionately. He was bisexual, and I could wrestle him to the ground no problem. He weighed so little I could pick him up and carry him. He was the first person ever to hand me unconditional love and dignity. A car ran him over. Dead. As long as I’m below the poverty line or in an abusive relationship, I’m safe. I become dangerous when I live my life coherently. That is very dangerous to them, because then I could expose them. Better to kill me. So I think they will—that must be the plan. Some things don’t make sense, though.

1. Why would I be crazy enough to go there? I’ve been through hard times these ten years, but never once thought of asking their help—I know too well the price to pay. So why now, when I don’t need their help. You know the answer, right? 300,000 big ones.

2. Why don’t they just arrange a little “accident”, like they did for my first love? I mean, if they pop me now themselves, there are some people who know the situation…

3. What the hell was I thinking?? This is suicide. 300,000? Really? Why would I trust them, even for even a second? In fact, I didn’t. I told Hans to get lost. But then I back-pedalled (ah yes, they’ll make me out to be a back-pedaller, they sure will!). I back-pedalled when I thought of how awful my son’s school is. When I thought of our cramped apartment. I thought of my son playing in a yard and attending a school where he was not bullied and not his teacher’s scapegoat. Otherwise, why would I care about 300,000?

I don’t have much time, so I need to consider my options. One option is this: I somehow get deported back to the country where I am living. I would not go through the police check. What if I shredded up my passport? Would they have to send me back where I came from, even if I don’t look like the people there? If I did look like them, they definitely wouldn’t let me into the good ol’ US of A. But I look 100% all-American. Could I board another plane, anywhere, as a stowaway, or even pay for a ticket, without going out into that arrivals hall? If I do step out of that Nothing-to-Declare line, they’ll “hug” me and bundle me off to a nice parking garage. Men in my FOO are strong. Load me in a car. Thrown into the trunk, even.

No. I need to do this. I need to ring that money out of them. If I get on a plane and head back, I could see my son! He’s in a safe place, back home where we live, where I paid some old people—my best friend’s parents—to move in and take care of him. I miss him. I miss him so much already. We are each other’s homes.

He wants to be a Lego engineer. 300,000—he would have more than a cramped closet for playing in. He could build really big stuff, like airports, and whole cities, instead of the houses he takes apart every day, with their yards and dogs, frowning and facing reality.

I like where we live, because I don’t feel poor. I look around and see all the girls doing nails for a couple of dollars, massaging feet, and worse. And I see the old men standing by the gates for days to make not even a living wage. Others aren’t so lucky—they root through the trash for food and stuff to bring to the recycling plant for a few coins. The cashiers, the taxi drivers… such gruelling hours, so little money. The hunchbacked man who fixes shoes and zippers. The man who fixes bike tires for thirty cents but wouldn’t accept money from my son and his friend when they were out riding by themselves one day. The list goes on and on. Many of these poor people are happy. Many are broken. I suppose we could say the same about the rich. Yes, I could catch the next plane back half a world away, where I’ve learned to feel safe to some degree, learned not to fear so much a knock on the door, and even to fling it open. Where I’ve learned to fall asleep most nights, next to my son, lulled by the sound of him breathing there in our one cozy little bedroom.

I’m doing this for him. I don’t want a white picket fence. Please don’t get me wrong. What I want is this: Decent medical care if he gets sick. Decent education, and most of all, decent people we can relate to, who are not always commenting on how big his eyes are. I want us to have a home where we look out the window and see green or leaves falling. Hear birds. We can plant carrots or blueberry bushes. Maybe he can even have a dog.

It all depends on how well I perform. If I play my part, step back into their game, they might give me the money. Part of me knows they won’t. Part of me knows they will, and part of me knows that having a mother is more important to my son than having a car. If I go back to him now, he will grow, and our home will get smaller. The small world will be truly small. With 300,000 it looks bigger.

The plane is descending. I can feel it rumbling as it goes to my fate, or my doom. What would you do?

Are you sure?

Turn left

Turn Right