by Raymond Marcus
From the Immortal Chronicles #2 (Winter 1998)
I have entered the twilight zone. Now in the eleventh year of my doctoral program, I find that news of my ongoing status (doctorus longevitus) has permeated all corners of my life. Last month, for example, I went to the dentist’s, as I am wont to do. It is the same dentist where both my parents go. I get the children’s rate. After I’d clambered up into the chair and put my feet up, with a good view of the twin renditions of Raggedy Ann and Andy, the first thing the dental technician said to me was, “So, how’s the dissertation coming?” And I’m like, “Do I know you, madam?” I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm, but I’ve started to become paranoid.
I hear giggling behind me at the grocery store as I walk down the aisles, doing my shopping and minding my own business. When I whirl around there’s no one’s there. But then at the check-out counter the checkers all look at me funny, and sometimes drop my cucumbers on the floor. I mean, what am I, a lycanthrope or something? Nor am I safe in my sleep. In the rare, blessed dream when a woman and I are intimate, at the moment we approach the threshold of supreme happiness she suddenly bursts out laughing in my face. Ha-Ha! Ha-Ha!! Horrid dream! Nightmare! What recurring madness!
Speaking of madness, and something that I am sure you will all be glad to hear (except for dear Sadina, poor girl), I am now officially off the teen drama, Dawson’s Creek. It was a January through November romance, my friends, but now it is over. Frankly, the kids have begun to annoy me. Oh, I still find some of the actors appealing (particularly the actress who plays “Joey,” the illustrious Katie Holmes), but the blush of infatuation is off my cheek, and now I see the cynical machinations of teen Lotharios instead. Perhaps watching Randy’s videos of the final season of the Larry Sanders Show gave me a dose of hard reality. Compared to Seinfeld’s final seasons of mediocrity, Larry Sanders was pure gold, baby. Besides, I have a problem with high school kids who are getting more action than I am – and most of them are virgins. I tell you, it’s disturbing. Rub my face in it, why don’t you. Ill-mannered children.
On a more personal note, as I approach my 700th day of celibacy (March 28, 1999), my reputation lies in tatters. I used to think that the siege of Leningrad was a big deal. That was 900 days. Now I’m thinking, 900 days? Hell, I can do that in my sleep! I can do 900 days before breakfast! Wake me up when you really wanna fight! And don’t be throwing me any surprise parties, either, as the grim day approaches. This is a time of mourning.
Instead, I propose that we all gather together for a quiet evening of sherry and sad renditions of popular dramas. I shall play Hamlet, Bob the Tragic Muse, and Scott shall play “the Hole in the Wall,” from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” At midnight my bachelor friends and I will dance the traditional “unwed dance,” and wrend each other’s garments. On second thought, perhaps we should invite our lady bachelor friends as well; an orgy might result.
Speaking of mourning, one morning in January I had my most bizarre encounter ever at a Red Cross donor center. This you will not believe. I should preface this by saying that I have been a regular Red Cross donor since 1986, from New York, to Indiana, to Washington, to California; I leave my blood where I go. Aye, buckets of it, my lads. Plenty for all! In the past, my conversations with the Red Cross workers have been unfailingly professional and polite. But this time it was to be different.
It started when I was waiting to be called, and overheard one of the blood ladies talking about a cat she had found. This cat, apparently, has serious things wrong with it. Its hair falls out. It crawls around the room dragging its back legs, like the helpless tail of a kite. It also needs special medication in order to continue its existence, to the tune of five dollars a day. She was talking about her cat to the other women who worked there, and I took slight note as I read my volume of Proust. Ahh, Proust. That reminds me of a story. No. Where was I? Oh, yes. The eye, the evil eye! The terrible beating heart!
When the woman called my name we went back to the private booths. For those of who you who have never given blood, they now ask you a series of highly personal questions, that began to grow in detail during the AIDS crisis in the 1980s. “Have you slept with another man, even once?” Define “sleep,” I say, striking a defiant pose. “Have you ever had sex with another man?” No, you cad. And a plague upon your houses! “Have you ever visited Africa or the Caribbean?” Define “Africa,” I say. “Have you ever traded sex for money or drugs?” I’ve never paid for it in my life, say I, maintaining as much moral rectitude as I can muster. I fairly bluster. Then: “Have you ever engaged in private acts of masturbation?” Define “Caribbean,” I say.
This time, however, in addition to all the questions that I now take in stride (I usually ask them about their own sex lives. “No, I haven’t,” I say. “How about you?”) – this time, the woman asked me what I did for a living. “What do you do for a living?” Once again I felt the cold, thick tentacles of the twilight zone begin to wrap around my thin and wasted form, caressing my body with an air of unreality.
“My living?” I said. “Well, I’m a substitute teacher, but mostly I’m still in graduate school.” The last phrase lingered in the air, like a fart in Windsor Palace. “Oh, what do you study?” she asked. “History,” I proudly said. “American history.”
The woman looked at me, brought her face close to mine, narrowing her eyes as she came. “How horrible,” she said, gazing into my eyes, our noses almost touching. “Horrible, horrible…”
“What?” said I, taken aback. “Why do you say that?”
“What good is it?” she said. “All those people in the past don’t matter anymore. All that matters are your grandparents and your parents, because they effect you.”
“What about Jesus Christ?” I said. “He lived 2,000 years ago, and yet people read about him in the Bible everyday. Do you find any worth in that?”
“That’s different,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “That still affects you.”
“What about the Bible?” I asked. “Parts of it are thousands of years old. Some people consider it history, some people consider it myth. Do you find it relevant?”
“What part of it is myth?” she asked me, worriedly.
“That’s for each individual to decide for themselves,” I said. “For some people, it’s all myth, and for others, none of it is. But it is an ancient text, worth studying today. And what about Winston Churchill? What about Franklin Roosevelt? The policies that FDR established over 60 years ago are still effecting our lives, on a range of issues. Is he worth studying?”
“The policies are already there,” she replied, a little uncertainly. “The policies are there now.”
“You must find something in history that is interesting,” I said, prodding deeper. “There must be something.”
For the next half an hour – after the personal questions, the usual blood sample and during the actual giving of the blood – this woman sought to unburden herself of all the questions she has ever had relating to the field of history, all of which concerned the most famous conspiracy theories of the 20th century.
“Do you believe in UFOs?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe in objects that have not been identified.”
“I believe in UFOs,” she said. “I believe that we are visited by aliens from outer space. Though they’ve never visited me,” she added quickly. For some reason, people who sight UFOs are always dumb and drunk, which gives the rest of the UFO sightseer-wannabee crowd something of a public obstacle to overcome, for they feel they must distance themselves from their more disreputable brethren. “No, I’ve never been visited,” she told me, nodding sagely.
“Perhaps they’ve visited you at night, in your backyard,” I said. “Only you’ve been asleep.”
She shot me a quick, troubled look.
“My cat would have said something if they had,” she said. Then she looked up again, abruptly, careening off into a different subject entirely.
“Do you want a cat?” she asked, her tone becoming quite friendly.
Let’s see, I thought to myself, is this the same cat who drags itself around the house like a hairy Quasimodo, leaving its fur in clumps as it goes?
“No, thank you,” I replied, regretfully. “I’m allergic to cats.” Which is true. She then wanted to know what I thought about the Kennedy assassination (using the Oliver Stone film as her text, I gathered from her remarks), the murder of Marilyn Monroe (by Bobby Kennedy, of course), then Bobby’s assassination, the assassination of Martin Luther King, and finally the death of Diana. “They murdered Diana,” she told me.
“Who did?” I asked.
“The British secret service,” she said. “They didn’t want her marrying an Arab.”
“I’m not sure if they had plans to marry,” I said. “I think they were only dating.”
Then she wanted to know about the Federal Reserve.
“What do you know about the Federal Reserve?” she asked. “Can they be trusted?”
“Well, I suppose,” I said. “They have a fairly good reputation. Why do you ask?”
“Have you ever heard that the Federal Reserve is controlled by the Trilateral Commission, the Rothschilds, and the Bildenbergers?” she asked me almost coyly.
Good God, I thought. A conspiracy-laden anti-Semite is taking blood from my arm.
“The Rothschilds and the who?” I asked, knitting my brow.
“Bildenbergers,” she whispered, again bringing her face close to mine. Images of hooknosed figures, with striped pants and top hats, greedily rubbing their palms, seemed to emerge from the shadows of our quiet room of blood.
“I think that’s nonsense,” I told her. “There’s no basis for it whatsoever.”
Suddenly she looked guilty. The rest of the room had fallen silent, as people quietly gave their blood, and others quietly took it. The woman asked me in a soft tone: “I’m not upsetting you, am I? I’m not supposed to upset the donors.” I assured her I was not easily upset.
“But you tell me there’s no point to history,” I said, “and yet all you’ve talked about for the last 30 minutes are historical-related questions.”
“That’s different,” she said, offering another proviso that negates the meaning of history. “That’s all recent history. It still has an effect, if it makes people think bad about their government.”
The session came to an end. But she left me with one last thought: “What’s the point in studying history? The world will end in 2012.”
Nor is my blood my only bodily concern these days. My hearing impairment, I believe, is growing worse. Oh, I know some of you didn’t know I have an impairment; I hide it well. Usually when we’re all together and you guys are all yabbing a mile a minute, and one of you says something and we all laugh, chances are I didn’t hear you at all. Sorry, not a clue. Or when one of you says something to me, and I smile and nod my head, and you lean back and smile in return . . . forget about it. Not a chance. Like I said, I hide it well. I first had my ears checked ten years ago, and they couldn’t find anything wrong. But I am sure it’s grown worse.
What makes it worse is that when you’re a high school teacher, hearing is rather important, and students are fidgety. Fidgety by nature. By God, they are fidgety and restless! When I’m subbing and the students are bent quietly over a test, the temporary silence that fills the space is like the sound of angels sighing. But I’ve found increasingly that in group discussions in my teacher ed course, and when I’m subbing at the private school, often I don’t hear something from someone who’s just a few feet away. It’s the background noise that covers it up, interferes with the signals in my brain.
Recently my Mom went to the hearing doctor to get her hearing checked out, and she has finally ordered a hearing aid. Mom will be 77 this summer, and I’m 36. But by the next New Year’s party, you might find me sporting an aid myself. Either that or one of those little trumpets that old guys used to put up to their ears in cartoons. “What’s that, sonny? The American Civil what? Eh?” I’m in my 30s and already my body is starting to go. And just seven years ago I was in my 20s! It’s absurd.
I actually had my ears checked yesterday, and the technician and I ran through a battery of tests. She led me into a small soundproof booth, covered my ears with headphones, left the room, and began speaking into a small microphone, as she looked at me through a glass window.
“Ballpark . . . ice cream . . . ,” she whispered, as her voice came faintly to my ears. Duly I repeated her.
“Hot dog . . . machete . . . Rosebud,” she said.
The pace continued, picking up.
“Skullcap . . . death shroud . . . trench warfare and mustard gas.”
The little booth grew cold. “Fingernails . . . pitchfork … cries in the night.”
I looked at her sharply through the window.
“‘Cries in the night’?” I said.
“What?” she said.
“You just said ‘cries in the night,'” I said, staring at her through the glass.
“No, I didn’t, I said, ‘crisis . . . ignite.'”
“Oh,” I said. She made a notation on her pad.
“Fingernails, fingernails, cries in the night….” The test droned on into the evening.
Disconcertingly, when it was over, she told me that my hearing was fine. “Sure, it’s fine when I hear sounds in isolation,” I said. “It’s when there’s a background noise that I start losing it.”
She seemed a little distracted. “Are you talking to me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s background noise that I have a problem with. What do I do about that?”
“Try and control your environment,” she said. “If you’re in a crowded restaurant, ask to be seated somewhere off to the side, where it isn’t so noisy. In a classroom, if you don’t hear a student, ask them all to quiet down, and then ask the student to repeat himself. Remember, you are in control. At a party, try and sequester yourself with the woman in a quiet corner. The mood must be intimate. When the moment seems right, put your hand on her thigh.”
“Which thigh?” I said. “It has been so long. Do they still have thighs?”
“Put your hand on her thigh, like this,” she said, taking my hand. “You must touch her gently, intimately. Kiss her . . . like this. . . . Do not be afraid.”
“It has been so long,” I said. “It is so very long.”
“Come,” she said. “Let us return to the little dark booth.”
Overall, I am very busy these days, what with my two education courses at Cal Poly Pomona, my second economics course at Pasadena City College, occasional substitute teaching, observing at various schools, and fighting the good fight with the nemesis of my existence, the ol’ dissertation. Indeed, the dissertation has now been with me for so long that I’ve decided to give it a name, to make me feel more friendly towards it. From now on I shall call it “Fred.” Fred the Dissertation. And some day, God willing, I will pound Fred’s face into the dirt from which he came. I feel better already.
On a side note, Ben is so smug. Where does he get off kissing Joey openly in public – even in front of Dawson – when he doesn’t deserve to touch her sneakers? He seems so sensitive, but he is weak, damn you, weak; he and Joey mean nothing to each other. And yet their romance continues! How maddening! Is there no justice in this world? For how many seasons must I be subjected to this charade?!
Speaking of sneakers, I am now attached to five different schools or universities: I’m getting my doctorate from Indiana University; I’m in the teacher credential program at Cal Poly Pomona; I’m taking my economics course at Pasadena City College (that’s three tuitions a quarter, though it still comes to less than $850/quarter); I sub at Pasadena’s Polytechnic School; and I have lending privileges at Cal Tech’s main library, through which I order articles, theses, and secondary sources. In addition, this February I began observing classes in three different public schools, in Glendale, Altadena, Arcadia, and soon maybe in Pasadena.
I’ve had so much education that it’s coming out of my ears. In the meantime, while I’m wrapping things up, if any of you feels some need for information, whatever it happens to be, please consult me, and I will offer my opinion. By no means act before you receive my advice! I shall look on it as performing an act of public service.
Speaking of public service, could you believe it when Joey told Dawson – a boy whom she has loved all her life, as we all well know, and whom she loves desperately still – that they should no longer be together, because she had to FREE herself from her obsession with him? That she had to “claim” a life for herself? God, how astoundingly selfish! When love like that, so long in coming and so, so right, is frustrated through the idiocies of puerile self-indulgence, it drives me insane. Had it not been for that one episode in October, they would be together still! Even as we speak! Even as you read these lines! Oh, I’ve done with it.
I am also applying now to Occidental College’s teacher education program, since the program at Cal Poly has proved such a disappointment. All my life I’ve heard that teacher ed classes are a waste of time, but my current program defies reality. Last week the professor in my course in educational psychology (at least, that is the putative topic) spent seven minutes performing a little skit for us by himself, as he assumed speaking roles for four of the middle-aged students in our class, pretending that they were all children, and telling us why it is difficult to judge students’ appreciation – using as an example Monet’s “Water Lilies.” I mean, what the hell does it MATTER whether or not it’s difficult to grade a student’s “appreciation”? You want them to appreciate what you’re presenting, but you don’t GRADE them on it! And he kept giggling during his presentation, while half the class stared at him in dumb amazement. I tell you, I was ready to slug him. So I hope I’m accepted to Occidental’s program. Otherwise it will be a grim next year and a half.
Finally, what’s the deal with Jen? First she was the overrated blonde goddess (how I despised her insouciance!) Then she was the fallen woman, a veritable Whore of Babylon. Now she’s a lovestruck kid, wanting Dawson so much after she, too, initially turned him down. Don’t they see that they’re torturing the boy? Can a man get his hopes up with such regularity, only to have them systematically destroyed when he gets too close to paradise? When Icarus flew too close to the sun, he fell, and there an end. But to rise up, a phoenix from the ashes, to once again aspire to the heights of love that only untainted innocence can reach, and once more be burned, and fall, and burn again? It is torture, weekly torture! Oh, I’ve done with it.