Stress

I knew a man who was addicted to sex. Couldn't stop himself; a compulsive womanizer. In the year I knew him he must have taken fifty women to bed. With this guy, it wasn't a question of a good line. He cast a net. He was always fishing. In time, he destroyed his marriage, sent his kids into therapy. Ruined his reputation, his business. He lost his house, his savings, wrote a check for thirty-five thousand dollars to the divorce lawyers alone. No longer able to afford the rent in Boston, he took a basement studio apartment in a factory town near the New Hampshire border.
Not long ago I saw him in the street. He wasn't driving his Volvo but an old Chevy clunker with its muffler wired up to the chassis. At one time we were close. "Hey!" I ran over. "What are you doing in town?"

"Got a meeting," he said. "Sexaholics Anonymous. I come down three times a week."

I admired his commitment. "How's it going?"

He shook his head incredulously. "You have never seen so many good -looking women in one place in all your life."

Was he making progress? Not even interested. Was he happy? As a clam in a bed of fine blue mud.

I knew a man who was addicted to food. He could not stop eating. He dreamed about food. He couldn't remember his wife's birthday but he could tell you where they went out to eat, what every person at the table ordered for an appetizer. You could see him taste the food as he discussed it and he discussed little else. Despite his doctor's warnings and the pleading of his family, he blew up to two-hundred-forty pounds on a five-foot-eight inch frame. After his third heart attack, he was wheeled into the hospital, hallucinating. "The hamburgers," he cried in delirium. "They're dancing."
Once a handsome man, an athlete, a second world war vet, his skin turned the color of suet. His hands were as limp and spongy as earlobes. In the intensive care unit, when his wife squeezed those hands and told him that the doctor had given him at best a year, he gasped, "Then bring me a pint of Haagen Daaz. Rum raisin."

Eleven months later he died in his sleep after a dinner of Fettucine Alfredo and Amaretto ricotta pie.

One man screws himself to ruin. Another eats himself to death. What enormous pain does this pleasure attempt to cover up? What secrets, what guilt? What fears run beneath the floorboards of the psyche like rats so that one must keep dancing to frighten them away?

People hold their pain at bay with drink, with drugs. My friend’s grandfather, Heschel, lives in Miami Beach where he suns himself from sunrise to dinner time, rotating like a spit roasted chicken and slathering his skin with a homemade marinade of baby oil and iodine. Upon returning to his condo he holds out a dollar for the Cuban kid who parks his car, grabs- the kid's forearm and insists on comparing them, "Who's more schwartz?" We all know what he's attempting to cauterize from his memory. He left Lithuania in 1936. His family never made it out. But what can we say? Great tan, Heshie!

Hedonism, if repulsive, can at least be understood. But what of addiction to pain, to worry? What can we make of people who erase their problems with greater problems, who worry themselves to sleep with visions of bankruptcy and public humiliation, who count, not sheep but wounds, who soothe themselves with nightmares?

Imagine a man sitting high up in a tree. If you will: on top of the world. He is safe. There is no wind. The view is serene. But he worries, "What if this branch cannot support me?" He shimmies out a few inches to test it. It feels solid enough but he can't be too sure. He bounces up and down. The branch is sturdy, it holds, but in order to be absolutely beyond doubt, he moves out farther, then an inch more until the branch cracks like an egg shell and he is falling fifteen feet to the ground. When he finally hits, hard, he does not moan Help me! but, I knew it.

Picture a house on a dark winter morning. A suburban ranch with three bedrooms and a garage. The sun emerges as a circle of dry ice. The streets are silent and gray. A match flares in a bedroom window. A cigarette glows.

A stocky man with soft arms and jet black hair on the edge of his bed. He inhales, holds the smoke, and begins an imaginary conversation. "You like it, Daddy? It’s an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. Top of the line."

He is in a conversation with his father. He is opening the passenger door to show his father the plush red leather interior. He is wearing a black shark skin suit with a silk tie. He studies the old man’s face for approval. He wants to tell his father how much the suit cost. His father thought his oldest son would be the success. "It’s a custom color. Autumn mist." In his imagination the old man is smiling, he is nodding approval.

The man's wife was awake before her husband stirred. She is surrounded by women at a luncheon. They are laughing at a joke she has made. They are touching her forearm, leaning their heads close. In case she says something else. They don’t want to miss it. They are nodding at each other, smiling at the truth of what she has said. They are her dear friends. They go to lunch together every week. She does not see their faces. She does not have any dear friends. But what if she did? What would she wear if she went to a restaurant with other women for lunch, if she didn't have to stay home?

She forces herself to think of toast, eggs for the children, but she is not hungry. Most of the women in the neighborhood are putting on weight. She herself has grown lean since the baby was born. She has dropped to a size four. She has not lost her looks. She makes time for her hair, a brilliant gold with subtle strawberry tones. She has dimples and good legs. Her nose is too large, she knows that. But her husband never cared. He husband used to call her Marilyn.

He used to lift her hair and plant wet kisses on the back of her neck. Tonight, she thinks, she'll feed boys early. Tonight she'll cook something nice, it's Friday. Her parents always locked their bedroom door on Friday nights; her father told jokes after supper. Why not make a special night every week like her mother did? Once she and her husband went to movies together every Saturday night. Once he used to call her from work everyday. Once they slept in the same bed.

"If you could have anything you wanted for dinner tonight," she turns to her husband in the dark, "what would it be? Steak? Fish?"

"Tonight?" He hedges. She can tell from the first word he won't be home for dinner.

In the boys room it is still quiet. The oldest is a good boy, he does well in school, he is no trouble, not like some of the children in the neighborhood, but he is overweight. Maybe he will grow out of it. Boys do as they grow taller. But the truth is, he disgusts her somewhat. She is ashamed when she sees his belly shake when he is running; and when the other children in the neighborhood laugh at him. She doesn’t blame them. The younger boy, the middle son, is strong and wiry and a good athlete. But he is short. She hopes he will grow. He may grow, but he is small for his size. She hates women who brag about their children, how beautiful they are, how smart they are in school, what geniuses with their musical instruments. It is probably nice for them to have remarkable children, though. Her husband would be more interested if they had something, anything about them that was special.

She can hear the baby stirring. He is seven years younger than the middle child. She had tried for years to have another. She had two miscarriages. Then, no sooner did give up than she was pregnant. Her husband had only wanted two. Weren’t two expensive enough? he asked her. But the baby came when she had given up hope for another. It was a miracle. He is not easy. He cries easily. Longer and louder than either of the other two. So long and loud that it drives her husband from the house.

The eleven-year-o1d is thinking of Rhonda Sherman who sits in front of him in school. The door to the girls' locker room swung open one day when the boys were running in from the soccer field. Rhonda Sherman was wearing pale green underpants the color of breath-o-mints. She looked up and caught him gaping. She looked straight into his eyes, then turned her back and

screamed. Now, as he lies on his stomach in the dark, he is alone in the locker room with Rhonda Sherman. A floating feeling emerges between his thighs. He moves himself against the mattress with the rhythm of gentle surf.

"Come on now, get up." The hand on his shoulder is a block of ice. His father has pulled the comforter to the oldest boy’s feet. "Let's go, it's a school day."

His father is impatient. Sometimes, angered by his slowness, his father will march him into the bathroom but this morning his father does not yank him out of bed. Instead, he stalks back to his own bedroom as the mother counts the bills her husband left on the dresser.

"Fifteen dollars?" Other mothers ask simple questions, she hurls facts like knives.

His father is quick to defend himself. "That's not enough?"

"You're going to spend fifty on dinner."

"That's business, what do you want from me? You want another ten?"

"No, I don't want another ten."

“You want twenty?”

"I want you home once in awhile."

The baby hears their voices and begins to call. The older boy runs to the crib. He moves the elephant like a dancing puppet. "Let's play. Wanna play?" But the baby is frightened by his parents' loud voices. He rattles the bars of the crib, he jumps up and down.

The mother continues: "Monday, you're at bowling. Tuesday, poker. Wednesday, late. Thursday, now Friday."

"I don’t deserve some time to myself? I don’t work twelve hours a day?'"

The father's voice is a whiplash across the baby's back. He shakes the bars to free himself then loses his grip and staggers before the older can catch him. He hits his head and howls. Both parents come running into the room.

"Oh, my god, my god," his mother says, lifting her baby like china. The father starts to think about the time this is going to take. He sees his morning spent in the emergency room. "What is it, what's wrong?" he demands over the baby's cries that pierce the ear drums like a needle. "What now?"

All three of them wait for the injury to make itself known. Is his arm broken? Will he have to be in a cast? When the children were sick last month and doctor made a house call the father screamed when he saw the bill. The baby's anguish is like an air-raid siren. It begins as a rumbling in his throat, a warning, as he fills his lungs and his face turns blue. His mouth opens, his jaw quivers. His eyes squeeze closed and he shrieks a terror you can feel, you can see distorting the air like waves of heat.

The older boy reads his parents. He can see his father's face become stone. He can see his mother's eyes sharpen to points. He knows he must act. He cannot go to school again wondering whether his father will return. Amos crosses the floor in his baggy pajamas. He has popped open the waist band snap. He sees his brother's toy truck in his path. He draws back his right leg like a

soccer player and jams his bare foot hard against the truck.

What's that? Both his parents turn.

"Ow!" The older boy holds his foot. He circles around in pain.

"What did you do now?" his father says.

The pain is real. There are tears in Amos's eyes. As he hops, he shimmies his hips, his pajama bottoms slip to his ankles. Stooping to gather his pants, he makes himself stumble and lose his balance. He topples to the floor. He rolls on his butt, tries to get up and falls backs down again.

His parents laugh. They are laughing together. "You're so clumsy," his mother says, giggling.

"What a klutz!" his father agrees.

They agree. For the first time this morning, they agree on something, they are happy. Even the baby, curious, sucks his breath long enough to stop crying and watch his big brother.

The older boy has made it all good again. He has done his job.

What more could I do? Every day I searched for the magic that would make my parents happy, that would sit us down at the supper table in peace. I told my mother funny stories. I played with the baby, I helped her clean the house. For my father, I distinguished myself as a catcher on the school baseball team. Even a klutz can play catcher. He soothes the pitcher. He butters up the umpire. He is a facilitator. He stays at home with his eyes and ears open. I was an all-star catcher. I played the same position in my family.

In my house there was no event too simple to create chaos. An olive pit once began a fight that caused my mother to slam the door so hard when she ran "crying from the house that the storm window shattered and tore a nine inch rent in her forearm. It began with my father eating a salad.

"What is this?" he brought his hand to his face.

"Looks like a pit," my mother said.

"I could break my teeth on this. Don't put pits in my salad, okay?"

"I didn't put pits, I put olives. You like olives."

"Not with pits."

"Am I Superwoman? Can I see through black olives?"

"Can you read? The can doesn't say?"

How had I let this happen? I was sure I had had the evening covered. When my father got home, I handed him a math test marked with a big red A. I taught the baby a song while my mother cooked. Next time, I would have to do better, I realized. Next time I will have to check the olives. What about fish bones in the salmon croquets?

Picture a brilliant autumn Sunday morning in autumn. Sunlight pouring through the southeast windows, a breeze shaking the last of the leaves of the crab apple. Two weeks ago -- I heard him promise -- my father had announced that on this Sunday morning we would drive, as a family, to Oyster Bay, to visit Sagamore Hill, and afterwards to go out to supper. When reminded, he has forgotten. He is tired. He has worked very hard this week. The schmata is going down the tubes. His partner steals. The salesmen are lazy. He is a pattern maker and stands all day bent over a table. Doesn’t he deserve a rest? He does not see the tears welling in my mother's eyes. But I know how to salvage her pride. I know how to stick pencils in my ears to make them look red, how to jam them down my throat to make myself throw up.

Later, when my grandmother calls, my mother runs to the phone with a light step. "Home so early?" my grandmother asks.

"We didn't go," my mother says.

"What was his excuse this time?"

"Oh, no, it wasn't that. We couldn't go. The oldest was sick."

I had friends who traded baseball cards, who played poker for nickels but I was a player in the world of adults and growing up was a game with higher stakes. Like the Indian child taught to listen with his ear to the ground for the buffalo herd that would feed his people through winter, my family survived because I read my father's voice, the grief in my mother's eyes.

While I watched the kid across the street trying to sink a ball through the hoop over his garage door, I sat at the kitchen table counseling my mother how to handle my father's moods. "Be nice when he first walks in. He likes that. Don't start with how bad things were today. First say something good." I was six years old when my father told me that getting married was the biggest mistake he ever made.

For me and my kind, anguish is the lay of the land; contentment a thin layer of branches across a pit filled with spikes. I complain about troubles but search them out. I must find them before they find me. I greet each success with the knowledge that it could be my last. I distrust the quiet times and wait for reality to reveal itself as the giant hand that crushes all hope and opens the faucets of adrenaline. Methadrine? LSD? Cocaine? Minor highs, compared to adrenaline. Can any of them enable you to lift the rear end of a car? I've heard heroin addicts describe that numbness, that floating netherworld in which pain and failure and disappointment are no more than words, in which the body bakes at a low-level orgasm. For people like me, the state of ecstasy is like five cups of black coffee and an unstudied-for test that must be completed in sixty seconds.

Most of you know people like us. We're the friend who carries a grudge - for something you did ten years ago. We read body language like billboards.

If you don't know us, you want to. You want us to care for your children -- we'd stand in front of a bus to protect them, imagining disasters that would never occur to you. You want us to work in your offices -- nothing slips past our attention, we're prepared for a power outage, another blizzard of '78.

You want us in bed. We're the kind who labor between the legs of the impotent and frigid until our backs bubble with sweat. No one has ever left our beds unsatisfied. You find us working in all walks of life -- in the theater, so many of us need applause; or in medicine -- born to cure. Having apprenticed in my family and honed my skills at the center of one state of chaos, I was ready, upon entering a profession, to choose another, Massachusetts. ~

When I told my grandmother I graduated college magna cum laude with a scholarship to law school she brought her palm to my mouth. "Kayn Aynhoreh, enough." A Jewish peculiarity? Napoleon was a Corsican peasant. "Look, Mama," he said. "I have conquered Italy and Spain. Switzerland, Naples, the Rhine, Denmark and Norway. What do you think?" She responded: Pourvu que ca dure. Provided it lasts.

We are white, we are black; Jews, Moslems, Christians. One thing defines us, the axiom by which we live, Nothing is right until something is wrong. We are the plumbers of the world and life is a sink; for you, it flows; for us payday comes when it starts to back up.