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  • “Make Me”

    A Short Play by Alysse Aallyn

    (Lectern flanked by flowers.  A screen with a glamour pic of a young man in his late 20’s- wistful, engaging – someone you’d have liked to know. A young woman, mid twenties, dressed for a funeral in a very tight fitting suit, steps up on the stage and picks up the mike with a becomingly abashed air of charm & professional sweetness)


    MARCI
    Hi, I’m Marci, and I’d like to say a few words about Glenn Godiver. I never saw myself as a person who gives eulogies, but Glenn and I had that kind of relationship. We called it The Mutual Autopsy Society. You do me and I do you.

     (She acknowledges audience laughter) 

    Right? He was so funny! Sometime it took me like a minute to get the joke!


    (Trying to be serious.) 

    If you knew Glenn, you were one of the very, very privileged few. He was a private guy, and although he had more friends than anyone I’ve ever met, he didn’t let just anybody in. But he was SO worth knowing!   I mean, what a guy!  Am I right?  Every guy wanted to be Glenn Godiver and every girl wanted to get with Glenn.  At least that’s what he would say! 

    (Laughs) 

    Naw, you couldn’t stay mad at that guy. At least I couldn’t.  What a sweetie pie!  He was as sweet as pie.

    (Tries to chuck the photo under its chin. Presses a button on a remote and the pictures change to  Marci & Glenn together or with groups of young people.  Traveling, partying.)


    There he is, right where he always wanted to be, the center of attention. He wouldn’t leave while the party was still going on!  When I was going through my pictures I can’t tell you how many I found where there I was on the sofa asleep, waiting for Glenn to feel ready to go home. There’s one!  Because while we were dating those six happy, happy months, I was always looking for some alone time.  Not just face time, face-and-body time. 

     (Inappropriate picture, obviously sex. MARCI  freezes on that picture) 

    Uh oh!  How did THAT get here? 

    (Fake embarrassment.  She zooms in on just the faces, which get a little blurry.)


    That’s better!  I mean, this is the family hour.  Lots of little ankle biters wanting to pay tribute to Uncle Glenn, as well they should. As well they should.  So where was I? 

     (Takes her jacket off and hangs it on the mike stand.  Underneath a skimpy lace camisole) 

    Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?

     (Comes to sit on the edge of the stage, making herself comfortable.  Fake radio DJ voice)

     I’m Yvette DaBomb – welcome to Pillowtalk. It’s dark outside, rain is falling and it looks like we’re locked in here together for the duration, so why don’t I show you all a good time? 

    (Tinny laughter) 


    Yeah, without Glenn the party will never be the same. I remember when we broke up – I broke up with him, contrary to the story I KNOW he was telling some people – it was all about issues.  Trust issues. He used to say to me –

    (bad Nicholson impression) 

    You can’t handle the truth!  And I told him you’re the one who can’t handle the truth!

     (Starting to get steamed) 

    Telling everyone you were looking for a nice girl so you could settle down, I mean, that wasn’t true, was it?  He just wanted to see inside every pair of undies on the West Coast. And I mean, that’s OK! I say, God bless him!  But don’t go around telling me who I can hug.  Who I can text!  Who I can talk to! 

    (Reining herself in.)  

    Oh, he had issues.
    But I liked him just the way he was.  I accepted him. I think that’s what love is; you’ve got to accept people so they can accept themselves.  But Glenn was a difficult person to satisfy. He was always looking – you know – for that next little “tweak”.  There was always just something that needed fixing, something that could be better. “Added value”, he called it.  Am I right?  That’s why he was such a successful entrepreneur; he was always looking for ways to add value. Like he wouldn’t tell me my breasts were too small; he’d always say, “Look at these.”  And he’d show me those pictures on his phone.  I know the police said afterwards there were no pictures of breasts on his phone and of course we don’t want to remember him that way.  But I know what I saw.  Glenn was a “seeker”. Always searching for…something better. 


    When I got the implants he was so happy at first!  32B to a D is a big jump!! 

     (Cradles her breasts – shown off to good effect in the flimsy camisole.) 

    He was like a kid with a new toy, that’s for sure!  He said he only wanted me to be admired, he wanted “the real Marci” to come on out.  He would tell me some of you – don’t take this the wrong way – were saying behind my back that I wasn’t right for him.  I have to say you guys were making it hard for me to be your friend what with all the back chat I was hearing.


    (Works to calm herself)


    Naturally I wanted to check his emails and his Facebook page after he was saying things like that!  And we trusted each other with the passwords – in spite of what he probably told you – plus he always used his dog’s name – Welliver – as his password and you just don’t forget a thing like that. Imagine my shock when I found out those implants he had begged me to get and then to show off to his friends – were another point against me!  “Not exactly wife material”  people were saying!  That kind of thing!! Yeah, I was upset at first and it led directly to our breakup. 


    I mean, he was setting me up!  Am I right? He was setting me up to fail! Then I saw him doing that with other people he said he was “mentoring” (air quotes.)  This is the hardest thing to admit about Glenn – that he acted like an asshole sometimes.  Like his left hand wouldn’t see what his right hand was doing!  I put it down to his competitive spirit.  Just like Welliver – that dog never could resist using his teeth!  Grrrr! Had to get his teeth around something!! I mean, he’s a dog!  So when he plays, you  expect him to play rough.


    There I was stuck with this big bill! Not to mention getting a full Brazilian every two weeks – I mean was that for him or me? Oh, you don’t mind the pain, he tells me.  You like it.  I mean, why would you do this otherwise?  Why would anyone? 


    I told him flat out, I’d do anything to please you.  I admitted it.  What’s it gonna take? You’ve got me, so tell me what to do.  Glenn could be generous, but usually he was more generous after he’d been satisfied. You know what I’m saying.  I mean the guy would give you the shirt off his back –  he did give me the shirt off his back – of course I was naked at the time! (Laugh).  He took my clothes! But he did have a way of dodging responsibility. First guy into the restaurant but when it came time to pay the check, I mean, where was he? Am I off course here?  I felt he leaned just a little too hard on his friends, didn’t you?  But we forgave him!  He said to me, you can work it off.  Clean my house and …other ways.  Called me his little porn star! (More sex photos) Then he sold me that crappy car that never worked!  But I still had to pay for it!    I have to say that made me kind of uncomfortable. Goddess or porn star, Glenn, which is it?  Oh, he was itching to make a porno!  Said, we’re all going to make a million dollars!  Doin’ what comes naturally! 


    I warned him, Glenn, if you do, the jury will come back against you!  Everyone will know you’re not the saint you pretended to be. But he says to me, Marci, there are no male sluts. There’s female sluts and goodtime guys, that’s what and there’s no coming back from it.  (Flips through the pictures in frustration, looking for a good one.) Not like breaking up made any difference because we couldn’t stay away from each other! We were combustible, all right. He always said he never came so hard with anyone else. Even jacking off!  It was always me he wanted to think about.


    So we forgave him!  Didn’t we always?  I know he was pulling these same stunts with other girls – you Jeannie and you Rebecca – he showed me  your emails & texts. Bet you didn’t know about that!  But who could say no to this guy? Look at that! (Zoom close-up of the photo) I mean, who could resist those eyes? Awwww! That’s what he seems to be saying. Awww! Make me! Ya gonna make me?


    (Switches pictures)

    I know we were all getting sick of THAT picture.This  one was taken the day he died. 

     (Naked torso making the “strongman” gesture) 

    He was so proud of his body – as well he should have been. He was in the gym two hours a day turning ugly flab to rock hard muscle.  Sweat is fat crying, that’s what he used to say!  Oh, he used to slap my ass to get me going!   Beat my ass until it hurt. Clocked me too, once, till I saw stars. I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it sometimes. We knew how to push each other’s buttons. He was easy to tease because he had this fake persona and he wouldn’t admit that he had. I mean, I had lost everything– put all my skin in the game – he made sure of that.   I  said, “I’m all in.”  I was completely dependent – but he was still pretending he was free as air! 


     I forget whose idea it was to take these pictures. 

    (Several shower photos).

    They’re good, right?  I mean this could be an Old Spice ad! “Habit Rouge” is what I mean to say.  That’s the stuff he liked.  Called it his “hunting coat.” But he did need new photos for his page because he was so much better toned.  He was bench pressing like 260 – he could lift me with one hand.  I have a photo of that somewhere here. 

    (Shuffles through the photos – some of them are crime scene.)


    How did THAT get there?

     (Fake surprise.) 

    Oh, that’s right.  I’m helping the police. It’s something only I can do, because I was closest to him. I was the last to see him alive.

     (Puts on professorial glasses, takes out a laser pointer) 

    Look at this. Don’t you think there had to be at least two murderers? That’s the first thing I said to them. I mean, who could take advantage of this guy, he was so strong!  I’m surprised they didn’t wait till he was asleep – you know, and vulnerable.  But the police think the attack started right here in the bathroom. You can see there’s a shell casing from a 25 caliber there on the tiles. So she shot him, I guess.  Or that guy did – you know, the people that broke in. Glenn was in trouble with lots of people he owed money to.  He had all these sketchy roommates and then there were the thousands of girls he’s disappointed!  Looking for a wife! 

    (snorts in disbelief)  

    What a line!  “The perfect girl to share  a family and kids. Happily ever after. You know, he said that after death families are raised up together and come together in heaven. I don’t know who he’s with now, though, since he spread himself so thin.  He did  have a rough upbringing you probably all remember – he  talked about it enough.  Inspirational, that’s what it was.   But he couldn’t get away from that family fast enough. 


    Who knows?  I’d really like to know how heaven works.  Maybe you get to select your own company. Bring anyone you want! That must be where he is, don’t you think?  Because he suffered when he died. Heaven’s the right place for those who die young. He didn’t get the chance to do the really terrible things – you know those  things the living  regret, those things we can’t take back or ever undo.


    But the first shot didn’t kill him – you can see here where he went and stood over the sink, probably trying to figure out what had happened. You’ve got to ask yourself, what did he see, there, looking in the mirror?  A guy whose pretty face was shot away?  The police are being real boneheads about this, saying the shot came last!  I mean, I wasn’t there, but ask yourself, what kind of sense does THAT make?  Who breaks into a house to attack a guy in a shower with a knife?  It’s just the stupidest thing that I can think of.  But have it your way, Officer Malarkey. 

    (Rolls her eyes.) 

    You’re the professional!  State-sponsored. servant! Twenty years of crime scene reconstruction! I’m just a girl who loved the victim, who lived there and cleaned the place and picked up after the owner! Naturally my DNA is everywhere. I cleaned up the dog poop too, if Glenn was too lazy to walk Welliver.  Dogs need walking twice a day!  Right!  But I couldn’t be there every minute!  I mean, I had a life, too! I have bills to pay! I had to work!  I was trying to have a life too!
    I even joined Linkups because I said, if you can date, I can date.  You know what he said?  He said, “I’m not comfortable with that.”

     (Mimics Glenn) 

    He made damn sure I texted those guys I wasn’t coming!  “My ex isn’t comfortable with that!”  Then I asked him, so when are you going to GET comfortable with that?  Don’t I deserve a little hottie of my own?  Somebody taking care of me?  How many girls does one guy get? 


    “When I get married” he said.  “You can be bridesmaid at my wedding!  I’ve got my eye on the perfect girl – she’s saying no right now” – he meant you, Kira – “but I’m the guy that turns No into Yes.”  And he was, wasn’t he! He so often was. That was his rep, all right. He always knew how to change your mind and make you want it, that thing you said you would never do. He kept digging till he got what he was after.


    He asked me, “what am I doing wrong with Kira?  How should I play this?  She says she only wants me for a friend!”


    I did wonder if he’d met his match.  What do they call that – the Murphy effect? If you leave every territory after you’re finished with it, looking for new fields to conquer, I mean, eventually you’re going to fall off a cliff! Am I right?  Pissarro and Cortez and all those guys!  Stepped off the world! Right into a pile of skulls. 


    He probably would have made you  marry him Kira, whether you wanted to or not!  You’d wake up the morning after, asking, “What just happened?” I say you dodged a bullet!  But nobody dodges every bullet and not in a tiny enclosed space like that shower. Got him right in the jaw till he was spitting out teeth. They say those low caliber bullets ricochet around in a person’s head.  I mean, this one bounced right off his skull!  Under the skin. He has hardheaded, was Glenn!  Proud of that hardheadedness, too!

     (Raps on her own skull.) 

    Don’t be such a pussy, he used to tell me! You gotta be all business if you plan to get things done!
    The police say those low caliber bullets are the choice of mobsters. You know, mob hits. “Execution style!” I  told them, “Look for bill collectors. He was having trouble hanging onto his house and blaming me cause my credit was in the toilet and he had to hire the moving van for my stuff.”  But Officer Numnutz says, doesn’t your grandfather have a .25 that’s gone missing?  I mean, WHAT kind of relevance can that possibly have? My grandfather can’t find his own teeth!  Everyone has guns, especially around here.  And people gravitate to the little, light ones. “Concealed carry.”  But I’ve never even SHOT a gun. So don’t look at me! 


    So Numnutz says – I’m sorry, Officer Mendez, I see you over there but if you can’t tell the truth in a eulogy then where can you tell it?  He says to me, Look where the guy ran down the hall.  Follow the blood trail. So Glenn’s getting away and they came after him with knives.  These are the defensive wounds – here and here – where Glenn grabbed onto the knife for a moment and held it.  They’re slippery, those things, with the blood flying everywhere.


    Here’s where they gave him the “coup de grace”.  Slit his throat.  I mean, probably, judging from the blood pool. 

    (Acknowledges audience gasps) 

    I mean, GROSS right?  That’s what I said! Heinous stuff!  So here –

     (blurry photo of sock clad foot and bloody shoulder) 

    Here’s where she dragged him back to the shower.  Now why would she do that, Officer Mendez asks me. Maybe she was trying to revive him, Officer Bananas, if that’s really your name. Trying to wash off all that blood. Forgive me if I can’t remember every little detail about everything.  I’ve got stuff on my mind.  I mean, my best friend just died! Died at the peak of his life! So how do I know what murderers would do? 


    Maybe he hit her. Maybe it was self-defense.

     (Picture of Glenn working a punching bag) 

    You know, hit out at her and she was just defending herself.  Like I tried to tell you, he was really strong. He owned guns too.  Unregistered ones. Proud of that. I know I saw one somewhere.  And he had to use a knife to cut the rope when he tied me to the bed. Oh, didn’t I tell you about that? I thought I did – it was all about that porno he wanted to make.  He first wanted to shoot it in the woods. That was his big idea.  Or maybe on the hood of a car in rush hour traffic!  
    Impossible to reason with the guy. Shake some sense into him! What about the looky-lous! They’ll  know about you, about us! What about Kira! What will she say? She’ll drop you like a hot potato.
    The cops say “everybody has an alibi”.  Well duh!  I was miles away!  But do you think the people who – I mean the people who did this if it wasn’t  professional – would even remember?  I mean, you’d  want to forget a thing like this as fast as you could, wouldn’t you?  If you loved the guy?  And everyone loved him.  He was the sweetest, most thoughtful, most generous guy who ever lived. 

    (Fumbles with papers on the lectern, starts to cry)


    Can we get an appletini up here?  That’s what he always ordered for me.  Appletinis. He said, “I like the smell.”  


    I miss him. We had so many plans.  We were going to walk the Freedom Trail. Together.  Before we die. We swore a blood oath. Everyone says that it’s fantastic, that you come back from that trip a different person. 


    OK.  I see you asking me to wrap things up.  To cut it short (throat slitting gesture) I’m getting the hook!  Don’t  worry about it.  I’m used to it. That’s what Glenn used to say he loved most about me, that I knew how to laugh at myself. Before I go I wanted to lead us in a song. (Quavering voice)
    If you get to heaven before I do


    Coming for to carry me home –  come on everybody, you know this one!
    Tell all my friends I’m a-coming after you!
    Coming for to carry me home!  Swing low – sweet chariot –


    (Police officers help her off the stage)
     
    END 

  • Morocco

    In spring of 1961 my father announced that he was giving up his job building public housing in Cleveland. He would be taking a position as Director of Refugees for the American Friends Service Committee in Morocco. We were to sell our house and almost everything we owned and move to Africa. I was only ten years old and my parents had a lot of explaining to do before I could even begin to understand.  I had just been diagnosed with “myopia” and told I would need glasses for long distance vision and I was privately worrying about going blind. I recall asking Mom if we would be “poor” and she gave some needlessly confusing answer about how both she and Dad would be working for $50 a month. My sisters had started a pattern of ridiculing my fears so I could only find answers in books. Mom and Dad told us we could each take ten books on our move and gave us “carte blanche” at the College bookstore. I preferred history; somehow the disruptions in the lives of husband-seeking princesses sent to foreign courts seemed bizarrely comforting. We had to have a series of shots that sent us all to bed for a full day. I recall applying for passports while mothers’ friend swore, hand uplifted, that she had always known us and that we had no desire to sabotage or plot against the U.S.
     
    We held a yard sale where I sold all my dolls and comic books. The cats and dog were given away. My friends were very excited that I was going to northern Africa and asked a lot of questions about the Sahara and Arabian horses that made the trip sound like it might be more of an adventure than a threat. 
     
    First, we flew to England to stay in a castle used as a Quaker conference center where Mom and Dad would receive training. At that time, I was reading about the French Revolution and was particularly taken by the Affair of the Necklace. Living in a castle – it had beautiful grounds – made me part of the story and only seemed appropriate. Then we flew to Switzerland to leave elder sister Merrill at the International School. Mallory had been enrolled at the Quaker boarding school at Barnesville, Ohio and Mom and Dad took it for granted that she would stay there while we travelled; but she absolutely refused, even contacting her congressman for help in springing her from that prison! Merrill still recalls all of us driving around Geneva crammed into a taxi looking for some family to take her in. Somebody had heard of a cleaning lady who might know someone who – etc. Since we were in Switzerland anyway, we might as well take a look at Mont Blanc. Dad rented a Peugeot, which he always said afterwards he had to kick up and down the Vosges Mountains; in Morocco, he made sure we had a Citroen with a special lever allowing it to ford streams!  To get to Chamonix we had to take the Grimsel Pass, and it was grim, a sheer drop with no railing of any kind. We all sat as far as possible on one side of the car. But Chamonix was worth it.
     
    We also saw Paris. Like most people, my sisters and I were stunned and seduced by the food. French breakfasts were a dream come true – chocolate in big drinking bowls, croissants, jam in elegant little earthenware pots, and curls of moist butter. Heaven!  Picnics in the French countryside with bread, salami, cheese and iron-tasting mineral water. We saw Carcassonne, which is a living fairy tale. The streets erupted on Bastille Day – just in time for baby sister Avril’s birthday. She was thrilled to see an entire nation celebrating her birth with songs, fireworks, sparklers and parades.
     
    My first sight of Morocco was very different from the desert I expected. There were fields of brilliant red poppies in bloom, hills dotted with stubby trees (sometimes with goats in them!) I was amazed by how people would stand unmoving in the road when a car was approaching, forcing the car to go around, and how children would come right up and speechlessly just stare. Berber girls were blue-eyed and clad in multiple wild colors while Muslim women wore full hijab with only their eyes showing. Their outfits looked very uncomfortable and hot to me but Arab girls my age didn’t seem to have to wear them, although grown men still looked at us strangely and became visibly excited by our Bermuda shorts. At one point Mom – wearing a straight skirt – was “goosed” by a man walking behind her. All this had to be explained to me by apologetic parents struggling to maintain compassion toward what they saw as crippling “medieval” religious beliefs. 
     
    Our house was in Oujda, a town on the edge of the Algerian border. Because the Algerians were waging a war of independence against the French colonialists, Arab refugees were pouring across the border and had to be housed in tents and encampments. Morocco bragged that it had avoided becoming completely French because of its strong monarchy (in the fifties, King Mohammed V reputedly threw a journalist to the lions.) The current king, Moulay Hassan II, had several feisty sisters who wore jeans and refused to take the veil. My favorite, Ayesha, was a wrecker of sports cars. Then there was the great resistance fighter, Jamila, tortured by the French. We heard many legends like this from local potentate, Moulay Suleiman, who entertained us to tea while his wives peered excitedly at us through a wooden screen.  Tea was served in glass cups nestled in silver filigree holders; it was mint, bright green and at least half sugar.  It was not my thing but we were warned to be polite. Moulay Suleiman invited us to a meshoui, the celebratory cooking of an entire sheep in a pit. Even the eyeballs and lungs are eaten. (The eye is a great prize.) We were also treated to the sight of armed horsemen in ceremonial dress riding straight at us, stopping inches away and firing their rifles in the air while shouting. It was impressive, and they would do it as many times as we wanted.
     
    The Oujda house (Dar el Baraka, House of the Blessed) was enormous, a central tower ornamented with arrow slits and two big stuccoed wings in a 2-acre garden. The whole property was surrounded by a cement wall with broken glass cemented on top. The garden contained a guest house, (used only for storage), a garage (where the gardener and his wives lived) and swimming pool that a special town ordinance banned from ever being full. However, the garden had a complex set of irrigation ditches managed by the gardener Lakhdar. In the right wing lived a team of British nurses and Midwest Quaker volunteers. There was also a cook named Embarka who lived behind the kitchen with her son, Mujahed. Embarka was a fantastic chef; my favorite dishes of hers were rabbit stew with olives, and for dessert, chocolate balls – basically fudge rolled round and around in her hennaed hands. 
     
    The central tower contained an enormous two-story “salon” with two living areas, a long dining table with sixteen chairs and a fireplace the size of a mudroom. During the morning Embarka and her helper Fatima (Lakhdar’s youngest wife) would close the long interior shutters and swab the terrazzo floors with water; this kept the big room cool all day. The tower and rooftop terrace were reached by outside steps shrouded in brilliant bougainvillea; at night, the view of the stars was spectacular, and sometimes sister Genevieve and I were allowed to sleep up there.
     
    Our rooms were in the left-hand wing, all three sisters together in one room with a big fireplace and its own bathroom. The bath had a hot water tank with a pilot light that had to be lit – “Boudagaz” – often singeing our eyebrows.
     
    My sister Genevieve and I loved exploring the garden, which was always excitingly alive with bats, birds and feral cats. The guest house was full of boxes of onion-skin correspondence from previous tenants of the House of the Blessed, French colonialists bewailing their separation from the mother country. From our perch atop the wall we watched Lakhdar manage his irrigation ditches.  Poor Avril, aged only six, wanting desperately to join our club, asked how we got up there. We told her we knew how to fly but we wouldn’t be teaching her. This caused her to break into the Grand Salon while Mom entertained ladies to tea, sobbing, “Genevieve and Alysse won’t teach me to fly!”  Mom stomped out on the terrace shouting, “You teach Avril to fly this minute.”
     
    We grudgingly tied Avril up in time-consuming paperwork to “join our club”, insisting she submit a urine sample. She brought us a glass of white port instead, which we deemed acceptable. Unfortunately, at that point my thirteen-year-old sister and a 22-year-old intern from the Midwest named Bill discovered each other and became boyfriend and girlfriend conducting a steamy 50’s affair, with no pushback from our deliberately blinded parents. I developed a relationship with one of the cats, who I named Christopher, and fed with scraps from our meals. Apparently, this made the other intern, a heartless, handsome and ideologically rigid idiot resolve to poison them all.  Christopher, who had always refused to enter the house, crawled under my bed to die. I turned to Agatha Christie, who explained the heartless idiot perfectly to my eleven-year-old mind.
     
    Then it was time for school. The world outside the walls was even more problematic. At our gate stood a licorice seller. The previous Refugee Director’s little boy sent us a “Missing you” postcard to deliver to him, but the hard, stuck-together clumps of licorice failed to gratify Genevieve and me, who preferred expensive French pastry sold at The Colombo. When translated into dirhams our allowance provided a very favorable exchange rate. The licorice seller also guarded the spot of a recent murder, showing off the gruesome bloodstain to passersby.
     
    The schools spoke French. The previous director’s children had been home-schooled until their French was “perfect”, but Mom and Dad decided to throw us in at the deep end and hope for the best. Until we made friends, Jennifer and I were likely to have stones thrown at us by Arab children shouting, “Romains!”; slang for Westerners.
     
    To attend school, you needed a “cartable” (briefcase) and a “tablier” (smock) purchaseable at a weird store right out of a Humphrey Bogart jungle equipment movie. They also sold block chocolate and warm Pepsi (nobody ever had ice.) “Lunch” was two pieces of French bread (small pieces) with anything between them. A chunk of cheese or chocolate was perfectly fine. Mine was struck out of my hand on the very first day and stepped on by a boy screaming wildly with delight. “Ha ha! Now you can starve!” Luckily, I acquired a wonderful friend – Zubeida Benkhala, who said her father was an Algerian general. And he may have been, because she lived in a big house and not the refugee encampment. I went to visit her after school one day and was a hit because I could sing the English version of “Ne Racroche Pas” (“Don’t Hang Up.”) The French would not associate with Arabs and since I associated with Arabs they would not associate with me. All of us had Arab friends, Avril’s was Karima Bouzidi and Genevieve’s was Salima. Arabs were friendlier.
     
    School was terrifying. The teachers were physically abusive, the bathroom was a Turkish hole. When marched up to the blackboard, poor Avril just peed in front of everyone. We all learned enough French to get by; I began to dream in the language. My teacher, Monsieur Touati, couldn’t decide whether to make me his enemy or his pet, since I wouldn’t be his stooge. (I was not especially polite to adults.) After I left, he wrote to me, demanding pictures, when I sent one, he said it was too dark and he couldn’t see me properly. I think that was the end of our correspondence.
     
    Life was enlivened by visitors and tourism. NY Times war correspondent Tom Brady was posted locally with his entire family; they invited us out to “watch the bombing” for entertainment after dinner. I found staring at explosions over darkened hills a dull experience but my father was impressed by Brady and considered him a celebrity.

    Another visitor was Quaker historian Paul Johnson and his wife, who introduced us to a monastery full of interesting and highly educated European monks. We visited the holy city of Moulay Idris where infidels (such as us) cannot remain after dark. We travelled to Meknes, Fez and Casablanca and visited all the souks where we learned to bargain for leather goods (all you had to do was threaten to leave.) We visited a leather-dyeing facility – glorious pools of deep color but the stench was so terrible we held handkerchiefs over our noses.

    Most interesting was Melilla, a coastal city still belonging to Spain where we had to go through customs both in and out. Moroccan customs actually took down our tire identification numbers to make sure we wouldn’t buy new tires and fail to declare them! We travelled to Volubilis, gorgeous Roman ruins with huge storks’ nests atop the columns, saw the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains with its snow and ski lodges, penetrated deep into the earth at the Grotte de Chameau (where I had a panic attack.)
     
    Back home Genevieve played flute with the Oujda Philharmonic Orchestra and Avril took ballet; I read the Complete Molesworth and started a newspaper for the “inmates” of the Dar. Mom and Dad and the Quaker team taught sewing, carpentry and electrical wiring to the refugees and wanted to have a graduation celebration with food, games and awards.  Jennifer and I gave a popular puppet show and the women danced. The next day we heard all the women had been beaten up by their husbands for dancing in front of foreign men. I began sleepwalking. It was spring and I was ready to leave Morocco. The French and Algerian war ended with an Algerian win. Ben Bella rode triumphantly through the streets while the women yu-yued from behind their hijabs. Mom and Dad and Avril prepared to move to Algeria. Genevieve would be sent to Plumly school, and I would be sent to live with my aunt, uncle and four boy cousins in Wayland, Massachusetts. 

  • Why I Write Psychological Thrillers

    Why I Write Psychological Thrillers

    Since publication of my psychological thriller, Woman Into Wolf I find myself
    fielding two main questions: one, what is a psychological thriller, and two, where do I get
    my ideas?


    I usually end up telling the story about how as a kid I added “motive” cards to the
    game of Clue. I just wasn’t satisfied with a “solution” telling us Mrs. White killed
    Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with a candlestick. Why? I wanted to know. What the
    hell possessed her? Psychological studies typically concern themselves with the
    wilderness of the mind, and the “thriller” description represents extreme adventuring
    where anything – literally – might happen.


    Where I get my ideas is a much easier question. There’s never a need to make
    anything up. I am a devoted and fascinated reader of true crime. If anything, reality needs
    toning down to make it fictionally believable. Woman Into Wolf weaves three real
    cases together in an effort to answer the question, What possessed them? to a reader’s
    satisfaction.


    Certain cases stick in my mind like pebbles while the pearls of fiction form slowly
    around them. I puzzle. I speculate. I analyze. One example shows what I mean.


    On August 4, 1999 two young men from Boston hiked into Rattlesnake Canyon in
    New Mexico. Planning to make camp for one night before moving on. They were
    college graduates, best friends, “seeing the sights” on their way to California. One of
    the pair, a Jack Kerouac fan and an aspiring writer, was considering turning their
    adventures into a travel piece. He was the one airlifted out on Sunday, August 8 with
    “moderate to severe dehydration.” His friend left in a bodybag.


    What happened?


    The survivor told police he only stabbed his friend – two times – because his
    friend begged him to. Because of the planned brevity of their stay they had taken in only
    three small bottles of water, but got lost, became disoriented and wandered in circles.
    They left desperate notes for the park rangers, then became convinced the rangers were
    playing tricks on them. They were certain the buzzards overhead were just waiting for
    signs of manifest weakness to attack. We know this because they recorded this part in the
    joint travel journal they were keeping. Strangely, the dead man wrote nothing about
    wanting to die or asking his friend to hurry the process along.


    The rangers were bothered by the survivor’s story. No one had ever become lost
    in this small park in its hundred year history. The rangers found the campers a ten-
    minute walk from the trailhead. After his friend’s death, the survivor covered the body
    with rocks weighing as much as fifty pounds. Why hadn’t that energy been used to climb
    the hill where the parking lot was clearly visible? The coroner determined that the six
    foot tall, 180-pound camper died just a few hours before rescue. If the murder hadn’t
    occurred, he would have undoubtedly been rescued with his friend.


    But there was no legal need for extensive ratiocination: New Mexico law doesn’t
    give a free pass even to mercy killers. The survivor was indicted for murder.
    The survivor claimed to be chastened by his traumatizing experience but he also
    said that he had done the right thing, and even knowing what he knew now, he would do
    it again. The dead man’s family rallied round him; publicly stating that this was a tragedy
    for all of them, and there was no way this loyal friend would have intentionally harmed
    his buddy. The survivor’s lawyer first attempted a defense of temporary insanity (not
    allowed under New Mexico law, which requires insanity to be documented and of long
    standing) then went for “involuntary intoxication” – a legal defense – thinking of the salt
    buildup caused by a level of dehydration historically linked to hallucinations and poor
    coping skills. Incidentally, the judge rejected this defense.


    So what happened? If you have any propensity for structuring psychological
    thrillers, your neurons must be collectively firing. This tragic scenario is like a two
    person play by Beckett or Pinter. It’s pretty obvious any question about who did what to
    whom is secondary to the problem of identity. Who were these people? Two young men
    who had always done everything right, by all accounts, in their families, at church and
    school, on the job, even in their intimate relationships. The dead man was on his way to
    California to attend graduate school. I don’t know about you, but whenever I hear about
    compulsive I-dotters and T-crossers I always picture people who are “outer-directed.”
    That means they’ve traditionally taken their life cues from externals – leaving their inner
    beings unexplored – possibly even unconsulted. In a good psychological thriller, what the
    internal voyager discovers in his subconscious is as much a surprise to him as to the
    reader. What this story makes apparent is that as soon as the outward signals were
    removed, these two young men fell apart pretty dramatically.


    When the rangers found the survivor, he was waiting quietly in his tent, next to
    the cairn of stones he built over his deaf friend’s body. Often when he talked about
    ending his friend’s suffering, it sounded as if he was also ending his own. It was just
    easier to wait for rescue without his friend around. Therein, to my mind, lies Clue #1.
    These friends grew up together and did everything together, seemingly using their
    relationship as a sort of existential echo-location. I am I because you are you, and if you
    are there, then I must be here. It is the demanding drive for self-definition within each of
    us that causes us to sever – or at least yank sharply on – tether and lifeline alike.
    One of the friends was the leader and one was the follower. And it seems the
    leader had made a series of catastrophically bad decisions. We all know how hard that
    can be to live with – and to live down. In the noisy whistling of the leadership vacuum
    reproach becomes unbearable. In today’s reality-show world, increasingly it is only the
    public self that matters. Unknown failures can be literally “undone”. The Victorians
    understood this very well. In their day, “status preservation” was a major motive for
    murder in both the upper and middle class.


    One of the questions the detectives had was why the campers tried to burn a
    sleeping bag for a signal fire within sight of a large dead tree. Surely a little arson is
    preferable to death? As it turned out, the sleeping bag was a failure as fuel. The bag had
    been chosen, the survivor said, because they had two and needed only one. Although
    everyone who knew the pair insisted they were complete heterosexuals, my mind does a
    little U-turn on this piece of information. The prosecution even tried to make much of
    the fact that they had once shared a girlfriend, only to be shot down by the complete lack
    of cooperation of the relevant witness. Once again, the fewer people around with first-
    hand knowledge of our psychic and emotional dissonances, the easier we may find it to
    go on living.


    I also think we live in an “instant gratification” society where the only strategy for
    change we are used to is the “make it stop” wish. “This isn’t any fun, let’s not do it any
    more.”


    “Yeah man, this is getting to be a real drag.”


    But how to make it stop just when we want it to, if there are no buttons, no
    switches? How dare the cosmos be so unresponsive when we’ve decided we need a new
    game? This question – the relationship between reality and one’s demands — leads us
    further into the psychological wilderness.


    The young men from Boston listened to the ranger’s instructions with only half an
    ear between the two of them. They failed to take the recommended amount of water, they
    searched for non-existent campsites and they abandoned their topographical map because
    they couldn’t read it. We all know that any sense of superiority carries shadowy
    concomitants of guilt and fear. If others knew our superiority, they would resent us. Even
    hate us, and I know that because in their situation, I would feel the same. Unlike Jack
    Kerouac, these young men grew up with an easy confidence that law existed to protect
    their rights and privileges. But their education had taught them that not everyone is so
    fortunate.


    Hence the stated fear that the rangers were playing tricks on them, moving trail
    markers and teasing the campers with unreachable bottles of water. By the third day the
    young men feared that the rangers would cover up their deaths to hide their own
    incompetence.


    And then there are the buzzards, the pitiless “eyes in the sky” waiting to peck out
    their own eyes. What do you do when death is inevitable and the universe doesn’t seem
    to care? The ancients handled this question through sacrifice; demanding the right to
    pick the next to fall. It is an insult to the magnificence of our human capabilities to let the
    buzzards choose.


    Since a psychological thriller must of necessity concern itself with subjects’ lives
    as a whole, it is a real question where to start. Author William Goldman’s advice, to start
    “as late in the story as possible” is good, I think. In this case, I can’t help but feel that the
    real story begins afterwards, in the throes of survivor’s complex. The surviving camper
    was sentenced to fifteen years. He served fifteen months and has now gone back to his
    blamelessly unexamined life, in spite of being handed a literary subject Kerouac would
    envy and perhaps only Hemingway could handle. One can’t help but wonder what his
    days and nights are like. The Apaches who still protect Rattlesnake Canyon could have
    told him, when you kill something, it becomes part of you forever.