The Writer's Life 6/28 - Appearances

My thanks to the gentleman who bought 16 DVDs in Russian, to the woman who bought the Sex and the City bootleg, and to Lorraine, who purchased a Stuart Woods thriller and returned minutes later with a donation of four books.

Here’s an excerpt from a story I wrote about 35 years ago, when I was 30. It’s based on one of those rich, mysterious encounters that everyone experiences. I was riding the subway, on my way to an interview for a job tending bar. The title is Appearances, and at this point it’s about half way through. It’s less than 1000 words, a few minutes read:

   Two women boarded, one middle-aged, the other barely out of her teens. He surmised they were mother and daughter. They sat further up the car and across the aisle. He guessed they were Hasidic. The older was wearing a light blue dress emblazoned with flowers. Her hair seemed heavily frosted, unnatural, as if it were a wig. Many of the Hasidic women wore it that way. The younger woman's hair was natural, a soft honey brown cut short, styled simply yet beautifully. Her complexion was flawless. She gazed at him. He looked into her dark eyes and saw fire, although they had not changed expression. She was wearing a light blouse and long skirt. He was unable to distinguish her bosom, as she was hunched forward slightly, thighs pressed together firmly. Her skirt had rolled up a bit, revealing some leg. Although little more than her ankle was visible, there was no doubt in his mind that her long legs were well-defined. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and this without the advantages of cosmetics and liberal attire. He was sure she would earn millions as a model.
   She was holding a copy of the Torah bound in a black vinyl cover. She prayed fervently, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Her mother sat carefree, knitting. He was intrigued by the contrast. It seemed their activities should have been reversed. You have no real sins, he thought as the girl lifted her head and looked  his way. He sensed she was fighting her sexuality - and losing. He also sensed she was not one of them, at least not in nature. Indeed, she seemed to be fighting her soul, beseeching the Lord to save her from it, as if  it and not her environment was its enemy. He feared that it would perish, that she would do what was expected of her, live falsely, making her old before her time. He was certain he understood her thoughts -- why would God endow us with fierce desires that were to be ignored? He often asked himself the same.
  She said something to her mother, and they rose and came toward him. His heartbeat accelerated. Her bosom was proportionate to the rest of her figure. She seemed flawless physically. He had the urge to bolt. He guessed she'd told her mother that the sun shining through the window at her back had made reading difficult. She sat beside him at the edge of the bench, back turned to him slightly, and resumed praying. He sensed she was putting her sexuality to the test in hope of conquering it. He wondered if her mother knew this and approved. The poor girl was years from her peak and already suffering. Was she older than she looked? He doubted it. A marriage would have been arranged for her.
   More Hasidim boarded at ensuing stops. He did not understand their regimented way, their refusal to explore the vast possibilities of life. To his chagrin, he was uncomfortable in their presence. He
admonished himself, but it failed to change his feelings. He was saddened by the sight of little boys in traditional habit, curls at their temples. It was as if they went through Holy Communion or Confirmation every day of their  lives. Suddenly, being Catholic seemed easy.
   He marveled at the girl's classic profile. He wanted her. It would be a brief affair, he knew. Even if she broke from Orthodoxy, she would never marry a gentile. It might be enough to convert her to secular Judaism, however, to help her find her true self. You're not one of them, he wanted to say; I can see it; I can feel it; it's so obvious.
   He had his name and number written on slips of paper in his wallet, which he kept should he meet a woman to whom he was attracted. He'd yet to use any, fearful it was tacky. Do it, he urged himself,
studying her delicate neck, imagining the thrill it would be to deflower her. He was angered at the thought that she fall into the hands of a lout. Do it, he thought, calculating the consequences: the girl's outrage, feigned or not; her mother's indignation, her brethren's wrath. So what? he thought; she's worth it.
   His thoughts became explicit. He would bet all the money he had she was aroused. He fought the
temptation to drop something intentionally, squat and look for a moist stain. He chuckled as the train
penetrated the underground, at the hackneyed metaphor that, at the moment, seemed appropriate.
   The car was plunged into darkness a moment until the lights were illumined. You're just like me, he thought; dyin' to bust out. He imagined her shyness, her initial timidity in making love, her gradual acceptance of the naturalness and beauty of it.
   Stations passed and he did not make a move. At DeKalb Avenue the women rose. He was certain he would never see the girl again, and certain he would never forget her. He stared at her lovely back. She did not turn around, did not so much as peek. He watched her through the windows. Soon she was out of sight, gone from his life. He wondered if she would test herself with another male, another gentile, when she made her connection to another train. To his chagrin, it seemed she, despite overwhelming circumstances, had a greater chance of achieving her potential than he. He wondered if he would ever overcome whatever it was that kept him from being bold with women.

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