Joseph Levy Escapes Death. Rick Strassman

He’d rather not say he loves anything right now. It’s a promise, a contract, a commitment. Well, what’s the problem with that? One reason is that he’s filled with pain, and in deep steroid withdrawal.

      As they say good night, he whispers, “Good night, Pearl.”

      In bed the next morning Levy tells her about his erogenous zones. She’s uncertain. Manual penis stimulation goes nowhere. He self-stimulates and gets a little harder. She goes down “oral.” That’s slightly better. He decides to enter her. She gets out lubricant but is already wet. He’s never seen such nooked and crannied labia or nipples—like living coral. Sex is okay, not like with Cialis but good enough. Maybe she comes quickly, at least once. He doesn’t. He’d feel like hell if he did. His stores are nearly depleted already.

      They drive to the shore. She doesn’t use her turn signals when weaving through dense fast-moving traffic. Nothing new here, Levy tells himself. I’ve driven with worse Chinese women drivers. He prays.

      The wind is terrible—brutally cold, sharp, and unrelenting. They walk to the end of a rocky promontory, overlooking the water. It’s called Lover’s Point. He wraps her in his arms to protect her from the wind.

      “What’s your Chinese horoscope?” he asks. “I’m a Dragon.”

      “I’m a Pig,” she answers, and looks up at him lovingly. It’s a lucky match.

      They talk about plans for the future. As usual, for him, it’s theoretical. He doesn’t know how real it is for her. She’s easy to hang out with. He doesn’t feel obligated. And he goes home in a couple of days. He gets a deep chill and they head back to her car. She’s a strong walker. Later in the day, they run into some of her Chinese friends while hiking along a more protected stretch of coastline. Her friends and she chatter in Chinese and giggle while frequently glancing in Levy’s direction.

      He introduces her to Shabbat on Friday evening. They share bread, sip wine. “I like Shabbat,” she says. “The candles are romantic.”

      They occupy different worlds. She’s got her job, he’s got whatever it is he does. She knows nothing about drugs, Judaism, or Buddhism. She’s a good cook. They play ping-pong and he’s only slightly better than she is. She has a nice butt. He thinks that she smells good, but it’s hard to tell in her apartment.

      He imagines their married life together. He compares it to other marriages. They would have their individual lives, as well as shared experiences. They would not share livelihoods. He feels more pain in his body than affection for Karen. There is a silver lining to this: His primary emotional attachment in their life together won’t be to her, but rather to his pain.

      They have frequent sex. It’s not cosmic but consider Levy’s state. His lower back cracks and grinds with pelvic thrusting. He tries to compensate and thinks, I must see an orthopedist. Do more research online. I’ll have to investigate ablating the nerves supplying that part of my lower back. Then he realizes that would have no effect on the bone rubbing against bone.

      “I want you to be here,” she says one night.

      He accedes to her wishes, and says, “I like you. A lot.” An improvement over “Good night, Pearl.”

      A dream. Olivia’s first husband, Troy, is in town, along with other Canadians, mostly men. Maybe Olivia, too. Levy cracks wise about Canadians. They’re simple, gullible, passive, and mediocre socialists. Canadians begin coming out of the dream woodwork, overwhelm him. There’s a flood of them. Doing bad things; not exactly to him, but to his space. The ill-treatment peaks when he walks into his office and everything is gone, including his external hard drive. And everything from his neighbor’s office is gone. It is flagrantly unfair to involve Morales. It is part of the Canadians’ studious methodical rampage.

      Karen had said to Levy that night, “God is fair.”

      Troy is gleeful. He and his friends point at Levy, implying these are his just desserts. Levy’s wearing only a T-shirt, or jeans, or boxer shorts. He looks in his closet—it’s empty. This is too much, the final straw. He finds Troy. They are standing on a balcony. Levy is bereft. Troy looks remorseful when he learns the details. Maybe it’s Levy’s clothes, or the hard drive, or his neighbor’s things. He anticipates a beleaguered recoup. The dream continues through several awakenings, but it’s the same dream.

      If God is fair, Levy’s punishment is just. But what is his sin? Ridiculing Canadians? That seems unlikely. Maybe it’s a case of the evil tongue, building oneself up by putting others down. How does that relate to being with Karen in Santa Barbara?

      Karen makes the unnhh sound. The nonverbal whine that starts off low, climbs high, and ends lower. It lasts about 3-5 seconds. Her son made that sound the other day during the phone call he’d overhead. Levy used to think it was a cute noise. Childlike. Renee made it often, too, and he learned most of what he knows about it from her.

      While he tells himself it’s fine, it is instead his nightmare sound, a psychic fingernail on the blackboard. It’s regressed, childish, petulant, and emotionally retarded. It always bodes ill—if not immediately, then soon enough. The worst is that you don’t really know what’s the problem. It’s impossible to formulate a solution because it originates in the same inchoate place—brimming with primitive emotions and void of thought. It’s anti-verbal as much as non-verbal. It usually means, “I don’t like it”; however, there is a lot of latitude. You have to guess, because they won’t or can’t say. If you’re wrong, you’ll hear more of the sound, slightly modified. The high second note is higher and louder. At this point, it usually means “Now I’m mad,” but not always, and additional exegesis may be required. Failing to read her mind, her resentment lingers. If you really love her, you’d know what she means.

      Could I tell Karen to stop uttering the unnhh? Levy wonders. Maybe “ask” her instead. She could take it. She seems tough. Note how he put “ask” in quotes. Think about it: Stop a habit she’s had for decades, which she’s probably unaware of? And which serves valuable psychic functions? Karen is less confounded by mucus when she’s relaxed; perhaps likewise, the unnhh will also fade with time.

      He grades their sex. B- for him. Impotent three times out of eight. That’s a success rate of 62%. Then he realizes that’s a C. Or less.

      Karen and Levy drive to the airport in an amiable silence. They find a bench set against a wall in a corner of the terminal building. They lean against the wall and each other, hold hands, and wait for the public address system to announce his flight’s boarding. They look at their calendars and set a date for her trip to Wheaton.

      THREE

      THE FLIGHT LANDS on time mid-afternoon. Joseph Levy gets into his truck and onto the highway and sets cruise control at 72 mph. He reflects on the visit. Mostly successful, worth a follow-up, promising.

      He feels a strange exhaustion as he makes his way up to his house on the short gravel driveway. He parks, unloads, unpacks, and takes a long hot shower. He feels good drying off.

      The next day he sees Ingrid, his body worker. Local friends, one of whom was battling cancer, referred him to her. Janusz had said, “She is nothing short of a miracle worker.”

      It was true. Early on, she cured sciatica symptoms that had resisted the efforts of multiple healers and health care workers for years. The first day, she had dug into the flesh between the bottom of his hip and the bottom of his pelvis. She located an entrapped nerve and worked it loose. His symptoms were gone after the second session.

      Ingrid is of indeterminate middle age, medium height, broad shoulders and hips, and sports tastefully dyed red hair. She wears no jewelry or cosmetics. A hippie mama. Her husband is a successful businessman, and their opulent Wheaton house reflects their wealth. They own another home in Santa Fe, where they hope to relocate after he retires. Her Doctor of Metaphysics diploma hangs proudly on one of the walls of her home office. Nearby are several certificates attesting to Excellence in Poetry. Her little old dog is demented but friendly. Its nails tinnily clack along the wood floors