The following spring, I graduated from musical theater school and had commercial headshots taken in preparation for my move to L.A. later that summer. Although in the back of my mind I still found myself toying with the idea of beginning college, the move to L.A. would mean submersing myself in a lifestyle that would ultimately pull me further away from any type of academic pursuit. So, I put attending college on the back burner and began making to-do lists for the big move to the West Coast.
After arguing with my mother over the phone for a few days, I agreed to visit my parents during the Potsdam Summer Festival one final time before moving. My mom made the point that it would be harder to visit them in upstate New York once I was living in Los Angeles. She insisted that I spend time with them before leaving so that we could talk about something important, although she hadn’t told me what it was that she wanted to talk about. I thought that maybe she and my father had decided to get a divorce. I tried to convince her to tell me what was going on over the phone so that I wouldn’t have to make the long trip upstate.
“Mom, you can just tell me what you need to say right now. I’m sure I can handle it. I don’t want to come to Potsdam to have this conversation. What, are you and dad getting a divorce or something?” I asked my mother with the phone pressed against my cheek.
“No, we’re not getting a divorce, although that doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea right now,” my mom answered sounding upset.
“I don’t care if you guys get divorce, just so you know,” I replied.
“We’re not getting a divorce. This is much more serious,” she said.
“Is somebody dying?” I asked.
“No.”
“Just tell me already,” I demanded, trying to get some clarification from her.
“No, I…I can’t do this over the phone. You just need to come home for this. Potsdam is always nice this time of year. You used to love the festival! Sean Calvert’s in town,” my mother said, her voice growing more desperate. “Wouldn’t you like to see him?” she asked.
“Why would I want to see Sean Calvert?” I asked, baffled.
“Oh, give me a break! You think I can’t see right through you? I’m still your mother, you know!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now. Sean and I aren’t even in touch with each other anymore,” I said.
“Oh, please! Three years have gone by and you’re still not over that kid. That’s why you won’t date anyone else. I know you.”
“What? You’re kidding right?” I asked, laughing. “That’s what you think? Mom, you don’t know anything about my life anymore, so don’t even try to pretend to. Look, I’m not spending 20 hours on a fucking bus so that I can find out that somebody is dying and talk to Sean Calvert for two minutes, okay?”
“Fine. Your father and I will pick you up on Wed and we’ll take you back to New York after the festival is over. Would you come home if we picked you up and brought you back?”
“Seriously? You’re gonna make two trips down here just to get me to come home? Why don’t you just drive down here, tell me what you have to tell me and then go back to Potsdam? That way you’d only have to make one trip.”
“No! I’m bringing you home!” My mom said, her voice growing loud with frustration. “I need for you to come home and be here with us. I need you here,” she repeated as her voice began to crack.
“Okay, fine. So, I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“I’ll just do this one last thing for her,” I thought to myself. “I’ll go home, find out what the hell is going on, and then I’ll come back to NYC to pack for L.A. and strike out on my own for good.” I grabbed my weekend bag and thought about what it was going to be like seeing Sean Calvert again. Would we even have anything to talk about? I walked over to my book collection and pulled out a book about Greek interior design that I had been obsessed with for the past several months. The photos were beautiful, with rich hues of blues and greens throughout its glossy pages. Sean and I had always talked about getting the hell out of Potsdam and traveling around the world. I smiled at the thought of sharing the book with him. Maybe he and I would have a moment alone and we could flip through the pages together. I tossed the book in my bag along with my other stuff and called it a night. Images of Greece danced behind my eyelids as I drifted off to sleep.
My parents refused to tell me what was going on during the car ride to Potsdam. They insisted on waiting until Saturday morning so I could enjoy myself for a couple of days, which only fed my curiosity even further. My sister never seemed to be home, so I wasn’t able to ask her for an explanation. That Friday night, on our way home from the festival, my mother told me that she would like for the two of us to go to McDonald’s together for breakfast first thing in the morning. I asked her if dad and Parisa were coming and she said no. She was finally ready to tell me this “important thing” alone over breakfast.
“Can’t we go someplace else?” I asked. “I hate McDonald’s.”
“No, that’s where I want to go,” my mother replied.
The next morning my mom and I headed back into town and went to McDonald’s. I ordered some pancakes. My mom ordered a coffee and we sat down in a quiet corner at a table next to a window that faced Market Street, the same street that my dad’s medical practice was located a few blocks away.
“Alright, let’s have it,” I said, breaking the silence as I began to dig into my food.
My mother’s face was full of concern, fear, anger, and sadness. Her hands shook as she brought the cup of coffee to her mouth for what would be her one and only sip that morning. It was a long sip. I braced myself for the absolute worst as she began to talk.
“Your father is being investigated,” my mother began. “There’s a lawsuit involving three of his patients…three women,” she finally added as her emotions began to rise from deep within her chest, causing her to lose her breath for a moment.
“Three women?” I asked. “What are they saying?”
My mother took a deep breath.
“They’re claiming that your father sexually assaulted them,” she replied.
My eyes nearly popped out of head as my eyebrows rose towards my hairline and I let out a loud, shocked laugh.
“They’re saying dad raped them?” I asked, unable to stop the laughter that quickly began to take over my entire being. “They’re saying dad is a rapist?” I added through bouts of laughter, unable to breathe.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” my mother asked, looking shocked. “Don’t you understand how serious this is?” she added with a loud, aggressive whisper. But her dramatic demeanor only seemed to make me laugh harder. People had started to notice us from across the room. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself! Keep your voice down!” my mom demanded. So, I put my head down on the table and buried my face with my arms to muffle the sound as I tried to control my laughing fit.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I said, covering my mouth. “It’s just so funny! Hey, why doesn’t dad just sing his music to the judge?” I asked, mimicking my father’s singing, pretending to hold a recorder to my mouth. “They’ll know immediately that they’ve got the wrong guy,” I added. My mother didn’t respond. She just sat there looking confused.
I let out a long sigh as I composed myself and looked at my poor mother, sitting there speechless trying to make sense of my reaction.
“So who are the women?” I asked. “Do I know them? Are they hot?” I asked, jokingly, completely emotionally removed from the reality of what my mother was trying to share with me.
“They’re disgusting! Nobody in their right mind would want to ffffuck any of them.”
My mom proceeded to give me the names of the three women. The media would later refer to them as patients A, B, and C. I had recognized patient C’s name and later found out that my parents suspected that she had been behind all the allegations.
My parents had argued about patient C when she had first appeared in our lives, years earlier. I remember overhearing my mom and dad arguing about her one evening while I was still in high school. Another physician in town had referred the mentally ill woman to my father for her primary care. My mom hadn’t liked the woman after initially meeting her and didn’t want my father to agree to be the woman’s doctor. My mom claimed that the woman had given her a bad vibe and begged my father to discharge her as a patient. That night, my mom had a nightmare that the woman was going to ruin my family’s lives. She had somehow instinctively seen down the path several years in this dream, but my father condescendingly told my mother that she had no hard evidence against the woman and that she put too much stock in her dreams.
“Pat, you have no proof that this woman is not to be trusted. Maybe you don’t like her because she is mentally ill. But she has a right to have a physician just like everybody else. If Dr. James refuses to see her, there is nobody left in this town to be her doctor,” my father argued.
Prophetic dreaming runs on my mother’s side of the family. Ask any of my mother’s brothers and they will tell you the story about the night their own mother woke up from a dream that would, in turn, save her entire family’s lives. It was a story I grew up hearing repeatedly throughout my youth. Whenever the story was told in the presence of my father, he would always chalk it up to an incredible coincidence. The year was 1942 and my mother was a young girl living with her family in Tunisia. In her dream, my grandmother, a devout Catholic, had spoken to St. Anthony. He told her to wake her family immediately and vacate the town. My grandmother proceeded to wake up my grandfather lying next to her and told him the dream. My grandfather, familiar with my grandmother’s gift, immediately woke the children and took their family to a neighboring town within the next hour. My grandmother also told my grandfather to call into work sick, which he did. Hours later, their town was raided and bombed. Their home was destroyed and the man who filled in for my grandfather at work had been decapitated. When my mother’s family returned to their war-torn town, they found their home demolished. Only one wall stood remaining. On that wall was a painting of St. Anthony. It stood there without a scratch amidst the destroyed home.
My mother was devastated when my father would not pay heed to her warnings regarding patient C after her own prophetic dream. “If you don’t listen to me, you are going to regret this moment for the rest of your life!” she told him. And it turns out that she had been right.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” my mom asked as she watched me finishing my pancakes that morning at McDonald’s.
“Nothing! I just find this whole thing hilarious,” I said. My reaction was in part due to the fact that the accusations were so ludicrous given my father’s character. But it was a combination of factors, including my PTSD, which contributed to my inability to take in anything my mother was trying to convey to me in that moment.
“There’s not one thing about this that’s funny! My God, New York has changed you! But you certainly haven’t grown up yet, that’s for sure,” my mom said.
“Mom, give me a break! Just because I have a sense of humor doesn’t mean I’m not a grown up. So, when did this happen? How long has it been going on?”
“A couple of years. Shortly after you moved to NYC.”
“A couple of years? Are you fucking kidding me? Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“We didn’t think you were mature enough to handle it!” my mother snapped back.
“But Parisa, who’s five years younger than me, has known about it the whole time, right?”
“Well, there was nothing I could do to protect her! She had to know. We didn’t have a choice with her. The poor thing has been living in the middle of this just like your father and I. But not you! No, your father didn’t want you to know. We fought about my even telling you now. But I wasn’t going to have you moving across the country not knowing what the three of us have been dealing with all this time. While you’ve been having the time of your life, gallivanting through the Hamptons, the rest of us have been suffering through hell, just so you know.”
“Oh, Jesus. You’re so fucking dramatic. So, why did I have to come home for this, Mom? And why did you have to pick McDonald’s of all places to tell me? What if I decide to write a book about my fucked-up life someday? Now I’ll have to admit that I’ve eaten at McDonald’s,” I whispered back with a disappointed look on my face.
“Don’t you dare write anything about any of this!” my mom demanded. “Not while I’m still alive! You can wait until I’m good and dead before you share any of this with anyone,” she added.
“Fine,” I replied. “Well, you’ve told me the big news now. So, I guess I can go home and start packing for L.A.,” I added as I stood up. “This whole thing is ridiculous. And by the way, I don’t appreciate you insinuating that I’m not grown up enough to handle this.
My mother followed my cue and stood up. We gathered our things and walked out to the car. I could tell by my mother’s expression that she was dissatisfied with how our conversation had gone. But she seemed powerless to change the trajectory I was on, no matter how much she would have liked to. L.A. had never felt like the right choice to her, but she had always been too afraid to directly convey that to me for fear of pushing me further away or causing me to resent her.
“Debbie and I are going to Maxfields in a bit to meet up with everyone,” I said as my mom started the car. “Can you just drop me off at her house? She said she could bring me home later.”
“Who’s meeting you guys at Maxfields?”
“Sean and Seth. I don’t know, probably a few others too.”
“Alright. Just be home in time for dinner. I’m making Persian food tonight.”
We pulled into Debbie’s driveway and I grabbed my Greek interior design book from the back seat that I had brought home to show Sean. Debbie answered the door as my mom pulled out of the driveway.
“Hey, Lady,” Debbie said as she reached out to give me a hug. “I’m glad we get to hang out a little before you take off. When do you leave for L.A.?” she asked as we walked inside.
“A couple of weeks.”
“What do you have there?” Debbie asked, referring to the large book in my hands.
“Oh, it’s a book about Greece.”
“Oooh, let me see. I want to go to Greece someday.”
“I want to bring it to Maxfields and show it to Sean too. I think he’ll like it.”
“Have you seen Sean yet?”
“Yeah, I saw him at the festival last night.”
“Actually, the guys are already at Maxfields. Seth called. He said we could just meet them down there when we were ready.”
“They’re already there? It isn’t even noon yet.”
“Maybe they’re getting sandwiches.”
“Alright. Well let’s just go then,” I said.
“Can I take the car for a few hours?” Debbie yelled out to her mom who was down the hall in the kitchen.
“Well hello, Darian,” Mrs. Townson said as she walked towards us to give me a hug. “What time are you girls planning on coming back?”
“Before dinner.”
“Will you be joining us for dinner, Darian?” her mom asked.
“No, Mrs. Towson. Thank you, but I promised my mom I’d eat with them tonight.”
“Well we just want to spend as much time with you girls as we can get. Neither of you are ever around now that you’re all grown up. Whatcha got there, Darian? That’s a real big book? You takin’ it to Maxfields with you?”
“It’s a book about houses in Greece,” I replied.
“Oh, Debbie’s gonna love that, aren’t ya, Debbie? She can’t wait to start traveling the world and get the heck outta here.” Mrs. Townson added as she laughed.
“Once I leave, I’m never coming back!” Debbie said.
“Well don’t you girls go tryin’ to drive my car to Greece now!” Mrs. Townson joked.
“If there wasn’t an ocean between us, I probably would,” Debbie responded, laughing.
Debbie and I drove her mom’s car down Market Street and parked in front of the Roxy Movie Theater. Then we walked over to Maxfields as I hugged the large, blue book in my arms. Sean and Seth were seated at a circular table on the bar side of the restaurant. There were a few older “townie” guys who I didn’t know well sitting on each side of Sean, so I couldn’t sit next to him. Debbie and I walked over to the table and sat down next to each other.
“You guys drinking?” Sean asked, looking over at Debbie.
“At noon? Uh, no!” Debbie responded, laughing. “I’ll have a soda for now.”
The waitress walked over and took our order. Debbie and I both ordered sodas. Then I set my book down on the table for Debbie and I to look at.
“Yeah, let’s see this book,” Debbie said.
“Wait ‘til you see these pictures. Oh my god, they’re so gorgeous.”
“Wow, that is beautiful. Ooh, I like that one. We’re totally traveling there together someday lady, just so you know.”
The townie guy seated to my right stood up and walked over to the bar to grab another beer.
“Hey, Sean. Come here,” I said. “I want you to see this.” I patted the now empty seat on my right side for Sean to sit on. Then the three of us continued to flip through the book until the townie guy walked back towards us. With his seat now taken, the guy just stood there watching the three of us for a moment until he finally asked in a drunken slur, “What the fuck are you faggots looking at?” I shot the guy a dirty look then added in a condescending tone, “It’s an interior design book about Greece. Perhaps if you ever got out of Potsdam, you would find it interesting too.” Sean then flipped the book back to see the front cover. “Greek Style,” he said, nonchalantly reading the book title out loud.
“Get the fuck outta here!” the townie guy responded, letting out a loud, booming laugh.
Sean pushed his chair back from the table to stand up while the townie guy continued to taunt him.
“The fucking book is called Greek Style?” the guy added again, wrapping his arm around Sean’s shoulder and laughing even harder. The other “townie” guys at the table began to laugh along, until everyone was laughing except for Debbie, Sean, Seth, and me.
“What’s so funny about the title?” I whispered into Debbie’s ear.
“I have no idea what the fuck they’re laughing it,” Debbie responded.
“What does Greek Style mean?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” Debbie said, shrugging her shoulders.
“What’s so funny about Greek Style? What does it mean?” I turned around asking Sean, who ignored my question.
“Hey guys, we should head out to the Sands later. Maybe tonight?” Sean said, changing the subject as he looked over at Seth.
“What does Greek Style mean?” I began asking more assertively. Sean walked back over to the bar continuing to ignore my question.
“What the fuck does Greek Style mean?” I asked Seth, beginning to get frustrated. Seth was always real with me and I knew I’d get an honest answer out of him if I pushed it.
“It’s referring to gay sex between two men,” Seth answered without hesitation.
“So, it means gay ass fucking, but apparently that’s too grown up of a concept for Sean to share with me?” I asked out loud to no one in particular. As if having my mom insult my maturity level wasn’t enough that morning, now I had Sean to contend with. Why did people always keep things from me? Treat me like a child who couldn’t be told the truth? Even now after everything I had been through. I felt the anger rising inside of me like a quick, hot flame as I slammed the book shut and shot up from my seat.
“Darian, what are you doing?” Debbie asked, in a concerned voice, as I stormed over to Sean who was now sitting alone at the bar.
“What, you think I’m too much of a virgin to know what gay sex is?” I screamed at the side of Sean’s face. Startled, Sean turned towards me as I continued. “Seriously? ‘Cause I just fucking graduated from fucking musical theater school! I know what gay sex is. I’m not fucking seventeen anymore!”
Sean sat there dumbfounded and unable to respond as I felt my eyes beginning to wet.
“I’m not some fucking baby that can’t handle shit! You don’t need to keep protecting me!” And then the emotions from the entire day simply became too much to hold in. Tears began to drip out of the corners of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. “You made me feel so stupid back there in front of everyone,” I added as my voice began to crack. I spun around and quickly walked towards the front door, horrified that I had begun to cry in front of him.
“Darian, where are you going?” Debbie called out, as she ran after me with my book under her arm. “What the hell was that all about?” she asked as she pushed her way through the door behind me.
“Did you know about my dad?” I asked, trying to catch my breath between sniffles.
Debbie’s face turned white as she looked at the ground.
“How long have you known, Debbie?” I asked, shocked that she had kept it from me.
“Not that long. Honey, I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.”
“You were supposed to just tell me,” I said crying harder.
“So, your mom finally told you everything?” Debbie replied gently.
“Can you just take me home now?”
“Don’t you want to work things out with Sean first? He’s leaving for school tomorrow.”
“I don’t give a shit about Sean! I just want to go home.”
I looked through the window of the restaurant and found Sean staring back at me looking hurt, like he wanted to explain himself.
“I need to get out of here.”
“Alright,” Debbie replied. “Let’s go.”
Debbie and I sat silently as she drove the six-minute drive down route 11B to my parents’ house. When we pulled into the driveway, I just sat in the passenger’s seat without getting out.
“Do you think Sean thinks gay people are weird?” I asked
“No. I mean, if they’re women he probably thinks it’s hot like every other straight guy in the universe,” Debbie said as she laughed. “But I’m sure he doesn’t give a shit if someone is actually gay. I mean, it’s not like he’s homophobic or anything. And why would you even care, it’s not like your gay.”
“I know I’m not gay,” I replied, unable to completely hold back my defensiveness.
“And he wasn’t really laughing back there with the others. He was just kinda caught in the middle. He was trying to hang out with us and Seth at the same time as his townie friends and, in his defense, that would be a difficult thing for anybody to juggle.”
I cleared my throat, still making no attempt to get out of Debbie’s car.
“Listen, I want you to know that I’m really relieved that you know about your dad now. Not talking about it with you was literally driving me crazy. I didn’t know if you knew or not, so I didn’t want to say anything until you brought it up.”
I nodded and smiled empathically. I could tell that what she was saying was coming from her heart. I exhaled slowly as my shoulders pulled down to a slump. “Well, I better get inside. Thanks for the ride.”
Debbie got out of her car, walking around it to get to me. I opened the passenger door and pulled myself out.
“You’re gonna keep in touch with me once you’re in L.A., right?” Debbie asked as she embraced me.
“Of course,” I said nodding my head.
“I love you, you know that, right?” she asked.
“I love you too,” I replied.
I stood outside as I watched her car head down the long dirt road, then I turned around and took a few moments to look at my parent’s house. I figured this would be the last time I’d be seeing it for a while. I was ready to move forward with my plans to move to L.A. and opened my front door, heading towards the back of the house where everyone always congregated in front of the television.
Everything at home appeared as “normal” as I could remember my house ever feeling. My dad was at his makeshift desk in the laundry room typing away at one of his several books attempting to disprove the existence of God, my sister was sitting on the sofa watching television while listening to Goth music on her headphones, and my mom was mad about something as she cooked dinner. It felt like any other day in our house.
“Hey! There she is! Where the hell have you been for the past two days?” I asked my sister as she pulled a headphone off her right ear.
“With friends,” she answered in her usual, provide as little information as possible fashion. Then she put her headphones back on. But I recall how a moment later, her face changed. I’ll never forget that part, how her mouth opened as she pulled the headphones back off. Then I noticed that the television had gotten very loud. I turned around and saw that both of my parents were now standing watching the small box in awe with their mouths ajar.
“Breaking news in the North Country today,” said the White anchorman. It was then that I turned to look at the television. “Local physician, Dr. Bassim is being accused of sexually assaulting three of his former patients. Dr. Bassim moved to Potsdam, New York 16 years ago to create a much-needed laboratory that has served the Potsdam Canton area ever since. Eight years after opening the lab at Potsdam Canton hospital, Dr. Bassim left the position to open a private practice in Potsdam. But now, amidst these allegations, perhaps a darker truth about Dr. Bassim has been revealed. More on this when we return.”
A picture of my father’s face filled the screen. Both his name and “Potsdam, New York” were typed in bold letters under his picture. The anchorman’s voice began to fade as I lost myself in the image of my father’s face on the television. His sweet eyes, and his beautiful, brown skin filled me with so much joy. But that warm feeling of deep love I felt in response to seeing his image provided such a strong contrast to what was being said about him on the news that evening. I remember wanting to reach out and touch my father’s face through the screen, although he was standing right next to me in the room. It felt like the anchorman had stolen a part of my father and was holding him hostage inside the television and I could not get him back. How could anyone believe these things that were being said about my dad? My family and I waited silently in shock through the commercials until the picture changed back to the White anchorman and the image of my father. Then the pure, unadulterated hatred that had first been released on the evening of my own assault, began to rush through my veins as I stood there frozen, not knowing what to do with all of my rage.
“Ffffucking bastards!” my mother screamed as she threw the nearest book at the television. My sister put her headphones back on, stood up and walked out, heading upstairs to her bedroom. The phone began to ring soon after. I noticed that nobody was answering it so, in a confused trance, I began walking towards it to pick up the receiver. My father grabbed me by the arm to stop me and told me to allow my mother to answer it instead.
“Who is this?!” my mother screamed into the phone after a few moments. “Who the ffffuck is this? Ffffuck you! Ffffuck you!” she continued screaming into the phone. Then she began to slam the receiver back into the wall cradle over and over again. I watched her as the anger continued to build inside me, causing a sensation that my body was, in fact, growing beyond its physical boundaries. I could feel a power unlike anything I have ever felt move through me, building my muscles and widening my stature. Larger and larger I grew over the next 20 minutes while the three of us stood there in silence and anger trying to digest what we had just collectively witnessed.
“Why don’t we just kill them?” I asked my father after some thought. “Mom, who was that cousin of yours in Italy who was in the Mafia? I stayed with his wife and daughter. Is he out of prison yet?”
“What the hell are you talking about right now?” my mom asked me.
“Remember? The guy’s daughter was my age? I stayed with them and you told me not to ask her about her dad. But I did anyway, just to see how she would react, and she pretended that she didn’t know what the word ‘dad’ meant. Like she couldn’t understand English all of a sudden,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom said.
“Well, couldn’t we just pay somebody to kill them?” I asked. “I’d do it myself if I didn’t have to worry about getting caught. I’d probably enjoy it,” I added more quietly.
My father turned around and sat down in his reading chair and joked with me, “Yes, they all deserve to die. Stupid bastards!” He let out a laugh as he shook is head in disbelief that this was his new reality.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” my mother snapped at my father. “Don’t encourage her, you idiot!”
“She is just kidding, Pat,” my father replied, coming to my defense.
“No, she’s not! What are you, stupid? Can’t you tell there’s something wrong with her?” my mom continued, as she walked over to me to get a closer look at my face. “What the hell is going on with you, Darian?” she asked me. “Why would you even say something so crazy?”
“I was just kidding! Jesus!” I said, raising my voice back at her. “And nobody calls me Darian anymore by the way,” I added, trying to cover myself by changing the subject. The truth was I had not been kidding about having the three women killed and my mother had caught that.
“Why the hell don’t people call you by your name? Darian. It’s been your name since you were born! I don’t know who this Dottie is!” she exclaimed, as I walked out on her and headed upstairs, pretending not to hear her.
Once in my room, I grabbed my Walkman, put on my headphones, and began to play Harry Nilson’s “Jump into the Fire.” With one, aggressive hand gesture I shoved all of the small objects displayed on my yellow childhood dresser to the ground, the miniature cast iron ballerina and china jewelry box flying over its edge, now abandoned along with the innocence of my childhood. I played the song over and over as I stood there for the next hour banging out the rhythm with my hands on the top of my now vacant dresser until my palms turned numb and red. Then I felt someone pull the headphone away from my ear and whisper, “Looks like your dad’s a rapist too.” I immediately recognized Mark’s voice and ripped my headphones off. I spun around and hurled my body into his as I shoved him up against my bedroom wall. My new and improved physical strength surprised us both.
“My dad’s not a rapist, you stupid fuck!” I screamed with my face pressed up against his.
I began to punch him repeatedly in the face until all I could see was his blood all over it. My new, larger body was now the perfect match for his. It was almost as if I had been waiting for this moment all along. Waiting for the hate to build so strong inside of me that my body could morph into a representation of all my suppressed rage. I was finally ready to engage in the most satisfying physical altercation I could ever imagine.
Mark loved it too. He stood there laughing as the blood dripped off him.
“C’mon Dottie, men are all the same and you know it. Your dad’s no exception. The only difference between us is that I won’t ever get caught.”
I punched him in the face, and he swung back, throwing me to the ground. I grabbed his foot, causing him to fall down next to me. Then I climbed on top of him and began chocking him as I screamed. “My father will never be you! You’re a fucking White asshole! That’s the only reason you’ll never get caught!” The hatred was building inside of me like an orgasm from hell as I continued to scream. “You’re the police, the news, the lawyers, the lawmakers! You’re fucking all of it! You create and maintain all of it just to hold on to your precious fucking power!”
Mark grabbed my hands off his neck, throwing me backwards. Then he jumped on top of me. “Exactly!” he replied, smiling as he raised his hands out on each side of him to make his point. “I’m fucking America!” he yelled as he let his hands stretch outwards above him. As he reveled in his glory, I quickly grabbed the knife out of my jacket pocket and began to stab him in his side, then in his stomach and his neck until blood began to shoot out of him like a hose, covering us both. Over and over I continued stabbing him until he finally fell over. Then, exhausted and out of breath, I pulled myself off him and climbed up onto my bed. Mark pulled himself up and climbed over me, rolling onto his back next to me as we both lay there in his blood. Within a few moments, however, all of the blood began to vanish off our bodies and our wounds simultaneously healed.
“It gets better every time,” I said, staring at the ceiling, catching my breath.
“Sure does,” Mark said, as he lit his cigarette. “Told you we’d be good together.” We both stared at the ceiling in silence enjoying the shared moment.
“Night,” I said, turning away from him as I reached over to turn off the light.
“Night,” he replied.
Mark and I slept through most of the next day until my mother finally came in to wake me. The phone was ringing, but I had slept through it.
“Honey, Seth McNealy is on the phone,” my mom said, peeking her head through my door. “He wants to know if you want to hang out with him in town. I think you should go. You’ve been in bed all day,” she said, walking in. “Here, talk to him,” she added, reaching for the phone next to my bedroom door.
“No! Are you nuts? I can’t see people!” I said, pulling myself up to a seated position. “What if he asks me about dad?”
“Yeah, he’s gonna totally want to talk to you about your dad,” Mark said, laughing as he pulled himself up to his side, sitting next to me on the bed. “I mean, shit, he’s on the fucking news.” I turned to him forgetting that we had fallen asleep together the night before. Then I saw Darian beginning to stir on the floor next to me.
“Darian,” my mother said, putting her hand over the receiver to muffle our conversation. “Honey, Potsdam is a small town. Everyone knew about your father on Friday night and nobody said anything to you. Your friends aren’t that stupid! And if anybody says anything, or ask you any questions, just tell them that your father is innocent. It’s that simple,” she whispered as she moved her hand off the receiver and began to talk into it. “Yes, Seth, she’s awake now. Here she is,” she said. Then my mom put her hand on the receiver again and whispered to me “You can’t stop living your life. Seth is a good friend. Just go out with him.” I grabbed the phone from her as I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.
“Hey Seth, what’s up?” I asked into the phone.
“Hey. I need to go into town to pick up something for my dad at True Value Hardware. It’s really nice outside so I was thinking about walking. Feel like meeting me there?”
I looked up at my mom and she nodded her head yes at me, encouraging me again to go.
“When are you heading back to Boston?” I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“We head back tomorrow. It’s nice out. Have you been out yet today?” he asked.
“No. I…um,” I said, clearing my throat.
“C’mon. Just meet me there.”
“Is Sean still in town?” I asked beginning to regret how I had treated him the day before. If he was still around, I could explain everything.
“No, he left already.”
I felt my heart sink.
“Just meet me there and we’ll take a walk or something.”
“Alright,” I replied. “Yeah, I can meet you there in like 20 minutes, okay?” I asked.
“Sounds good. See ya there,” he said.
I brushed my teeth, got dressed and tied my hair back. Then I put on my Chucks and grabbed my army jacket. My mom let me take her car on the condition that I pick up my sister later that evening. Friends had picked up my sister earlier that morning while I had been asleep. I opened the car door and Darian quickly jumped into the back seat. Mark was taking his time getting in and complaining under his breath as he got into the passenger seat next to me.
“The festival is over, Dottie,” Mark said. “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to do in that dumb ass town of yours today. I say we just head back to Manhattan and start packing up for L.A. now. I mean, what the fuck are we waiting for?”
“Just shut the fuck up already,” I replied, as I started up the car.
Once in town, I parked across from the Roxy Movie Theater. Then Mark, Darian, and I walked across the Maple Street Bridge towards the hardware store. Once there, I glanced into the storefront window and froze when I saw the rest of Seth’s band members standing together. I hadn’t been prepared to hang out with anybody other than Seth, so I began to panic and decided to turn around to walk back to my car. I should have known they would all be there. Those guys were always together. It seemed they never went anywhere without each other. The entire band was like a single entity that way.
“Darian!” I heard Seth call out a moment later. He had seen me as I was trying to leave. “We’re in here. Patrick is about to pay. Come on.” Seth motioned for me to come back and meet him in the store.
I reminded myself that I barely ever said anything to anyone in the band other than Seth, so he was really the only one I needed to worry about asking me about my dad. My body felt heavy and slow as I walked into the store after him. I felt panicked and terrified, wondering what everyone must have thought about my family. It was as if everything was happening in slow motion. Seth and I walked around the aisles aimlessly in silence for a few minutes while his older brother, Patrick, paid at the register with the other band members.
“How you doing?” Seth asked me.
“Good. You guys glad to be going back to Boston tomorrow?” I asked trying to keep the conversation as far removed from my life as possible.
“Yeah. We’ve got some gigs coming up so I’m eager to get back. Patrick’s written some new material too, so we’re gonna be trying it out soon.”
“Cool,” I said as his brother walked by me and said hi. Then we all followed Patrick outside and began to walk through town, which had that familiar post-festival gloom to it. The main stage was being struck down as we walked past it and barricades were being removed from the road. The streets that had been filled with people and music only one day earlier were now empty and dead. Potsdam had resorted back to the low energy feel that is typical of a sleepy, small town.
I recall how hard it was for me to keep up with everybody as we walked past the furniture store that marked the end of downtown. We continued heading up Market Street towards Seth and Patrick’s family home. It felt as if there were chains attached to my ankles as I walked. Each step took an incredible amount of energy and engaging in conversation seemed even more arduous a task, so I remained quiet. I tried desperately to listen to Seth as he spoke to me, but Mark was annoyed about having to be there and he kept blowing his cigarette smoke in my face just to fuck with me. Then as Seth continued to talk to me about his music and plans, I overheard part of what Patrick was talking about with the other guys ahead of us. They were having a disagreement about something. Or maybe it was just a discussion. I no longer remember what had instigated Patrick’s remark. Perhaps it was a book or a movie they were talking about. But it was at that moment that Patrick said something that would change the course of my life forever.
“Well maybe we wouldn’t have that problem if White guys weren’t such assholes,” Patrick said. And then the earth stopped spinning for a moment as I stood there in shock.
Darian and I stopped in our tracks as the others, including Mark, continued to walk out ahead of us. Darian and I looked at each other barely knowing what to do. She moved in front of me and grabbed my arm to pull me back into the group. It was clear that she wanted me to hear more of what Patrick was saying, but the chains were still around my ankles and everything continued occurring in slow motion in my mind. I simply couldn’t move. Darian had barely touched me since leaving me on the night of the assault three years earlier but now, suddenly desperate to help me, she began to tug harder at my jacket and pulled me forward towards Patrick. When Mark began to notice what was going on between Darian and I, he stopped and tried to grab Darian by the arm. But then something incredible happened. Darian defended herself. Somehow, what she had heard Patrick say seemed to infuse her with a sense of urgency and strength. It was as if Patrick’s simple statement had been the long-awaited cue Darian needed to hear in order to be awakened. She took Mark’s hand and threw it off her, ran behind me, and began to push me towards Patrick with all her force. Mark was taken aback as he puffed out his chest in embarrassment and, without pause, began to morph into that smaller, frightened version of himself that he had revealed to me on the night of the assault. Once again, he became the scared boy who needed assurance and love. Amidst the commotion that Darian was now creating around me, it became clear that she was the only one who would ultimately have the power to rid us of Mark for good. All the bloody fighting and wrestling in the world between Mark and me wouldn’t release us of him. On the contrary, the fighting and hatred only served to make him seem larger than life and strengthen the bond between us. The momentum Darian created behind me in that moment catapulted me forward towards Patrick, causing the chains on my ankles to break and fall away. The trance I had been under since watching the news the night before had finally lifted. And Mark, suddenly weaker and without power, simply stood in place looking lost as the scene continued to move forward without him.
“What did you just say?” I asked Patrick, nearly crashing into him from Darian’s push.
“Huh?” he asked.
“Just now. What did you just say about White men?”
“Oh, just how White men have all the power. How they often use violence to get what they want, especially with women. It’s pretty awful, the things they do.”
I remember walking next to Patrick at this point and looking up at him as if he were some type of anomaly, an angel even. “How could he possibly know what happened to me?” I wondered. Had Seth told him after he had stayed with me for that weekend in NYC? Could he have known about Mark? Patrick was standing on my left side. I remember his blonde hair glistening in the sun. I recall him talking about White men in the third person, removing himself completely from the group of people I had grown to distrust and hate so much. What I was hearing was so disorienting, I could hardly believe it. Was it really possible for a White man to understand his privilege and know that there was something inherently unfair about it? And above that, were there really White men in this world who were willing to call it out? It was nearly impossible to wrap my brain around the fact that a White male could ever understand anything about my life at all. But there he was, a smart, talented White man who could probably just keep his mouth shut and get anything he wanted in this world, choosing to speak out.
And in speaking out, Patrick had unknowingly become a much-needed ally, the embodiment of hope that would somehow change the interaction I was having with my severed self, with Darian. This conversation, I would realize years later, had been the spark, which ultimately led to the long healing process ahead of me. The hope that Patrick had unknowingly instilled in me that afternoon turned out to be an unexpected, life-saving gift. And it was precisely this gift that eventually led me back to love again.
Patrick was about to lead me through the golden door that would begin this long journey. To this day I find it incredible how such a short exchange became the impetus for self-healing, a much-needed fork in the road that would pull me off a self-destructive path by providing me with an alternative choice. Ironically, this fork would bring me back home again, back to my roots, back to myself, and back to my sanity.
“Where did you learn about all of that? About power and White men?” I asked Patrick, still in shock, as he, Darian and I began to fall behind the others.
“Dr. Leonard Stein,” Patrick replied. “I had him for Intro to Politics at Potsdam State while I was going to school there. Amazing class! If you ever have the chance to study with him, take it. Seriously, try to do it before he retires. He’ll blow your mind.”
I stopped in my tracks as Patrick continued walking, looked up towards the sky, then closed my eyes briefly in relief. I felt light, awake and with purpose. Darian grabbed hold of my hand and I opened my eyes to find her smiling at me. I had to go to college and study with Leonard Stein. Something inside of me knew without a doubt that it was where I needed to be and that something there would somehow bring Darian back to me. I was not ready to give up on her after all, to give up on myself, or my own integration. But most importantly, I wasn’t ready to give up on humanity. Coming back home would somehow bring me back to love. I didn’t know how or why and would not have been able to explain my reasons to anybody at the time. I just suddenly knew that I had to move back home. I had never been so sure of anything in my entire life. And just like that, moving to L.A. fell away like a discarded bad idea never to be regretted.
My lease on my apartment in NYC was up in August so my parents had come down to help me move my belongings out and return them to Potsdam.
“Are you sure you want to move back home with us?” my father asked, looking pensive. “You are giving everything up, for what?”
“Of course, she’s sure! Why the hell are you trying to change her mind?” my mom yelled, raising her questioning hand in front of my father’s face.
“Pat, stay out of this,” my father calmly responded. “Darian, I don’t want you to give up on your dreams just to come back to Potsdam because of what is happening to me there.”
“I’m not. My dreams just changed, that’s all. I’ve already made my decision. There’s nothing more to talk about. I’m taking classes at Potsdam State this fall.”
“There are colleges in Los Angeles. You could pursue both dreams there,” my dad added.
“No. I’m coming home. I want to come home. I’ve already applied to Potsdam State to attend as a non-matriculated student to see how it goes. If it goes well, I’ll start full-time in the spring.” That’s when I noticed my mom throwing my tap shoes into the garbage pile.
“Why are you throwing those out?” I asked her, as my father reluctantly picked up a box and headed downstairs to load it into their car.
“Where the hell are you planning on tap dancing in Potsdam?” she asked me, looking confused.
“The basement,” I replied.
“My basement? The hell you are! I can’t handle listening to that banging all day long while you’re living with us! Give me a break!” my mom said, followed by her typical huff and shake of the head. Then she noticed the pain on my face as I waited for her to retrieve the shoes back out of the garbage pile and place them into the things I was bringing back to Potsdam.
“Once you have your own place again, you can just buy another pair,” she added, not budging. “Are we taking the futon? We’re not going to have room in our car unless we make another trip down here,” she said exhaling loudly and looking as if she was about to cry.
“No, I’ve still got another week here. I’ll just leave it.”
“What a waste,” my mom said, her voice deflating even further.
“Well what do you want me to do with it?” I asked her.
“Not just the futon, all of it. NYC. It was a complete waste.”
“Do you not want me to move back home or something?” I asked her.
“Of course, I want you to move back home!”
“Well you’re not acting like it. I can’t tell if you’re happy or miserable about it.”
“This is just more work than I was expecting,” my mom explained. This is the second time we’ve come down here this month if you hadn’t noticed!”
“I have noticed, and I appreciate it. I know it’s a lot. But it’s stressful for all of us, not just you, okay?” I replied.
“I know,” my mom said as my father walked back into the room.
“So, what is the plan?” my dad asked, looking at both my mom and me for clarification.
“You guys take off now. Your car is full,” I replied. “I’m taking the bus to Potsdam this Saturday. That’s it,” I said.
“I can come back to get you this weekend,” my father said.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” my mom barked back at him. “She can take the bus. She’s not an invalid!”
“Mom, can you just relax? Please. Dad, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. All I’ve got left here is the Goodwill pile, the garbage pile, and I can fit the rest of this stuff in my suitcase.”
“What about the futon?” my dad asked looking at me.
“We’ll just leave it,” I said.
“That is a waste. I’ll come this weekend and get you and that way we can bring your futon back home.”
“I am not coming back here again this weekend!” my mom yelled to us both.
“Pat, nobody asked you,” my father said to her calmly. “You don’t have to come. I will come by myself.”
“You can’t make the trip by yourself!” my mom yelled back at him. “You’ll be singing into your ffffucking damn tape recorder and drive off the ffffucking damn road if I’m not there to keep you focused. You’ll see a ffffucking flower on the side of the road, get inspired to write a fucking song about a fucking flower and then that’ll be the end of you!” my mom continued to yell, finally getting the hang of screaming out the “f” word in its entirety by the end of her thought.
“I’m taking the bus! I don’t want the futon,” I yelled slowly, hoping my volume and pace would bring a sense of finality to the futon argument.
“We don’t have room for the futon in my house anyway,” my mom added unnecessarily.
“How much room….” my dad started to say.
“Dad! Forget it. I’ll see if I can sell it to a student at school. Just drop it.”
“Alright. Let’s go,” my dad said to my mom. My mom grabbed her purse and walked towards me to give me a hug.
“Call us from the bus stop in Potsdam once you get there,” she reminded me. “But call us from Syracuse too, just so we have an idea of where you are.”
“I know Mom,” I replied as I hugged her back.
“Bye Dad,” I said as I kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you too vedy, vedy much,” he said, kissing me back on mine. “If you change your mind, call me and I will come and pick you and the futon up,” he whispered into my ear. I gave him a smile and shook my head no.
My parents walked out of my apartment. I kept the door open and watched them standing in the hallway until the elevator opened and they disappeared. Then I turned around and walked over to the garbage pile, pulling my tap shoes out of it. I must have sat there staring at them for a good 20 minutes before putting them into the Goodwill pile.
By the time Friday night rolled around I was nearly ready for the move home except for one problem. I didn’t have any pot left. I had decided that there was no way I was taking that 14-hour bus ride from hell back to Potsdam until I was completely baked out of my mind. Also, I hadn’t been on a bus since the bus incident in New Jersey, when the driver had tried to abduct me a year earlier, so I was feeling fairly certain that even getting on a bus, let alone staying on one for 14 hours, was going to be a complete nightmare. Although it was getting late by the time I realized I was out of pot, there wouldn’t be time in the morning to get any. So, I headed out around 11pm that evening and took the train down to see Coco on 73rd and Broadway one final time. I figured I’d purchase one more dime bag as a New Yorker. I’d eventually have to find a dealer in Potsdam, but I knew that wouldn’t be too difficult considering it was a college town. I stepped off the train and headed to the park two blocks away. My eyes scanned the small park searching for Coco, but she was nowhere to be found. Instead, a short man in his thirties sat on her bench. I sat down next to him and made eye contact with him, giving him a quick raise of the eyebrows, indicating that I was there to make a purchase.
“I got some good stuff today,” the guy said to me as we both looked straight ahead of us at the cars passing by.
“Where’s Coco?” I asked.
“She’s off tonight.”
“I’m just here for pot,” I said.
“How much you need?”
“Just a dime bag,” I replied.
“I can give you a deal if you get more.”
“No,” I said. “Just one dime bag is all I need.”
He stood up with me and slipped the bag into my hand that had the money in it, taking the money as he pulled his hand away. Ella had taught me how to make a drug purchase early on during my first months in the city. She had even done a mock run-through with me to make sure I wouldn’t look or sound like a novice the first time I made my own purchase. I hadn’t seen Ella in months. She wouldn’t even know I had left the city. I ran to catch the train back uptown with the pot clasped tightly in my hand. I wasn’t thrilled about buying pot from someone I didn’t know but was glad I had accomplished what I needed to get done before having to wake up in the morning. I decided to wait to smoke the pot right before leaving for my bus eight hours later. I was afraid if I smoked before going to sleep that I’d sleep through my alarm and miss the bus altogether. So, the next morning, I showered, got dressed, packed everything up and rolled a joint, slipping the extra pot into my suitcase. I sat on the floor smoking as I stared at my empty apartment and tried to mentally gear up for all the changes ahead of me. Then I turned in my keys to the building super and took the subway, stoned out of my mind, down to Penn Station.
Something didn’t feel quite right as I walked through the station entrance. I began to notice that my heart was racing for some reason. I felt jittery and couldn’t seem to relax as I tried to figure out which terminal I needed to get to. As I began to walk towards the waiting room, things began to get blurry and I could feel sweat beginning to drip down my hairline and drop off my eyebrows as I sat down. The room began to spin slightly as the voice over the loud speaker echoed through my head. It was hard to make out what was being said. When I finally heard “last call to Syracuse, NY gate 19,” I jumped out of my seat and began to race like a bat out of hell towards my gate. I could see my bus just beginning to back out of its spot when I began screaming for it to wait. The brakes squeaked as the bus came to a stop and the door opened for me to get on.
I climbed up the steps and gave the driver my ticket. I must have been standing there with him for a moment too long trying to orient myself because the driver had to remind me what to do next. “Find a seat kid,” the driver finally said. I looked out onto the aisle ahead and watched in awe and confusion as the seats began shifting around like I was looking through a moving kaleidoscope. I was wearing a backpack over my left shoulder and holding a suitcase with my left hand. “What the fuck is happening to me?” I thought to myself in a panic, holding myself steady as I slowly put one foot in front of the other, trying to make my way towards the back of the bus. I grabbed onto the seats on my right side as I moved forward, desperately trying to find an empty place to sit. Then I found the one and only open seat left on the bus. It was next to a White guy in his late thirties. I didn’t want to sit next to him or anybody for that matter and began to regret my decision to not allow my dad to come pick me up. I felt relieved when the guy didn’t offer to help me lift my suitcase up to the luggage rack. Maybe he would leave me alone after all. Once my luggage was up, I turned around and saw that people were watching me and waiting for me to sit down. I tried desperately to look as normal as possible as I sunk down into my seat next to the guy that was, by now, looking over at me curiously. My heart was pounding so hard that it felt like I was having a heart attack. Moments after sitting down, a force seemed to wash over my limbs, and I could no longer move them. That’s when I started to freak out. As the bus pulled out of the station, I had to bend my chest over my knees in order to breathe without hyperventilating.
“Kid, are you okay?” the guy next to me finally asked. “Something going on with you?”
“I can’t breathe,” I barely whispered after some hesitation. “I think I’m having a heart attack. I can’t breathe and I can’t move! I think I need to go to the ER.”
“Did you take anything? Ecstasy? Acid? What are you on?”
“What are you a cop or something?” I whispered as my mouth tightened through whatever attack I was apparently having.
“No, I’m not a cop,” The guy whispered back as he laughed. “But I was a drug dealer for twenty years, so I know a thing or two about drugs. Just tell me what you took, and I’ll talk you through it.”
“I just smoked a joint. That’s all I took, I swear,” I said with my head between my knees, my breathing becoming faster and more frantic.
“Did you know the dealer?” the guy asked, bending over to put his face closer to my ear.
“No.”
“Alright, listen. Take a deep breath, okay? In and out. C’mon.” Then the guy breathed with me for a few rounds. “Just slow it down. The pot was probably laced with amphetamines. You’re just having a bad trip is all.”
“Why can’t I move?” I asked.
“How much did you smoke?” he asked.
“I didn’t even finish the joint,” I said.
“You’ll be able to move by the time we’re in Syracuse. Maybe sooner.
“Syracuse? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s in eight hours. What if I have to go to the bathroom or make an escape or something?” I asked. The guy scrunched up his face at me in confusion.
“Lesson number one, don’t ever buy from an unknown dealer. You’ll just have to hold it, kid. Deep breath now.”
I breathed with him for another five minutes until I calmed down and was able to sit upright again. I liked that the guy didn’t touch me once as he continued to help me.
“I need to ask you a favor,” I said to the guy without looking over at him. “Just don’t leave me alone on this bus, okay?” I asked. “Whatever happens. Promise me.”
“Huh?”
“I just don’t want you to leave me alone here. I can’t be alone on a bus.”
“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’m taking this all the way to Potsdam. Where are you going?” he asked me.
“You’re going to Potsdam?” I asked surprised. “Really? Why?”
“Part of my rehab program. Fresh start. You?”
Nobody had asked me why I was moving back home yet, so I hadn’t really practiced my answer and ended up blurting out the truth instead.
“My dad’s getting accused of raping three women there.” The guy’s eyes opened wide. “Sorry, it’s just…Potsdam’s…small. You’ll hear about it soon enough. And I want to go to college,” I said under my breath.
“What was that last part?” the guy asked, trying to catch up to my story.
“I want to go to college. That’s the other reason I’m leaving New York.”
I looked in the guy’s direction and then out his window and watched as the bus made its way out of the city. New York City was gone. Just like that, an entire city with 8,000,000 people living in it had become part of my past. I looked back at the guy, trying to size him up.
“So why does someone stop being a drug dealer after twenty years?” I asked as I continued to scan him, taking in his nondescript outfit and sneakers.
“Shhh, you gotta keep your voice down,” he replied.
“Sorry.” I said. “So?”
The guy let out a sigh, seeming slightly annoyed at my persistence. “Um, I finally got caught, did some time in prison, and while I was there, I decided I didn’t want to live that way anymore.”
“You’re an ex-convict?” I asked as my face contorted into a concerned look.
“Don’t give me that judgey look!” the guy said back. I looked away from him towards the seat in front of me. “An hour ago, you were begging me to never leave your side.” The guy leaned into me a little, whispering, “You’re lucky you sat next to me, kid! Had you sat in any other seat on this bus that whole thing back there would have been a big fucking scene, trust me.”
The guy was right. There was no reason to judge him. He had only shown me kindness since I had dramatically exploded into his life 60 minutes before.
“I am lucky,” I said. “Thanks for helping me.” I turned back towards the guy. “So, you were in prison and then what? You saw Jesus or something?”
“No,” the guy said laughing. “I saw myself and I didn’t like what I saw. I wanted a different life. So, I promised myself I’d get into rehab once I got out and that’s what I did.”
“Why Potsdam of all places?” I asked.
“The rehab program I was in works with towns throughout the U.S. and Potsdam was one of the options. I visited a couple of months ago and I just knew that’s where I wanted to start over. I like the outdoors. Cost of living is low. It’s quiet, slow, small town. It’s everything NYC isn’t, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know,” I said.
I began to think about crime and penalty, about my dad. I wondered how widespread the wrongly accused might be. Were there innocent people in prison? Would my dad have to go to prison someday?
“So…when you were in prison, were there any guys in there that hadn’t committed any crimes?” I asked. “Like innocent people in there doing time for nothing?”
“There might have been. I mean, there are always gonna be guys in there that get accused of crimes that they never committed. But a lot of guys in there have done something to get them there. Between you and me, there were probably more black guys in there who shouldn’t have been.”
I took a moment to allow what the guy said sink in. I appreciated his straightforwardness. It occurred to me that I would likely being seeing more of him being that we’d both be living in Potsdam. Then it occurred to me that I still didn’t know the guy’s name.
“So, what do you like to be called?” I asked.
“Tom,” the guy said with a smile. “And you?”
“Dottie’s fine.”
Tom and I talked for the next several hours, watching New York State drag out alongside us. With each hour, the houses grew farther apart from each other and space seemed to expand all around us. And just like Tom had said, I could begin to feel my limbs again by the time we were in Syracuse, which was a good thing because we had to transfer to another bus once we got there.
“Hey, can you watch my suitcase while I hit the bathroom?” I asked Tom once we exited the bus. Then I froze for a second looking at him. I didn’t really know this guy. He was an ex-convict and I was willing to trust him with my luggage? “There’s nothing in there worth stealing,” I added, to make sure he wasn’t taking me for a fool.
“I wasn’t planning on looking inside your bag,” Tom said raising an eyebrow at my idiotic judgment.
When I came back out Tom asked me to watch his suitcase so that he could do the same. “And don’t go looking in my bag either,” he said pointing at me, smiling as he shook his head. I smiled back. Tom reappeared ten minutes later and gathered his stuff off the sidewalk. I felt bad for judging him and decided to try to joke with him about it to smooth things over.
“I stole all of your left socks. The right ones are still in there though,” I said a few moments later, as Tom held the door open to the waiting room for me.
“Why is it always the socks?” Tom joked back. The joke seemed to work. We sat in the waiting room for 15 minutes waiting for our transfer. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt I was experiencing.
“Hey, I’m sorry about what I said back there,” I said, formally apologizing to him. I shouldn’t have assumed that you would want to steal something. You’re just the first ex-convict I’ve ever hung out with. I’m still kinda young, I guess.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it. Listen, I’d appreciate it if that part of my past just stay between us once we’re in Potsdam, okay? I’m trying to make a fresh start there, you know?”
“I get it. I won’t say anything,” I replied.
We grabbed some snacks out of the vending machines and got on our next bus. By car, it would have only been another 2.5 hours on the road, but the bus would take us another 5 hours. We pulled into the Greyhound station in Potsdam and I smiled when I saw my parents’ white Subaru wagon waiting for me in the parking lot as the sun began to set. I immediately remembered that I had failed to call my parents once that day.
“Are those your parents?” Tom asked as he saw them approaching our direction.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Well, stop in some time and see me at my new job, all right?” Tom asked.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon. Potsdam is pretty small,” I said as I opened my arms to give him a hug. “Welcome to your new life,” I said. “Good luck here. Let me know if you need anything,” I added.
“Will do,” Tom said as he waived a final goodbye and walked off towards town.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” I yelled out after him.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks though!” he yelled back.
“Well hello, stranger!” my mom said. “Nice of you to show up! We didn’t know if you were coming tonight or what! You didn’t call us once!”
“I know, I’m really sorry. I meant to. It was just kind of a hectic day.”
“You made it safe and sound. That is what matters. Welcome home,” my dad said.
“Thanks.”
“This is all you have? The one suitcase and backpack?” my dad asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” I replied, as I pulled the suitcase from him, remembering the pot inside.
“Who was that man you hugged?” my mom asked.
“Oh, he sat next to me for the whole trip. Nice guy.”
“Is he from Potsdam?” my mom asked.
“No, he just moved here,” I said.
“For what?” she asked.
“Work,” I replied
“What type of work does he do?” she continued.
“Mom, please,” I said, hoping she’d hear my cue to stop interrogating me.
“Well, let’s get back home. I’m sure it’s been a long day for you,” she said.
“You don’t even know,” I said back.
“You must be hungry.”
“I’m starving.”
“Well, I made your favorite, chicken cutlets and basmati rice. We decided to wait for you to eat.”
“Thank you, Mom! You guys didn’t need to wait.”
“It’s okay. I had a cutlet to hold me over, but I’m still hungry.”
“Did you make cucumber with yogurt and dill?” I asked her.
“I made that too! All of your favorite things.”
“Mom! Thank you! I’m so excited to be home!” I said, wrapping my right arm around her and pulling her closer beside me.
After dinner I headed up to my room and set my luggage down. I noticed that my parents had swapped the yellow dresser in my room from childhood for the wood dresser I had acquired in NYC. It was an unfinished piece we purchased in New Jersey one weekend after Ella and I moved into the loft. I stained it a cognac color at the time but seeing it now in my old room at home felt strange. It just looked out of place. It was the same color as the carpet. I was sitting on my childhood bed staring at the dresser when my father walked in.
“Well, what do you think?” my father asked me. “Your mother and I moved the dresser from when you were a baby into the guest room to make room for this one. Your mother spent a lot of time cleaning and preparing for you to come back home. She has been very excited.”
“That was nice of you both to do that. I love the dresser, but I don’t like how it’s the same color as the carpet. It looks weird in here,” I replied.
“Well, you can always sand the stain off and paint it another color if you like. I have an electric sander in the garage we can use.”
“Can we do it tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Let’s do it in the morning after breakfast.”
“Alright,” I replied as a large smile spread out across my face. “I’m happy to be home,” I added.
“I’m vedy happy you are here with us. Well, I’m going to go to sleep now. Enjoy your first night back home. Goodnight.”
“Night, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you vedy much.”
I was exhausted. I fell asleep before I even had the chance to brush my teeth. The next morning after breakfast, my father and I carefully carried my dresser down the spiral staircase to the garage. My mother heard the commotion outside the room divider that separated our foyer from the family room.
“What the hell are you two doing now?” my mother asked as my dad and I made our way down to the first floor.
“Dad’s going to teach me how to use an electric sander today so that I can refinish my dresser. I’ll have to go to True Value Hardware to pick up some paint later,” I answered.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me! Your father and I just got that thing up there and now you’re going to bring it back downstairs? Rooz? Why the hell are you doing this?”
“Pat, it is not a problem. She wants to change the color of her dresser,” my father said.
“Then tell her no! I say it to her all the time, and she survives just fine. You should try it sometime!” my mom yelled back at him.
My mother dramatically shut the divider to emphasize her point while my father and I smiled at each other, slowly making our way to the garage. We opened the automatic doors leading to the outside and put the dresser on the grass in front of the garage. Then my dad pulled out the sander, which was twice as big as my head and quite heavy. First, he showed me how to use it and then handed it over for me to try.
“Now be careful. This is a power tool,” my father said. “It can be dangerous if you handle it incorrectly.”
“I’ve got it,” I said as I felt the thrill of moving a sander across a piece of furniture for the first time. I watched in glory, as the powerful machine stripped NYC right off of the entire piece, leaving it raw and naked. “Oh my God, this is completely awesome! Wow! It looks so cool,” I yelled over the motor.
“Oh, wait! Wait, wait, wait!” my father yelled. “I forgot to give you a face mask and goggles. My dad ran into the garage and brought those back out to me along with a smaller electric sander and some loose pieces of sandpaper for finishing purposes.
I spent the next three hours finishing my masterpiece. I decided that I loved the look of the distressed sanded finish so much that painting it would be unnecessary. Leaving the dresser “as is” seemed to match where I was in my own life. Like the dresser, I was raw, unfinished, and starting anew – covered in scrapes and gashes but still demanding to be seen and noticed. I had morphed the piece of furniture into the perfect extension of myself. My mother came outside to see what had absorbed my attention for so long on my first day back in Potsdam. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw how in my element I was, completely oblivious to time.
“Honey, are you finished yet? You’ve been out here for over three hours,” my mom said.
“What are you talking about? I’ve been out here for twenty minutes, Mom,” I replied as I continued to finish up with the loose sandpaper.
“Darian, it’s past 1:00!”
“No way! Are you serious?” I asked her.
“Yes! Why don’t you take a break and we’ll go into town. We need to go grocery shopping and get some things that you like to eat. I don’t know what you eat anymore.”
“Okay. Yeah, I’m actually finished. Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked her.
“Well, I have to admit, I do like it like that. It’s different, but it looks good.”
“Let me get dad and we’ll take it back upstairs. I gotta take a quick shower. I’m a mess.”
That evening after dinner is when the permanency of being home began to hit me. I would not be going back to New York City this time. This was really it. I was officially living in Potsdam again. It felt strange but really good. My mom and I stayed up late that night talking. She desperately needed a friend during this time, and I was happy to fill that role for her. When my mom finally headed up to bed around 3 in the morning, she forgot to pull all the curtains shut, leaving the early morning sky exposed for me to see. I stayed up for another couple of hours flipping through the TV stations until I began to notice the dim light beginning to rise outside our picture window. I turned off the television, walked over to the window, and stood there watching my first sunrise since leaving Potsdam three years earlier. I had forgotten how beautiful sunrises were in the North Country. The sky is so vast above you there. It felt like I was being reunited with an old friend. It occurred to me in that moment that I’d forgotten the sky existed during my three years in NYC.
The thing about living in Manhattan is that you can’t see the sky. It leaves you feeling disconnected from the universe, and consequently, you mistakenly assume that you must be at its center. The tall buildings and people constantly surrounding you only seem to strengthen that misperception. But in Potsdam, looking out onto the sunrise, I remembered once again that I am only a speck of dust answering to a greater truth. I was awestruck that there was so much beauty in this world that I had forgotten to notice for so long. But now, as the sun quietly exploded into gorgeous shades of pink and orange above me, I couldn’t help but wonder if that vast sky is all I had ever really needed to begin with. I walked into the laundry room and grabbed a sheet of paper out of my father’s printer, along with a pen and wrote the following:
He catches time as it swims through his fingers Stops breathing for a moment That seems to last longer than envisioned He hears a voice as it whispers through his hair Debating Whether or not there's an echo in the room reaching his ears by way of fate As stars gaze down upon them, silver trees flirt back at the moon Swaying from side to side Glistening Rippling At last, enchanting the moon to descend through the abyss so the sun may come out from her hiding As the morning finds her beauty, bearing brightness into his eyes suddenly things look sharper More distinct Creating an outline which possesses many clues Not so much due to day's presence But more, the reflection of how day came to be Upon this appreciation, he sets time free
My eyes were heavy as I folded the poem into the palm of my hand and headed upstairs to go to sleep. Seeing my “upcycled” dresser and how nicely the new finish worked in my bedroom brought a smile to my face. I still hadn’t even unpacked my luggage, but suddenly felt compelled to pull my fall schedule out of the front pocket of my suitcase. Two courses were listed on it, Phil 100 and Poli Sci 100. My eyes zeroed in on the political science course as I knelt next to my suitcase. Under the course it read, “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays from 2:00pm to 2:45pm with Dr. Leonard Stein.” I stood up and placed the schedule, along with my poem, on top of my dresser and crawled into bed. It had been a great first day back home. I turned off my bed lamp and waited for my eyes to adjust. Then I lay there for a moment, staring at my dresser, enjoying the thrill of a new beginning rush through me like a beam of hope through a dark tunnel and quickly fell fast asleep.