While I was staying at the house in Pelham, I got a call from one of the women who I’d met at the first support group meeting. She hadn’t staying in the group, but we’d run into each other several times at Lilith performances.
Nan was tall, thin, had black, black hair, and very intense eyes. I thought she was beautiful, but there was something about her that made me want to keep my distance. She asked if I wanted to go with her to her Italian film class at UMass. That night they were showing Fellini’s “Juliet of the Spirits,” beginning around 7:30. She came by a little before 7 in her VW bug and we drove off.
Life was one adventure after another. I didn’t really ask where I was going. I let myself go where events took me. Everything I did was new, and I had no rules. I lived a thousand miles from my family, and anyone I knew I had known for less than two years. I was exploring uncharted territories, both internally and externally. I could be anyone I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do.
I had been brought up to be good, follow the rules, dress conservatively, date nice boys, get married, settle down, have children, visit my family for the holidays. When I did get married, I found that my husband’s family had its own blueprint for what I was expected to do, how I was expected to be. I’d whisked myself away, not considering my parents, my brother or sister, or even my husband, all of whom I loved. I wanted all of the voices to stop so I could listen to my own voice. How could I ever figure out who I was while my life was run by a Board of Directors?
When Nan pulled out a huge joint out of her jacket pocket, lit it and asked if I wanted some before the movie, I said yes. When she handed it to me, I saw that it wasn’t like any pot I’d ever smoked. The paper was stained yellow.
“It’s Maui Wowie,” Nan said. If that was supposed to explain anything, she was in for a surprise. Yes, I’d smoked a fair amount of marijuana, and I’d learned to roll my own. I had never seen a joint that big or one colored fluorescent yellow.
“Go on,” she said, and I did.
We parked in a student lot and walked up to the classroom building. The wooden desks were fairly uncomfortable, but when the lights dimmed I began to feel as if I were sitting on large, squishy marshmallows. I had trouble sitting upright.
Fellini’s psychedelic images pulled at one side of my brain while the other half tried to absorb the story of the loyal, betrayed housewife. I tried to process Juliet’s emotions and understand her, find something I could hold onto rationally, but I kept sliding away. I knew I looked like a deer in the headlights, watching the swirling colors and images in front of me – I even knew my mouth was hanging open. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. It felt as if my eyes were on fire and I could have been another image blazing across the screen.
In the darkness, I glanced over at Nan. She was bent over a stack of pages, writing furiously at odd angles, sometimes taking up a whole page with one word. She’s was in as bad shape as I was.
Then my neck lost its ability to hold up my head. I must have looked as if I was diving up and down over the desk, trying to keep my head up. A woman next to me suggested I get some water. I tried to stand up but my legs wouldn’t work. Eventually, I made it to the hallway and the water fountain. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to control my breathing. The woman had come out behind me to make sure I was all right.
“Jez,” she said. “Your eyes are bright red.” I went over to the stainless steel fire extinguisher and looked – my eyes were bright red. What had I done to myself?
Over the years, I smoked a lot of dope, but never before and never since have I ever felt like I did that night. I’ve since learned that dope, my old predictable buddy, can be laced with other substances. I suspect that joint was. Perhaps I should have been more careful, but I’d been careful all of my life.
I drank a lot of water before going back in, but even the short respite helped. My neck was a bit more stable. Nan was still writing, occasionally looking up at the screen before plunging back to her epistle.
Later that night she slept over, because she was too wasted to drive back to the dairy where she worked. I asked her what she’d written and she showed me. There were pages and pages of words written at bizarre angles, occasionally a phrase that made sense, but by and large just ravings. Nan laughed and threw it all away. Nan left before dawn since dairy work started at 5 a.m.
In truth, I don’t recall a lot of specifics from the “Juliet of the Spirits.” I do remember one line that resonated with me: “I don’t care about the clemency you offer me but the salvation of my soul.”
I still run into Nan occasionally. She is a nurse and does social service work now. She is still tall, lanky and has intense eyes. I don’t find them mysterious – they just scare me. I’ve never asked her if she remembers our going to see “Juliet” or of the havoc her joint wreaked upon us that night.
©2011 jgschenck
