An Affair in Beijing [Sketches of an Affair in the Late '90s]

Before the Dawn in Beijing

[Sketches of an Affair in the late ‘90s]





by: Dennis L. Siluk

Based on a True Account





Index




Part One: Asia
[Beijing, China]


Chapters:

1—The Great Wall
2—The Dance Floor
3—The Bed
4—Breakfast
5—The Summer Palace
6—Gloria and Frank
7—The Subway Tram in Beijing
8—Across the Waters



Part Two: North America
The Midwest [Minnesota]

9—Xmas Box 1996
10—The Tangled Web
(Minneapolis, Volunteers of America ((VOA))
11—An Impending Illness
12—Messages from Stockbridge



Part Three: North America
The East (New England)

13—New York City Bound
[The Poem: “The Red House of Stockbridge”]
14—Stockbridge, and ‘The Red Line Inn’
15—Swimming at the Country Club,
And the Red House in Stockbridge
16—Nantucket Island
And the Long Ride to Cap Cod

Afterwards





Part One: Asia
[Beijing, China]


Before the Dawn in Beijing
[A Love Affair]


The nights were long, it seemed an era
(All before the dawn in Beijing),
Came youthful smiles, in my magic age
And we who listened to each heartbeat
A sweet compulsion of that sound
The burst, a mighty morning on Beijing;
Then yellow flowers seem to fall (sing):
She was an empire with pains and peaks
I an ocean, and sky above—

The dark was deep, a drowsy soul
Somewhere between reality and sleep,
Tides of Time and matter seeped—
Pure being, freed from memory
Of voices I have never heard,
And dreams and echoes
Nor did I find the light of the star
Before the dawn in Beijing,
Which haunts the hollow past in me…!

#1371 6/17/06












Chapter One
The Great Wall



On a agreeable part of the Great Wall of China, outside of Beijing, stands a large complex, a chilly breeze was crossing the top of the wall, its massive stone façade was stretching outward on both sides of me: a long dazzling length. Most recently it has become winter, and the people from all over the world, in particular young females from Japan, were notable and fashionable people on this wall; a half century ago, they were at war with each other; I also noticed everyone seemed to speak a bit of English, more than I had expected.
My hotel and its modern tan skyscraper appearance were new looking compared to some of the buildings around it.
In the early morning (this morning), the distant image of China (in my mind), the city, hotel, and now its old fortifications, called the Great Wall, that separated China from its enemies, filled my head with many thoughts on this chilly loud breathing morning. I stood on the wall a minute to catch my breath, we had two hours here, and I wanted to climb the left section of it.
There was a fading prettiness, and isolatingness to the wall, but nothing was quite for the two hours being here. People crawled along on the solid stones up and down the wall like ants, while our buses waited in the lot area. A dew, mist like dew was in the air; trees in the far off distance swayed; horns I could her honking, people trying to park their motor vehicles, several busses were now lined up in the parking lots, it was 1996, and the snaking, twisting wall was to me China itself; it was a great feat for me to be standing on this ancient engineering wonder of the world. I was lost for words.
The lady’s face that passed me, vanishing quickly, and a pretty face, at that, ran past me, she said, quick like: “Slowpoke,” her expression was both serene and alert in the pleasant way. However, my eyes moved so quickly to get a glance of her, who had a delightful pink and rosy face, in particular, her cheeks, lit to a lovely glow, whom gave me a stimulating flush, yet a cold slap in the face (I had heart surgery a few months ago, and couldn’t climb any faster, and it annoyed me to be called ‘slowpoke,’ when I had been in the Army eleven years and done every exercise under the sun in keeping fit, and here comes a slim trim woman, running past me like the Roadrunner, and slams me). I didn’t appreciate it in the least.
Her fine and smooth looking forehead sloped smoothly upward where her brownish hair bordered; her hair waved backwards—not real long, more blondish golden brown I should say. Her eyes were dull blue, not too big, not clear either, wet, and her color to her skin lilywhite, with a little used up tan in a few places; strong and young looking, but not too young, I was 38-years old, she was 30. Her body hovered delicately on the edge of perfect, no excessive fat at all, likened to eighteen year olds, complete, but with small breasts. She was perhaps three inches smaller than I; about five foot five inches tall I’d say. Thin with a hot look.
The wall twisted upward, up to a mountain like peek, a summit of sorts, and there by one of its gates (and stone guard post), was a camel of all things, (and a soldier on duty, and the master of the animal) I stopped, took a look, and climbed on top of the beast, got my picture taken, my hand in the air now, waving, waving as if I was the victor: then snap went the picture. The camel also looked proud, perhaps to have a gringo between its two humps was a big deal. And I suppose I was in a way, showing the world, my inner world, I had made it to China, several months prior I was almost dead.


Chapter Two
The Dance Floor


The clock was staring at me in the cool barroom, on the third floor of the hotel, a paleness swept over Beijing, before the twilight as I looked out its big bay windows. American music was playing, and a karaoke set up was on the stage in front of me. It was a ghostly menacing day in a way (I enjoyed the sites but so much rush), full of people and buses, and of no promise of meeting anyone in particular, girl that is, yet I did not try either, that is, except for that insulting female on the wall. The sign read on the karaoke stand: “9:30 PM Karaoke Night!” I had sat around a while and when I looked at the clock for the second time it read: 8:30 PM, I was nursing a coke, drinking it slowly down: the night was early, and I was not in any hurry to go back to my isolated quiet room, although I liked the idea of it. I paced about looked down the long towering street from the bay window.
Then all of a sudden, there was that girl the one from the wall, she had walked in like a princess, head back, shoulders straight like an arrow, and she was nice looking now that I could stare a bit, check her out more; get a better look at her, but then, after that I tried to hide behind the pillar by my table which was next to it. I really didn’t want to greet her should she expect me to. She pulled off her red light sweater, and tossed it over a corner of a chair, the table she was to sit down at was in front of me (could she not find a better place to sit, I thought). On second thought, she spotted me, and waved with her cat like paw. I didn’t wave back, this, for sure, surprised her, she was not used to such rudeness, or being shunned, so I suspect: only making fun of people who had heart surgery.
She flung out a cigarette from her purse, cold like. Heaviness to her eyes now, was she staring, sleeping or just uncaring by that squinting, and side look she gave me, but she was staring at me nonetheless, and to speculate on this, I didn’t like it, so I picked up my coat and moved over to another table, a ting more on the dim side of the room, there was a pillar covering myself a little from her sight should she wish to pursue the mocking; it kind of hid me from her, I just didn’t want to get into this woman’s lib thing: you know, I can do what any man can do, thing.

My mind was now miles away, if not twenty-five miles from this barroom, going over the day, hour by hour. In a half an hour a man stepped up to a stand, spoke over a microphones,
“Karaoke tonight, stick around!”
I could hear horns from the motorcars outside below the hotel, winding up the street. The girls face was fading back to my location, per expression was both calm and conscious in a pleasant way. However, her eyes didn’t move as they should have I thought; indeed, they did more staring, idiomatic, seemingly.
There was a brief moment, several Chinese girls came into the lounge, with their boss, I met him, or he actually introduced himself to me, worked with the oil companies, and wanted me to dance with a sweet looking Chinese girl about twenty three years old. And so I did, while he gossiped with the other girls. Afterwards, he gave me his card, unanticipated like, I took it, and it said: “Executive manager of …” (some oil company). “You see me tomorrow, I fix you up with girl, they like Americans,” he said.
The girl had told me, on the dance floor, she was learning the oil business, and seemed more interested to me in oil than in dancing, but she also seemed like she wanted to please her boss. But I told the Big Shot thanks, and went back to my corner in the barroom after two or three dances: they also needed to get to bed early the Boss said.


Chapter Three
The Bed


Behind my pillar where I was sitting, the woman from the wall was now standing lit another cigarette, it was hot and bright I thought. It sent a pale glary glow, an ash like pathway to the ceiling, streaming in front of my face, half-intended I thought. I had stopped smoking in 1984, smoked for 22-years, so what could I say, I had some years on her to catch up to me before I could scold her. There was a lull, then a scramble for words with her, “Care, would you care to dance…sir?” she said.
In the last of the lull, on my part, I carried a silence, looking at my coke; her voice threw me off, an audible sincere tone. But she had been so cold to me this morning.
Even here, I thought as she stood behind me, she was trying to crush me with her casual idle, good and youthful looks and toned body. “Well,” she said.
“No, I don’t want to dance with you, so don’t bother me anymore!”
It was now 9:30 PM, and the first singer came up to sing, and started to sing, and this lady remained behind me. She had a gray glimmer to her eyes; they looked cold, dejection, and lack of sleep.
“Why,” she asked, “why will you not dance with me. I mean, you seem annoyed with me, as if I did something to you.”
I turned up the uncorked anger in my mind, said in a narrow but benevolent jinn way: “You insulted me on the wall today.”
“I did?” she commented, “How did I do that?”
“You said I was too slow, and you zoomed by me like you were some hot shot.” She held back a laugh, “See,” I said, “You’re laughing at me again!”
“But you were slow, and I was kind of teasing you I know, but it was meant as a maneuver to get to know you later, I thought you were handsome.”
“Oh…(I hesitated) but I had a bypass just a few months ago, a heart attack, I can’t climb or do all those things I used to do I suppose.”
“Oh…ooo, pardon me, I’m so sorry.” Then I thought: it would be pleasant to dance with her, to perhaps watch the night stars with someone beside myself, a good reason to start with a dance and see where it led, if a warm fire got going—good, if a quite one so be it. With politeness I said, “I’d like that dance very much.” She smiled a warm smile, loosening the atmosphere around us, then added, “It would be pleasant.” And we danced, matter-of-fact, we danced several dances, and then we went up to the karaoke machine and started singing, “Are you Lonesome Tonight,” an old Elvis song, and many of the folks like it in the bar area. And I went on to sing with her some more, her being my back up, “Love Me Tender.” As we continued to go to a third and forth song, I noticed she twisted about trying to see the words to the song, as they were big enough, and easily readable, it disengaged me from the songs for amount, “Anything wrong?” I asked. We had scarcely got over our first unpleasant moment, when she hit me with, “I’m ninety percent blind, I only have side vision (peripheral vision).”
Now I was feeling a little shame, as if I had no blood in my face. I think this was not self-satisfying for her, but it had to come out, and this was a good place for it.
“Well how did you know what I looked like on the wall?” I asked.
“I turned my head to the right, and caught your face from the narrow part of the side of my eye, and you looked good.”
She flattered me, and it felt good, I had been divorced, and she had also, we both confirmed that sitting up at the karaoke machine trying to figure out what song to sing next, when someone said, “You going to sing, if not I will!” With local etiquette we both stepped down from the platform and went over to my table, she had picked up her sweater on the way.
We sat down and talked until midnight about birds and the stone wall, and her being a teacher at one time before she became blind some seven years prior, and me a counselor, and the more we talked the more personal we became. Within these few moments we were lovers it seemed like. An affair had come; we had physical attraction and good spirits, jokes, and lots of listening skills to offer one another; it all seemed too perfect. But even if nothing would manifest out of this love affair to be, this intelligent circumstances, we would have company while in Beijing, and that would be worth it, so I thought, when she said: “Would you like to come to my room?”


Chapter Four
Love Making and Breakfast


“Something tell me Christopher, we’re going to enjoy Beijing,” said Sandy once we got into her apartment.
“I hope so,” I answered.
We both spoke cheerfully for an hour or so on the bed, sitting on the beds edge, just sitting, and without being obvious, and without direction, next I laid down thinking I might make love to her but fell to sleep, and when I woke up, she was naked beside me—“Mover over here,” she said to me, I had a big hard-on, and her long thin body excited me, stimulated me just looking at it, avidity of winning a grand prize, “You stay here for the rest of the night,” she said, “I want you to,” and I entered her the second time like a bull. I figured if my heart was going to bust out of its chamber, so be it, it was worth it; and my chest pounded, poured over her. We had some laughter to go along with the lovemaking. I was fearful the neighbors could hear her moaning, her salvo of amusement coupled with the bed making all its own noise.
As my hands went over her body, like glass, it somehow seemed important to me, formality on this bed that we became modestly possessed with one anther. Perhaps superfluous, but we both seemed to want to show the other person a marvelous picture of ourselves for the stay in Beijing, which we had six days to do, actually two were gone, and this morning, this new morning was our third to be.

In the morning I was shabby-eyed, and she pretty as a young dove. Dishearteningly, we had to get dressed and meet the tour group after breakfast out in the parking lot by the buses, there were two buses; today we were going to go to the “Summer Palace. A palace made out of marble on the river front, so they told me.
As we sat down for Breakfast, which was a feast in itself, with an assortment of food, unequaled in any tour I had previously taken, thus, we stood in line, and made our selections, and she, Sandy was quite comfortable with me, and I with her, in the meantime we told each other we’d have to shift buses, one of us, because she was assigned to the opposite one I was, and that was taken care of in a flash once we told the tour guides. Evidently feeling the subject had been changed, she looked at all the others in the breakfast hall, and there were one hundred and twenty five of us.
“When we’re done with this trip, come up to Stockbridge to see me, I have an apartment there, perhaps after Christmas (which was in about three weeks).” It seemed more like a statement than a question but I confirmed I would, but I was nervous enough, and didn’t want to disagree with Sandy, I mean, if it happened good, if not well, no harm done. I drew a long breath, flung my light coat over my shoulder and we shifted out toward the cool morning air by the buses. I looked at Sandy inquiringly. How much of me could she see with that little side view she gets of: people, things, and places? She had to seize the opportunity of people and such things if she wanted to see quickly, or miss them totally, or become exhausted trying, so I thought, or figured; the buses where now in sight outside the doors and two lines were being formed to get on them.



Chapter Five
The Summer Palace



The tour guide’s voice was slow, and almost shy, she was Chinese, and had high cheekbones, a short upper lip, and deep satin set of dark eyes. She had spoken out of the side of her mouth, as if she hoped her words would-be correct. “My name Miss Yang,” she said as the bus took off, she disappeared behind the many heads in front of her, totally leaving scarcely a dot of her form to see in the upper part of the bus.
“I was just thinking that we could take the underground subway to the other side of town tomorrow, give us something to do, it’s a freed day.”
“Yes,” agreed Sandy, unbegrudgingly. I didn’t know if she had other plans, nor allowed her the liberties to suggest something, but unchallenging she agreed.
“ I wish I had a cigarette,” she said, her eyes, seemingly photographic, did not move. “I like to absorb you,” she said almost vehemently. Then she put her hand on my leg, rubbed it and I was getting hard, and she liked that, not sure if it was the power, control, or simply ecstasy behind this introduction to her play, which I’d have to get used to in the future, I presupposed this was to lead into a more lasting relationship. She was thinking anyhow, thinking wondering whether we made good love, and asked me. Usually it is the man who asks such a jockey question. But I assured her she was fine, and dominate, which I didn’t add, but she was.
As I looked across this lake like watercourse, I could see the marble palace, sunlight had struck it, and you could now hear murmurs in the bus, and everybody trying to get a closer view. There were several on the bus closed eyed, I think pretending to be asleep, then they opened their eyes half-open to watch the blurred Summer Palace come into focus. Sandy and I had talked a lot on our way out to this site, she had accepted me impersonally, my past and all, and I hers, careless confidence it can be called, I perhaps, dismissed her issues with too much haste, like dust swept under a carpet. But it was how I wanted it at the time. I noticed it had flattered her when I asked her advice on a few things, preference to anyone else’s, in particular, Frank and Gloria’s. The affair was on its second day (my third day in China), but it seemed much longer, as we were lovers, and were spending every minute together.

Sandy was a bit bitter of her lose of sight, and her teachers job, which she was not getting any compensation for; another reason, and the strongest, she had to tolerate her ex-husbands luck in acquiring her son, she refused to recognized his right to have him, but she knew she could not afford to raise him, pride and toughness was behind that pretty rosy smile I figured. It could scarcely be said of her, that her thoughts were not on us she was at times in a light mental slum, and she could vaguely see it, although she pulled herself out of them quickly; and enmeshed herself into me.
During lunch, Sandy Gunderson had asked: “Well, what nationality are your people, my folks are from German stock?”
And I told her mine were from the Russian and Polish stockpile (who had migrated, better put, sought a better life, in 1916, and hence, came to America), and the other half of me was from the Irish (my fathers side).
She was restless, stretching herself from moment to moment. I was a few years older than her and could hardly keep up with her talking, her questions, statements, and to a lesser degree, but growing: counseling. She thought me handsome—but there was some kind of faint mar, aversion in the side of her face now and then, that took the full luster of her continence (this would come out later).
“I am from a small village, town-let, a quiet one in the upper part of Massachusetts” she explained, “it is called Stockbridge,” and added, “Nathaniel Hawthorn wrote his book,’ The House of the Seven Gabbles,’ there in a little red house outside of town (which I would visit in the near future, and walked its narrow path in the back of it, into the woods, by the lake)” There was a house downtown were the famous Norman Rockwell lived, and did his famous paintings too; and Emerson lived nearby Hawthorn, whom those two would visit one another off and on during the four years Hawthorn lived there, and Emerson, poet and man of letters, would disparage Hawthorn off and on, as a lesser intellectual than he, scholar.
“The city goes back a few hundred years,” she explained. And it seemed to me an aim for me to go see it, I was thinking of visiting Nantucket Island, anyhow, so perhaps I could be fashionable, and hit two birds with one stone.
The day was becoming complete, she felt a purpose in the future was developing, and I had a direction, a plan, an act of creation to speculate on; but I didn’t perceive a web with this pleasant conversation, and it would develop (in future time), so we left well enough alone and had a good day.



Chapter Six
Gloria and Frank
And the Marble Boat



It was quite along the waterway that surrounded the Summer Palace, and Sandy and I stepped up onto and into the marble houseboat, of which it was designed as, a luxury piece of marble, manufactured in antiquity. She seemed now to restore a special gentleness that evidently she felt was part of this magical moment, one that a person will never capture again, should they ever get a second chance to be put into such a grand circumstances. The moment was far-reaching, her delicacy, we hugged she rested on my shoulder as we looked out into the lake like atmosphere, actors or reactors, I don’t know, indistinguishable, for we loved being able to love, and we grabbed the moment to do so. Skeptical we both may have been, yes, but if there was skepticism or shyness, we hid it, desperate for humor and to be amused, silently in a loving phase, if not theater.
We were—electrified, face-to-face, having words of kindness and staring down into the water, tranquil water as it invited us to taste its spell.
“Yes, I will visit you in Stockbridge,” I reconfirmed.
“Very well,” she insisted, laughing, “I’m very happy you let me know about this, now I can start making plans in my head.”

I am not sure whose eyes she saw the world through, not mine I’m sure, but it wasn’t’ all that bad, she was having a grand time, as her girlfriend had said to her back in Stockbridge, she should have, and some guy she had been dating back in Stockbridge, who had broken it off with her insisted also for her to take this trip and have fun (although I doubt they expected her to have so much fun all at once); so in a serious manner she said “Lets have fun,” and so we did.
Coming back from the palace, I had learned she had protectiveness for her son, that would not allow her to rest at times, and she admitted being 10,000-miles from home, allowed her that freedom (out of sight, out of mind).

Gloria and Frank were in the seats in front of us, in the bus; an elder couple that had traveled almost as much as me, around the world. We had, the first day we arrive, had walked down the silk alley together, in Beijing, and ate at a deli some sweets and coffee (and even stopped in the giant MacDonald’s for a burger), when I tried to swat a fly away from her and hit her nose with a piece of paper (we are still in the deli), thereafter we became friends (and would remain so for the following ten years; Frank would die in 2003). And during that same day, in the afternoon, she had pushed one of the merchants away from me, once they had tripped me, and I had fallen to the ground, they were going to rob me, and had my billfold in their hands, she was the heroin of the day, she pushed them aside, grabbed my wallet and called for assistance.
I had asked for their advise a few times concerning Sandy, and she always gave it, said—with a beautiful little shiver of her face and laugh: “Just enjoy it, it will or will not last after China, but you’re not married to her, and got no ties, nor her, so enjoy your single life while you can.” Frank agreed as usual. She must have said this several times to me, until I felt good about my ongoing relationship with Sandy. Frank and Gloria were from Minnesota, my home state, and we assured each other we’d visit once this trip was over (and we would).




Chapter Seven
The Subway Tram in Beijing



I let the possibility enter her mind that our relationship
would extend beyond China, and I hoped it would.




With half an hour to wait, the following morning we leaned against the nearby shaft of the subway: the train tracks below us, the subway roof above us, people around us, looking at us, our different structured and color faces, different compared to theirs: we were gringo like (colored hair, blue eyes), they of course, Chinese. She had brave eyes this morning, a bit sad, but brave nonetheless. Her dress was bright today (I was surprised she elected to wear a dress at all), and she had long socks on her legs I noticed. She helped herself to one of her cigarettes peering at the diagram on the subway wall, it was a map of the destinations the subway went and stopped at; it actually seemed to go around the city somewhat.
Straight-ahead came the train, we were the only ones out of 125-folks at the hotel, our full tour group, that was brave enough to take the subway. A few of the folks talked to us about it, but at the last minute chickened out in fear they’d get lost. But I assured them, being a seasoned traveler: there was no way one could get lost: how can one get lost with the name of the hotel in their pockets, and a subway system that went all around the city, taxies, rickshaws, and buses all over the city. I mean if you got five dollars in your pocket, you could go take a taxi back across the whole city if need be; or ride the subway all day long and accidentally pump into your hotel. But I left it at that, and Sandy and I went alone. We had even asked Frank and Gloria, but they had other things to do, shopping I expect.
Up and into the archway of the train-car we went, and within twenty minutes we got off the subway train (after looking at the map on the car wall we decided to get off before we ended up in Tibet); for the most part, we were lost in some other unknown part of the city. It was stimulating, not sure if Sandy thought so, I can’t remember, she seemed to have little concentration to spare all of a sudden.
While on the train, I was turning the pages of an English version of the local Chinese periodical, and to be blunt, it had nothing to say good about America. It kind of baffled me. I mean here we were, their guests, and they were slamming us on every page.
“Are you sure we’re safe,” Sandy comment to me as we walked down a busy street. I was pleased with the ride, and I didn’t want to exaggerate, and I said, “We are completely lost,” but that is part of the fun, let’s see what we can find, and I’ll get us back to the Hotel.”
“I love you,” she said aloud (in my mind I said: now how did that happen?) and I left it where it lay.
We walked for about another ten-minutes, saw an old woman cooking some eggs with peppers, and a horde of other things, on a street stove (vender type) of some kind, it looked good, and we stopped, and I asked her to make us each one, and we ate, and there was gaiety in the old woman’s eyes, her simple task had obviously caught our attention, we took a picture of her nonetheless. And we ate heartily.
Sandy was at this point, literally hanging onto me for dear life, “Taxi,” I yelled as one went by, it stopped, and it took us back to our hotel. She released a long sigh as she walked through the hotel doors, and onto dinner we went, and back to her room thereafter. Actually, it was seemingly odd to stay in one room only, there was no sense in having two rooms, so we spent all the time together trading off rooms, and so we traded off rooms each day to stay in and sleep, make love. And Sandy was more than ready each time we got into our apartments.



Chapter Eight
Across the Waters


On the plane coming back from Beijing to St. Paul, Minneapolis, Minnesota where Sandy would catch a plane and head on to New York City, and have a friend pick her up at the airport to drive her back to Stockbridge, she stunned me; and it is hard for anyone to stun me.
We sat together on the plane, and there was a stronger on each side of us; a contemptuous old lady to my right was not delighted with the way Sandy was all over me, like white on rice. Sandy had thrown a blanket over us, our knees to our shoulders, perhaps it was two blankets, but whatever we were coved, almost from limb to limb; wild eyed she was, and her fingers started moving up and down my thighs. Then her fingers moved everywhere, becoming more daring by the minute. She bubbled with delight and I whole-heartedly went along with the seduction, with a lack of innocence that is for what was going on.
Her hands now were on my lap, and what she was feeling was hard as a concrete penile. “I love you,” she hummed, and the old lady just desperately tried to look away but had an unbreakable time doing so. I wanted to laugh and jump on her bones at the same time. I needed to calm down though, and I knew it, so I told her to stop before something messy happened. I did with to leave this plane in peace and good will, so I insisted she take both blankets and go to sleep if that is what she wanted, but I couldn’t endure anymore, and she laughed, saying: “You make me laugh, and that’s good.” And for the remaining nine out of thirteen hours we talked, kissed occasionally, and laughed.




Part Two: North America
The Midwest [Minnesota]







Chapter Nine
Xmas Box: 1996



[St. Paul, Minnesota] Like Frank Sinatra once sang in one of his songs: it’s nice to travel, but it is also nice to come back home, and I felt that way when I got off the plane at the international airport in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and went home to my apartment, where my mother and I lived together. Between her living with me, and I with her, we had accumulated a few decades living together. She would die in 2003, living in one of my houses; I would acquire several rental properties before she would pass on. She was one of two, only two people in the world I could travel with: so I’d soon finalize in time to come, without getting frustrated that is. And so I came back to my one little room in our apartment, and she was happy to see me, and I was then in the process of buying a triplex, apartment house, about a mile away, down Rice Street in St. Paul, where we’d live, and she’d live the last six and half years of her life, in the lower apartment, and I in the upper (1094 Albemarle). In the mean time, Christmas was around the corner, and 1997, was also, it would be a most prosperous year for me.
A qualitative change had already set in that was not all apparent to me. Sandy and I talked on the phone a lot, sent postcards back and forth and then I got a big box with a horde of small gifts in it from her. The Summer Palace, in Beijing, where wee had stuck in our minds, we’d see each other again, seemed to be real to me now, with all these gifts, and love talk over the phone. I never told her directly I loved her, but I felt it at times I did, and perchance she picked up on it, that I did, but did I? (It really was still a rundown question in my mind; one I didn’t care to pull up.) I was making plans in my mind thought, to go to Stockbridge in February of next year, why not, I could head right on down to Nantucket from there and why not have some company. Perhaps those days in China were packed with exotic desperation for us both, bizarre behavior I was showing for sure (as was she I hope), but it felt good. I even wrote a song for her, “As Love Goes by,” and perhaps that was my way of saying I loved you to her, but I knew better.
I had asked her to send me some pictures of her in sexy gowns, and she did, it didn’t surprise me, they were briskly fashionable, cheerful to the male eyes, nothing completely bad, or complete nudity, but they inaccurately keep me thinking we had something going. She was smiling in her pictures, that also was a note of sobriety for me. I doubt she really know what she was doing at times, just grabbing whatever was saturating her soul, and not weighting its c consequences, for her or anybody. Something someone would do to avoid living the present perhaps, I call it in counseling, disassociation; you are present, but not mentally.
The winter was cold in Minnesota, and the sun was far from the horizon, only giving a slanting light, the effects of the cold frost beautiful as it was, and could be, it was also maddening at times, because it appeared so far and in-between—the gaps were too big. Winters in Minnesota can get folks to thinking, to move, but the beauty of Minnesota seems to bring them back if they do, unless they do not, find a more beautiful place, and warm place at that.


Chapter 10
Minneapolis Volunteers of America
A Tangled Web

What I really wanted to do was work my profession (although it was difficult at times), in addition to my real estate, which was counseling. I worked for a cheesy organization called the Volunteers of America, in Minneapolis, a place you couldn’t tell the convicts from the professional staff; the staff violated the rules more than the convicts, matter-of-fact, they sold the convicts the right to go out past their curfew, to get drunk, for a price, that when they’d come back into the establishment (halfway house), they’d look the other way. The Bureau of Prisons would check this out, not be happy about it, but did little to solve the problem, slap their hands, and they went on with life. I was the only qualified Counselor there, with a license to counsel, and two degrees; I was also a qualified Probation Officer. At times they expected me to play dumb, and stoop low, but I couldn’t and walked out of the Senior Case Managers office more than once, so I’d not have to listen to his garbage and talk about the stupid inmates. In time I would have to leave, realization filtered in gradually, and I was not complete in this work. But I liked being a counselor, and Probation Officer, but I made more money on my real estate, and that infuriated the Senior Case Manager, and the supervisor, I drove a bigger car that also did not suite their fancy. They struggled with it, until one day the Senor Case Manager, lost it, and created a fire, which allowed me to break my roots with the organization (I was asked to step down by the supervisor, and I asked her: are you asking me to like you? (Which she was asking), and I told her “I’d not lower myself to your level” and all its sinful past would be thrown back into their conscious, which I doubt affected them very much. But this was where I was during my in-between time, from missing Sandy, atavistic (a tangled web), reality.
It often surprised me that the staff, starting from the lazy female supervisor, whom fired at will, and almost got fired because of the Arrogant Senior Case Manager, and the Farmer Supervisor, who was ahead of all the staff, but never was around to supervise the female supervisor, that the place run as well as it did. The Senor Case Manager even created a so-called staff
Gang to bring her down, and she melted like a candle.
From the lowest man on the pole, to the highest, they all mocked the typical client, the man coming out of prison to be helped on “The Work Release Program” and here they were, in a power play. It is often is it not, the helper turns into the natural user; there was no sentimentality there. Thus, I was happy to take my vacations, making them long and far away.



Chapter Eleven
An Impending Illness



Sandy may have been having her troubles, but so was I, I mean, the world was getting scary, I was loosing strength, and didn’t know why (something neurological was happening inside of me, a collapse it seemed like). Falling to sleep at my desk was one of the symptoms: my supervisor had found me there once, lying headfirst on the keyboard of my computer, it surely didn’t look good; on the other hand I didn’t know I was in the anomalous position when she had come into my office. And perhaps that was the push I needed to get heavier into real estate, in case I got fired for incompetence, which was on her mind thereafter. I had to run to the bathroom and lay in the corner, my spine tightened like a viper twisting it until I had tears in my eyes, and I found myself in a fetus position for 45-minutes; I couldn’t even remember what was being said the moment I’d leave my supervisors office. She threatened to fire me one day, I mean, for real this time, but when I gave her a letter from my doctor saying I was under examination for MS, she hesitated, scolded me for thinking I could out maneuver her, thinking this was a game. So I felt, whatever Sandy was going through, my life was also filled with gaps that I didn’t know how to fill. In most cases I’ve learned, self-interest is stronger then even the devils hold, or push on you, and so it seemed for me.
The one thing that was happening in January of 1997 was I had lost 80% of my sexual potency, the capability to hold a hard on longer than moment’s thought, once I got one, if at all I could get one. It was all happening too fast for me to digest, for me to understand its multidimensional facets; too high-speed for me for my mind to grasp, and the only thing my female supervisor had to say was: “You should sell your real estate it is distracting you form your job.” To be frank, there was something in every staff persons life at the VOA, distracting them from work, for her it was her daughter and her past life as a street woman; for the Senior Case Manager, it was his past marriage and his sassy kids that one day punched him in the mouth, and he came to work carrying about it. I asked what he did about it, and he did very little. I told him I’d have given my boy two black eyes, and one straight kick in the ass that he’d not walk for a week. And of course he thought I was too cruel, but then, by boy never thought of hitting me, lest find out for himself if I was kidding. And he took a frown to my way of thinking, and I too his. Perhaps Brad was the only sane one there, a young man who had sense, intelligence and cared about his people. He left and got into something else, a wise man indeed. Then there was Lance, a follower and scared of his own shadow, I think I pitied him more than anything, save; he hid around the corners when there was trouble in the air; a survivor indeed, at the cost of pride, sense, and a plastic life.
As I said, the Queen Bee of the hive at the Volunteers of America (VOA), told me I had now bought too many houses and it was distracting me, and perhaps it was, it was distracting that someone else was using work time to do personal things, like she was doing: monkey see, monkey do, like the Senior Case Manager, taking time away from my job; I confronted both these hypocrites on this subject, and of course (control issue or not) they did not like my outspoken attitude, no one really does, when you are right: they could, but I couldn’t; but who would take care of me when I got too ill to work, thus I needed a back up, if need be; my mother was too old, more than willing, but too old, and my wife had left me for that very reason (one illness after another); along with falling in love with someone bozo, who would leave her down the road, once he got an unpredictable illness himself, saying, “You’re going to leave me anyhow, so I might just as well leave you, you’ve done it before.” What goes around comes around as they say.
And so that is how it was, but perhaps sex wasn’t the only thing Sandy was after, I had more money now to offer her if indeed that was a motivator in her life, and if I wanted to keep her.



Chapter Twelve
Messages from Stockbridge



I resume, Sandy’s point of view it should be said that, her letters and gifts, phone calls, all were fresh air for me, and she was kind of in a love spell, or so it seemed at the time: all these forms of communicational procedures to get messages to me was appreciated by me; and looked closely by my mother: not sure what was going on with a woman who had just met me, god forbid, should we marry, surely after a recent divorce, I suppose she was worried about me getting hurt again, and we were about to start a move to another house in several months, hence, she was unaccustomed to change, she had lived on Lexington Ave for fifteen and a half year. It was a big decision for her to agree to move into my triplex.
While I had this two and a half month separation, I had time to think about her personal qualities, to look at them, they were in a way extraordinary, as lovers we sure were in that category (or had been), yet I knew she had failures, and that would either break or make the our longer term, involvement pertaining to this relationship.
“What beautiful gifts you’ve sent me,” I told Sandy over the phone on Christmas Day; She wouldn’t let it alone, she wanted me to express my appreciation or every item she sent, perhaps fifteen little ones.
“When are you come up here?” she asked with exhilaration
“Any week now, or month should I say; I expect the first week of February. (There was some holiday coming up, and that would give me a four-day weekend, and perhaps I could add a day of vacation into that I figured, extending my time.
“I’m going to give you a tour of the city when you come, and every one at the ‘Red Lion Inn,” want to see you, she commented.

In comparison to our Beijing Affair, she seemed faintly gross, faintly ill-bred over the phone; during many conversations, memorable things would come up of our trip in China, she lit up the phone with these moments; but nonetheless, there was something unusual about her expression, an over bearing perhaps, an obvious defense.

Sandy was a romantic and her life, career and youth had not provided many satisfactory opportunities on that score. And her teaching career would not tolerate any such spurious excitations, or ones against the rules of a well reserved community, if available at all, such behavior would have to take place unnoticed. Hence, she was in fact starving for appreciation.
She was now free to have lovers, the real thing was available, she even told me young men were chasing her at the pool hall, a bar nearby, and although not interested, she liked the attention (so she said); I was not that foolish to believe she did not savor the moment she could test her powers out beyond me.
She explained all this one-day in January on the phone to me, as we got closer to my plans to go see her. Of which many of her expressions she possessed, one saying, “I fell for you the first time I saw you,” I pretended not to have heard, the compliant, it was to me purely informal.
The last day in January 1997, I had bought the ticket to New York City, and made reservations at an old Inn, in Nantucket. I was almost on my way.




Part Three: The East
[New England]








Chapter Thirteen
New York City Bound


Feeling good from a warm lunch on the flight from St. Paul, to New York City, Sandy stood stone-still, like a soldier guarding Fort Knocks, with all its gold, with a beautiful red rose in her hand, stood right there, centered perfect by the walkup ramp in the airport, at gate #33; I caught sight of her almost instantly. She was, she did, stand out. I saw her tall thin body, straight shoulders, standing all alone, away from everyone so I’d see her plainly, how could I not devour that scene I told myself afterwards, she had planned it out to be remembered ten years down the road I do believe; it was 10:36 AM, “Baby, you look striking,” I said as I now stood in front of her. The February snow was thick in New York City, as it was in Minnesota, as it would be on our way to Upper New York State, and over to the town-let, of Stockbridge.
We stared at each other—face to face—I could all most hear the hiss inside of her, and then we hugged. I’m not sure what I said, perhaps some thing unintelligible, I was excited to see her, our silence was broken by her voice, “Lets go before the traffic gets too heavy (I had rented a car, only to find out, they would not take my credit card, and had to go to ‘Dollar Rent a Car,’ who would take my card, and we were on our way throughout the city).”
We were meeting for the first time in a while of course and tried to be on our best behavior, or at least for the moment; the traffic was heavy in New York City, and I saw told to get out of the city before 2:00 PM, lest I wanted to get swamped with cars, and it was heavy enough at 12:00 PM, when I had finally gotten my car, and now we were at Battery Park, I wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, there was a mist in the air, hence, the view of the statue was faint at best. I found a parking place in some kind of construction company parking lot, I wasn’t allowed to park there, but what the heck, I did anyhow, (there wasn’t any other parking, unless I wanted to park for $25, dollars an hour, a mile away) and Sandy was willing to stayed in the car, to insure it would not get towed away, and plus, it was to difficult for her to see had she come along, to see the faint statue in the far distance, and so I did on my own.
You could barely see it, the Statue of Liberty; it was a moment’s fascination nonetheless. By the time I got back, the guard was pacing close by my renta car, looking at Sandy, and then quickly jumped in beside her, took off before he locked guess what was happening, and call the police.
I had learned in New York City, you drive with one hand on the wheel, the other on the horn, and your head out the window screaming at everyone, and one foot on the break the other on the gas, and go like hell. So I became a NYC-driver instantly, and it worked, I made it out of the city alive.



Chapter Fourteen
Stockbridge, Massachusetts
[The Red Line Inn]


Her face, once in Stockbridge, Massachusetts turned a little bleak, a little bland than what it had been before, perhaps even a little stern.
It was a long ride to Stockbridge, all the way up towards Canada; it was a green and beautiful ride, and I almost got lost, but we did find the turnoff to Massachusetts, than to Stockbridge, and know we were in her little town-let, colonial treasure, as she felt it was, and it was all she said it was I can confirm, or would turn out to be. We went directly to her apartment, through the deep snow, and up the side of the stairs of the duplex she lived in, she led me like a child wanting to show a friend a great secret; she held a gleam in her face now, in her smile, her smile, under those doll bluish-green eyes (mood shifting was developing). Her skin had darkened a bit, she had gone to the gym for tanning, and we’d be go there tomorrow to do some swimming (which I have always enjoyed), and then the following day to Nantucket, about 750-miles down the state to Cape Cod, and then a 45-minute ride to the island.
For the moment, she showed me around her apartment, room by room, showing me, and telling me, in each room how well it was desecrated, how long it took to do it, and how much money she saved in the process. She was proud of her achievement, why not I thought, she’s virtually blind, and how many folks with her condition could even walk into an airport alone and find themselves at the very spot she would meet her lover: I mean, she must had done some planning.
The day was young yet, and I was hungry, it was perhaps 5:30 PM, and we’d go for lunch at the Red Line Inn, tomorrow; for the mean time, she had made a simple dish of some good tasting rice and chicken for me, by candle, light, and some good coffee. She had some wine, but I preferred a coke instead. And there we sat and enjoyed the evening.
I had traveled all my life, and this was a new place for me, New England that is, and its haunting spirit, one I’d detect throughout the five days I’d be here; it was calming, and soul stirring, vibrations filled my blood stream, good vibrations; in a way that give my core, the inner part of my soul a humming calmness. One that seemed to have echoes of God’s nature inside of it; on the surface, was a lot of pure old American history at every corner you turned.

[Morning the next day] We avoided breakfast, and she took me for early lunch, brunch, where I had steak and eggs at ‘The Red Lion Inn’” where she worked. She paid for the meal, it was I found out, half price for her, which was good, and then she walked me around the Inn, introducing me to her friends. I even received a green ‘Red Line Inn,’ t-shirt; everyone there was very kind to me, very polite. All around and beyond the rim of the city was colossal trees, a city and a woods covered with white, enormous pines, little shops, and a few old structures, landmarks she had told me about, famous from American Revolutionary times.
We had been alone last night, slept together, but I was so weak and tired, I didn’t make love to her, and she didn’t insist I should. To be honest, I didn’t think I could perform in bed as I had just a few months ago in Beijing because of this illness I was progressively cursed with, not quite knowing what it was for sure, but it was slowly eating up my vitality. I think this first time, she took it as simply being tired, not personal, or medial. After this trip, I would become quite ill, and things would get worse, before they got better again (in which I’d go to the Amazon in 2001, and get some mediation from a native seer, use it for six months, and be regenerated for a few more years beyond this); before it got worse again; an ongoing dilemma it would turn out to be.

(Several times she had asked humbly—but directly her haunting issues to my attention, for me to listen to her ongoing franticness on her son, and ex husband’s behavior. She was pathetical (wacky) about her son being hurt at any give moment of the day or night; made phone calls, and made the nights and days quite disruptive because of this. Hours of listening and trying to calm her down on the issue of safety, trying to make her comfortable was so trying it made me fatigued to the point I lost all my energy to have sex. Nothing would pacify her, and it ran ramped in my mind: how would Nantucket be. She drove her car, was not suppose to driver with only side vision, but she did, had a few accidents she said, asked me to drive it. Feverishly, this was brought to a point it was suffocating, and I asked her if she could try to control this, bring it to a minimum, she said she’d try, I only hoped I’d survive this trip; but I knew now it would never last.)



Chapter Fifteen
Swimming at the Country Club
And the Red House in Stockbridge



[We decided to stay an extra day in Stockbridge before driving down to Nantucket, after reconfirming our new reservations at the hotel there], drive outside of town and see the Red House where Hawthorn lived. We crossed an old bridge on the way, a green mill of some score, and a small dam of some sort]



In any case, here I was, in Stockbridge, with my new Red Lion’s Inn, t-shirt, and on our way to the swimming hole; or country club, which was a fine looking establishment, and she again was proud to take me in, as she never ceased to surprise me.
Once at the Country Club, I got my swimming suite on in the locker room, men, much older than I were laying about naked, walking around with their loose football nuts hanging halfway to the floor; not much reserve here I thought. When I got to the Jacuzzi, I jumped in, waiting for Sandy to join me; there were several guys in it, one woman and I. When Sandy came out with her two-piece swimming suite on, fit to kill, the men starred wildly, and I did to. She jumped in the water with us, and we enjoyed the rubbing up against each other, and then we went to the pool, she again paraded a little, and I was proud of her, but not sure if she needed to be so naked.


The Red House


After swimming, we sat in the pool area, in a pause, Sandy looked away, and up the pool where others were swimming, walking alongside the pool, and I’m sure caught the sharply rich voices of the people talking, more than their appearance.
“Would you like to go visit the Red House now?” Asked Sandy
“Oh yes, by all means,” I suggested to her suggestion with a short laugh “the sooner the better. Been waiting for that.”
The afternoon was to prove to be one of the significant ones I had on this trip; for a few hours I really enjoyed the outskirts of Stockbridge: a lot of my time was unpleasantness (and more to come), trying to pacify her, this was to the contrary.
Once I got to the Red House, where Hawthorn lived in the 1850s, I had to walk the same path he did, see the same lake he would have seen day after day: in my eyes he was one of the greatest writers this world has produced. I looked in those many windows the house hand; all three sections of the house and could picture Hawthorne sitting in that leather chair by the fireplace writing his stories, I seemed to fall into a daydream, a vision of sorts.
I think the Red House had been restored, a fire once took place there, leaving only its foundation, but it was rebuilt to how it used to be. The fireplace remained also. And so here I walked through the cold thick snow, along the fence, looking into the windows, and walking its paths along side the house in back of the house. It was most invigorating, and the image of he house, the path and all would last a ling time in my head.



The Red House of Stockbridge
[One Winter’s Morn]

Within the Forest large and deep
To Hawthorn’s house I walked
One winter’s morn
And touched upon the soil my feet
Where he once walked this snowy ground
Then resting upon his wooden fence
Where surely he strolled
To and fro

I listened to the story he wrote:
“The House of the Seven Gables”

Within this forest fresh with snow
Gazing upon a lake near-by
The Red House
Stands all alone
To tell his tales gone-by

Oh Yes! He walks this lane I stand
Talks to Melville of His plans
And chats with
Emerson who lives near-by
Of dreams, wishes, and winter’s sky

And as I turn to walk away
I see him resting by the fireplace…
IN the Red House of
Stockbridge




Written while visiting the Red House, in 1997. I paced the same path the paced when he lived there. As he once wrote: “This path is he only remembrance of me that will remain.” 1864. I wrote the poem 33,000-feet flying from New York City to St. Paul, Minnesota, and sent it back to my friend in Stockbridge, and it was mounted, and 50-copies sighed, and sold in Stockbridge’s special stores for my friend. This poem was also published in the book “Sirens,” 2004.







Chapter Sixteen
Nantucket
[And the long ride to Cap Cod]


Cap Cod


We were now standing on the ground of Nantucket Island, it was not the Mediterranean Sea, but it was special. We had driven 750-miles down the state to take a boat ride from Cape Cod to this small colonial island, where the oldest house on top of a hill dated to the late 1600s, I would lean against its fence in a day or so, and bust it, embarrassing; but that was yet to happen.

On the way dawn to Cap Cod, Sandy talked without stopping, about her boy, her ex-husband, and how she felt the boy was in need of her, trouble would befall him for sure if she was not present, and should it, she’d be 750-miles away. It was menacing to say the least, and I was becoming exhausted with this ongoing paranoia, suspicion, terror of a fatal catastrophe imminent to befall the son (it was too stressful for me to endure); this obsessive fixation of doom, this fatalistic view of her son’s impending destiny, was all placed, or based, on her presence, if—if even if she could not be with him, she should be by, or nearby him. So went the conversations for hours on end, twelve to be exact.

Nantucket

I pick up where I left off; we were now standing on Nantucket ground, there were a number of lighthouses on this island, but the first one I say was too far in the distance to be recognizable, the one I got to like and could see when we came into the pier, was Brandt Point, a attractive little lighthouse looking out from the island, to Cap Cod from Brant Point. For a moment I stood on the ground of this island, suspecting (thinking) this trip to Nantucket might not turn out as well as I had predicted: as it was a horrid ongoing conversation for hours on end driving the down state, and I was physically drained; although it might turn out I thought, now that I was actually standing on the island, but it would not be like the time we spent in Beijing, matter-of-fact, that spell was broken, it would never return, but what was to be in store for us? Whatever it was, it had to be less, and I had to take advantage of enjoying the presence of being on Nantucket for Nantucket itself, not hoping, expecting, or wishing for Sandy to make it all right for me to have a good time, or for her to be my main reason for being here, she wasn’t, she was for being in Stockbridge, I agree, but not here; once I cleared that up in my head, I was fine. I even told Sandy, if she needed time alone, she could just take off in her own direction, and we could meet at the port later on. This would take place on the third day, second night, of our stay on Nantucket: she’d leave for wherever, and so would I, and to be honest, it was a breath of fresh air.

I was hoping the first night, hoping I say—for I had already endured the most unloving of her characteristics—hoping her moods would change; but it was inevitable, it had to get worse before it got better I figured, but perhaps a few moments of excitement might be in store for us yet. Henceforward, we went to a few bookstores, extraordinary, and at night, the first night she still held the power to arouse me, but I was quickly getting limp, I had lost my stamina, yet I had my climax, and I’d try again to no avail: and I think that irritated her somewhat, yet she did not claim it did; plus, we had lost something: perhaps I was her wish, that is to say, she was replacing me with her husband, since she could not have him anymore. Thus, I was a replica (rebound)) she was rebounding)), and such folks like me caught in the middle of another’s rebounding from another relationship not yet healed, usually get thrown in the wastebasket sooner or later.
The Hotel room was great, the fireplace nice, the canopy over the bed, regal, and everything you wanted was there, it was all lovely, she looked lovely, a carnival of affection surrounded us, yet we were not as affectionate as our environment called for. And I grabbed the moment, for I knew they would not last, and would be far and in-between. We played our sexual games, this time with less lust, and more reservation, we were not exquisite in any measure.
The second day, we searched out the city again, went to Brandt Point, and I had to take a leak on the corner of the lighthouse, I could no longer hold myself, hold it in. I knew this in Beijing, didn’t know why I couldn’t, but a few times I found myself running to the bathroom, and pissed allover my pants, and was not about to do it again. It was of course my Multiple Sclerosis [MS] so the doctors had told me this was one of my symptoms. She made light of it, as she normally would, and the day went well. We had made love but once in the Hotel, and I was becoming embarrassed of my performance of that one time, I tried it again, straining, but I could not perform. She knew something was wrong, but not exactly what.

[Third day] The boat was to arrive at 1:30 PM, to take us back, over to Cape Cod, from the island, and Sandy asked for us to separate, I think she was getting in her moods again, and didn’t want to blanket me with her manic-depressive behavior for once. And although I frowned on this, I grabbed the opportunity to just have a nice morning, and forenoon, by myself.


Afterwards

When I had left Stockbridge, I knew the relationship was mush, but I held only disappointment for the way things turned out, she was trying to get her life together, and we always had Beijing; I had learned, as I had learned many times before, people are not always as they seem. She would call me for a few months thereafter, talk to me about her new boyfriend she had met at the pool hall, the bar she went to, and I told her I didn’t care to be her counselor; a friend I didn’t mind, but it could never be, she was too demanding, too much into her own affairs, to be able to care about mine, and so I kindly asked her not to call.




Notes on the writing of “An Affair in Beijing”
(for those who might be interested):

this story had three names, “Stockbridge Romance,” then I thought it should be “A Summer Palace Romance,” and then to its last name of which I gave to it its birth date of: 6/13/06 (for the romance was really an affair), as it describes more of what it is really about, the theme, “An Affair in Beijing.” The whole book was written in less than a week (to be exact: four days), at several locations in Lima, Peru, while I was waiting in lines, and sitting in chairs waiting to get this or that piece of paper, to acquire my permit to carry a gun.
It had occurred to me the first day writing this story, just before I had gotten out of bed, about 9:30 AM, I had done stories on just about every era, or decade of my life, but the 90s, and in particular with one romance that was not long in duration, but was fanciful, if not whimsical and in some measure, enjoyable, and adventurous.
This idealistic affair lasted from the middle of November 1996, to the first week of April of 1997; perhaps, some four and one half months. There also was a lot of psychology to look at in this relationship of sorts, which inspired me to extend it beyond a short story.
The two pictures in the book, one of a building, is the place where F. Scott Fitzgerald lived while writing his first book, while living in St. Paul, Minnesota with his family; near by one of the houses I had bought in the mid 90s as rental property. The drawing of the lighthouse in the book is of Brandt Point, on the island of Nantucket I drew on 6/13/06. The picture on the front of the book is of the Summer Palace in Beijing, China; I did with and in colored pencil, a few days before I did Brandt Point.
The events in the book are all true for the most part; I have not really tried to dramatize anything beyond fact, although I may have, unknowingly. Most names are not original, a few are. My character is of course Christopher Wright. In most of my writings or books I’ve used that name, as well as Chick Evens, and there are reason for that.
Christopher was my confirmation name, and Wright was my father’s name, of which I was given my mothers name at birth, since he chose not to be around to claim me. The name Chick is the name my mother gave me, a nickname, and the one I used while growing up during my formative years; Evens, was a name that came up when I was searching for my father’s last name, I had never seen him, he took off before I was born, and therefore, the name stuck with me. So these are my normal, or not so normal names I’ve used beside my real name occasionally writing what I call my historical short novels.
Chapter one was written June 11, 2006, and Chapter 12-14 written June 13, and the other chapters between 11 and 14th of June (something like that). Two chapters, ‘Back Home [Minnesota], and ‘Phone calls [Minnesota],’ were deleted (two end chapters)) originally 19 and 20)). The Afterward was completed at 8:45 PM, 6/14/96, taking four days to complete the story in full.
Ages were changed in this story: she was about 10 to 12 years younger than I, and I was 48-years old at the time, so I suppose she was between 36 and 38, I think she became thirty seven years old during the time we can call our affair time (about a 4-month plus, period).