Rich White Americans Page 6

  Karen and Lynn had been drinking like there was no tomorrow. No one asked for your ID at the Monkey Inn unless you looked like you were still in high school. Sally had a few beers and began looking happy. That’s when I glimpsed him. Instantly, our eyes met and I turned to run. I grabbed Sally by the arm. “We’re leaving now.”

  “Why?” Sally was inebriated and surprised.

  “Because I just saw Crutches.”

  “Crutches?”

  “He got me alone outside here one night after everyone had left. He has a bad rep. Everyone saw him giving me a bad time. They vanished. I was left alone with him, and he got me between his crutches in a back alley behind the Monkey Inn. He was rough, but I managed to duck under his crutches and run away. I had to run all the way across campus to get home that night.”

  Sally looked half-drunk, half-startled.

  “He’s dangerous; I know he is!” My heart started to beat hard and I stammered from the memory. Sally gave me a dazed look. I gave her a push.

  As we hurried out of the Monkey Inn, I shot more details about Crutches to her. “He put his cigarette out in the back of Lynn’s neck one night here. He filled Karen’s boots with beer; she nearly caught pneumonia by the time she got home. He’s a sadist. His physical condition has turned him into a monster. Hurry up!”

  Sally had drunk quite a bit of beer. She staggered. I yanked her by the hand. By now we were running, heading toward our studio apartment. I had to pull her half the way. She almost stumbled and fell a few times, but adrenaline propelled me. Crutches had tried to assault me over a year ago. Once was enough.

  When we made it home, we relaxed, had some dinner, took showers, and put our hair up in rollers. We laughed and talked about the evening.

  Sally lounged on our double bed in her nightgown. The shuttered windows were closed. I was ready to hit the hay, but stayed up to chat a while and calm my nerves.

  We talked about what Sally could do to get a job. That was when I first heard a scraping noise on the bricks that led to our studio, which was behind an imposing Victorian Berkeley house. Our studio apartments were converted from what had once been stables, I’d heard.

  My eyes opened wide. “It’s him!” My breath came in gasps.

  “Who?” Sally cocked her head, trying to understand what I was talking about.

  “It’s Crutches. I can hear the metal of his crutches scraping against the bricks in the walkway.”

  The sound continued. It grated slowly against the bricks and my nerves. “Oh, it’s just Ed getting his bicycle,” said Sally. Ed had lent me his bike before the trial, but he was practically in Florida by now.

  There was a knock at the door. “Don’t answer the door!” I hissed. Sally got up and opened it. There stood Crutches with another man, older than college age. They walked past Sally, standing barefoot in her nightgown, and sat down next to me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed where Sally and I had been talking. I froze. I could barely speak. The air thickened, and I felt like the walls might close in on me. Sally’s frightened-doe look came over her face.

  “How did you know where I lived?”

  “Oh, we just asked some of your friends,” laughed Crutches. He kept talking; he was animated and seemed unusually sociable.

  “This is my friend Ira. I met him in Europe. I just spent a year and a half in Europe.”

  Ira. What a name. Ire. Anger. All the emotions Crutches no doubt harbored since the accident that had robbed him of his mobility. I began to breathe faster, out of fear.

  Crutches pulled up a chair and sat next to me on the bed.

  “Excuse me,” said Sally. She went into the bathroom and locked the door, which left me alone with these two uninvited guests.

  I looked at the door. I knew Crutches was here to rape me. Or worse. With his friend Ira helping him. A wave of paranoia swept over me, rendering me immobile. I stared at his contorted, spiteful face in horror, a horror he seemed to relish, for he continued to talk as if we were at a rollicking party.

  “Yes, my brother Ned played basketball. I toured Europe. You know who my brother Ned is, don’t you?” With some difficulty, due to his iron crutches, he moved his chair within inches of my legs. He put his hand on my thigh as I tried to move away. I was petrified. An acute attack of paranoia turned me into a helpless woman in a thin nightgown.

  “Yes,” was all I could manage to say. I took his sweaty hand off my leg and scrunched up in the corner of the bed, my arms around my folded legs with my too-thin nightie pulled over them. I wanted to disappear.

  I could picture Crutches’ brother, well over six-feet tall, handsome, athletic, on the Berkeley basketball team, sought after by girls. He was every high school boy’s dream come true. I looked at Crutches. Short, swarthy, barrel-chested; he had extremely well-developed upper chest and arm muscles from having ambulated on crutches for so many years. I didn’t know how many; all I knew is that people called him Crutches. That was his nickname. And, he’d nearly had me in that dark alley, over a year ago. By force. I’d slipped under his crutches and run home, even though it was a mile away. I didn’t think to stop at a phone booth and call someone; my feet did the thinking, and I ran. This time, I had nowhere to run. I was petrified.

  His frowning face contorted into an affable smile. I had never seen him like this. On the few occasions I’d encountered him, his face mirrored the rage he projected onto women by pouring beer on them, putting out cigarettes on their necks. I knew I might die tonight. Such a man could kill. His friend did not smile. He fit his name, Ira. He was one hundred percent ire, anger, hatred. I wondered how anyone could name their child such a name. I listened for sounds from the bathroom. Not a peep.

  “Your friend is taking a long time in the bathroom,” said Ira. His voice grated on my nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

  “Is she?” I felt like a snared bird with a quivering throat that could barely make a sound, much less sing.

  “You look pretty tonight,” said Crutches, leaning closer to me.

  “No, I don’t. My hair is in rollers. I’m ready for…”

  He scrunched closer to me on the bed. My life fast forwarded before my eyes. I stopped midsentence. I could see the sweat on his brow, smell the rank stench of sweat from ambulating with steel crutches. I glanced at his atrophied legs and looked quickly away. I could hardly breathe.

  The phone rang. I lunged for it like a Titanic survivor flailing for a life raft. “Hello!”

  Crutches and Ira exchanged baleful looks.

  “Freddie? Fred Wally? Come over! Come over immediately. We want to go out! Come over right now… You will? Fantastic! I can’t wait! Yes, bring Chuck for Sally. We’ll be ready and waiting. We’ll explain later!”

  I hung up the phone and to discover the atmosphere had changed palpably. The tension drained out of it – like air out of a balloon. Crutches and Ira started to fidget. “Who was that?” asked Crutches.

  “Fred Wally and Charles Buchman. You know, our friends at the Monkey Inn?”

  Fred was at least 6’3" and muscular. Charles was shorter, stocky, but solidly built. I was sure he could stand his ground. I was no wimp by any standards, just outnumbered. The thought that I could hit them over the head with the lamp next to my bed ran through my mind. Fear still held me in its grip, which I was trying to shake loose. This was not like being hauled up the stairs and plopped on a bed. No, this was like staring at two psychopaths whose plans were to rape and kill me. Crutches’ hand on my thigh had convinced me, and my nervous system had imploded.

  “Well, if they’re coming, I guess we’ll be leaving,” said Crutches.

  It was almost mathematic: enter two healthy men, exit two psychopaths. I could hardly believe my luck. Things had been different with Andronicus. I had to fight him off, so I didn’t have enough advance warning to freeze up and have paranoia set in. I’d been lucky twice and made a run for it the other time. My brain was taking everything in so fast I could barely breathe.

  The two
creatures stood up hastily, too hastily, I noted. I was sure they would have raped me. Why they chose me, I had no idea. One thing I knew was that rapists were usually men who felt they were entitled to do what they wanted to a woman. Anxious to leave, they were halfway out the door.

  “Good night,” said Ira.

  “Don’t you want to stay to say hello to Fred and Chuck?” I asked, stifling a laugh.

  “Those two big guys? No thanks. We’ll be going now.”

  They left, Crutches scraping a fast getaway down the brick walkway. I’ve never heard a more welcome noise. Taking your anger at your disability out on women. That’s real manly.

  A red sports car awaited them, parked about a block from the entrance to our studio enclave. Crutches got into it and it sped away.

  Sally opened the bathroom door and peeked out, her hair still in curlers, her face white like the belly of a dead fish.

  “Fine friend you turned out to be!” I glowered at her, more relieved than angry.

  She sank back onto the bed. “Who were they?”

  “The guy I told you about earlier and a tough-looking friend named Ira.”

  I couldn’t believe Sally’s cowardice. Her disloyalty. No wonder she chose men who brutalized her. Maybe they chose her.

  “Why did you let them in?”

  “I didn’t think it was really Crutches. I thought it was Ed getting his bicycle.”

  My anger mixed with fright flowed around and through my friend until there was another knock on the door, this time belonging to Fred and Chuck, to whom I owed – I felt they’d saved my life.

  “You saved our lives!” I beamed at them. Freddie’s bright blue eyes lit up. He laughed and shook his flaxen-blond hair. Sexy boy, almost a man.

  “We do this all the time,” he said.

  I looked up into his handsome face; it was a minor miracle that I wasn’t raped and strangled with my own nightie. I felt like I was looking at an angel.

  “Crutches was here with a friend!” I said. I tried to have an imploring look on my face. I knew these were good-time guys, but I’d almost been raped. His hand was on my thigh. Of course, they didn’t see his hand on my thigh.

  “Let’s get going before the bars close!” said Chuck.

  Sally and I bolted to the closet, grabbed dresses, took the rollers out of our hair.

  “Sally, those guys were going to rape me!” I hissed as I slid a sleeveless dress over my shoulders. She gave me her blank stare. No wonder her boyfriend beats her, I thought, somewhat surprised at myself. I ran a comb through my hair.

  “Inny, they were just visiting.” Sally combed her bangs.

  “They were going to rape me!” I screamed as loud as I could.

  She put her fingers to her lips and said, “Shhhhh! Don’t tell anyone.”

  Who could I talk to? Just as we left, I saw a light go on in Albert Curtis’ studio. He opened the door. I waved frantically at him. He waved back as the boys hustled down the brick pathway to their car. He shouted something, but we were moving too fast for me to understand what it was.

  Before we knew it, we were in another bar, meeting more of Fast Freddie’s friends. Everyone called him Fast Freddie and Chuck, Chunky Charles, because he was a bit short and stout. The friends had nicknames, too, like Tapioca Terry and Ornery O’Brien. It was drinks on the house, with Sally and me clinking beer out of bottles with the fellas’, thanking our lucky stars for our change in fortune. I knew she knew but wouldn’t say a thing, because she never did. She was a weak link in my chain of friends.

  Pretty soon, we were engaged in beer drinking contests, which consisted of Fast Freddie challenging a perfect stranger to a beer-drinking contest with his friends standing around, barely able to keep from laughing. Freddie would throw his beer over his shoulder, onto the floor, while the other guy resolutely tried to chug his down. He’d lose, and Freddie would get a free beer, which, sometimes, he gave to me. When a pretty girl went by, he’d drop to his knees and say, “Will you marry me?” She’d walk away fast, sometimes turning her head to give Freddie a quick stare, while I stifled my laughter. Freddie was unpredictable and a character, and I loved characters!

  It was a crazy, drunken evening, the crowning event for having to stare down a disabled, mentally disturbed psychopath. What would Sigmund Freud have attributed it to? Sublimation? What turns men and women into creatures so mean and depraved that they must hurt others? Especially those who are least able to defend themselves? I called it cowardice and a heart long turned into a vile, rotten substance that only loved pain and misery, especially when experienced by others. Nonetheless, I’d had another close call and was beginning to wonder how many of my nine lives I’d used up.

  We winded our tipsy way down the brick pathway with Freddie and Chuck, laughing our heads off. As we approached the hallway between Sally’s and my studio and what had been hers and Jerry’s, I saw an ominous shadow. I almost walked into Jerry. He made a beeline for Sally, who cowered in front of him.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I practically shouted.

  “You tell me!” said Jerry.

  Freddie and Chuck exchanged amused looks, too drunk to understand what was going on.

  “These are friends of ours,” said Sally, giving Jerry a look that begged for mercy.

  “Get in there!” said Jerry. He pushed Sally into his studio.

  “Who’s that guy?” growled Chuck. He scowled at Jerry.

  “He’s Sally’s, um, ex-boyfriend; at least, I think he’s her ex.”

  “Why’s he so rough with her?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out for a while. I guess because she lets him,” I said. “I think she needs help.”

  “Well, we’re not father confessors! Chuck was starting to like her!”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  Chuck’s happy-go-lucky countenance changed into confusion, and Freddie frowned at me, waiting for an explanation.

  “They’ve been fighting lately,” I said.

  Freddie laughed. Chuck tossed his head and said, “Fine by me. We had a good time tonight.” He kicked a stone in the hallway, onto the brick walkway. “Girls.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I thought she’d never go back to him. He’s going to give her a hard time.” I leaned against the wooden railing of the stairway that led to Albert’s studio.

  Chuck leaned on Freddie. He laughed and said, “Look, Miss Inny, don’t you worry. We’ll find another young lady to have some good times with.”

  “The main thing is the good times!” I agreed.

  Freddie gave me a big smooch, and they walked away, laughing and making wisecracks.

  “Thanks for the beers… And for saving me from that monster!” I said with a smile full of gratitude.

  “Anytime,” said Freddie as they turned the corner and disappeared into the empty street that led to Berkeley’s campus. “We specialize in saving girls from bad guys.” They laughed. “Although your friend needs to be saved from herself!” Freddie said.

  Still reeling from the earlier events, plus Sally jumping back into her tormenter’s arms, I took a shower and tried to calm down. I put on my favorite Victorian nightgown, given to me by my beloved grandmother last Christmas. She’d broken down and cried when we called her. I’d only see her two more times before she died.

  Before going to sleep, I said a prayer to my grandmother, who loved me unconditionally. I imagined her sweet voice saying, ‘There, there, Little Inny, don’t fret.’ As she had when I was a toddler, growing up in her big, welcoming house, as big and welcoming as her heart.

  Chapter 4

  The next day dawned unusually sunny and clear for late September in Berkeley. It seemed surreal. I had psychology and American history classes in the morning. I had to take American history to graduate, just like I had to take this rat psychology class. I had no interest in either, but I was determined to get my degree.

  Rat psychology was what students called this class be
cause the course material dealt with experiments performed on rats. The professor had a bit of a reputation for eccentricity. Two days ago, he imitated a rat on a hot iron grid, jumping up and down and squeaking on the platform in an amphitheater, in front of two hundred and fifty students. I was beginning to think that my psychology professors could use some couch-time themselves.

  I thought of Crutches and shook my head, thinking there might never be enough clinical psychiatrists, especially good ones.

  Most of my classes consisted of large amounts of information being stuffed into students’ heads. The classrooms were huge, to keep the cost of mass education down. The professor also assigned a book called Men and Beasts. I couldn’t agree more. I wished I could talk to John Hopman, but he was in Santa Barbara and Jim at Harvard. He called from time to time, but we didn’t have much to say. I couldn’t tell him about my latest near-rape. Then, I remembered Albert. I could talk to him. He was kind and highly intelligent. He knew men were beasts; after all, he was gay. I wondered why men became gay. Why did so many mistreat women? And vice-versa. What would Freud have said? A Mommy complex? An over-active id? Childhood trauma? I knew it came from being spoiled rotten and thinking they were entitled to do as they pleased with a woman, much like some nasty people mistreat their pets.

  Later in the morning, Adrianne Koch finished her lecture on American history with a flourish, her lavishly ringed fingers and magenta satin robe added to her place as a unique woman on the U.C. Berkeley faculty. Widely respected for her research and writings on Cotton Mather and other old Puritans who had given the United States its unique take on sexuality, she’d quote them, ‘Dyed in the blood of the Lamb,’ for example, and make them come alive for her class of two hundred students. History took on a new life for me; I began to love it and especially Adrianne Koch. Little did I know I’d be in her office when she would receive a phone call saying that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been assassinated. I had other things on my mind today as I left the classroom with Mel Levine and others who were finishing up their required classes so they could graduate in June of 1964.