Part Two: Man on Fire (Island) or A Bump in the Road

continued from Part One: Man on Fire (Island)

As we disembarked from the ferry, I immediately felt duped. A chorus of pro-Pine apostles had assured me that although Fire Island deserved some of its sordid reputation for being the gay cliche, the beautiful "natural scenery" would make it worth the visit. Having lived in the Midwest and Virginia, I assumed "nature" would include some greenery and trees. Instead, I found myself staring at Chelsea - where I work everyday - transplanted onto the beach. No bother - I wasn't there to assess the Pines, I was going to a BBQ with good friends to have a good time.

As we made our way down Nautilus Walk I was astonished at how unfinished the boardwalk seemed. Surely these uneven and splintered planks of wood would impose bodily harm on all those unsuspecting (and drunk) boys with well-manicured toes and flip flops from Barneys! Had I not been wearing a rugged pair of fashionable Tevas, I too might have joined the ranks of the fallen.

When I arrived at the front door of Broadway Boy's house the requisite dance music was loudly playing, but oddly no one seemed to be home. I entered the front door and saw that some people had gathered inside the bedroom and had their backs turned to the main entrance.

"Surprise!" I yelled.

Clearly, I had surprised them because after a couple of muffled expletives they turned around to greet me with glowing pairs of bloodshot eyes, hyperactive smiles and runny noses.

"NICE TO MEET YOU!" they yelled enthusiastically.

I suppose it could have been considered a warm gesture - if I hadn't already known all of them.

"Why don't I give you guys a moment?" I asked/said awkwardly.

My boyfriend and I humbly took the strawberry rhubarb pie we had brought to the laundry room sadly realizing that our $40-dessert was not going to be the most stimulating (or expensive) item on the day's menu.

Excluding the initial bump in the road, the day progressed as we expected and included entertaining stories, show tune sing-alongs and inappropriate jokes. Finally, after the majority of the food had been cleared away, I announced that I was going to go and get the most amazing dessert anyone had ever tasted.

I excitedly made my way back to the laundry room only to discover a familiar scene: two men with their backs turned to the door, hunched over and, well, enjoying their dessert through their noses rather than their mouths. Unfortunately, my beautiful pie was being used as the serving platter.

"Are you doing coke off my pie?!" I yelled/asked ready to throw a hagstorm.

In search of a clean, dry surface, these two men had indeed used my delightful pastry as a mirror. With no attempt at an explanation, they sheepishly handed me my pie and quietly walked out of the room.

Not being able to distinguish between the sugar and the guests' last minute garnish, I only presented pieces that I felt were safe. One of the perpetrators sullenly approached me.

"I feel weird," he began. "I don't want you to think I'm a total coke-head. I never do coke. You believe me, right? I don't do coke." His manic insistence was both annoying and sad.

"Well," I sighed, "you've done it at least twice in your life, and I doubt that today was both your first and last day. It doesn't really matter what I think of you, does it? It's not like I'm ever going to see you again." With that, he recoiled and rejoined the party.

As I began to leave, one man with whom I had had a decent conversation approached me while reaching for something in his pocket, "Hey, before you leave - do you bump?"

"No!" I fumed. "Am I the only one here that doesn't do that?"

He stared at me oddly and then pulled out his iPhone.

"Um, it's a new app that I thought you might have," he said quietly. "I thought we were going to exchange work information so I could learn more about your organization."

I apologized and excused myself for not being quite up to speed.

Coming Soon...

What's in Name?

30 is the New 80

Part One: Man on Fire (Island)

Not unlike women, gay men are often subjected to unrealistic expectations with regards to their lifestyle, particularly those who live in New York. 

Do you have a high paying job? 

Is your body fit enough for the cover of [insert gay magazine]?

Is your gym membership at least $200 a month? 

Do you regularly frequent Fire Island with 80 of your closest friends? 

While these shallow benchmarks of personal accomplishment are ultimately meaningless, the constant reminders of great gay expectations are perpetually thrust in your face on the street, in ads, at the clubs and all over the neighborhood in which I work. This doesn't help my psyche much when all I want to do after work is go home, eat ice cream and put on a t-shirt and my drawstring pajama bottoms (or, what I refer to as my "lesbian pants").

As I clearly do not run with New York's gay elite, I was happy to accept a recent invitation from a producer friend (Broadway Boy) to the gayest of all meccas, The Pines at Fire Island. While its sheen has worn thin over the past decades and is considered cliche by some, its symbolism for debauchery and good times remains strong. When invited, my instinct was to perform a mental eye-roll, but I was persuaded to go when I heard that lots of free food was being offered. I figured it was worth the car, two trains and ferry it would take to get there. 

What to bring? Not owning a cute pair of swim trunks (another of my gay failings) that would show off my well-defined chest or rippling abs, I settled on my one pair of running shorts that sexily dangles to my knees. Next, some sunscreen with an SPF of 50 (only because I couldn't find a stronger one) and my H&M duffel bag with the makeshift paperclip clasp that replaced the zipper that broke immediately upon purchase. The only ammunition that would enable me to stand tall and proud was my much cooler and much cuter boyfriend. Perhaps his tattoos would distract judgmental eyes from my paper plate full of gratis hot dogs and potato salad.

While waiting for the ferry, the last leg of the journey, I was amused by the decidedly different cultures represented by the two lines - the line to The Pines and the line to Cherry Grove. On the Cherry Grove side, strollers, Birkenstocks and picnic baskets reigned supreme. On my side, boys with perpetual pouts and deconstructed poses, Prada and manbags with the capacity to hold a single fake ID represented the lot. I was in the wrong line.

Coming Soon...

Part Two: Man on Fire (Island)

What's in a Name?

30 is the New 80

Part Two: A Model Proposal

(continued from Part One: A Model Proposal)

His apartment was one of those New York dreams that included a high tech security eye scanner as well as an elevator that bore no resemblance to the makeshift mine shaft in my own apartment in Brooklyn. The incredibly smooth and silent ride to the fifth, and final, floor made me think that maybe it wasn't normal that my elevator groaned in protest when more than one person needed a ride.

The elevator dropped me off right in the center of, to date, the most amazing loft I have ever seen. Exotic art from countless travels, furniture that didn't come from IKEA or Target and ancient instruments that I've only seen played in museums or MTA subway stops adorned his TriBeCa palace. 

"Nice, isn't it?" bragged Mr. Brush Stroke.

Trying not to sound like a country bumpkin on his first visit to the "big city," I summoned a silent nod.

"Come here," he continued, "I want to show you my Asian book collection."

Mr. Brush Stroke led me to an enormous room filled with old-looking books, and like a heat-seeking missile his hand was guided to a collection of essays about misconceptions about Asian cultures. The cover was illustrated with a caricature of a Japanese man that looked as authentic as Mickey Rooney's lovingly-crafted portrayal of Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

"Do you know much about your heritage?" he asked.

"Not really," I said, "My mom is a Russian Jew and my dad is from Texas, so I'm hardly the authoritative voice for all things Asian."

"Well," he continued, "this book explores why people hate and mistrust the Japanese."

"Is this why you brought me here?" I asked, starting to get annoyed.

"One theory," he interrupted, "is that people find the shape of your eyes mistrustful. See? You have no eyelids. Some people think that you aren't opening your eyes all the way; it's like you are hiding something. Isn't that interesting? Would you like to borrow the book?"

I agreed to borrow the book and report back to him as long as we ended our discussion about why the world hates me and my people.

"Now, the real reason I invited you here was to show you some of my artwork. Come with me."

By then I had realized that we wouldn't be talking about any of the artists I represented, and that the trip was a total loss. What was the harm in looking at a little modern art? He was a successful painter. I was hoping the most distasteful thing I'd be seeing that day was the anti-Asian book in my hand.

Mr. Brush Stroke took me down a windy staircase that led to a workspace that was larger than my bedroom.

"The series that I'm about to show you was inspired by a photograph I saw of soldiers dying in a field during the civil war," he said solemnly.

Now, I do not claim to know anything about modern art, but the lack of any discernible shapes or recognizable forms reminded me of a paint-by-numbers kit I purchased from a liturgical gift shop as a child i.e. full of heart, but not full of fine detail. All of the paintings did include one clear image - a dying man in a state of, well, "excitement."

Mr. Brush Stroke then said to me,"I would like you to model for one of my paintings. I will pay you professional wages, of course. You have the perfect figure for this work."

I balked. "Oh...," I stammered, "I didn't realize Asian Americans played a significant role in the civil war. Besides, I think I may have given you the wrong impression. I have an annoyingly showy bravado, but I'm actually not that comfortable with..."

Mr. Brush Stroke took a step closer. "I can make you immortal," he whispered.

Inside I thought, "That's really gross," but outside I said, "That's really nice. But...I'm going to have to pass."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked innocently.

"Yes. Very much so."

I found my way out of his apartment and back onto the safe streets of New York. A few weeks later I received a phone call from Mr. Brush Stroke asking me for his book back. He said I was free to drop it by the apartment, but I opted to put it in the mail instead. I never did read it, but to this day I don't really trust people without eyelids.

Coming Soon...

The Shirt off My Back

Part One: A Model Proposal

Considering how long it takes to become an official "New Yorker," - 10 years is the popular standard - it seems alarming that anyone who achieved such a hard-earned status would then feel compelled to leave. However, an article recently published in an authoritative New York business journal profiled several families and their dissatisfaction with - and ultimately their happy exodus from - New York. These families possessed a staggering amount of assets (think: MTV's "Sweet 16" type birthday parties for their five-year olds) and were at the top of their corporate game. Their reasoning was simple: no one feels rich in New York.

Although general access to wealth varies widely from one community to the next, everyone in New York has significant monetary considerations in coping with the cost of living. In the middle-class neighborhood in which I live, heated conversations can be overheard at the Duane Reade regarding the convoluted 10-step rebate process on Charmin toilet paper and Tide. Riveting. On the other end of the spectrum, in Manhattan I recently consoled a friend who made the sad realization that cutbacks in 2009 will include the postponement of his pond and chandelier installation in his second home in the country. 

"We all have to make sacrifices, don't we?" he asked sadly (and without a hint of irony).

In my mind the soundtrack to Gone with the Wind played as I said sympathetically, "Dem worries sho' is heavy sir, but we be all right." Instead, I just concurred.

To grapple with the outrageous expense of the city, many people call themselves a free-lance [insert occupation] or pick up odd jobs on the side. Actor, singer, model, medical-testing specialist, sperm/egg donor - anything to make an extra buck. When I first moved to New York, a van full of Orthodox Jews pulled up to my bus stop in Brooklyn and asked me if I needed work that day. Although I was embarrassed to be mistaken for a migrant-worker, I would be lying if I said I haughtily rejected their query. "Would the job involve Chinatown and sewing labels on fake Gucci bags?" I asked. The van full of Jews drove away in a hurry the minute they realized that I had a strong command of the English language.

When I made the move from Boston, I brought with me what I then considered a healthy savings that would firmly launch my new life in New York. The one-two punch of an apartment search, storage bills, a low-paying job, no health insurance and all the usual temptations depleted my puny cushion in about three minutes.

Serendipitously, at the same time that my savings reached a negative balance, I met a well-respected artist at a business gathering. Seemingly interested in the work I represented, he suggested we meet for lunch on a future date to seriously "talk art." I was elated.

As I hurriedly made my way down the streets of TriBeCa to meet for the lunch, my cell phone rang. Mr. Brush Stroke said he was running late and asked if I would meet him at his apartment before we went out. Annoyed and already sensing where this conversation was headed I asked, "Isn't noon a little early to be slipping me a Ruffie-cocktail straight up? Why can't we just meet at the restaurant?" 

Mr. Brush Stroke laughed and insisted that we would only be there for a minute and that his intentions were pure. "Do you always assume the worst about people? Besides," he said, "there are some new paintings I would like to show you."

Having endured a subway assault and a rock to the head that year [see Part Four: When Animals Attack!], I figured perhaps some negativity had taken hold of me and that I was unfairly jumping to conclusions. "Fine," I said, "but only for a minute..."

Coming Soon...

Part Two: A Model Proposal

Part Three: Bottoms Up!

(continued from Part Two: Bottoms Up!)

A fastidious proctor entered the room and explained the itinerary for the evening. Rather than proceed with traditional speed dating protocol, the Gay Center had devised a new mechanism that would surely assist us all in finding suitable matches based on shared interests [read No Gay Left Behind]. Each participant received a number tag - not to be confused with a name tag - and a blank Scantron sheet. The procedure was simple: each man was to stand up with a microphone for one minute and essentially "sell himself" to the crowd. After all 60 participants made their pitch, a mingling session would follow where we - the cattle - could follow up with anyone that had piqued our interest. Finally, we were to fill in the Scantron sheet and run it through the magical match machine. If your picks were also interested in you, a match was recorded on a ticker and a date was to be scheduled after the event. Needless to say, I was simultaneously mortified and humiliated. Not only was I reduced to a number, but the drafting process did not ensure one decent conversation. Flashbacks of being picked last (or not at all) during elementary school gym class hurtled out of my subconscious - the only difference being now I have better shoes and cherish being skinny.

As part and parcel to my New York luck thus far, the proctor randomly chose the man next to me to begin the evening.  He nervously revealed a premeditated sales pitch from his pocket which read as follows:

"Um, hi. I'm number 108. I've been taking care of my sick mom for, like, two years. She's dead now. I think it's time for me to get back into the real world again and start dating. Thanks."

Then it was my turn, and I was stumped. I'm not afraid of public speaking, but I had envisioned myself attempting to deliver a funny story or two. After the aforementioned eulogy the room had turned both somber and fidgety. I clutched the microphone and proceeded onward.

"Hi guys. I'm lot number 0-2-7. [minimal laughter] I just survived my first year in New York which included a tornado, bedbugs, an assault on the subway, a boss that gave me an orange for a Christmas bonus and a cancer scare. [silence] Also, a man in my neighborhood mistook me for a laundromat attendant and tried to get me to make change for a dollar while I was drying my clothes. [random gasps] I suppose if I can survive that I can survive a few more shi**y dates with you guys. Because, ultimately, that's why we are here, right? To have some more shi**y dates. Thanks."

After a bit of hoopin' and hollerin' (not to mention a scattering of "You go girl!") order resumed.

The mingling session proved to be as forced as everything else in the evening, and finally, the moment of truth came. I made my draft picks, and four matches were returned. In sum:

Match #1: A 37 year old chiropractor who, on our first date, told me that most of my personality and life's trajectory could be explained through astrology.

Match #2: A 27 year old English teacher who, after our second date, stated that we we both wanted the same things, he was very attracted, and he couldn't wait to see me again. He never returned any of my phone calls after that date.

Match #3: A 39 year old interior decorator who, after my follow up phone call two days after the mixer said, "Jonah? Hmmm....wait, tell me again where we met?" I replied, "It's not important," and hung up.

Match #4: A 33 year old lawyer who was kind and very thoughtful. We just didn't click romantically.

I suppose it could have been worse; about half of the room did not end up with any matches that evening. Although it does raise the question: which is worse - 4 fruitless dates or none?

Coming Soon...

The Love for Three Oranges

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Two: Bottoms Up!

(continued from Part One: Bottoms Up!)

All men might have been created equal, but all dating Web sites certainly were not. Consider the following:

My heterosexual single friends have a vast array of dating Web sites at their disposal ranging from the flowery "eHarmony.com" to the whimsical "LavaLife.com," not to mention the equal-opportunity "Deaf SinglesConnection.com," the religiously conscious "Catholic Singles.com," "Big Church.com," "JDate.com" and the downright scary (and possibly illegal) "My ForeignBride.com."

My gay brethren, on the other hand, are limited to a virtual prix fixe which includes the primal "Manhunt.com," the overly-inclusive "Gay.com" and the just plain gross "SilverDaddy Search.com." For those looking for a relationship that neither includes hunting (something my tribe generally has little predilection for) or a benefactor old enough to be my father's father but who promises to get Sallie Mae off my back once and for all, the choices can be somewhat discouraging.

My most recent dating tool of choice was the Web site Match.com which offers its services to both camps, straight and gay. The last man who wrote took the time to thoughtfully cut and paste his profile into his first message. It was as well crafted as a telegram and read as follows: 

"Hi there. Looking for an asian/oriental guy 18 to 50. Should be thin, smooth, preferably wearing glasses. I like bald/shaved guys, butch or feminine. A passion for classical music and even ballet. Maybe a professional musician."  Stop.

Am I Asian/Oriental? Check.

Am I between 18 and 50? Check.

Am I thin, smooth and preferably wearing glasses? Check.

Am I bald/shaved, butch or feminine? Check.

Do I have a passion for classical music and EVEN ballet? Check.

Was I, at one time, a professional musician? Check.

Although I fit all of my potential suitor's discriminating criteria, I got the feeling his net was cast a little too wide to make me feel even remotely special. 

In an effort to find another modus operandi for a successful outing, I attended a singles mixer held in Chelsea. It was marketed as "Professionals' Night" although there was no definition of what constituted a "professional." For all I knew, it could have been a hooker conference, but my optimism remained steadfast. I must admit that I did not do my due diligence prior to my arrival and assumed the evening was the typical speed dating set up. I was wrong. 

I was led to a dimly lit room that had as much ambiance and warmth as an abandoned warehouse, a fact I found ironic considering it was organized by the minority group that most readily self-identifies as the epitome of style and taste i.e. Chelsea gays. Each attendee was handed a number and a Scantron sheet for later use. The room slowly filled to about 60 men who nervously averted eye contact and, with feigned laughter, insisted that this was their first time there. Judging by the prepared note cards I spotted in several men's hands, I guessed I might be among  singles mixers junkies.

Coming Soon...

Part Three: Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

The Love for Three Oranges

Part One: Bottoms Up!

East Village, 2007:

A wise woman once said that a first date is equivalent to a job interview with cocktails. This cynical outlook has certainly proved true for me as I have navigated the perilous, ridiculous and often disheartening dating scene in New York. I have often joked that I am a trash-magnet, and to be sure, I have lived up to my name (in most cases - not all).

My first New York date was filled with anticipation. I met a fashion designer for a well-respected men's line through a well-meaning friend who apparently thinks the only criteria for two men to make an emotional connection is homosexuality. While this qualifier is certainly crucial, it is, alone, rarely enough to establish a meaningful, long-lasting [read: longer than 24 hours] relationship. 

We met at a loud Thai restaurant that seemed to be the domain of NYU students on a strict budget. He was 5'9'', Asian, thin and about 30. I am 5'10'', Asian, thin and 29.

He greeted me warmly not with a "nice to meet you" but rather a "Oh good, you're hot."  I nervously laughed and said, "Well, that's a little self-congratulatory isn't it? We look like we could be brothers!" He did not laugh and stared at me quizzically- and we were off!

The dinner was the typical first-date question and answer session. Where are you from? How long have you been out? Are you close to your family? Where do you live (i.e. how much money do you make)?

I should have anticipated it, but naturally as a designer he wanted me to voice my opinions about which designers were important in today's fashion market. Now, I enjoy Project Runway as much as the next gay, but as long as the clothes look decent and fit well, I don't really care about labels. I explained to him that there are designers that I think of as incredible artists, and whom I could never afford, and there are designers I enjoy because they look expensive but are, in fact, not. Fashionista seemed unmoved and bored by my response. I then asked, "Well, then, who do you like?"

Fashionista responded with a definitive, "I only wear Prada, Gucci or Dolce."

At this point I was so annoyed at this [expletive] that I got on my sassy horse and advised,"You know, you might want to think twice about saying something like that on a first date unless you think the guy is easily impressed. You like nice clothes? Well, that makes you as unique as 95% of the gay population."

A cold silence ensued for about five minutes as we quietly focused on our Pad Thai. Finally, in an effort to mitigate the awkwardness, Fashionista asked, "So...are you a top or bottom?"

In an even tone I said, "You know, I don't think it's going to be an issue for us."

Fashionista unflinchingly pressed on, "...because I'm only a top. Will that be a problem?"

In a less even tone,  I said, "It has been my experience that those who insist on their predominance as a top are, in fact, the world's biggest bottoms. I'm done, are you?"

We exited the restaurant in two completely different states of mind. I chalked it up to a wasted evening, but Fashionista seemed to think it was a successful first outing. He asked if I wanted to come back home with him as his apartment was conveniently located nearby. I declined the offer, and he aggressively demanded an explanation. 

"...because I'd rather do laundry," I offered. "I have to wash my Prada, Gucci or Dolce."

The evening ended with me folding non-designer socks, but Fashionista called four times the following week insisting we meet for drinks. Maybe I should have told him I shop at Target?

Coming Soon...

Part Two: Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Four: When Animals Attack!

Pictured Above: Culprit #3 - Homo sapiens

(continued from Part Three: When Animals Attack!)

Brooklyn, 2008: 

Every parent is supposed to teach their children to be wary of strangers. It is one of the first lessons my parents taught me, and yet, having grown up in the Midwest, the rule seems contradictory to the generally affable public culture. Strangers are known to smile, greet or even hold  a door open for a fellow human being.

In New York, however, a stranger who smiles at or dares to talk to you is deemed one of two things: insane or a pervert. Quite possibly an insane pervert - particularly on the subway. I hate this aspect of New York, but sometimes there are good reasons to avoid human interaction. I learned this the hard way.

I was riding the subway home late one evening with my friend Opera Buff when a middle aged man sat next to me and started unabashedly staring at us. He moved uncomfortably close to my face and started spewing forth a flood of homophobic declarations. I turned directly to him and firmly made it clear he was to get lost. His bloodshot eyes darted around the nearly empty car, and then, quite unexpectedly, he moved a few seats from us - apparently lost in his own thoughts. 

I foolishly turned away from him and picked up my conversation. Suddenly, I felt a sharp blow to my temple; my new friend had taken the opportunity to strike the side of my head when I wasn't looking, and his ring cut the area right below the ear canal. Like any coward, the man fled the car the minute the train came to a stop. As I blindly searched the floor of the subway for my glasses, the other passengers continued listening to their iPods, reading their magazines or purposely ignoring the event at hand. Strangers 2, Jonah 0.

My friend and I got off at the next stop and proceeded to report the incident to the Metro attendant. After I asked to file the appropriate paperwork, the attendant gazed dully at me and asked, "Well, what do you want me to do about it? Call the police? I have no idea how long it would take for them to get here." Strangers 3, Jonah 0.

The next morning it was clear that my hearing was impaired in my left ear. Sound was barely audible, and I knew I had to go to the hospital. I had no health insurance at the time, but I had read about some hospitals that would let me pay on a sliding scale. I found the name of one on a scrap piece of paper and walked to the nearest car service in my neighborhood. After telling the driver the address, his ears perked up. He had no interest in going to that neighborhood and told me to get out of the car. I offered to pay extra and made the case that I needed to get to the ER immediately. "Sorry," he said. Strangers 4, Jonah 0.

I finally made it to the ER where my good friend Connie was waiting for me. He distracted me from the horrid surroundings by bringing me food and letting me help him prepare for an upcoming audition by drilling him on his text. His song was in Polish, and I'm sure I was of no assistance. He insisted that I was - not because it was true, but because it was kind.

After the first four hours of waiting, my friend WT joined me in the ER while I got my CAT scan and financial paperwork in order. After 10 hours in the hospital, I was told that the bruising to the ear canal would heal. The hospital staff, completely overworked and under-paid, sympathetically offered their services for a nominal $30. Things were looking up.

A few days later, my cousin met Daniel O'Donnell (New York State Assembly Member and Rosie O'Donnell's brother) at Indiana University's Law School. Mr. O'Donnell is an outspoken advocate of gay rights and took great interest in my story - particularly to the MTA attendant's cold response. He assisted me in filing my case with the New York City Crime Victim's Board, and a few months later I received an apology from New York City Transit President, Howard H. Roberts, Jr. as well as a notification from the hospital that my bill would be waived.

I guess strangers aren't so bad after all.

Coming Soon...

Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

 

Part Three: When Animals Attack!

(continued from Part Two: When Animals Attack!)

Pictured Above: Culprit #2 - Cimex lectularius

Cimex lectularius:

"Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite!"

I vaguely remember the time when that little lilting rhyme was a precursor for a good night's sleep as a child. Now, as an adult who has had to cope with three rounds of the nasty and persistent vermin, the rhyme could more accurately be described as a futile dream.

Having battled mosquitoes the size of small birds for 17 years in the suburbs of Minnesota, I was accustomed to the seasonal presence of bug bites.  Itchy red welts were as part and parcel of the summer landscape as allergies, lemonade stands and parent-induced sports. 

When a few bug bites turned up on my arm shortly after my move to New York, it seemed natural, then, that summer here might also be accompanied by a few harmless welts. It was only after a rather restless night that I turned on my bedside lamp to witness a small, brown dot running across my comforter. After inspecting my bed and finding nothing, I assumed it was some sort of spider and went back to sleep.

In the morning light, however, tell-tale groupings of bedbug bites were visible on my back. As I would later learn, bedbugs tend to bite in a series of three and leave equidistant marks affectionately named by pest-controllers as "breakfast, lunch and dinner."

First came denial. I knew that bedbugs were running rampant in New York; an opera singer I met at a summer music program sued a famous hotel chain after suffering from over 150 bites over the course of a few days. Yet I found nothing in my apartment to signify an infestation. To be safe, I carefully gathered up my bed clothes and prepared to take them to the laundromat. After lifting my mattress pad, a group of brown dots scattered in different directions.

I immediately called my landlord who implied that I "might be dirty" but nevertheless arranged for a team of exterminators to remedy the situation. The pest control team warned me that one of the many charms of bedbugs is their ability to live without food for over a year.

In an effort to arm my bedroom against the onslaught of new bedbugs, I was told that rubber sheets would be needed to outfit my frame and mattress for an indefinite amount of time. 

Dutifully following orders, I visited a nearby Target where the only rubber sheets available were in the Child Care aisle. Written in bold lettering, the sheets were labeled: BECAUSE ACCIDENTS HAPPEN!

Not wanting to be pegged as a dirty immigrant with a bladder control problem, I searched in vain for something to purchase that would distract the check-out attendant. A scented candle, perhaps? Then I would just be a dirty immigrant with a bladder control problem and bad taste. Never before had I wanted a self-check-out counter so badly!

I settled on thank you cards so, at the very least, I would be deemed a bed-wetter with manners. The cashier noticeably smirked, gave me a sympathetic sigh and sent me on my way.

Now having endured two additional rounds of bedbug attacks, I have resigned myself to a life of vacuuming my apartment every day, rotating my clothes and bed linens through the freezer for two week periods, storing my towels in plastic bags and, to make matters worse, disinviting potential suitors up to my apartment. When probed for a reason, all I can do is  - like my landlord - imply that, "I might be dirty."

Coming Soon...

Part Four (Finale): When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up

The Shirt off my Back

Part Two: When Animals Attack!

(continued from Part One: When Animals Attack!) 

After quickly deciding that rabies wasn't for me, I paid a visit to a nearby clinic. A nurse greeted me warmly upon my arrival, and while she took my vitals she inquired about the nature of my appointment.

"Well, I had a rough weekend," I began. "I was bitten by this crazy dog a day ago, and..."

The nurse nearly dropped her clipboard. She looked at me gravely and asked, "Why didn't you go to the ER right away to begin the vaccination process? Oh god. I don't know what we can do for you here."

I didn't realize that it was common knowledge that following a dog attack you were supposed to drop everything and run to the ER, but now I felt a little stupid in addition to being scared about the whole attack-on-the-central-nervous-system thing.

The nurse hurried out of the exam room and brought a doctor back with her who informed me that I was wasting time "just sitting there," and I needed to get to the ER right away.

"I just hope it's not too late," the nurse offered helpfully.

The clinic called a personal car for me, paid for the fare and sent me on my way for a full examination at the nearest hospital.  After a brief conversation with a different - and much nicer - nurse, we decided the best course of action was to begin the five step vaccination process.  The new nurse informed me that the first set of injections would have to be directly entered into the wound, and given the location of the bite (on my right knee) she expected that it would be painful. Very painful. So painful, in fact, that she said they would stop when, "I just couldn't take it anymore." 

Following her prologue of terror, a needle the size of a small medieval sword was prepared by an assistant and filled with a syrup-like liquid.

"I just can't take it anymore," I joked.

No reaction.

The nurse continued and begin a series of seven shots directly into my knee. To calm my nerves, I replayed the death scene from Old Yeller repeatedly in my head. He had it coming, I gleefully thought.

The nurse then spoke to me in tone that is generally reserved for defenseless children, "Now, you are probably going to be scared of dogs for a while."

"Are you kidding me?" I shot back in a (for lack of a better adjective) bitchy tone. "If I ever see that dog again I'm going to ship it right back to my home country. Do you know what they do to dogs there? EAT THEM!"

My rather sudden and rabid countenance shocked the nurse into silence.

"Sorry," I apologized. "It's the rabies talking."

Coming Soon...

Part Three: When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up

The Shirt Off My Back