A Letter from Tel Aviv

Miriam Segev griped a crumpled sheet of paper in her fist as she gazed out at the red sun set on the flight to New York. Though, it was not the sky she saw. Her mind rested in another place, with other people, at other times. She had been holding back tears for the past three months, but in that very moment, they began to role down her freckled cheek. She shut her eyes, clenched the paper tighter, and wept.

When the Road Map for Peace failed in 2006, Miriam’s father blamed George W. Bush and Prime Minister Olmert more so that the Palestinians. “I’m so tired,” he sighed reading the paper, at the breakfast table in Tel Aviv. “Frankly, at this point, I don’t care whose sitting in the Palestinian parliament.”

Miriam and her brother, Elliott, did not respond to their father’s blustering. Elliott, especially, said nothing --three years older than Miriam, and very much a patriot. So too had been their father, but the once zealous Zionist had become embittered, losing hope in the success of Israel. He was becoming more and more in favour of the two-sate-solution: “No one is going to get what they want here,” he continued. “Especially not with that maverick Olmert in office.”

Miriam watched Elliott’s face as their father spoke. She wondered if he knew how much his ranting bothered Elliot, who had one year earlier finished his three years with the military. Elliot had felt very strongly about that commitment, and the commitments of his friends then in service. Miriam on the other hand, was unable to serve because of chronic bronchitis but she could recognize the significance it held for Elliot. He would have continued in service, had his father not forbade it altogether.

“That Olmert, he’s a real loose canon.” After this comment, Elliot stood up silently and left the room. Miriam watched him leave, but remained silent, and ate her breakfast.

That evening Miriam sat at her desk staring at a letter she had written years earlier, just days before Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin was assassinated by Yigal Amir in 1995. Her father was an Oslo supporter in the 1990’s and even though he bore a resentment for the Palestinians, he refused to take it seriously. Miriam was always amazed at her father’s dogmatic cultural relativism. She concluded that it was only possible because over the years, especially after his retirement, he became more and more secular and spoke more and more often of relocating the family to the United States. Rabin’s murder was a tipping point for him. “It’s Jews killing Jews now,” he had signed. “Can we even say that there is an definite enemy anymore? If not everyone, you know? How could anyone do this to us? We were so close.”

The letter was addressed to Prime Minister Rabin. When she had written it he was still alive and she wanted to thank him for working for the peace that her father so greatly longed for. At the age of seven, she wasn’t aware of how Rabin’s assassination would affect that peace. When she sat in her room that evening, then nineteen, she was sure that with or without Amir’s help, peace wouldn’t have been possible.

She looked at this letter often, always at night. It was a simple little note, written on loose leaf from a little girl, to a politician: Thank you Mr. Rabin. My father will be happy now. But the letter went unsent and her father never became anything more than begrudged against his own government.

Miriam had thrown out and retrieved this letter countless times from the trash bin. She read it in an attempt to preserve an innocence that she possessed at seven because she was also growing bitter; her father’s cynicism was very convincing in its naïve sincerity. Her brother, on the other hand, preached in his own way but in an opposite thread. For him, Israel was a work in progress and he secretly accused his father of giving up on the idea of progress. Elliott was convinced that eventually the Arabs would have to come to terms with the fact that Israel was there to stay. Miriam’s mother had left when she was too young to remember so she often felt pulled between the ardent views of her father and brother. She could not decide where she stood, and preferred not to. She instead worked toward innocence, like that of the young girl she once was. The innocence she craved did not see the world as excluding her, as a Jew, or as something assimilating her, as her brother said of the States.

Yet every time she read the letter, the innocence it exhibited was a symbol of hopelessness and bitterness for a future that her brother prophesized and her father mourned for. She would crumple the letter and throw it in the trash while weeping, only to pull it out in the morning and hide it back in her desk.

That July, Hezbollah launched rockets from Lebanon against the Israeli military, and Israel went to war. There had been conflicting stories about prisoner exchanges and Hezbollah was openly declaring their intentions to destroy Israel. The government was claiming that it was not at war with Lebanon but was hoping for their co-operation to control a threat to Israel, harboured within their borders: the situation was sensitive.

Miriam was sitting in the living room watching the new feeds with her father when Elliott entered the room with his nap sack. Her father was in the middle of a speech when he noticed Elliott lacing up his boots.

“Where do you think you’re going?” her father loudly inquired. Elliot didn’t say anything, and continued to lace his boots. “Elliot,” he spoke very loudly. Miriam knew very well what was happening and so must her father, and this suddenly filled her with dread.

“You had better not be doing what I think you’re doing.” There was no response. “Elliot, take off you boots and come in here.”

Her father stood up, wide eyed, and began toward the door. Elliot finished tying his boots and stood straight, and proud.

“Elliot, take off your fucking boots, because you’re not going anywhere.” He shouted. Elliot was silent and did not move.

“Elliot, take off your…”

“Father,” he said very calming but sternly. “I can’t stay here right now. Please don’t try to stop me.”

“Who do you think you are boy?” her father shouted. “This isn’t your fight. You’ve done your time. Now you’re done. I wont have it. That’s it!”

“That isn’t it!” Elliot yelled. Miriam had never heard her brother shout, let alone at his father. Not even when he was forbad from continuing in the military.

“I can’t wait here for the end like you can,” he shouted. “I can’t just wait for the rockets to rain down on Tel Aviv like you can. I can’t wait for the Palestine to out breed us and overwhelm us like you can. You’ll just set here, barking at the news paper and watch everyone on the planet take a little piece of Israel until there’s none left, that way you can go to New York without feeling like a coward!”

“If you go out that door, never come back here!”

Elliott turned to open the door, but his father grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back into the porch.

“Do you hear me?” he cried.

Miriam shut her eyes as Elliott hit his father, knocking him to the floor. He looked back at her from the carpet. She could not decide what her father was thinking, nor could she break eye contact with him.

None of them said anything as Elliott opened the door and left, disappearing into the warmth of the Israeli night.

Miriam could not sleep that night, nor the night after. She sat up in her bed, with only a side lamp for light, staring at the letter: My father will be happy now. Each time she read the line, she could not help but sob. Each day, the letter became more potent, and each day, her father grew more quiet. He did not speak of the fighting nor of Elliott.

The first day of ground combat saw twenty-four Israeli soldiers killed. Yet, no messenger came to their door. Over forty Israeli civilians were killed by the rockets during the conflict. Miriam did nothing but watch the news feeds, scrutinizing the footage for any trace of Elliott, but she saw none.

It was near the end of July when she heard her father’s voice again. He walked into the living room and sat beside Miriam on the sofa, putting his arm around her.

“You know what we haven’t done in a while?,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t know,” Miriam noticed that he wouldn’t look her in the eye. He seemed to look past her, out the window.

“We should see a movie at Cinemathèque,” she could feel him picking at the back of the sofa cushion. “It’s been a while since we’ve gone there, as a family…” He paused for a moment.

“Do you remember when we went to the Videotape Festival?” his eyes were wide and searching the sidewalks and streets.

“That must have been five years ago now, I guess… Wow, time really just flies by…” he began to sob but he would not turn away from the window. Miriam hugged his neck and they both stared out the glass at Tel Aviv.

The ceasefire took effect on August 14, 2006. About one hundred and twenty soldiers died in the fighting, but no one was sure exactly how many were killed. Elliott never returned home, but an army messenger never visited their home. Elliott seemed to just disappear. Miriam could not decide what she would believe. Had he been killed, or had he lived and obeyed his father by not returning? The army also seemed to be unsure about what happened to Elliot Segev and could provide not resolution.

A week later, Nationalists and Zionists were splashed across the television touting how Israel was national liberation at its finest, while others warned that Israel was no longer safe for Jews. Academics and social critics bickered over the wars effect on Israel’s international identity. Others complained that the international media had slanted their coverage of the war in favour of Hezbollah. Later, the Israeli chief of staff was forced to resign after it was found that he was selling stocks just before the response attack. Eventually everyone in the government was taking responsibility for some sort of mishap or blunder in the Lebanon conflict.

Miriam, bombarded by their shingle and rhetoric, sat at her desk and pounded her letter to Prime Minister Rabin with her fists until they bled. She screamed at the dead man, cursing him. She cursed Yigal Amir, she cursed Prime Minister Olmert along with all of Israel. She cursed it for its success and cursed it for its disgrace. She screamed until her voice was horse and wailed until, from exhaustion, she collapsed.

Miriam’s father had become a recluse, sitting in his study with the door closed. She knocked on the door, letting him know that his was leaving for groceries. After knocking, she opened the door and entered the dim den. Her father was asleep, bent over his desk holding a torn piece of loose leaf paper. It was her letter, creased, tattered and blooded.

She had decided, at that moment, that they would leave Tel Aviv.

It was March 20, 2007 when Miriam Segev and her father, Malachi, stepped onto a plane for the United States. She watched her father sleeping in the seat next to her, hoping that the move would do him some good. They had some family in New York and were welcome to stay their until they got on their feet. It was likely that Miriam would have to take care of her father for some time to come, but that was not on her mind right now. Her mind was in another place, with other people, at other times. She had been holding back tears for the past three months, but they began to role down her freckled cheek. She shut her eyes, clenched the letter and wept.

Jerry

His name was Jerry but I called him ‘Moron’ or 'Shit Head', always to his face, never behind his back. He was a man I used to work with ‘bout four years ago, when I was twenty. At forty, he lived with his mother. I think she’s from Spain or Italy, one of those countries. She’s pretty old I guess; on the verge, if not the summit, of senility. She must be dead if he’s on the bus. But I’d rather not ask. He’s right there, sitting in the seat ahead of me, but I’d prefer him not know I was here.

We use to work shingling roofs in Calgary. It’s hot work in the summer and cold as hell in the fall. His ears are still red and sun cracked. Must be still in the business. As for me, I work in an office now and that’s how I like it. Sometimes, I get nostalgic about that feeling after a hard day work. The sun will pound down on you just as hard as you’ll pound down on the shingle nails. I was his foreman. He was useless as a worker and awkward as a human. Seeing him brings back those old feelings of nostalgia but also of nausea. Why I never fired him perplexes me still. Everyone he’s ever worked for has probably felt the same. Is this person so pathetic that no one can fire him?

I’m on the morning bus here in Hamilton. My destination, a downtown call-centre, is only about eight blocks from my home but I was lazy and took the ol’ bus. I could’ve walked there quicker. The traffic is thick and I’ve been stuck here for about ten minutes now. I’m starting to resent the brick buildings that cage me in and all those motorists who decided to drive today. If they had taken the bus like me, instead of being stuck in traffic wishing we were at work, we could all be at work, drinking coffee, wishing we were home. You know the way it is. Instead here I am, staring at Jerry through the corner of my eye. I hope he doesn’t look up.

I didn’t notice him when I first got on this bus. I guess his demeanour has shown through again; unnoticeable. That, and I don’t really consider who might be one the bus when I first get on. Who the hell cares? I just want a seat. I flipped the driver my bus-pass and seeing there’s no seats, I grabbed the ceiling bar and stood in the isle like a sucker. I never look at people ‘til I’m settled. I would rather just ride unnoticed, you know? I like to be an active observer while being a passive presence.

But I notice lots of things --don’t get me wrong. There’s that girl with the kinky hair at the Beer Store. We talk there, at the check-out, but never outside of that. I doubt a conversation would last longer than twenty seconds; I’m not sure if she could last that long. Usually she’ll say, “how’s it going?” I’ll put the 12 pack of Sleeman’s on the counter and say “oh you know, it’s going.” She’ll ring me through and I’ll say, “anything interesting around these parts?” She’ll laugh. “Here? Are you kidding?” I’ll pay in cash and she’ll keep the change. It’s a little game we play; like we don’t know each other: I think she wants to sleep with me. “See you later.” I go. That’s not a conversation you can have on a bus. Once you’re finished what you have to say you can’t just ignore ‘em. There’s too much time on the bus. There’s too much potential for dead air. It’s like committing yourself to marriage. What if you can’t stay with that person? I can’t risk it and neither can she. So, if I’m walking down the street and I see her, and she sees me, she’ll pretend not to see me and I’ll pretend not to see her. Perfectly fine. This economy is working for me.

There’s a hodgepodge of other people on the bus besides Jerry. There’s a chubby college girl whose white shirt drapes over her rolly body because of her massive breasts. It draws such vulgar attention to them. She sits, wedged in her seat, with here equally large boyfriend. He has to struggle to put his arm around her. They look so squishy and soft. I wonder how they have sex. I image two round mushroom caps, smothered in garlic butter, bouncing against each other as a dirty line-cook jostles the sauce pan.

There’s a man in his late forties with a red beard and matching plaid jacket. He is holding a CBC radio travel mug, red as well; the kind without a handle. He looks like the kind of guy that listens to those early morning CBC shows about trash removable in Brampton or fishing in the Okanogan. He could even be the man on the radio with that silky clarinet voice who’s every word I cherish. So many late nights and early mornings I listen to him; the man on the radio who makes everything interesting and strangely cultured. I would love to talk to that man but this was not him. I know because it’s morning now and he’d be two hours late for work. This man, if anything, looks early.

I’m looking around but my eye keeps lingering back to Jerry. When I say his name to myself it growls in my ears: Jerry. I wish he’d get angry at the traffic like I am and get off this damned bus. That way I wouldn’t have to keep pretending he wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have to feel egocentric or selfish. I could just go on enjoying the bus ride. I wasn’t in a rush but now I am. I want to get the hell out of here. So why don’t I leave? Is there anything beside old gum gluing my legs to this floor? Yes.

If I move Jerry’ll see me. I just thought of that. I can’t even look at him, can I? He’ll feel my eyes on his back. It’s true. That’s just animal instinct. You know, responding to stimuli.

Now that I think about it, that idiot owes my money. I loaned him $40 dollars for beer in Calgary. It was August and we were on a standard tar-shingle roof of a three story split-level home. It was raining the day before and everything was damp. Shingling a damp roof causing mildew and rotting and that is bad news for contractors, so we had to wait until it was dry again. It was a day off of sorts. “Hey man do you have forty bucks I could borrow. I’ll pay you back on pay day. I swear.” I gave him the money after a vicious internal battle. I knew if I gave him that money, I would never get it back. But I did, I gave it to him. He is always asking for money. What a bum. Well at least he ‘was’ always asking. Maybe he’s stopped wasting it on buying girls drinks he knows won’t sleep with him. Probably not. He’d always show up at a job site heart broken because he got stood up by some chick he met on Plentyoffish.com.

I’m the one whose going to look like the asshole. It’s bad etiquette to start a conversation by asking for money, even if it’s owed to you. That was years ago. He probably doesn’t remember now. His memory could be completely fried. Hell, it was then; too many of the good drugs, too often.

I think he was in prison once for something like armed robbery. Now that’s an act of desperation. Now he just begs for the cash. I’ve decided that I don’t want the money. I will sacrifice forty bucks to remain unrecognized. I’m fine with that. In fact, that’s great.

He’s probably baiting everyone on this bus with that sad sunken face. In trying to look like a lost puppy he comes off looking like a shaved, saggy rat; a rat with glasses. He slouches in his seat, weighed down by his oh-so-heavy rat sadness. He’s trying to sell us all a fake Rolex. A watch that looks nice, even makes you feel nice, but when you get it home and think about it, you see its just trash sold under a gold garb. It makes me sick.

We’re moving. The traffic starts to budge, and we are slowly crawling forward. But I don’t look at the road. I’ve been staring at Jerry. I just realized I’ve not moved my glare, not even a blink, for a while. I was gawking. I wonder if anyone noticed. I hope no one’s been watching me. I may have just put myself out there; an active participant in the bullshit bus-politics, in the open for everyone to see.

The CBC guy. I saw his eyes lowering. He was watching me. He was watching and then looked down to pretend he wasn’t. That son of a bitch.

I can see the next stop. Maybe Jerry would get off the bus here, maybe I would. There is a large crowd of people ahead. I don’t think we can we all fit.

The bus stops and one by one they file on. The driver yells to us “everyone to the very back.” He’s going to pack us all on. Some passengers have passes; others have tickets, and lastly a man with a baby. He fumbled in his pocket for change with one hand and held his child with the other. He pays his toll and walks down the isle. Jerry shifts. Why is he moving? Is he leaving? No. He’s offering his seat to the man with the child. The man accepts. Where’s Jerry going to sit? He’s not sitting. He’s walking toward me.

I move back to get away but there’s no room. The person behind me pushes me and I almost bash right into him. I bump around in a panic. Jerry stops and turns to pass to the front and I bump in his back. Oh Jesus. He has his back to me but he don’t turn around; that shows too much confidence. That’s it. He’ll stand with his head down. That’s great.

I can feel his presence. I’m a deer watching the wolf from the bushes. If I make a wrong move, I’ll be found. But unlike the deer, I can’t take flight. I’m trapped on the transit system. I’m in a prison of sweating city people and they’re all breathing on me. And there’s that CBC bastard whose been staring at me. Stop looking at me.

My stop. I can see my stop. Where’s the pull-cord? Jerry. You’re standing in front of the cord. Move. If I reach, I might bump him. I can’t touch him again. He’ll see me for sure. He’ll turn to apologise. Maybe someone will be waiting at the bus stop and the driver will stop any way. No. There’s no one. He’s going to drive by it. I’ll never get off. Someone pull the cord. Anybody pull the cord. I’m getting faint. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The unmistakable “next stop” bell rings throughout the bus. My stop. I’m free. To everyone else it may sound like ‘bong’ but to me it’s the chime of an angel’s touch on a hammer dulcimer. What cherub has played this note? Who is my saviour?

Jerry.

No. This is ridiculous. He’s slithering his way between me and the mushroom couple. Their bulbous haunches have got him wedged between us. He’s caught in a rat trap and I’m the spring. He’s going to look up. That’s it, I’ll just do it. I’ll speak. It its my fate. Destiny has shoved me to this point. I’m the figure in some contemporary techno-dystopian tragedy. My mouth is dry.

“Oh, hey Jerry.” I say. Why not: “Is your name Jerry?” That has much more wiggle room with that intro. Oh well, he’ll be surprised to see me. It been a long time. The bus is slowing down so the conversation’s only got to last ten seconds. I’m sure I can bear that.

He furrows his brow. “Do I know you?”

What? Jesus he’s dense.

“It’s me,” I say. “Gyle Harris, we worked together in Calgary.”

“We’re roofed together,” I say. “Remember?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you sure that was me?” Yes it’s you, you goddamn moron, I used your goddamn name didn’t I?

“Your name is Jerry.” I explain. He’s stepping off the bus.

“Hm. That’s not my name but… Anyway, I’ve got the run.” The doors close and the bus starts moving again.

I can’t believe that just happened. That son of a bitch. He’s just walking down the street. He doesn’t even look up. He did that on purpose. He wanted to humiliate me. Well, he failed. He won’t get the best of me. That guy with the CBC mug covers his mouth. He saw the whole thing. I think he’s laughing. Yeah, laugh it up buddy.

I try to turn around to pull the next-stop cord but my knee bounces against the chubby girl and I trip, almost fall.

“Move your goddamn hams!” I scream.

Then she starts crying.

Great.

Welcome to not by Needs of Nature

This modest blog is my little piece of what has become, a structural phenomenon. The world-wide-web is probably one of the most aptly named human creations, along side of the hammer and skewer. Aside from its name’s suitability, the web is also a tremendous tool for those of us imprudent enough to write. It is a slate, on which we rehearse, and hopefully better, our practising love affair with words and language.

So far, I’ve a few published short stories and a children’s book to my name, and with grievous sums of labour and luck, hopefully that number will grow. I hope also that you’ll enjoy what is written here; the pleasure of reading a piece of writing is the greatest gift to a writer, but a reader’s dissatisfaction is a writer’s epitaph, for the reader clutches both medals and daggers.

At last, a warning: The personal corridors and labyrinths which led me to this point are predominantly constructed by philosophy, theory and criticism. While my writing will be of all sorts, it will remain, ultimately, undercut by these elements. I write fiction, and so, it is in response to desire and mind that I write these words. This space is produced by consciousness and desire, not by needs or nature, though they too manage to carp their way in and make their appearances.

Enjoy, Jesse