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Authors: David Evanier
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âShe keeps you from going into the mean streets. You walk around and around the block and then you go home to safety.â In the Italian restaurant where I was on fire, there was candlelight, warmth, bacchanalia. Red lipsticked mouths, laughter, the heat and dancing shadows toasting their faces. Faces became glowing as I drank and freed up. The heat seemed to turn faces liquid, beads of perspiration, glistening, dark, reddening on their lips. Faces changed by the heat and desire. Their skin was rouged and glowing, tongues, earrings, necklaces, skin soft and hot, lacy black stockings over slim legs, eyes catching mine. The heat created a layer of phosphorescence over their skin, little pearls of sweat glistening in the candlelight; I wanted to lick it off their faces. I wanted to lightly run my fingers over the black hairs of their arms.
I wanted a slow, tactile, smooth fuck. I was ready, too late, late, late. Karen, whose movements were so taut and controlled, who kept her eyes downward, who barely spoke except when she drank, who drowned me in seas of silence, who made me feel utterly alone, her innocence a product of her fear of the world, who was so eager to please, who never disagreed with me except when I tried to leave her, who genuinely loved me as if we were two stowaways on a desert islandâKaren was for me.
The tapes: Butinsky and me, 1979:
Michael: Karen says I donât really love her enough, or I donât really appreciate her. That I want to have another woman, that I want to have childrenâ
Butinsky: Itâs almost like reading your mind. She wants you to reassure her.
Michael: I canât say anything or I lie.
Butinsky: What kind of answer is that for her? Itâs the answer that makes her want to pull her hair out.
And here are Karen, Butinsky and me in 1985 on the tapes:
Karen (to me): The only time that I seriously thought of suicide was during the period between when Victor killed himself and when you finally decided you wanted to marry me after all. Remember, we were engaged while I was still married to Victor. And you talked me urgently into moving out on him.
Michael: But then I changed my mind.
Karen: Yeah, then you changed your mind.
Michael (to Butinsky): When I said I wanted out, she said nothing sheâd done had been justified, that her life wasnât worth living, that she didnât know what she was going to do. I felt she was either going to commit suicide or kill me, and I was terrified for that reason. I felt Iâd gotten into depths way beyond what I was able to deal with.
In 1986 I talk on the tapes of trying to repair my relationship with Kevin who is far away in Portland. And Karen says (I seem to be hearing this for the first time): âItâs like you knock someone down when theyâre nine years old and cripple their spine forever. And then when theyâre 20 years old you start wheeling them occasionally in a wheelchair to the grocery store.â
VIII: Iâd Rather Be a Lamppost
My terror was the reason I loved, really loved, old people, and especially old Communists, who threatened me not in the least, whose words and actions I could predict in advance, and for whom my pure essence, my youth, was perfection itself.
September 11th set off thoughts of the nutcases Iâve known who wanted to burn up the world or use up the world for their pleasures. Sometimes they were leaders, like the Communist Herbert Strugin, or Butinsky; sometimes they were followers and acolytes, who needed someone strong to tell them where to go and how to stand up straight. After September 11th came the story of the rabbi who emotionally seduced a Jewish loser into murdering the rabbiâs wife. The hitman, his heavy sad needy Jewish face, actually looked like Butinsky, but the rabbi didnât look like Butinsky.
I had been like that at 13, before I met Julie, before I met Butinsky. I was boiling with rage and self-contempt. Prof. Herbert
I wanted a slow, tactile, smooth fuck. I was ready, too late, late, late. Karen, whose movements were so taut and controlled, who kept her eyes downward, who barely spoke except when she drank, who drowned me in seas of silence, who made me feel utterly alone, her innocence a product of her fear of the world, who was so eager to please, who never disagreed with me except when I tried to leave her, who genuinely loved me as if we were two stowaways on a desert islandâKaren was for me.
The tapes: Butinsky and me, 1979:
Michael: Karen says I donât really love her enough, or I donât really appreciate her. That I want to have another woman, that I want to have childrenâ
Butinsky: Itâs almost like reading your mind. She wants you to reassure her.
Michael: I canât say anything or I lie.
Butinsky: What kind of answer is that for her? Itâs the answer that makes her want to pull her hair out.
And here are Karen, Butinsky and me in 1985 on the tapes:
Karen (to me): The only time that I seriously thought of suicide was during the period between when Victor killed himself and when you finally decided you wanted to marry me after all. Remember, we were engaged while I was still married to Victor. And you talked me urgently into moving out on him.
Michael: But then I changed my mind.
Karen: Yeah, then you changed your mind.
Michael (to Butinsky): When I said I wanted out, she said nothing sheâd done had been justified, that her life wasnât worth living, that she didnât know what she was going to do. I felt she was either going to commit suicide or kill me, and I was terrified for that reason. I felt Iâd gotten into depths way beyond what I was able to deal with.
In 1986 I talk on the tapes of trying to repair my relationship with Kevin who is far away in Portland. And Karen says (I seem to be hearing this for the first time): âItâs like you knock someone down when theyâre nine years old and cripple their spine forever. And then when theyâre 20 years old you start wheeling them occasionally in a wheelchair to the grocery store.â
VIII: Iâd Rather Be a Lamppost
My terror was the reason I loved, really loved, old people, and especially old Communists, who threatened me not in the least, whose words and actions I could predict in advance, and for whom my pure essence, my youth, was perfection itself.
September 11th set off thoughts of the nutcases Iâve known who wanted to burn up the world or use up the world for their pleasures. Sometimes they were leaders, like the Communist Herbert Strugin, or Butinsky; sometimes they were followers and acolytes, who needed someone strong to tell them where to go and how to stand up straight. After September 11th came the story of the rabbi who emotionally seduced a Jewish loser into murdering the rabbiâs wife. The hitman, his heavy sad needy Jewish face, actually looked like Butinsky, but the rabbi didnât look like Butinsky.
I had been like that at 13, before I met Julie, before I met Butinsky. I was boiling with rage and self-contempt. Prof. Herbert
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