Sid Stein Is Involved in a Racial Incident on His Way to New Orleans

First of all, I am not sure if this is a tale of racism or reverse-discrimination. Let me be clear. I am not a racist. I have had black friends since I was a kid and have decried racism in the City of Albany in a number of letters to the editor. I listen to a lot of rap too. I even have a "Free Yayo" G Unit t-shirt and a 5950 cap. That being said, let’s continue.

In 1981, my sister got married and moved to New Orleans to attend law school. I married the following year and spent three years in Israel before returning to the United States to attend law school myself. Two lawyers in the family! Mazel tov to my parents. Although I visited my sister in New Orleans during the summer of 1983, it was an uneventful trip save for an excursion to Baton Rouge to see the Pointer Sisters. "I’m So Excited!"

Years passed and I eventually had my own law practice in Albany. One day as I was going through my mail, I came across a flyer for a law conference in New Orleans. Tax deductible! I needed to get away and thought it would be nice to spend some time in the Big Easy. I could even see my sister. So, I gave her a call. She asked a pointed question. "Sid," she inquired, "do you really want to go to a law seminar or do you just want to have a good time?" I confessed. I just wanted to have a good time. So, she told me to forget about the law seminar and the tax deduction and come to the Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazzfest for short) at the end of April. She guaranteed to me that I would love it. I made reservations. http://www.nojazzfest.com/

Since 1993, I have missed only one Jazzfest. In 2005, the year of Katrina, Passover was late. It coincided with Jazzfest. I did the right thing and spent the holiday with my family. I was back at Jazzfest the following year. I really do love it.

In 2006, I added a new twist to my annual trip to New Orleans. I brought my father along. He loved it too. We were a good team. I enjoyed showing him around the festival and introducing him to Rock N Bowl for Zydeco night. We saw Etta James and Dr. John on successive nights at the House of Blues. We were in the right place and it was the right time. At last. The man can party! He liked it so much that he decided to go with me this year too. And he did.

Jazzfest is very popular, so it’s always good to make plane reservations well in advance. Last year, my father’s made a last minute decision to attend, so we had to travel separately. This year, we coordinated our trips so that we could fly together, father and son. Awww, how sweet. Just to be clear, my dad is a great guy and I love him.

One aspect I enjoyed about Jazzfest with my father was the role reversal. As the veteran Jazzfest attendee, I showed him the ropes. He learned from me. It’s nice to teach an old dog new tricks. Still, I am glad that he’s a quick study.

Jazzfest is held over two consecutive weekends. For years, I always went on the second weekend. It was the weekend when the first family of New Orleans, the Neville Brothers, wrapped up Jazzfest with a set on the main stage (there are about 10 separate stages of music going all day). The second weekend was my favorite because my sister’s friends had guests who would come down every year. We all hung out together, so each year was a reunion of sorts. One of her friends hosted a barbecue every year on Wednesday night, another threw a big breakfast party on Sunday morning. After Katrina, however, things changed. Some of the out of town guests stopped coming and the people who made the breakfast lost their home. The Nevilles no longer perform. Aaron claims that after Katrina, the air quality affects his asthma too much. Live, learn and adapt, I say. For me, it meant that coming on the second weekend lost its importance. This year and last, I have attended the first weekend. It just happened that I preferred the music schedule for the first weekend more than the second. Both weekends are always great. Some years, the first weekend had the better line-up, others the second. Before Katrina changed everything, I was willing to sacrifice the better music weekend for the sake of seeing everyone.

There was only one thing I regretted all those years when I would come for the second weekend of Jazzfest - not being able to attend Piano Night. Piano Night is a very special occasion. It’s a benefit concert hosted by WWOZ for a music foundation in New Orleans. All the best piano players come and play short sets, one after the other, sometimes with a band, mostly without. It’s simply a magical club night which I caught the very first time I was down for Jazzfest. The following year it was rescheduled, permanently, and now takes place on the Monday night between the first and second weekends of the festival. Since I was going for the first weekend, I rearranged my usual trip (arrive Wednesday and leave Monday) so I could attend Piano Night. I was sure that my Dad would enjoy it too.

I am telling you all this about Jazzfest to emphasize how much I look forward to it every year. Every year, amidst the dark despair of winter, I have something to look forward to. It was with this feeling of anticipation that I set out on a Thursday afternoon to New Orleans.

Going to Jazzfest has changed since the advent of the Internet. I can now buy tickets online for shows I want to see at nightclubs. Instead of waiting an hour or more to get into Tipitina’s on a Sunday night to see the Meters, I can now order tickets weeks in advance in an instant. And, I am sure that my father would not have patience to wait in line for so long. For that Thursday night, I had ordered tickets for Rock N Bowl to see Chris Ardoin and Geno Delafose on Zydeco night.

As we boarded our USAirways flight to New Orleans via Philadelphia, my father and I were excited. Our excitement was enhanced by the fact that we were leaving Albany so late in the afternoon and would have to hurry to make it to the show. It would be a quick hi to my sister, shower, and then out the door.

Imagine how I felt when the captain announced that our departure from Albany was delayed due to problems in Philadelphia and couldn’t tell us when we would be leaving. There was more at stake than just the tickets to the show. Now we had to worry about making our connection to New Orleans. I was not happy.

As is customary on airlines, we waited on the plane. I wasn’t even seated next to anyone interesting. My stress levels began to rise as I counted the seconds. After what seemed like an eternity (I finished the crossword puzzle in the flight magazine - twice!), the captain announced that we were ready for take-off. According to his projections, we would be arriving in Philadelphia about 15 minutes before our connection was scheduled to depart for the Big Easy.

I assume that most of you are familiar with airports. Some are quite big and have multiple terminals. If you have to go from one end of the airport to another, it can take a long time. Dad and I were going to get about 10 minutes or so to make our connection.

The flight from Albany to Philadelphia is not very long. At some point during the flight, we were told that we would be arriving at Terminal F. I looked at my ticket and saw that we would have to get to Terminal C for our connecting flight. It was more like Terminal S for stress. Actually, it really was Terminal F - for f*&%ked up. http://www.phl.org/pdf/PHL_intl_map_hi.pdf

When I was in the Girl Scouts, I learned to be prepared. Okay, I wasn’t really in the Girl Scouts, but my sister was a Brownie one year, I think. So, I checked out the back of the flight magazine where they show the layouts of the airports. I wanted to see how far Terminal F was from C, besides just D and E. It didn’t look good. The terminals were not even connected. There was not even a monorail. Just a shuttle bus. It wasn’t looking good at all. And I really didn’t want to miss Chris Ardoin. Since the death of Zydeco master Beau Jocque, Ardoin was my favorite and I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years.

If life was perfect, everyone on your flight would have to rush off to make their own connecting flights in time. That’s never the case though, especially when there are slow moving senior citizens seated in front of you who first have to get their carry-on bags down from the overhead compartments. Dad and I made it off the plane as quickly as we could. I exercised the pushy New Yorker prerogative even though I live in Albany, two and a half hours north of the Manhattan where people are much more polite. If I could, I would have grabbed my father’s hand and pulled him along, but I decided it would be too weird.

Okay, readers, this is the sensitive part and I need you to read this with an open mind. Don’t forget that even though I was trying to maintain a cool head, I was still stressed about our late arrival. And before you read any further, go back and reread the first paragraph. Please. Really.

The shuttle bus to Terminal C was waiting for us as we left the plane. I barked at my father to hurry out of fear that the first bus would fill up quickly forcing us to wait for another. I got to the bus ahead of my father, boarded and found an aisle seat toward the back. As I expected, the bus filled up right away. My father hopped on and stood near the rear door on the side of the bus opposite me.

Sitting by a window seat on the other side of the aisle was a black woman, a T.S.A. agent. I knew that because she was wearing a uniform. On the seat next to her was a bag. Aldo shoes. It was the only seat on the bus not occupied by a person. I watched as my father looked at the seat, saw the bag and do nothing. He remained standing.

Ordinarily, I would easily have given my seat to my father. Although he is in great shape, I, of course, am his dutiful son and have a great deal of respect for him. It would only be right. This time, however, there was an empty seat save for the Aldo shoe bag. My father, however, is a bit shy in certain circumstances. I could see that he didn’t want to ask the woman to move her bag.
I decided to intervene and said: "Dad, do you want to sit because I don’t think Aldo needs a seat."



My father gave me one of those "don’t bother" looks.

I heard some mumbling behind me. I turned my head and saw four black women sitting in the last row talking about something. I wasn’t sure what.

Then, one of the women addressed the T.S.A. agent. "I think he was talking about you. I heard him say Aldo."

Then, with quite a bit of attitude, the T.S.A. woman glared and said: "You know, you should learn how to say excuse me."

Of course, I wasn’t going to let her comment just "sit" there. I felt a need to respond. It’s what Larry David would do. So I said: "Actually, I was hoping to get my Dad to say just that, but he’s a bit shy. Really, when you think about it, by putting your bag on the seat, you were engaging in passive aggressive behavior, which to me, is still aggressive anyway you look at it."

My father heaved a nervous sigh. I could see the look in his eyes saying: "Does Sid always have to shoot off his mouth? Can’t he just mind his own business?"

The T.S.A. agent wasn’t going to let the dispute die. "You should mind your own business," she snapped.

"My own business? This is a public bus. It is my business. I paid for a ticket to ride on this bus and so did my father. Did you?"

Obviously, it was a rhetorical question. As a T.S.A. agent, I doubt that she had to pay to get on the shuttle. My question was designed as a rebuke. I could see she wasn’t happy that I asked.

My rhetoric drew an animated response from the black women sitting behind me. They wanted the agent to return fire. Instead, she turned to them and said calmly: "Let him keep talking, someone will be waiting for him at the gate."

What!? I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t let that go.

"Are you threatening me? You want to tell me someone is going to arrest me because I wanted my father, a ticket holder, to have a seat? You have to be kidding. That’s too funny."

A hushed silence fell over the participants in this little spat. The T.S.A. agent sat smugly in her window seat, Aldo shoe bag still at her side. My father was turning red. Poor guy! It must be difficult to have a son like me.

I peered out the window to my left, opposite the agent. There on the tarmac sat a plane. I couldn’t believe it. Was G-d himself intervening in this dispute? If He was, then what was He telling me? Surely, it was a sign. I just wasn’t sure what the sign meant or what I should do with it. This is what I saw.



Parked on the tarmac for all to see was a Northwest Airlines jet. NWA in giant letters painted along the fuselage. I am sure it’s a pretty common sight at an airport, even considering all the problems Northwest has been having of late. Perhaps you are wondering what role it played in my confrontation with airport security.

N.W.A.’s "Straight Outta Compton" is regarded as one of the greatest rap albums of all time. Featuring some rap luminaries such as Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E, the album is one of the most influential rap albums in the history of the genre and has made many "best of" lists, including those compiled by "Rolling Stone" magazine and VH1. Although I don’t expect many white people in my age demographic to know about the group, it certainly is well-known in the African-American community. To borrow a term coined by Tracy Turnblad in the musical "Hairspray," it’s Afrotastic! Oh, by the way, there is one little detail about N.W.A. that I have not shared with you yet. It does not stand for Northwest Airlines. Although the "N" bomb is an incredibly offensive word, N.W.A. stands for Niggers With Attitude.

Dear readers, how can I relate to you the level of temptation I experienced at that moment? Did I dare take advantage of the opportunity presented to me? Except for maybe the "C" word, is there a more politically-incorrect word in the English language?
Need I even ask?

I didn’t have much time to think about my next move. Although the shuttle was moving slowly, the Northwest jet would soon be out of sight forever. I quickly weighed the pros and cons of what begged to burst forth out of my mouth. To be honest, I don’t know if I actually made a decision or if the words just popped out.

Before the moment was forever lost, I said, clearly, resonantly, in a well-modulated voice with sufficient volume: "N….W….A…." I paused momentarily to look at the shocked expressions of the black women sitting around me. It was glorious. Their shock at what I said was multiplied by their incredulity that I even knew to say it. I thought I heard one or two of them say;" Oh no, he didn’t!" Before any of them had a chance to respond, I added: "Northwest Airlines." I smiled smugly.

What could they say? Accuse me of reading the side of a plane? They were struck dumb.

My father still stood by the door of the bus. He didn’t comprehend what just occurred. He had never heard of N.W.A. How many Jewish men his age are into rap? My guess is not too many.

Within a moment, the bus stopped. My father and I hurried off and entered the terminal. The T.S.A. agent and her friends remained behind.

I can only imagine what the women on the bus said to each other after I left. I’d like to think that along with their shock and outrage, at least one of them turned to the T.S.A. agent and said: "He got you, girlfriend!"

I didn’t have much time to reflect on what happened. My father and I raced through the terminal to get to our gate. We made it in the nick of time and were the last ones to board. Remarkably, our luggage made it to New Orleans with us. And yes, we arrived in time to see Chris Ardoin at Rock N Bowl.

Random Thoughts - The Rap Scene

If Big L was alive today, he'd be dead.

http://www.tradebit.com/usr/djmixtapez/pub/9001/Harlem-s-Finest.jpg

Sex and Candy

For a few years, I went to the Bleecker Café on Thursday nights for karaoke. I do love to sing and I do love attention, so karaoke is a natural choice for me. The Bleecker had one of the best late night crowds in Albany, an eclectic (and I do not use the word eclectic lightly) mix of Center Square residents, politicians, lobbyists, karaoke addicts and one author. For those of you unfamiliar with Albany, Center Square in Albany is a mini version of Greenwich Village. What made the Bleecker especially unique in New York’s capital city was that race, gender and age were all optional. In other words, when Sid Stein says eclectic mix, he really means it. (Sorry about going from first person to third, but I couldn’t help it.)

Not everything stays the same. The owner of the Bleecker died. Michael Boxley, former advisor to New York Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, was involved in a sexual assault case, making all legislative personnel more cautious about going out and about, and I got divorced. Change isn’t always bad. The Bleecker was sold and is now called Pinto and Hobbs and it’s still a great place to go. Over the years, I became friendly with the karaoke DJ. Greg is a nice guy too. He gives me a lot of leeway when I sing.

The Bleecker isn’t the only place where Greg is a DJ. By now, you have read about my Wednesday night hangout, Bomber’s, on Lark Street, across from Planned Parenthood. The crowd there is much younger on average, mostly 20-somethings who look at me as an old man. And, if truth be told, I am old enough to be the father of many of them. Still, the girls are cute, they are not my daughters, and if you gotta sing, you gotta sing.

When I sing karaoke, I like to adlib during musical breaks in the song. It’s always funny, but sometimes a bit raunchy. That is what I meant when I said that Greg gives me a lot of leeway. Greg, however, is a businessman, and he is more cautious at Bomber’s than he is at the Bleecker. I am not sure why, but maybe he thinks the kids won’t appreciate me as much as the more mature Bleecker crowd. Fortunately for Greg, there is one song that doesn’t leave me any room for adlibbing. That’s "Sex and Candy," a one-hit wonder by a group called Marcy Playground. It’s a song well-suited to my baritone voice and may be my best song. So, if Greg just wants me to sing, he’ll play "Sex and Candy," figuring I will just sing it straight, which sounds a bit funny considering I primarily sing it at a gender-optional place. I know Greg picks the song for this reason, but I don’t mind. I love the song.

http://www.marcyplayground.net/

Here are some of the lyrics:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time to sit and think about myself
And then there she was, like double cherry pie
Yeah, there she was, like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream.

It’s somewhat slow, and very sexy, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it. So there I was, on stage at Bomber’s, singing to the 20-somethings, when a most remarkable thing happened. As I was singing, two lovely, young girls came up on the small stage. One danced seductively in front of me, the other behind. I knew they were making fun of the "old man at the bar," but I didn’t mind at all. I quite enjoyed the attention from these two beauties. They were smiling and giggling. I am sure they had friends at the bar who were also enjoying their escapades. I still didn’t mind. They were both great dancers. At my age, attention from young girls is attention from young girls.

With a big smile on my face, I kept singing "Sex and Candy." It was going well. I was happy. Greg was happy. The two girls seemed happy as well. Then, the one in front of me made a huge mistake. She apparently thought that she could make a complete mockery out of Sid Stein for the benefit of herself, her friends and the rest of her demographic at this very crowded bar. I could see the wheels spinning behind her mischievous grin. Although I am sure she never saw "The Blue Angel," the great German film in which a sultry, sexy Marlene Dietrich playing Lola tempts and ridicules the much older professor portrayed by Emil Jannings, I had. I knew the score. I am Sid Stein, not some stodgy old bachelor in a movie.

Maybe you are wondering what mistake this poor girl made. Well, as I was singing and she was gyrating in front of me, she started to unbutton my shirt. I am sure she didn’t intend on going too far - she just thought she was being funny at my expense. Her mistake was that I had the microphone in my hand, compounded by the fact that I am not Emil Jannings portraying a fictional character. And, she was no Marlene Dietrich. I turned to Greg who was half titillated and half shocked. Maybe he was thinking - lucky Sid. I said to him: Sorry, Greg, I know you want me to just sing, but I can’t let this one go by without saying anything." And so I did. I said, so that all could hear me clearly:

Honey, I don’t want you to unbutton my shirt. I want you to unzip my fly and give me a blow job.

The poor girl was mortified. She shouldn’t have been messing around with Sid. She slunk back to her friends. I just hope that in some small way, I redeemed that professor in "The Blue Angel." More importantly, Greg forgave me. And the beat goes on.

Girls With Guns - A Sid Stein Flashback

After my previous post (No Way This Could Be Happening to Sid Stein), I was reminded of this story from my youth.

The year was 1976. I had just completed a year of college after having left high school a year early. There’s a love story there, but I will leave it for another time. I had no plans for the summer, so I slept a lot and drove a cab when I was awake. That only lasted a month. There is no money to be made driving a cab around Albany in the summer. At least back then anyway. Probably today too. Why pay for a cab if the weather is nice? Besides, I think the Jewish guys were supposed to own the cab company, not actually drive the cabs. Come to think of it, the cab company was owned by Jews - the Feinmans.

I remember being at Jeff’s house when the phone rang. It was my mother. She wanted to know if I had any interest in going to Israel for the rest of the summer. My friend Jeff was going there to backpack before spending the school year at Hebrew University. I said yes, and before I knew it, I was on a flight to Israel.

I will share what I remember of the flight because it was that torturous. First, you should know that the flight to Israel takes ten hours. That’s a long time to be on any plane. Although I expected to fly on a Boeing 747, the famous Jumbo Jet, Jeff and I flew on the smaller 727, which has a seating configuration of three seats on each side of a single center aisle. It is nowhere near as roomy as the 747. After the 4th hour or so, claustrophobia began to set in. To make matters worse, Jeff brought along his childhood friend, Scott. Scott was an odd boy with strange physical habits. He looked a bit odd too. For the last five hours of the flight, Scott was asleep and used my shoulder as his pillow. I tried a few times to get him to lean the other way, but to no avail. Although my memory is a bit vague, I believe there was some drool involved at some point.

After an adventurous few weeks in Israel, I was having such a good time that I wanted to stay. I applied to Tel Aviv University and Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I was accepted at both. Decision time. Although I had a good friend in Jerusalem, namely, Jeff, I eventually enrolled at Tel Aviv University. In 1976, Jerusalem was a very sleepy town. It had no night life to speak of save a busy pizza joint called Richie’s where all the Americans would gather. I decided that if I was going to be in Israel for a year, 6,000 miles away from my parents, I wanted to have a good time. Tel Aviv it was. Besides, Jerusalem was less than an hour away by bus. I could see Jeff whenever I wanted.

Tel Aviv University is located in Ramat Aviv, a suburb of the city. It wasn’t far from the Mediterranean and not too far from "Little Tel Aviv," the heart of the city’s night life. It was a perfect choice for me. I loved it.

Although I was good about attending an intensive six week Hebrew course, I was not so conscientious about attending my regular classes. They really weren’t very interesting or challenging. The curriculum for the overseas students was designed less to teach academics and more as a way to get American college students excited about Israel. I thought I could devise a superior curriculum for myself which would accomplish the same purpose. So, instead of going to classes, I spent my days exploring my environs. I was glad I did.

If I say so myself, I was a good-looking lad of 18 years. I was thin with fairly long hair, green eyes, a nice tan and killer jeans. And in Israel of 1976, I had two things which separated me from the average Israeli teenager. Back in those days, every import was heavily taxed, especially electronics and appliances. So, it was much to my surprise and delight that Israeli girls my age were fascinated that I owned a radio/cassette player and a hairdryer. (Although hairdryers are ubiquitous these days, back in the 70’s, they were fairly new. In fact, I was the first male I knew who had his own. In other words, I was metrosexual years before the term was coined. Ahead of my time, I was.)

Since I didn’t go to classes, I had plenty of time to meet the locals. And meet the locals, I did, especially the local teenage girls. I forget which one I met first, but as soon as a couple of them found out that I had music and a hairdryer, my dorm room became a popular destination. I was so popular that my Israeli roommate couldn’t believe it. He called me "King of the Flowers." "Flowers" was actually a slang for girls who were a little "loose," so to speak. It was a bit unfair to these particular girls because they were all virgins and were intent on staying that way. Still, I liked being the king. And, they treated me like one.

All of these girls were under 18 but had already left high school. They had various jobs, mostly clerical. 18 is an important age in Israel because all Israelis must go to the army. It was also a critical age for another very important reason. For whatever sociological or cultural reason at the time, and this was true almost universally in Israeli society, girls did not lose their virginity until they entered the army. The army was a coming of age, a rite of passage. In other words, as much as I enjoyed the attention of these girls, as close as they were to me in age, sex was out of the question.

Nevertheless, these girls adored me. They would come to listen to music or just watch me dry my hair. I know, I didn’t get it either. They liked me so much that they adopted me. One worked in a bank, a notorious spot in Israel known for very long lines. You could easily wait an hour on any given day. Not me. One of my "flowers" would come out, take my transaction, and get me out of there within five minutes. When I needed to buy nice clothes for the Jewish holidays, two of the girls brought to downtown Tel Aviv near the old bus station for shopping. They picked out the clothes for me too. They dressed me in a style which can best be described as "Saturday Night Fever" era John Travolta - skintight black bell-bottoms, a shiny green shirt and platform shoes. The pants, which had a small American flag sewn on the right rear pocket, needed to be hemmed. The girls took care of that for me too. All in all, I made a pretty good version of a disco king. On the other hand, as I walked to the neighborhood synagogue for Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year, I realized that was I dressed far too inappropriately for one of the holiest days of the year. I turned around and went back to my dorm. G-d forgive me.

The girls addressed nearly all my needs. Only one thing was missing - romance. I was 18, still a horny teenager. As much as my "flowers" loved me, it was a boundary they would not cross. So, they did the next best thing. They brought a soldier girl to my dorm room one day. Arianna was a lovely Moroccan-Israeli with a great laugh. She spoke almost no English but knew how to say "shut up, you." We took an immediate liking to one another and soon fell in love. My "flowers" had come through for me in the clutch. Wow!

Before I go on, I would like to touch upon a bit of irony. Before I left for Israel, I was quite despondent, moping over lost love. The object of my desire was a beautiful Moroccan woman with dark hair and big dark eyes. One of the reasons my parents sent me to Israel was their hope that I would forget about her, or at least, get over her. Somewhere in that equation, they forgot that one of the largest groups of Jews who came to Israel after it became a state was from Morocco. I was reminded of my love and my pain everywhere I went. Still, Arianna, with her dark hair and big dark eyes, eased my pain.

You might think that dating a soldier girl would be difficult. Israel, don’t forget, is a very small country, about the size of New Jersey. It’s not like the United States where a new recruit might get shipped off to Biloxi or points west. And it’s not like today’s modern army in which women may have combat roles. In Israel, for the most part, the women serve in support functions like working in an office or an army school. Since their positions in the army are not critical from a military/defense standpoint, they are often given leave to go home for the weekend. Arianna, therefore, came to visit me almost every weekend.

Arianna was different from all my other girlfriends for one particular reason. She was armed. My petite, darling girlfriend, who routinely washed the floor of my dorm room each Friday afternoon (probably a pre-Sabbath ritual from home), arrived with an Uzi submachine gun slung over her shoulder. As an American from a liberal Jewish family, I had no experience with guns of any kind, so to have a girlfriend with a gun was at the same time, exciting and nerve-wracking. As soon as she would arrive, Arianna would slide her Uzi under my bed and we would make love. Life was good. I was happy.

There was a little hitch in paradise. Moroccans are generally known as hot-tempered, not unlike the stereotypical Latin lover. Arianna had a bit of this streak in her which didn’t bother me at all. She was always full of life and had an infectious laugh. She was also very patient with my Hebrew and I learned a lot from her. Still, in the back of my mind, I was also a bit afraid of disappointing her or making her upset. If I failed to satisfy her sexually, would she take her gun out and threaten me? Talk about performance anxiety. "Get it up" had a whole new meaning. No way did I ever want that Uzi aimed at the family jewels. Despite the potential for violence, we were happy and it was never a real issue. One day, however, upon her arrival, she did make me a little nervous. She told me she that as she was getting a ride to see me, she dropped her gun on the ground as she entered the car. It discharged. Okay, I thought. She may not shoot me on purpose, but…. I dismissed the possibility and went on with our evening.

Although some of you might think it is difficult for me to stay faithful to one woman, I had no problem with Arianna. I was in love. Besides, if she ever caught me cheating, she could shoot me. More wives and girlfriends should consider this option.

To be honest, as faithful as I was, it wasn’t always easy. Weekends in Israel are not the same as in the States. Arianna would arrive late Friday afternoon and would have to return to her base on Sunday morning. Sunday is not a weekend day in Israel. It’s the first day of the week. Although we made the most of our time together, it was a long wait between visits, surrounded as I was by college co-eds. Fortunately, I had some very good friends who helped my weeks pass quickly.

As liberal as the army’s leave policy was, Arianna couldn’t always get away. There were times I would have to wait two weeks before I saw her. That second week was always difficult for me, and I don’t simply mean from a sexual standpoint. I actually liked this girl. And from an 18 year old perspective, I felt I loved her. Nevertheless, we still had our ups and downs like any other couple.

I had just suffered through one of those two week periods without Arianna, so I was anxiously anticipating her arrival. I missed her. I missed making love to her. Although my friend Jeff was visiting from Jerusalem, his presence didn’t make the wait any easier. When Arianna finally walked through the door, I gave her a big hug. She seemed distant for some reason. Then the bad news came. Arianna told me that she was going to spend the weekend at her aunt’s apartment in Tel Aviv. I didn’t know what to say. She said she was sorry, but had to go to her aunt. Not even any time for making love.

My spirit was crushed. My friend, Jeff, was no comfort. He was sleeping. Don’t ask me why. My other friends, who figured I would be spending the evening with Arianna, were nowhere to be found. Friday night on campus with nothing to do. I wandered around outside for a bit and saw a sign advertising a movie on campus. What the hell, I might as well go. I had nothing else to do. The movie was in French with Hebrew subtitles. "The Little Prince." I remember enjoying the movie. I had taken French in high school and spoke French with my best friend’s girlfriend who was from Paris via Casablanca. I think I understood about half the movie. Not bad.

Life throws many curves at you. One such curvy creature was standing outside the theater after the movie. I had met her only once through a mutual friend. Susan from South Africa. She was very cute and had an amazing accent. Very sexy and seductive. I quickly decided that I would walk her back to the dorms.

Susan was like a gift for a lonely and disappointed teenager. We hit it off right away. Flirtation was in high gear and it was apparent that we were thinking alike. A bit of romance was on the horizon. Arianna? Well, I did think about her, but hadn’t she forced me into this situation? I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just had nothing else to do, abandoned as I was.

I am not quite sure how things heated up so quickly between Susan and me, but they did. Remarkably so. So much so I was overwhelmed with delight. Yes, it was going to happen. In the span of a few hours, I went from being totally despondent to extremely elated. And yes, I was ready to cheat on Arianna. Susan and I just needed a room.

Finding an empty room can be tricky on campus. Jeff was sleeping in my room. Susan was pretty sure her roommate was in hers. I thought about my friend Peter. He was usually out and about at night. Unfortunately, he was out. I knocked and knocked, but to no avail. Susan wasn’t ready to give up so we went to her room. Her roommate was asleep. Susan and I climbed into her bed and spoke in whispers. We kissed. Passionately. Things were getting very hot until Susan stopped me. She just couldn’t have sex with her roommate still in the room, as much as I tried to convince her it would be okay. You might find that odd, but sexuality in Israel was a lot different than sexuality in America. I would call it "European-style." Attitudes were much more liberal. Also, with space at a premium, lovers were far more willing to sacrifice some privacy for the sake of sex. Still, Susan, a South African, felt uncomfortable in the presence of her sleeping roommate. We were left with only one option. My room. Hand in hand, Susan accompanied me across the courtyard to my suite.

For the next part of this story, it’s important to understand the configuration of my living quarters. I lived on the second floor of Building E. There were six buildings altogether. As you entered the four-man suite, there was a common room. A small kitchen area was located off the common room to the left. Along the right wall as you walked in were two bedroom doors. The bath and shower were all the way at the back of the suite. My bedroom was behind the second door.

As I led Susan into the suite, Arianna jumped out from behind the first bedroom door. Her Uzi was draped over her shoulder.

"I knew it! You ARE cheating on me," she screamed in Hebrew.

I was set up! Although the irony of the situation didn’t escape me, that none of this would have happened had Arianna not been suspicious in the first place, I was more concerned with the Uzi. As good as my Hebrew was, I had difficulty following Arianna’s angry words which hit me with the speed of, yes, bullets.

I had clearly lost control of the situation. Susan was standing behind me. Arianna, armed with her Uzi, was glaring at me with those big, dark brown eyes. I had to fall for a hot-tempered Moroccan. Susan, scared back into her pants, thought it best that she leave. And she did. Poor Susan. Poor me. http://files.uzitalk.com/reference/wallpaper/uzi_girl1%20-%201024.jpg

Obviously, Arianna did not shoot me. I knew there was no use trying to explain what happened. Arianna was not going to believe that I had never cheated on her. It didn’t really matter. I was about to cheat on her. It wasn’t going to matter to her that but for her elaborate ruse, I wouldn’t have gone to the movie, I would never have met Susan and I would most likely be holding my sweet Arianna in my arms after some blissful lovemaking.

I was 0 for 2 that night, but at least I am here to tell this sad tale of a girl with a gun.