The year was 1976 and I had just completed my first year of college. For personal reasons that I don’t want to get into now (yes, even Sid Stein has secrets), I abruptly left high school after the 11th grade and was accepted to the State University of New York at Albany (SUNY) as a special admission because I was so damn smart – great grades and great SAT scores. Toot toot! It was not the college of my choice, but because I didn’t make my decision to leave high school until late in my junior year, I didn’t have time to apply to other schools. SUNY was willing to admit me despite the fact that I hadn’t fulfilled the New York State requirements for a high school diploma. My acceptance was conditioned on completing an English Composition and health course. So, when I finished my first year of college, I also obtained my high school diploma.
I was not happy at SUNY. Although I was from Albany, I lived in the dorms where I was the youngest among the other students. For any male contemplating an early graduation, I don’t recommend it. That extra year counts, especially with girls. And, even though the drinking age was 18 back then, I had to wait until March of my spring semester to be “legal.”
I eventually adjusted to dorm life but spent my year pining for a lost love. In other words, I was quite distracted. My studies were not at the forefront of my mind. And, for those of you unfamiliar with the campus at SUNY Albany, it is a concrete and sterile environment which only contributed to my angst. I suppose it’s like living in Sweden, or at least, how I imagine what it would be like to live there.
When school let out, I applied for a job as a cab driver. It was torture. Hardly anyone took cabs during the summer in Albany. Most of the day would be spent sitting in a hot cab waiting for the Nazi dispatcher to call your number. In other words, I was bored and the pay sucked. After a month, I quit. On the other hand, the picture on my hack license was quite cute. At least something!
Without anything to do, I did what any normal teenage Jew who was pining away would do. I moped around the house and slept a lot. I spent my time listening to Scandinavian jazz and hanging out with my friend, Jeff. But, as the month of June was winding down, spending time with him became increasingly depressing because he had plans to leave for Israel in July for a summer of travel and a year abroad at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He was my best friend and I was going to miss him.
If any of the elements of this story sounds familiar to you, it’s because I wrote about some of these events in a previous flashback – Girls with Guns. However, because this story is ultimately about art, and angst is so important to artists, or so it seems, I thought it would be important to include and expand on some of the items I related in my other story.
My parents, who had to witness my depression, came up with a plan to cheer me up. Just a few days before Jeff was to leave for Israel, they asked me if I wanted to go to Israel for the summer. I was elated. It would be one of those cool summer backpacking trips. Before I knew it, I was on a non-stop 727 to Israel, sandwiched in between Jeff and his childhood friend, Scott, who fell asleep on my shoulder. It was an uncomfortable flight but it didn’t matter. I was on my way to Israel.
I had no plans when I arrived at Ben-Gurion airport. All I had was a list of telephone numbers for some Israeli high school kids I had met when they were on a good will tour of the States which included a stop in Albany. Jeff and Scott, who had been contemplating their trip for a while, already had plans. So, as soon as they arrived, they hopped into a cab and left. As I stood at an airport payphone, I suddenly felt all alone. I called the first kid on my list. “Hi, this is Sid Stein from Albany, New York. We met about two years ago when you visited. I am at the airport. Can I stay with you for a while?” Fortunately, Israelis are very hospitable.
I ended up having a great summer and decided to stay in Israel for the school year. I enrolled in Tel Aviv University and lived in the dorms in Ramat Aviv. My first girlfriend there was Arianna, the soldier girl with the gun. After we broke up, I met Alva, an Israeli student who lived in the dormitories. Alva was a lovely person and I really adored her. Some of my best stories from that year include her. However, this story is not really about her, it is about her father. With the exception of the father of a high school girlfriend, historically, I have not had great relationships with the fathers of those I loved. So, it was with great trepidation when Alva asked me to meet her parents. Even though I explained that nothing good could come out of meeting her parents, Alva insisted, and since she was a very giving girl, prevailed. So, off we went one afternoon to her parents’ home.
Alva didn’t live with her parents. She lived on a kibbutz, a collective, and had stayed there after her parents left to live in Hertzilya, a town outside of Tel Aviv. Still, it was her home away from home.
Unlike most Israelis who live in apartments and condos, Alva’s parents had a single-family home, which in Israel, meant they had money. Money was something I never seemed to have in Israel. Each month, my parents would send me $150.00. Just to be clear, that was a lump sum, once each month. As you might well imagine, that hardly lasted an entire month. I would live like a king for about two weeks or so and then have to scramble for cash. And I mean scramble, as in beg, borrow and steal. Those details, however, are better left for another time.
Alva’s parents were polite and cordial. I wouldn’t describe them as particularly warm, but they were quite pleasant, asking me perfunctory questions about my origin and my plans for the future, such as they were at the time. I really didn’t have any, so that part of the conversation was short. I had the feeling that I should have made something up, if only to appease Alva’s seemingly overprotective father. As I have learned now that I have three daughters of my own, a father’s concern is natural. On the other hand, I was only eighteen at the time.
As we were sipping tea around the kitchen table, kitchens always being the friendliest room in a home, Alva’s father received a phone call. Alva’s father was an artist, but at this stage in his life, he was also the director of a community center for disabled veterans. The centers, of which there are a number scattered throughout Israel, provide various services to disabled soldiers, including art classes. The call received by Alva’s father happened to come from a model who had been scheduled to pose for a class at the center. The model called to cancel at the last minute. Alva’s father turned to me and offered me the opportunity to model for his class. He also mentioned what I considered to be a very generous remuneration for my services. Since I was chronically short of cash, I agreed.
So, within a half hour of meeting my girlfriend’s father, I found myself in the passenger seat of his car, sans girlfriend, on my way to model for an art class.
When we arrived, I discovered that this art class had only one student, a disabled man in a wheelchair. He was waiting for us in front of his easel and set of charcoals. Apparently, he was ready to draw. Without hesitation or warning, Alva’s father asked me to take my clothes off. The prospect of standing naked in front of my girlfriend’s father, a man I had met for the first time only an hour earlier, was, to say least, disturbing. Apparently, when I accepted the offer, I was only thinking about the money and not the job description. Still, there I was and I still needed the money. I briefly contemplated backing out, but how would that look to the man I was trying to impress as a worthy boyfriend for his daughter. Besides, he was an artist and artists have their own perceptions of nudity. Right? Making matters worse, it was a chilly day and the room was not heated. That meant shrinkage on top of the embarrassment I already felt. Geez! Noticing my discomfort, or perhaps, just feeling the chill in the air, Alva’s father brought out a small space heater. Big fucking deal! On the other hand, how big did it need to be?
So, my friends, I was asked to strike a pose. Since this was my first time modeling, I searched my brain for some inspiration. I came up with Michelangelo’s David, which stands so cold and lonely in Florence, Italy. And there I stood for nearly three hours, naked and objectified. I don’t know how many of you have ever modeled or tried to stand statue-still for so long, but it wasn’t easy. It entails a considerable amount of muscle cramping. I tried thinking of the money I was earning. That helped a little. Alva’s father did pay me a compliment at some point during my ordeal. He likened my posture and the way I held my hands to a classical Greek sculpture. Thanks Mickey! Or does he did he liked to be called Angelo?
I was relieved when the class was over and I was able to get dressed. I recall a quiet drive back to the house. I was paid and went back to the dorms with Alva.
Life in the dorms was good. I had a place to stay, plenty of friends and a life full of adventure. I skipped classes, slept late and had a great girlfriend. One day though, I was surprised to learn that my Israeli roommate was leaving.
(With my friend, Noel, in my dorm room)
Apparently, he finished his studies and had to move out. We got along quite well and I was sad to see him leave. I was even sadder to learn that I was assigned a new roommate. My distress didn’t stem from the mere fact that I wasn’t going to have a room to myself. Rather, it was because I was saddled with some mama’s boy nerdy kid from Long Island. As soon as he opened his mouth and introduced himself, I knew we were not going to get along. He whined. It was evident that he was going to be a serious student and intolerant of my Bohemian lifestyle. I say Bohemian even though that’s not exactly true. My best friend, Peter, was Romanian from Transylvania. If that’s not quite Bohemia, it’s close enough, at least for my imagination. Unfortunately, my suspicions about my new roommate proved true. We did not get along at all. Still, it was what it was and I had to make the best of it.
Even though Arianna, my soldier girlfriend, left me after the incident with the South African girl, I was still friendly with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend. They showed up one day hoping to stay over in my room. As a beneficiary of Israeli hospitality, I had adopted an “open door” policy and frequently entertained guests. The three of us hung out for a while until Riki and Knafo left to go somewhere. They said they would return later that evening. As hospitable as I was, I wasn’t about to wait all night for them. I had needs. I was hungry. So, I wrote a note, attached it to my door and left my room key in my mailbox. I went down to Sandwich City, got a bite to eat and returned to my room. The note on the door and my key were gone. I figured that Riki and Knafo had come back and left again. No problem. I just went to hang out with a friend. I returned about an hour later to find my new roommate affixing his own note to the door. It said simply: “Michael’s key is with Penina the “house mother.” Penina lived with her family in an apartment in the dorm building opposite mine. She was in charge of the dorms and was not my biggest fan. I asked my roommate about the message. He said that he read my note to my friends and was not happy about it. I admit. It wasn’t the nicest note but didn’t think he could read Hebrew. I miscalculated. Oops! My note said: “I went to get something to eat. Be back soon. My key is in the mailbox. Watch out for my new roommate. I think he’s a homo.”
Apparently, he objected to the last part. I was livid. I started screaming at him for turning me in to Penina. He, on the other hand, seemed pleased with himself. I wish I could remember the countless obscenities with which I showered this lad, but I was viciously angry. I wasn’t thinking – Hey, Sid, you should remember this for future reference. You might write about it someday. Well, there was only one thing to do. I had to go to see Penina.
Before you jump to conclusions, my main crime was not the “homo” reference in my note, even though I regret that now. I have somewhat evolved since I was a lad of eighteen. If that had been all, I might have been asked to apologize. Instead, my crime was leaving my key in the mailbox. It was late January of 1977 and Israel was still at war with all her neighbors. Sadat had not yet visited Jerusalem. Israel was, and unfortunately still is, on high alert for terrorism. The university feared that terrorists would gain access to the dorms and murder students. Therefore, the prime directive was – Do not leave your key anywhere!
Without any alternative, I walked across the courtyard separating my building from Penina’s. I climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door. Penina answered. I was confronted with the coldest, meanest stare I had ever seen. If she wasn’t born to become a very stern woman, she certainly developed into one. She stood silently for thirty seconds and then said: “Leave the dorms immediately.” I pleaded with her to let me stay. Where was I supposed to go at eleven at night? She finally relented and told me to leave first thing in the morning.
As it turned out, the key in the mailbox doubled as a pretext to kick me out of the dorms. I had also been told that since I never attended classes, I had no reason to be there in the first place. I could live with that. Still, that’s not the whole story. I was part of a dormitory purge. My best friend, Peter, the guy from Transylvania, and his girlfriend, Yolande, were also ejected at the same time. If only I had a picture of the three of us with all our belongings waiting at the bus stop. However, I do have a picture of the three of us and Arianna, in happier times. And yes, whoever took the picture cut my head off. That’s sort of how I felt as I stood waiting for the bus.
Peter had a friend who lived nearby who let us store our belongings. His name was Eugene and was a filmmaker from Romania. I guess the Romanians stick together. Still, I no longer had a bed to call my own. I also did not call my parents. I was certain they would be unhappy that I had been kicked out of school.
Finding a place to stay became my daily mission in life. I still had many friends in the dorms and it usually wasn’t a problem to find someone who would let me sleep on the floor. Sometimes, I could stay with Alva, but only when her roommate was away. Apparently, she didn’t like company. On weekends when Alva went home, she left me the key to her dorm room, assuming, of course, her roommate was also away.
Life on the street wasn’t always easy. Even with friends, it was hard not having a place I could call my own. Being homeless was a challenge. For example, you can’t just take a nap in the middle of the day - or a shower. Those were things for which I had plot and plan. And I’ll never forget sleeping on a park bench one night. When I woke up, I had red blotches on my face. They disappeared by the end of the day, but I didn’t want to take any more chances with my charming visage. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to charm grilled cheese sandwiches out of unsuspecting coeds. On the other hand, I was young and there was a certain romantic aspect to hustling for room and board. It inspired creativity – creative ways to hustle anyway.
So the basic scenario was thus – I had been kicked out of the dorms, my belongings were being stored with some Romanian guy I didn’t really know, my girlfriend wasn’t able to accommodate me very often and I usually had no money for food. What was a nice Jewish boy to do?
As fortune had it, a new crop of American students moved into the dorms for the spring semester. Included in this group was a quartet of four attractive girls who moved into the suite I had vacated. I viewed their arrival as an opportunity on a number of fronts. They were attractive girls, so sparked my interest as an 18 year old. They had two rooms, which sparked my interest as a homeless person. And, I figured that they all had spending money from their parents. All I needed was a clever way to introduce myself.
As you might well imagine, on the day I had to leave the dorms, I wasn’t able to afford a mover, or even a taxi cab to ferry my belongings to Peter’s friend’s apartment. I took whatever I was able to carry and left the remainder behind. That mostly consisted of my books – The Stranger by Camus, the Norton Anthology of English Literature, the poems of Leonard Cohen, some Hesse and Vonnegut, and who knows what else. I hatched a plan. I would go to my old room, knock on the door and introduce myself as the former tenant who left his books behind. It seemed like a sound plan and off I went.
I knocked on the door and was greeted by a very cute girl named Lynn. I explained that I had left my books behind and pointed them out on the shelf. Sometimes the truth works. I engaged her in conversation and found her to be quite charming - and cute. I think the book gambit was a touch of genius. I am quite sure that my collection gave her the impression that I was erudite and thoughtful. After all, how can I count the times poetry has been used as bait?
As we talked, I explained that a photographer for the school newspaper had just developed some pictures he took of me (with Yolande) for an article about sex and drugs on campus. It was my second modeling job. In a few of the pictures, Yolande and I appeared in the nude. Not the kind of pictures you would want your mother to see, but that’s another story. Lynn was more than intrigued by my openness in sharing the pictures with her. She was smitten. She also bought me some food at Sandwich City. A young American on her first trip abroad meets the handsome, bohemian intellectual. Classic!
Before long, Lynn became what I can only describe as my backup girlfriend for when Alva wasn’t around. Yes, I know that two-timing is not the most chivalrous way to behave, but remember, I was homeless and mostly penniless. I would have said shekelless, but Israel still called their currency lira at the time. Besides, liraless is just as ridiculous as shekelless. Except for the time Lynn espied me in Alva’s window, kissing her, the arrangement worked fairly well. Lynn’s heartfelt “Fuck you, Sid Stein!” still rings in my ears. At some point, she forgave me. I was a bohemian, after all.
With Lynn in my life, I wasn’t so homeless anymore. I didn’t stay with her every night, but she was usually around on the weekends, which dovetailed well with Alva’s frequent weekend absences. Although Lynn knew about Alva, Alva didn’t know about Lynn. Otherwise, she would never have left me her dorm key for that fateful weekend.
It was one very special weekend that Alva left her key with me. Since I could stay with Lynn, I gave the key to Yolande, who like me, was similarly homeless. Why shouldn’t Yolande have a bed too?
I was fast asleep in Lynn’s bed when there was a loud knock on her door. I answered the door to find an extremely distraught Yolande. She looked like she had been through hell. She had been crying and her hair was a mess, not that it was ever so neat to begin with. Apparently, at some point during the night, Yolande had some sort of episode – a nervous breakdown, for lack of a better term. She had locked herself in Alva’s room and began screaming while tearing the place to shreds. There were reports of torn and bloody sheets. I have no idea what drove her to madness, but mad she was. Perhaps she had read too many French Existentialists.
Lynn and I did the best we could for Yolande. That night, the best we could do was keep her safe from the university dormitory authorities. We knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before the proverbial shit hit the fan. That didn’t take long.
The following day, when Alva returned to the dorms from her weekend at her kibbutz, her parents were waiting for her. They had been summoned by the dormitory authorities who wanted to expel Alva from school for violating the same rule (pretext) used to oust me – giving your dorm key to someone else. Unlike me, who had no one to intervene, Alva’s parents used their political connections to keep her in school. They also made a strong argument that none of it was Alva’s fault. She obviously had been duped by a sinister force – yours truly.
I later learned that the defense employed by her parents was bolstered by what the dormitory authorities told them about me. I was duly impressed with my apparent exploits. Apparently, I had earned a reputation as a drug dealer, despoiler and exploiter of virgins (young girls?), and get this – I was allegedly packing a gun.
Despite the fact that none of that was true, I was in no rush to actually lose my reputation. To a 19 year old (I had a birthday), it sounded pretty cool. In fact, it enhanced my charm with the girls. Thanks, dorm moms!
I was safely in Lynn’s room watching Alva’s drama unfold in the courtyard. Her parents were there to move her out of her dorm room. I was losing one of my girlfriends! Despite what you might think, I was in love with Alva. Whether or not you think it’s hypocritical and contradictory to love one girl and sleep with another, I still felt a need to be gallant and take a stand for Alva.
(Yep, that's me!)
Before Alva and her parents actually drove away, but after the dorm people had scattered, I left Lynn’s room and ran to the street to confront Alva’s father. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I didn’t want to lose my girlfriend. I recall standing on the corner of Einstein and University Streets, just outside the front gate of the dorms. I don’t remember what I said, but I am sure I professed my deep love for Alva and how the entire incident was a misfortunate occurrence. Alva’s father wasn’t buying any of it. He and his wife were livid. He hurled insult after insult upon me. He told me I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. In that instant, a thought occurred to me. Was I not good enough as a person or was I not good enough because he had seen me naked? I didn’t ask him as he whisked his daughter away.
Recently, I was accused of taking too long to tell a story. Maybe the person was right. It took me seven pages to get to the punch line of this story.
