The Hostage Crisis

1962

Plato may have been right in saying “the unexamined life is not worth living.” But, notwithstanding Plato’s sage advice, does the unexamined life always bear talking about. How does an author avoid the danger of producing either sophisticated drivel or boring unvarnished truths; especially in the memoir, or pseudo-memoir mode? One of my colleagues at the English Composition Board—a kind of grammar-centric clinic that, while denying all associations with remediation, teaches syntax in the guise of semantics--thought I should include one of my Nun stories. The time is the early 60s.

Sister Ruth Marie had come to our peninsular parish from the Indian Reservations of New Mexico and Arizona. It wasn’t long thereafter that she took to calling me “Chief Big Mouth.” While at the time, much as I do now, I felt this was an apt name for me, I wondered what names she had applied to her Native American charges back on the reservation. In her eyes there wasn’t much difference between a Finnlander and Navajo. Both were equal under God, and both were subject to her abiding belief that a mixture of corporal punishment and solitary confinement were prerequisites to Godliness. She was good with the ruler, pointer, and occasional rosary. Sister Ruthless had a place for those who dared to defy her. Our brownstone, 4 room Sing-Sing had a windowless, enclosed supply closet in each grade, as well as a shared cloakroom, both ominous places to contemplate one’s sins in the darkness. She had her pets. To preserve the ruse of objectivity, however, she posted a demerit chart that listed one’s crimes and sins in plain view. Of course the red squares that followed my name on the graph required that additional paper be added.

I thought I was done with her after 5th and 6th grade; but following the departure of Sister Domingo, Sister Ruth Marie took over the 7th and 8th grade. The fact that she once intercepted a note I passed in 5th grade left little doubt in my mind that my last two years of grade school would be turbulent. Perhaps thankfully, I can only remember the first line: “Hail Mary full of shit, The Lord is with thee.” Lord only knows what she thought when she read it. Her visage took on that fanatical half-sneer, half-smile look that signals someone in the throes of satanic possession. At that moment, I saw mirrored in her eyes an anti-Christ so vile that all of the Freddy Krugers and Michael Myers she could never dream of would pale in comparison. Strangely enough, however, I can’t remember the outcome of this incident.

It was also in the 5th grade that St. Johns adopted uniforms: navy blue corduroy pants and robins egg khaki tops. Report card day would see a room full of blues—at least some of us had the blues—awaiting a Dickensian Catholic priest who would later be committed. Father Garin had a penchant for wanting to know the minute details of every confession. No “Father, I had impure thoughts” escaped him. It was also rumored that he would sometimes ask the penitent’s name, as if this personal knowledge could somehow enhance the legitimacy of his absolutions.

On the days when we received report cards, Garin would dutifully show up to praise or vilify us, In theory, we, the vilified, were to internalize the wisdom he imparted and rectify the ignorance or inattention that had brought us to this sad state of affairs. In practice, this meeting was a twisted ritual dreaded by angels and devils alike. Thick, moist hair protruded from Father Garin’s nose and ears. As he would drone his admonitions, huge, irregular shaped flakes of dandruff would snow down on the torturous detainee. His yellowish, lime teeth and fetid breath were all but unbearable. The card itself was a single booklet that had academic pursuits on the left and character assessments on the right. Much attention was given to this right side, and I, of course, could never seem to do well enough in these areas. The good father would point to the D-‘s and F’s that corresponded to the headings: “Conduct”, “Effort”, “Courtesy”, and “Attendance”. Attendance wasn’t a problem, I was always there; in the other three categories, however, I failed miserably.

1982

THE HOSTAGE CRISIS

“The withdrawing addict is subject to the emotional excesses of a child or an adolescent, regardless of his actual age. And the sex drive returns in full force. Men of sixty experience wet dreams and spontaneous orgasms (an extremely unpleasant experience, agacant as the French say, putting the teeth on edge). Unless the reader keeps this in mind, the metamorphosis of…character will appear as inexplicable or psychotic….[e]xcessive drinking…exacerbates all the worst and most dangerous aspects of the withdrawal sickness: reckless, unseemly, outrageous, maudlin—in a word, appalling—behavior.
William Burroughs xiii


Shortly after flying in we decided to go out and eat. An academic couple from the east coast decided to accompany us to an upscale restaurant. I had read about it in Gourmet magazine. The Coco Locos I had been drinking only partially succeeded in quieting the ants crawling in my veins. It was a family owned restaurant, and we proceeded to eat and drink. After the meal we asked to see the desert menu. I inquired about the strawberry shortcake for my wife and son, asking the waiter to exclude the whipped cream since our son had a dairy allergy. The waiter politely informed me that this was impossible. Being intoxicated, in withdrawal and having seen too many Jack Nicholson movies, I told the waiter to” bring us the strawberries and to stick the whipped cream up his ass.” My wife and our dining companions looked at me in horror and disbelief. The waiter looked at me quizzically as if he hadn’t heard me right. I repeated my asinine request, and in doing so not only burdened myself with one of the many regrets in my lifetime but almost got myself killed. Shooting me a look of disgust and loathing that, at that moment, seemed to reflect the collective Mexican hatred of the Gringo mentality, the waiter said, “you are not in the United States anymore.” I suddenly felt very small, afraid, and embarrassed, but it was too late. While the waiter’s siblings restrained him from attacking me, the family patriarch told me to leave and never come back.

During the winter of 1982 I decided to do a little self-rehab, this was an ongoing project. I had been heavily dependent since 1980, and would finally quit in 1986. At any rate, it dawned on me that the money might be better spent on a trip to Puerto Vallarta than a stint in Hazelden. (This was never a choice I seriously considered; but it sounds good here) Oblivious to world weather patterns, my wife, our newborn son and I boarded a budget flight and flew off to Mexico. The nuns had always told me I had a one track mind, and my planning for this trip confirmed their opinion. Since I felt I needed a long vacation from my nemesis, I opted for the 17 day package. How was I to know that January 1982 would see an El Nino pound the North American Pacific seaboard with a fury unprecedented in that century.

To understand how this could turn a potential paradise into a living hell, one must consider the physical layout of the modern high-rise beach hotel. Typically, one enters the front of the hotel from an access road away from the beach. Proceeding to the rear one encounters an open-air patio bar situated next to the pool. Beyond this are stairs that descend to the beach. The water was so high and the waves so ferocious that the sea completely swamped the bar and pool area. The impenetrable murkiness of the muddy brine made it impossible to tell where the patio ended and the pool began. The previous week a vacationing spinster had drowned when her motorized wheelchair hit the drop-off. Her gurgling cries went unheeded as the obligatory Tourist Trap steel drum band emitted its high-pitched drone in the suffocating tropical heat. My wife, of course, having a sick infant son and a drunken husband; and being trapped in a sweltering room in the tropical heat; beset by a crowd that, deprived of the beach, now swelled the inside of the hotel to the point that leaving the room would be insane; and with the sewers backing up into the room, just loved the sound of the steel drums from hell. Did I mention that all of her jewelry—two small but sentimental rings—was stolen while we were there.