Passions, Fire and Unfinished Business

 "I loved her so much that instead of flowers, I gave her books, because flowers last a few days, but a good book lasts a lifetime." 

~ Albert Einstein

"In this world you can

search for everything,

except Love and death. 

They find you when the 

time comes."

~ Sergei Yesenin

[This is the latest part of a work in progress. Links to the earlier parts are at the bottom of this page.]

by Zvi Baranoff

I was thinking about the woman on the West Coast that I still very much loved. That was why I was contemplating the long gone time, in Philly, when we were very much in love - which is, of course, a very different thing.

I also had unfinished business in Philadelphia, so it was natural, I suppose, to conjure up ancient memories of that very different and distant Philadelphia.

Assuredly, one thing follows another as the night following day, the Alphabet Song proceeds from "A" to "Elemenopea" and eventually to "XYZ" and the planets move in their destined courses. Everything is connected, I suppose…if we can connect the dots.

The world was a very different place when we first met. 

The government had not yet banned the Temple of Aphrodite. It was the fastest-growing religion in North America at one time. Cities spanning the continent hosted large congregations that supported majestic centers dedicated to Aphrodite. Schools and hospitals were founded and financed by the Temple of Aphrodite, offering quality service to the communities that they adorned. 

Cars ran on gasoline. People drove them with no programming and  without computers. We listened to dial-up broadcast radio with static and erratic reception as we drove on the ribbons of blacktop. The interstate connected the continent. Maps were printed on paper. There was no hyperloop.

Casinos were few and far between. Gambling was restricted. Card games took place in back rooms. Churches cornered the market on bingo. State governments ran lotteries. The local police departments nationwide had hounded the numbers rackets right out of existence, assuring the States a monopoly.

Medical drugs were highly controlled. Recreational drugs were mostly illegal. Marijuana was felonious. 

Brothels were only legal in rural Nevada, where (mostly) men paid (mostly) women for sexual services. Elsewhere, a criminalized flesh market was either fly-by-night or involved paying bribes and periodic police raids. Robotic sexuality only existed in science fiction.

Back then, the book trade was still quite legal and was considered a respectable business. 

Bookstores and libraries were plentiful and operated publicly. One didn't need to know someone and the password and the hand sign as well as carry a handgun to get into a bookstore. There would be a sign out front and an unlocked door during business hours. Anyone could just walk in. Most store owners had virtually no security. Mind boggling!

It is difficult for anyone that hadn't lived through those times to imagine how totally different those times were...and there just aren't a whole lot of us old folks still around.

I had been away for a spell, although not by choice. When I got out of prison, I found a job in a Philadelphia bookstore, and eventually became the manager and then the store's owner. I lived in a small apartment above the store.

I had grown tired of being knocked around and all the ins and outs of contraband and criminality. I was trying to go straight. Hells Bells. I was on Probation and the Probation Officer was a real prick. My family was glad to see me appear to be on the straight and narrow.

Back then, I could not foresee that the winds and tides would change so dramatically. Before very long, laws and regulations criminalized the book trade. I was dropped right back into the outlaw subculture. But, that was later. For the time being, I had a respectable gig and I mostly enjoyed the work.

She and I kept crossing paths at concerts, poetry readings and such. We knew people in common. We had similar interests. We were both avid readers with a deep appreciation for books.

Yet, somehow we hadn't actually met until the day she walked into the bookstore. From that moment on, however… There are unplanned and seemingly innocuous moments that alter one's trajectory and this was one of those.

It all started out casual enough, I suppose. Maybe I let my guard down. Furniture was rearranged. Paintings were hung on the walls. There was a new throw rug by my bed and there was someone else's toothbrush besides my own in the little cup by the sink. Next thing I knew, we certainly appeared to be a couple. 

Neither one of us was particularly religious. Our attraction to that Temple was via the cultural milieu of elements such as concerts and lectures rather than any sense of religiosity. The Temple of Aphrodite was not far from my bookstore. Attending events at the Temple was a way of being neighborly.

The Priestess was a poet and an artist that frequented the local cultural scene. She was colorful and vibrant, outwardly friendly, welcoming and open. When we decided to "make it official" we asked her to perform the ceremony that tied the knot. 

So, we occasionally would attend the Friday service. We would show up for the solstices and equinoxes. We would stay for the feasts but generally would duck out before the orgies got too extensive. Our tendencies were more towards privacy in such matters.

The media outlets had begun to make a fuss about the Temple of Aphrodite, but neither of us were paying that noise much attention. From our perspectives, it seemed to largely be a matter of miscommunication and a problem of translation. Neither of us foresaw what the cultural, political and personal ripples would lead to.

The media outrage focused on the Sisterhood, which was a religious order within the Temple. They were colloquially referred to as Temple Prostitutes, although that was certainly a misnomer. Amongst their duties was to oversee and coordinate the religious gatherings, including all the seasonal orgies. The right-wing press dug their self-righteous teeth into this and wouldn't let go.

On Sunday mornings we usually slept late. Sometimes we ate breakfast in bed and would read the Sunday Times. That was back when the news was still printed on paper. So, it was late in the day before we made it to the front door of the store and saw the packet that had been slipped through the mail slot.

The Priestess that had been our friend, who had been a regular at cultural gatherings, and had officiated our wedding had left a manifesto in my mail slot. By the time we had seen it, there was nothing for us to do about it. The fire had already been lit and extinguished. 

In protest against what she saw as the infringement of religious freedom, the Priestess decided on a bold and irrevocable course of action. 

After slipping her manifesto through my mail slot, she walked to a nearby plaza. She calmly sat cross-legged in her flowing robe. She poured gasoline over herself and set her clothing on fire.

Links to the other posted parts of this story, Chapters 1 - 26.

Part 1: Grace and Mercy If Luck Holds 

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/05/grace-and-mercy-if-luck-holds.html?m=1

Part 2: Everything Was Fine Until It All Went Sideways

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/everything-was-fine-until-it-all-went.html

Part 3: I Blink In & Out and Awakened In the Zone

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/i-blink-in-out-and-awakened-in-zone.html

Part 4: Out Of Time

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/out-of-time.html

Part 5: Even Without Clocks

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/even-without-clocks.html

Part 6: Cerveza & Barbecue Before I Go

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/cerveza-barbecue-before-i-go.html?m=1

Part 7: Heading Towards the Exit

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/heading-towards-exit.html?m=1

Part 8:  A Sign, Divine Guidance & Moxie

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-sign-divine-guidance-moxie.html?m=1

Part 9:  Somehow We Kept Breathing

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/somehow-we-kept-breathing.html?m=1

Part 10:  I Squinted and Stared Through it All

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/i-squinted-and-stared-through-it-all.html?m=1

Part 11:  Riding a Wave

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/riding-wave.html?m=1

Part 12:  Some Relief Amongst the Chaos at Woodpecker Flats

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/some-relief-amongst-chaos-at-woodpecker.html?m=1

Part 13:  A "Classy" Operation in the District of Columbia

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-classy-operation-in-district-of.html?m=1

Part 14:  In the Shadow of the Dome

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/in-shadow-of-dome.html?m=1

Part 15:  Hidden Places and Dark Corners

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/11/hidden-places-and-dark-corners.html?m=1

Part 16:  On the Jersey Shore

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/12/on-jersey-shore.html?m=1

Part 17:  Dreaming at the No Tell Motel

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/01/dreaming-at-no-tell-motel.html?m=1

Part 18:  The Coffee Didn't Help

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/the-coffee-didnt-help.html?m=1

Part 19:  Like Two Drops of Rain

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/like-two-drops-of-rain.html?m=1

Part 20 : Chased by the Devil

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/03/chased-by-devil.html?m=1

Part 21: An Arcade and a Penny for Your Thoughts

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/an-arcade-and-penny-for-your-thoughts.html?m=1

Part 22: We Have to Talk, She Said

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/we-have-to-talk-she-said.html

Part 23: She Climbed Out of the Water

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/12/she-climbed-out-of-water.html

Part 24: Passions, Fires and Unfinished Business

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/04/unfinished-business.html

Part 25: The Book Trade Hasn't Killed Me Yet 

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/05/the-book-trade-hasnt-killed-me-yet.html?m=1

Part 26: A Detour Through the Fire 

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-detour-through-fire.html?m=1

One Little Goat: A Prisoner's Story

by Zvi Baranoff

It was cold all the time. 

In the winter, they didn't supply enough heat to warm the place. In the summer, the air conditioning blew icy cold day and night. 

Each prisoner was issued one blanket. Possession of more than a single blanket was a breach of regulations and a punishable offense.

At night, teeth chattered as each man wrapped himself cocoon-like, each in his sweats and wool hat, wrapped in that single blanket. 

Hundreds of men were housed together, each very much alone. Alone in his thoughts, alone in self-torture. Alone, doing his time.

Young or old, experienced or not, you do your time or the time does you. In the world, time is measured by clocks. In prison, time is measured differently. 

A sentence of less than five years is measured by months, and looked at by most as if it was a holiday cruise. Five years is called a Nickel, and is worth about as much. More than that is counted by calendars. 

A sentence of anything less than a Dime seriously holds little credibility. Seniority counts for prestige and influence in the distorted mirror world of prison as much as in any corporate setting.

I felt as alone as anyone could possibly be, there in the crowded prison dormitory. I arrived at this Federal Prison Camp in rural Georgia, with a sentence of less than five years. I was viewed as a short timer by other prisoners as well as the staff. 

In the segregated subculture of prisons, nearly everything is black or white. The redneck prisoners held some advantage as most of the guards were from the same background. The black prisoners had the advantage of numbers. 

Most prisoners kept to their own kind. Black, whites and the "others". There were a handful of Jews counted amongst the others.

I was just one small goat awaiting the passage of time. There were very few others in that place that would attend a Passover Seder, if such a thing were to happen.

In the world, in the America that we are most familiar with, there is an illusion of meritocracy, a semblance of fairness and a modicum of justice. That paper-thin veneer is torn away inside. 

One might think that the prison system is a network of well-structured institutions with clear rules and orders from above. That's certainly how it all appears from the outside, looking in. From the inside, the perspective changes.

The Cat always had larger portions, more slack and an extra blanket. He had cigarettes. He had a cellphone. If you needed something - or wanted something - he could help, for a price. 

Every prisoner has a prison job for which he is paid pennies an hour for the time at work. To bring some balance to the equation, inmates will slack off or pilfer. The Cat worked in the kitchen. He was no slacker at pilfering. He always had bananas and other delicacies that were rarely served in the chow line. 

The day to day operations of the dormitory wing where I was housed depended on the Cat. With a wink or a nod, difficulties could be ironed out. The Cat did as he pleased, within limits. 

Most of the guards appreciated the soft assignment of policing a low level joint. It was an easy gig. They did their time and went home. They avoided conflicts and ignored petty infractions because all of that just led to extra work. 

There was one Bulldog that would occasionally clamp his incisors into the Cat, landing the Cat in solitary. It is not unreasonable to think that there was some theater involved. The Cat was never away for long. He always returned with few losses.

Food services were overseen by a CO named Mr Smith. He ran a tight operation, wielding authority like a stick. The prisoners that served under him could hardly get away with anything. He did not tolerate prisoners stealing. For him, such actions, from prisoners, was a personal affront.

Working directly under Mr Smith was the CO Ms Smith - no relation. Mr Smith was married and his wife worked at a school in town. 

Ms Smith was a devout Christian, most evident by the Cross she always wore and the phrases such as "God Bless" and "Praise Jesus" that peppered her speech, even when speaking to inmates.

It was an open secret that Mr Smith and Ms Smith were having an affair. 

Ms Smith, however, would not allow her vagina to be penetrated by Mr Smith. Her religion proscribed that. In their stolen moments of passion, she would only allow Mr Smith to fondle her breasts and to enter her anus.

Mr Smith found this somewhat frustrating and kept up a steady pressure on Ms Smith but she remained true to her faith.

They would relieve their tensions in the storage room. They believed they were out of the range of the security cameras and that no inmate could see them. 

The Cat would sometimes watch from a spot in the crawlspace. Usually, however, he took advantage of their indiscretions for his own nefarious thievery.

On the days when she had been butt fucked, she smiled a little more and served slightly larger portions in the chow line. On the days that she had not been pleasured, she was irritable and the portions were smaller.

Between the two Smiths, they figured how to divert supplies from storage and out of the prison in the trunks of their cars. Ms Smith would sell the diverted goods through her church. This larceny padded their incomes. 

This arrangement went on for years, but no fire can burn forever. It must have felt like a bucket of cold water when Ms Smith was busted for selling stolen goods. 

Ms Smith claimed that she was misled by her passionate love for Mr Smith, however she alone lost her job and went to jail. 

Mr Smith's infidelity and the scandal had rippling effects. His marriage ended in divorce and he was saddled with crippling alimony and child support payments. 

Mr Smith also lost his supplementary income as he was under greater scrutiny and had no accomplice to sell the pilfered goods. To add insult to his injury, the prison system replaced Ms Smith with a homosexual who did his best to replace Ms Smith on a level that Mr Smith refused to rise to.

Everyone called the old man the Ox. He was in the final couple of years of a twenty year stretch. He could be found most days lifting weights. He was a large man with an even temperament.

When his stomach began hurting, he took his concerns to the medic. The doc prescribed antacid. The pains did not subside. They got progressively worse. He laid in his bunk, between trips to the sick bay to see the doc that was called the Butcher. 

Months passed. Eventually, a new set of tests discovered the cancer that was eating out the insides of the Ox. 

Of course, the Warden could have written a recommendation for a Compassionate Release, sending the Ox home for his remaining time. Instead, he was shipped to a prison hospital, behind a fence that made escape impossible.

There, in the Prison Hospital, the Angel of Death came and took the Ox away. We learned of his death the night of the first Seder.

The Cat had received his cut. The Bulldog looked the other way. There was nearly enough matzah and grape juice. In the Prison, deprived of all liberty, we read the story of the struggle for freedom, from the Four Questions to the tail end of the Seder - the song about a goat.

"Then came The Holy One, Blessed be He, and smote the angel of death, who slew the slaughterer, who killed the ox, that drank the water, that put out the fire, that burned the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, which my father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat."

Dizabin abba bitrei zuzim. Chad gadya, chad gadya.