Pulling at Straws

By Marsha Michaels

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Marsha Michaels
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3733-7

Contents

Altitude and Attitude......................1Living High................................9Domesticity & Recovery.....................19Setting up Shop............................25Departure..................................33Diagnosis..................................37Epilogue...................................43

Chapter One

Altitude and Attitude

Everything started innocently enough. I remember buying an ounce of pot, weighing it for accuracy on the triple beam scale. Then I was asked to split it with a friend, bringing down our costs. Soon everybody wanted an ounce, so I bought a pound for about $200.00, and I broke it up into sixteen, one-ounce bags and sold them for $70.00 each. I was not handling the financial end. That would be Alan Diamond, my high school boyfriend; I was the saleswoman. At the time I was living in my hometown, in a nearby borough from where I was born. My place was located in the west village on Jane Street in New York City. I was only twenty-one, working for the May Company buying office. My boss was Dawn Mello, who became the president of Bergdorf Goodman years later. I held the position of Buyer for home furnishings fabrics. It was a man's business; I was cutting edge and told, very cute. The mini-dress was in full fashion at the time and I was a big supporter of this new dress style. I was well liked and successful with all my buyers who ranged from coast to coast. How I went from professional to the bohemian/hippy is quite the tale to tell.

Many, many years later I found myself flying into Denver at the request of the FBI to have a chat at their headquarters. I remember it was a cold day with snow on the streets. It had been years since I crunched along on icy sidewalks. The air was crisp and the sky was a true Colorado blue. The choice the FBI gave me had been either a casual Saturday informal meeting or a date with the Grand Jury. On the phone, these agents had sounded like thugs. But on my arrival, I discovered the agents were long hairs themselves. It was strange how I felt familiar with the lead prosecutor, who I later found out had been a defense attorney for drug dealers in Mendocino County, working the opposite side of the law. On the close of this grueling interrogation, he was amazed at how this smuggling operation had successfully gone on for so many years. He asked me, "Has anyone written a book on this intriguing story?" His question has always stayed with me. But I am getting ahead of myself.

After high school graduation, Alan attended the University of Arizona, a party college. I went to work at Bloomingdales on 59th Street and attended classes at New York School of Interior Design. We both dated others, but kept in close touch. When my father died at the young age of forty-seven, Alan flew back to see me. He had this way of hopping on planes. Buying a cheap ticket from Tucson to Phoenix. Then the plane went on to New York City. He would pretend to be asleep; and once the plane was airborne to his actual destination, he would play to the stewardess that he slept through his ticket stop. He had family in New York. He would negotiate a free return ticket, giving him a few days to visit. This was the story he told me; I asked no details.

I was certain that there was romance between us. We were each other's first love. I was fourteen when we had our first date. It was a fraternity party at his home. I met his parents that first night. Both were immigrants from Vienna with thick accents. Not until much later did I learn their story of escaping the Nazi regime.

While Alan was exploring out west, I met a nice Jewish boy at work. Marvin was a red-haired jokester. I hate jokesters! He treated me well, took me out to many nice places, we fell into regular dating, leading to a faux type of engagement. Our couple friends were planning weddings; "how about you two?" was easily asked of us. There were a few problems in partnering. Marvin's father was a Cantor, the singer for a Rabbi. If we married, we would be expected to keep a Kosher home. My grandparents kept a Kosher home, but were lax for the grandchildren's needs, my aunt recently informs me just forty years later!

But Marvin ate bacon every weekend. Was he really going to change for his parents, who resided three states away? I was having what I now call a "lulu" moment, getting frustrated, but going with the flow.

Marvin and I took a road trip to see his parents. It was about a four-hour drive, for some reason I insisted on driving his new Volkswagen Bug. We were on the New Jersey turnpike. He complained I was tailgating. Before I knew it, I had caused quite the crash, mating with the front car. The Bug was badly wounded, but drivable. Insisting I continue driving when Marvin took the reins and let me have it. He said, "We will not discuss this with my parents."

"Fine with me", I retorted. I was really quite indifferent about the whole thing. When we arrived and introductions were made, my immediate impression was what a cold, conservative family. The home was dark, lifeless, and that included the conversation as well.

In comparison to the experience in my home, my parents would sit together in one club chair when there were two and had an attitude that if you wanted to make love swinging from a chandelier, go for it. If the participants were married, that is ...

A few weeks later, deciding to drop a note to Alan, telling him of my engagement plans; that very next weekend, he showed his smiling tan face at my door. His hair was longer than usual and his attitude playful. "Getting married, eh?"

"Oh I don't know", I say, "probably." After we had caught up, he said, "I have something for you to try." We were sitting in my very small, cramped living room on my pullout couch when he lights up, not a Marlboro but a joint.

"Here just take a few sips."

"Hmmm, I'm afraid."

"Why?" he asks, "Trust me, you're safe."

Indeed I was. Needless to say the faux engagement with Marvin was instantly over as the romance with Alan blossomed once again.

Now I'm out on the streets selling pot to many of my vendors. It was innocent enough and fun watching the ordinary conservative men getting high in their offices, and then heading out to their martini lunches.

"Make sure you never tell my wife," many said to me.

I would pack up six ounces a day in my Mother's hand-me-down Bottega Veneto handbag and return home with more cash income than I made in a forty- hour week at my job.

As our relationship flourished, Alan suggested I move out to Aspen Colorado, where we could live together and explore an entirely different lifestyle. It caused quite a dilemma to leave my professional life, reside outside the tri-state area that no one in my family had attempted to leave since the immigration of my grandfather from Palestine. This was not going to be welcome news to my family.

I found myself walking around the same six blocks for an inordinate amount of time, minutes maybe! I found myself ringing the bell where Alan was staying with his brother and live-in girlfriend.

"That's my girl," he says to Irene.

"How do you know?"

"It's destiny, meant to be."

Weeks later I got up the nerve to reveal to my mother the exciting news. Joey, as my Dad called her, and I were to meet at the 57th Street Hamburger Hamlet for lunch and a chat.

Remembering back after Dad's passing, Mom went to work for the...