August, 1993. I’m 27, horny, and full of unprocessed spiritual ambition. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, but instead of Jesus, I met T.—a woman who flew out to see me at my parents’ house in Sacramento. Very romantic… until my Seventh-Day Adventist parents caught us mid-fornication, which, apparently, is not covered by the honor thy father commandment.
Next morning, I’m not just out of their will—I’m heading out of the state. I flee with T. to Florida, hoping we can start fresh. But within a week, she’s back with her ex-boyfriend, whose main qualification appears to be… more girth.
So I turn to where all lost Jews go for redemption: the Jewish singles ads.
Boom. I meet an heiress. Upper West Side, Manhattan. She flies me out. And not just to sleep on the couch—she puts me in her apartment, gives me more than $10 a day to wander the city. This is what Moses promised: the land flowing with vegie burgers and MetroCards.
She’s very bossy. She has opinions—on everything. Sex, Torah, and what I should do with my l ife. But I figure, hey, I can take it. This is New York City! I’m a struggling writer with a foreign accent and unresolved daddy issues. I can clean up here.
So while she’s at therapy working out her childhood, I’m placing another singles ad in the Village Voice. Like an idiot. Because God sees everything—and apparently, so do girlfriends in Manhattan.
She finds the ad. Confronts me. Her therapist says I’m “using her.”
Using her? Lady, I’m giving you my body, my charisma, my spiritual neurosis… for free!
It gets worse. I crawl back to LA. Back to Beverly Hills, living out of my car—which now won’t start. And I’m courting a nurse who hates me because I left her for the heiress for a three-week romp. A beautiful, nurturing woman who gives insulin shots and tough love in equal measure.
But guess what? Her friends and family all say I’m using her. Why? Because I borrowed $500 to fix the car I was living in so I could continue dating her.
Using her? No, no, no. I was investing in our future.
But I get it. It’s hard being the suffering servant of Isaiah 43 while trying to date middle-class women with boundaries. Every time I try to find a life partner, I get accused of being a con man with a library card.
In the end, all I wanted was a place to sleep, a woman to love, and maybe a little walking-around money for vegie burgers and bagels. Is that so wrong?
Is that using people?
Or is that… the American dream?
