Luke Ford

I went to writing class last night to read my essay on why Jewish men chase shiksas only to have the tall blonde newcomer share first her story about her love of Jewish ****.

I believe in God. I don’t believe that my instincts are right more than 50% of the time. I believe that I’m an addict to sex, love, fantasy, and co-dependent relationships. If I follow my own will, I’m lost.

I love money in the bank.

I hate dangerous conscience-less people, those who don’t consider the effect of their behavior on others, those old ladies in Pico-Robertson who push their shopping carts into the street without mind of the obstacles they’re placing to the traffic, addicts who won’t get help, ungrateful people, those who don’t see themselves, those who edge their car into your lane, forcing you to stop and backing up traffic behind you just so they can get a good look, rageaholics, absent parents unconcerned about the welfare of those they brought into the world, those so focused on the next world that they don’t enjoy this one, those who think happiness is unimportant, those who’d prefer to blame others than to work on themselves with a therapist or 12-step group, those lost in resentment they can’t see their own role in their misery, all the losers who attach themselves to me because they think I’m one of them, those who need constant reassurance, unfaithful partners, manipulative girlfriends who make you call them twice for every time they deign to return your call, those with bad credit scores, bludgers, those who take welfare, unemployment, disability and food stamps when they’re able-bodied, drug users, heavy drinkers, those who blast loud music, those who wear their pants down their butts, tattoos, terrorists…

If you have no feelings, you don’t wince when you carve up people. You’re as cold as ice. You’re a surgeon. Your job is to cut people up. Sometimes you heal them and sometimes you kill them (even the best of doctors kill at least a dozen of their patients). A non-surgeon who started doing the things a surgeon did would be locked up and viewed as bad, but once you can prove that you’re a surgeon, a writer, then the previously taboo behavior becomes acceptable.

Writer is an all-access pass to life. You can do anything and go anywhere. You’re entitled by the quality of your work. Many of the things you blog would be unacceptable to say in polite company but because you’re a writer, you can share them with the world.

So my writing teacher asked me how did I know that I had low social status in Jewish life.

I met Bella* at a Shabbat dinner in March of 1998. It was set up by **** but was at the home of a ****** couple. My life was bare during the week, just blogging lukeford.com, so on Friday night I was a tad exuberant, charming the woman of the house and offending the man of the house (by sitting in his seat).

Sitting across from Bella, I asked her, even though I could tell she was in her late 20s, “Where do you go to high school?” She smiled. She blushed. She confessed she was a nutritionist, a common profession for a Jewish woman, like speech pathologist. You can usually do it part-time if need be while raising kids.

A week or so later, I ran into Bella on Purim at my Reform temple *** *******. She was happy to see me. I got her phone number and took her to a Torah class a few days later in my old bomb. Then we hit a Shabbat dinner in Venice for our second date, ending up all cuddly in my hovel.

The next week, I parted company with my Orthodox shul ****, choosing my forbidden blogging over the new life that I had promised the rabbi, and I took Bella on our third date — dinner and a movie. Due to time constraints, dinner became the Ralphs salad bar (eaten in my old car) and the movie was Wag the Dog, which she had already seen.

We went back to her place. I wasn’t fully comfortable and her jaw got tired after a few minutes, so there was no Hollywood ending. I left before 6 a.m. to make early minyan and daf yomi at my new Orthodox shul.

She liked that I was so dedicated.

She said that her previous boyfriend had taught her that if you give your man a blowjob in the morning, he’s happy all day.

A day or two later, I called. It turned out that our third date had not been spectacular for her (I think it was eating Ralphs salad in my bombed out van before the movie she’d already seen). She was headed to Europe for a few weeks of vacation. “Don’t wait for me,” she said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

And that’s where things would’ve ended if I hadn’t fractured my wrist a month later playing football at my Reform temple Sunday picnic. Feeling bereft, I called Bella. She said she was strangely stirred by my vulnerability. She came over that Shabbos afternoon and very awkwardly, my left arm in a cast, we consummated our friendship on the floor of my hovel, shortly before bringing in Shuvuot at Adat Shalom, a Conservative synagogue in Westwood.

Over the next year, we went out about once a month. We never talked about having a relationship and never talked about a future together. I was getting a lot of media attention in those days, and whenever I got on TV, Bella rewarded me with sex.

I think the last time we hooked up was after a screening of the Holocaust movie Life is Beautiful. We both felt queasy. She said she’d just finished her period, which I took as a cue to lay out towels in case things got messy. She threw the towels away. I understand now that she meant we could go unprotected.

A year went by. She came to my Reform temple one Shabbos morning. She didn’t seem that thrilled to see me. She might’ve been avoiding me but I didn’t get the hint. There was a vibe in the air at my temple that I was not cool and I remember worrying that Bella was picking up on it. I felt like a pariah in my own shul. If Bella hadn’t been there, it would not have been so bad, but I felt the rejection and got all reactive and trying too hard and then giving up and ignoring the ostracism and trying to connect to God.

I guess I was very glad to see Bella and desperate to connect, so desperate that I ignored her signals.

I was happy when she stayed for lunch. I might’ve even paid for it. We sat together with a group of friends. When she stood up to go, I said I’d walk her out. She told me not to worry. I said it was no worry.

I followed her out. Strangely, she barreled ahead, trying to ignore me. I struggled to keep up and to simultaneously initiate conversation. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t get the hint until she stopped, turned to me, and said, “I don’t want you to walk me out because I don’t want people to think we’re together.”

She had no problem detecting the stench of my low social status and she didn’t want to be contaminated.

A couple of days later, she called and apologized.

It reminded me of our bitter-sweet conversation a few months before when we realized we were going our separate ways. I might’ve shared I was seeing someone. And Bella said, “And I never even got to show you off.”

A few years later, I ran into her at Friday Night Live at Sinai Temple in Westwood. I called her a few days later and asked if we could try again. She said no.

So I was at Starbucks and the 18yo poet sat on the other side of the store. Both of our mothers died of cancer. Both of us like to do our own thing. Both of us go one way and our friends go another.

We’ve only spoken once. I read her poem at her invitation one Sunday afternoon.

I don’t want to bother her. I’ve got writing to do. I’m working the Fourth Step — taking a complete and fearless moral inventory. I don’t want to be a creepy old man and ask her if she’s got any more poetry to share. Oldest line in the book.

So I’ve already drained my Treinta Passion Iced Tea with two Splendas and I’m ready for the 50c refill. I get up to snag a napkin and then spread it out on my table. I take off my lid holding the long green straw and carefully place it on my napkin, making sure that no part of the straw touches the bare table.

With my two quarters in hand, I pick up my cup and turn towards the counter, only to find to my horror that I’m dragging my lid and straw with me. I feel awkward as I untangle my mess and I hope she hasn’t seen me struggle. Why do I keep giving away my low social status?

I don’t want to go to bed with Rachel and wake up with Leah. I want someone who does not repulse me when I wake up in the morning and see her without make-up. I don’t want to have to explain when I’m being sarcastic. I don’t want to have to do a lot of explaining period. The more we have in common the better.

I don’t want a woman who’s high maintenance. I’m not high maintenance. I don’t need a ton of care and catering to. I’m solid. Reliable. My behavior isn’t all over the map. I’m predictable.

I want a woman who’s reliable. Someone who reads social cues. Somebody who shows up on time, who pays her bills, is responsible and hard-working. Orthodox Judaism is hard work. I need someone who can shoulder the load.

I want a woman who wants to take what I have to give and a woman who wants to give what I want to take. I want a good loving woman. I want someone who reads books. That way we’re not likely to get bored with each other.

I can bring to the relationship the qualities of the hard-working responsible man with good credit and good health. I’m well-read, curious about life, constantly seeking to grow and to improve. I’m committed to my weekly psycho-therapy and my daily writing, my daily Judaism and my daily 12-step work.

Love for me has primarily meant romantic love. Sexual love. Agape love is great in real life but it is not the stuff of fantasy. So love for me has primarily been a fantasy rather than a reality, an aching need rather than an actuality, a yearning, a wishing, a desiring, a song, a cloud floating by. My love always has an object, a young attractive female object, who takes away all my pain. Love meant to me connection, union, an escape from loneliness. Love meant rescue. Love meant transcendence from my self-destructive patterns. Love was a high, a fix, a pulsing rock song, a focus for my attention, an obsession.

I first tasted steady reciprocation of my feelings at age 16. It was very sweet but its potential loss set off my jealousy, which doomed my fumbling connection.

What do I think love is now? I fear that my emotional instincts and yearnings are not much changed from my earliest years. I want to suck that breast dry because I have no confidence it will be around later.

My dad says propinquity breeds love. It’s true. Women I’ve considered not worth a second look become over time the most attractive thing in the world. When I get to know a woman, her looks transform.

My relationships have been sobering. I will never be able to relate to somebody on a different level of differentiation aka emotional maturity than myself. I’m stuck with my level. I can’t climb. I’ll have to love somebody as flawed and frightening and dangerous as myself. There’s no escaping my limitations. There’s no salvation in this life.