The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

Word got around that I would write papers for students who found themselves in a bind. I had a sliding scale for this service. If the student got an A, my fee was $20. I got $10 for a B. A grade of C was a wash, and no money changed hands. For a D or an F, I promised my client that I would pay him or her $20. I made sure I would never have to pay, because I couldn’t afford it. And I was sly. (It embarrasses me to say that, but it’s the truth.) I wouldn’t take on a project unless the student in need could provide at least one paper he or she had written, so I could copy the style. I didn’t need to do this a lot, thank God, but when I had to – when I was broke and simply couldn’t live without a burger and fries at the Bear’s Den in Memorial Union – I did.

Then, when I was a junior, I discovered that I had a fairly rare blood type, A-negative, roughly six percent of the population. There was a clinic in Bangor that would pay twenty-five dollars per pint for A-neg. I thought that an excellent deal. Every two months or so, I drove my battered old station wagon up Route 2 from Orono (or hitchhiked when it was broke down, a frequent occurrence) and rolled up my sleeve. There was far less paperwork in those pre-AIDS years, and when your pint was in the bag, you had your choice of a small glass of orange juice or a small knock of whiskey. Being an alcoholic-in-training even then, I always opted for the whiskey.

Headed back to school after one of these donations, it occurred to me that if whoring is selling yourself for money, then I was a whore. Writing English essays and sociology term papers was also whoring. I had been raised mainstream Methodist, I had a clear fix on right and wrong, but there it was: I had become a whore, only peddling my blood and writing skills instead of my ass.

That realization raised questions of morality that still engage me to this day. It’s a rubbery concept, isn’t it? Uniquely stretchable. But if you stretch anything too far, it will tear. Nowadays I give my blood instead of selling it, but it occurred to me then and still seems true to me now: under the right circumstances, anyone might sell anything.

And live to regret it.

Morality

I

Chad knew something was up as soon as he walked in. Nora was home already. Her hours were from eleven to five, six days a week. The way it usually worked, he got home from school at four and had dinner on when she came in around six.

She was sitting on the fire escape, where he went to smoke, and she had some paperwork in her hands. He looked at the refrigerator and saw that the email printout was gone from beneath the magnet that had been holding it in place for almost four months.

‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Come on out here.’ She paused. ‘Bring your butts, if you want.’

Chad was down to just a pack a week, but that didn’t make her like his habit any better. The health issue was part of it, but the expense was an even bigger part. Every cigarette meant forty cents up in smoke.

He didn’t like smoking around her, even outside, but he got the current pack out of the drawer under the dish drainer and put it in his pocket. There was something about her solemn face that suggested he might want them.

He climbed out the window and sat down beside her. She had changed into jeans and one of her old blouses, so she had been home for awhile. Stranger and stranger.

They looked out over their little bit of the city for awhile without speaking. He kissed her and she smiled in an absent way. She had the agent’s email; she also had the file folder with THE RED AND THE BLACK written on it in big capitals. His little joke, but not so funny. The file contained their financial stuff – bank and credit card statements, utility bills, insurance premiums – and the bottom line was red, not black. It was an American story these days, he supposed. There just wasn’t enough. Two years ago they’d talked about having a kid. They didn’t now. What they talked about now was getting out from under and maybe enough ahead to leave the city without a bunch of creditors snapping at their heels. Move north to New England. But not yet. At least here they were working.

‘How was school?’ she asked.

‘Fine.’

Actually, the job was a plum. But after Anita Biderman got back from maternity leave, who knew? Probably not another job at PS 321. He was high on the list of subs, but that didn’t mean anything if the regular teaching roster was all present and accounted for.

‘You’re home early,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me Winnie died.’

She looked startled, then smiled again. But they had been together for ten years, married for the last six, and Chad had seen that smile before. It meant trouble.

‘Nora?’

‘He sent me home early. To think. I’ve got a lot to think about. I’m …’ She shook her head.

He took her by the shoulder and turned her to him. ‘You’re what? Is everything okay with Winnie?’

‘That’s a good question. Go on, light up. Smoking lamp’s lit.’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’