Recently I came across this article from cracked basically stating that shit is harder than you think and the reason the world is messed up is that we have unrealistic expectations because movies like the Karate Kid make us think that becoming good at something takes five minutes because that’s how long it takes in real time in fictional stories. Ummm, ok.

I am not going to point out the irony of a man who gets paid to comment on pop-culture writing an article about how difficult life is when he is part of the creative class, who essentially won the lottery of getting to do something mildly enjoyable for pay, regardless of how meager that pay actually is.  I mean hell, I am writing this for free and I have to be at work in an hour.  Instead, I want to point to the real lesson here: hard work is not as correlated with success as we’re taught to believe.

My boss does not work hard.  He was unremarkable in high school and college, made arbitrary decisions and started looking for jobs when the economy was good.  He’s not particularly charming, an above average liar and is pretty good at selling clients shit they don’t need (but no better than your average used car salesman).  He also happened to support a number of people who got forced out, taking their place in their absence. My boss, like the countless folks we all know who have worked their asses off with nothing to show for it, is not unique.

I wanted to write this because I am tired of having people throw the old “good is not good enough” crap in my face and folks who are similarly situated. I get the “stop bitching about your loans the world doesn’t owe you anything” all the time. This however is worse.  The previous comment = life’s not fair which by definition must mean that occasionally the world isn’t fair in someone’s favor.  THIS is more like “stop bitching about your student loans the world always rewards those who work, you’re just not working hard enough.”  Really?

Look people, hard work is like chocolate chips and success is like cookies.  Chocolate chips are a common ingredient in cookies, but they do not alone a cookie make and there are plenty of cookies without them.  What makes a good cookie usually is a good recipe.  The more nuanced and detailed the better. What makes a good life is a good plan.  The more nuanced and detailed the better.

That was our mistake folks.  Our plan to borrow money, go to school, and get a decent job was flawed.  We missed the nuances of the economy and job market and we overlooked the details of what it would cost to pay them back.  Our psychological problem isn’t that we had unrealistic expectations of how hard we had to work to get where we wanted to be, it’s that we thought we were being risk averse by doing what our parents wanted.  If our plan had been to become an actor or professional athlete I think we could all rest a little easier with things not working out because we took a calculated risk.

Fast forwarding ahead does it make sense, as the cracked article would suggest, that I work twice as hard instead of having a glass of Chardonnay after leaving work early and curling up with my Karate Kid DVD? Maybe, if my boss wasn’t a childhood friend who enjoys rubbing my face in his success and hence will never promote me. Does that mean I just give up and spend all my time whining? Maybe, if more people read this blog and I could eek out a living.  Instead I think I will come up with a better, more nuanced plan.

Game on

One of the great things about moving to a new place is I get to move the age back a couple of years. I’m 23 again and back to sleeping almost exclusively with co-eds. I tell them I graduated law school when I was 19, and hence missed out on the college experience. I tell them law is just a stepping stone for running for office and that my grandfather was a Senator and BAM! I’m back in a twin bed poking a college sophomore who has zero expectations about having an orgasm.  It’s great to be me.

My encyclopedic knowledge of pop-culture, my spikey blonde hair and my electric blue Mustang aren’t the reason I am able to do this.  It’s the physique. I realized the other day I don’t even know how good I look because I am used to seeing myself every day.  I can’t imagine what it must be like for a girl to see me for the first time. I was slow getting out of a conquest’s bed one morning and ended up running into and then sleeping with the roommate, which wouldn’t have been remarkable except for the fact that it started a war between them with each battle getting more and more kinky.

I make $220k now.  It’s not great, particularly since I have to go into the office several times a week now. However, the great thing about DC is that it’s the last town in this country where nobody ever bottom lines you aka “How much are you worth?” DC may be the last place in America where the bottom line is still who your grandfather was and not who you yourself are. The Aristocracy is alive and well, and that’s why my $220k is sufficient.

But don’t think I don’t read the other posts on this blog. I came across one while I was sitting in Starbucks about living for free.  I figured hey, I like free shit. So I posted something on one of the boards at GW and Georgetown, and before I know it I am offered a FREE room in the quarters of none other than the Spanish diplomat to the United States. And hell no I don’t speak Spanish.

I keep a lie journal so I remember what I have said and when.  Remember my fictional Senator Grandfather? I had the good sense to use a real name.  Turns out he sponsored an obscure bill to help out our brothers and sisters in Mexico, and as one might expect the Mexican leadership at the time still had ties to Spain.

So in addition to hitting co-eds I am about to add the frustrated often non-English speaking wives of diplomats to my ass menu, not to mention all of the help employed at this and similar mansions located in this swank gated neighborhood. I might also start depositing my check in Spain to give the IRS the run around now that I don’t have a traceable address.

Mike Triforce is back. I might even bring back the word: BOO-YAH!

In my last post I talked about how it is impossible for heavily indebted students with fancy degrees to hold normal jobs because the rest of the world hates and resents us. Well it’s true, and there is really nothing you can do about it after you’ve taken on the debt, gotten the degree, and fallen off the narrow path of career advancement necessary to be at the top of your field. However you CAN avoid a common trap that I’ve fallen into: regular debt.

There is a tendency once you’ve accepted the fact that you’re not going to be special to feel entitled to being normal. You stop showing up to work early and working on the weekends. You go out on Wednesday nights.  You buy stuff you see your friends buying. And what’s $500 balance on a credit card? You owe 250 times that amount in student debt AND credit card debt is dischargeable.

At first things are fine. Nobody notices that you’re hung over Thursday mornings. People start calling you a “team player.” You stop dreaming of an X5 and get that Nissan Murano. You begin to confuse colleagues and friends.

Now here is where things begin to turn. Back when you considered yourself better than these people and it was chic to be poor (so you could justify future extravagances to yourself) you always paid off your credit card bill each month. The reason this became conventional wisdom is as lost to you as the reasoning behind going to a good school. And look how well that turned out. The problem is of course the interest rate – and the fact you rely more heavily on credit because the people you think are your friends now don’t have student loans YET (wait for it) still have ENORMOUS regular debt loads.

Think about that. The meaningless, trifling, shiftless existence you thought of as your floor in life actually requires debt financing by your idiot co-workers who are less qualified yet further advanced at your crappy company than you.

I forgot this lesson and now I have plenty of regular debt to go with my student debt.

My name is Erin Samus and I am a graduate of a top 10 private university.  I compounded that mistake by attending law school briefly, but I turned my life around. I dropped out of law school even though I made Law Review and got a job as a paralegal. Four years later I was in the top 70% of earners from my graduating year. One year ago I took a job as a business analyst for a mid-major consulting firm. I still had debt but I figured I would gradually pay it off as my salary increased and I got promoted.

But I didn’t get promoted. If anything I am lower on the totem pole thanks to several reshufflings of the firm’s official hierarchy. I learned salary “adjustments” were essentially pay cuts. I worked harder and this only made it worse. I watched as youthful misfits were promoted over me.

One day as I was fetching donuts and being casually sexually harassed I noticed the degree on the wall of my boss’s boss. State.

Over the next month I casually inquired after all my admin team’s leadership and there was a lot of State with a smattering of Tech and every now and then an A&M. One joined the military at 16, retired at 36 and was an Executive at 39 looking 29. He had no high school degree. Prior to learning this I flirted with him.

We expect to be able to enter the normal world as Ivy league graduates once our dreams don’t pan out. That world is forever closed to us. Our options are President or barista, and not managing barista but Jr. Barista. We pay for our degrees multiple times. First with debt and second with the scorn of the outside world.

To Get Out of Debt Make New Friends

We make new friends and let old relationships die at many stages in life. At every new school for instance you make new friends and realize who in your life when no longer convenient you miss about as much as that random Mountain Dew flavor you loved one summer but now can’t remember. It’s natural.

The Problem with Debtor’s Prison is that it’s solitary. You are largely isolated from other inmates. What’s worse, you have unlimited access to your family and former close friends and you get a front row seat as their respect for you dies. What you need is new friends.

In order to make new friends you must engage in an activity with the potential to help others. Since pursuing a first rate education and joining the military are options whose ships have sunk and sailed respectively I would suggest volunteering for about 20 hours a week. You will meet new people, help keep your own shitty life in perspective and redefine yourself in the eyes of those from your old life who you are forced to interact with.

Also do not take the death of lifelong friendships with people you would have died for once upon a time personally. Think back to when your friend circle started dating. Maybe you were the asshole who wouldn’t speak to your boys in front of your girl or maybe you got left behind but the point is things changed. Well, now they changed again.

What does all this have to do with debt? Well, obviously making new friends volunteering and protesting costs less than going to bars and movies with friends. Whereas new friends will respect you and tell you about jobs your old friends are doing the same thing with your resume as people you’ve never met and never heard from. Also new friends inspire self-employment ventures while old friends remind you of past failures as indicative of the worth of any new idea you might have.

Make new friends.

Ahhhhhh March! The depressing Winter is almost over.  Here at Debtor’s Prison there is a lot going on after our Occupy Movement Hiatus.

First, for you writers out there check out

www.firstbookdeal.blogspot.com

for great advice on getting a traditional book deal.  Also, if you already have a manuscript and are looking more seriously at getting published visit their professional site at

www.firstbookdeal.com

Next, remember to check out media for short stories and animated shorts as well as political for thoughts on what is going on in the country.

Also more advice about how to get out of, not merely avoid, student debt.

Happy Almost Spring!

I have been asked to comment on the recent NY Times piece: To Be Black at Stuyvesant High.  Below are my thoughts:

This is not say there are no benefits to going to a magnet school.  I think it nurtures the sleeping activist in all African-Americans.  There is a certain satisfaction in entering a hostile environment, making eye contact with everyone you see in the halls and affirming your right to exist.

Even the great Mike Triforce has a learning curve. K Street is not South Street my friends. I can’t just drop the top on my ’stang and fill it with those who turn and smile when I slap their ass. Believe me I tried.

After striking out I was so desperate for ass I almost called the Princess and made her drive down from Philly. But then I know she would have insisted on staying the night. Then I’d wake up with fresh melon and “I love you” written in yogurt. What kind of skank calls that breakfast? Hint: Apply heat to protein. Batter+Butter = good.

All that changed when I got an assignment from the lobbying group and went to the Hill. I recognized a bro from my frat working in one some obscure Congressman’s office and he told me that here money is assumed, and it’s all about power based on your relationships with congressman and White House execs.

Then all of a sudden things were too easy. Washington women apologize to you if they walk in on you with another woman. They leave THAT night before 1 AM unless invited to stay, at which point they know another night round and a morning session is expected. I brought one girl a stale donut to make up for lying about wearing a condom and she actually cried and “thanked” me in a way that made even a guy like me immediately wash his sheets.

DC also has an attitude about debt I can get behind. Debt is like any other vice. My debt is fine and I deserve help and forgiveness just like I do with my various addictions, dysfunctional relationships, etc. YOUR debt is inexcusable, as are your addictions, dysfunctional relationships, etc.

Within a month I imagine I will learn a dozen ways to lie, cheat or steal my way out of student debt. But what’s the point? The US could wipe out it’s creditors if it really wanted to but hey, that’s a lot of work! Instead I will just take out more money like our dear old Uncle Sam.

We do two things here at Debtor’s Prison, warn folks about student debt and try and provide some distraction, comic relief. It may come as a shock that we also try and counsel people about getting OUT of the huge messes they find themselves in. While we are not going to delve into any of these steps in detail in this post you have options:
-Live rent free
-Eat free
-Maintain a cash-only existence
-Renegotiate private loans
-Apply for Federal Loan forgiveness
-Pay student debt with dischargeable debt
-Ask for assistance
- Sell Whatever you can find on the Internet
- Start a business that requires little capital that relies heavily on technology
- Do what orphans do

Here are some things that don’t work

-Lawsuits
-More education, additional degrees
-Not taking jobs that don’t require your highest degree
-Putting the loan on direct pay and forgetting about them
-Paying what you can when you can
-Fraud or other crimes

There is one thing you MUST do.  You must make and adhere to a plan whether its as simple as a strict budget or as drastic as going off the grid. Think of yourself as a soldier returning home from war only to find the life he knew is gone and the real battle is forging a new one.

So short stories didn’t quite take off like we were hoping before the whole “Occupy” thing, but we’re reviving it! Here is another fiction work from another young author, Dr. Luigi.

Ferhad Ammad was at his own wedding reception in the coat room with his pants still around his ankles.  If he took two steps to the left he would be able to see his virginal bride still on the dance floor doing a mix of the electric slide and a similar dance from the Old Country.  Beside him stood his mistress, Marissa Hilton, adjusting her dress and trying to erase the obvious signs of what just took place.

“I hope you can still perform tonight,” said Hilton.  “Of course, if she really is a virgin she won’t know the difference or she’ll blame herself.”

Ammad couldn’t believe what he had done.  He hadn’t been married for five hours and it had been less than 24 since he’d last been with Hilton.  He almost didn’t notice when Hilton handed him something which he hastily stuffed into his pocket.  Ammad proceeded to get very drunk that night and passed out immediately upon being alone with his bride, Lana Yousef.  So nervous was he about his deceit that he did not consummate his marriage until the last night of his honeymoon and by then his wife had a very noticeable complex about her desirability.

“I found this in your pocket when I was returning your tuxedo,” said Yousef.  “What is this?”

Ammad immediately recognized it as the piece of paper Hilton had given him.  It read:

I will require a monthly allowance of $2,500 plus all expenses related to visitation.  You will make yourself available on four dates of the year of my choosing with at least two week’s notice.  You will reserve a holiday of my choosing.  Reasonable accommodations can be made for your schedule at the hospital.  A first time fee of $5,000 will be charged for failure to meet any of the above and a $10,000 fee after that. Interest is compiled monthly at 11%.

MH

“This is a note from Fariq’s ex-wife,” said Ammad.  “I was supposed to give it to him but obviously I forgot.”

“I didn’t even see her at the wedding,” said Yousef.  “Anyway, isn’t her name…”

“Not in Arabic,” said Ammad.  “And I think you need to brush up on your tapes, my parents still are not fully convinced you will be able to raise bilingual children.”

***

Four years earlier Ferhad Ammad was a Harvard Medical Student taking time off to do research at a prestigious lab at Johns Hopkins where he hoped to perform his residency.  One morning has he was about to board the bus to campus he noticed a woman, probably a few years his senior, running toward the bus.  He’d noticed her before, or rather he had noticed her legs.  Aware of the bus driver’s “no-wait” policy he dropped the contents of his bag into the stairwell preventing him from shutting the door until the woman arrived.  She repaid his kindness by offering to buy him lunch.

Marissa Hilton wasn’t like the other researchers in the countless labs at the University.  She had no ambitions toward Medical School or earning her doctorate.  She’d gone to a small liberal arts college for women that he’d never heard of and she dressed less like a researcher and more like a secretary interested in her boss.  She was always the first one to the bar and the last one there at closing.

Hilton’s most attractive attribute to Ammad was her discretion.  Early in their relationship Ammad stated quite frankly what his intentions were – family was very important to him, and it was important to his family that he marry a Muslim woman of Arab descent, familiar with the customs and cultural expectations of his region of the world.  Then there was the practical matter of his father, a well-to-do physician, financing his education, something that would come to a dead stop if there were even rumors of a triste with a Caucasian-American.  Ammad had an older brother who held out for almost a full semester before dumping his white girlfriend and reconciling with his father.  Hilton stated that she appreciated his honesty and understood the parameters of their relationship.  They had an understanding.

The understanding lasted through the first year of his research.  During that time Hilton spent the night with Ammad almost every night.  Ammad found himself yearning for her on trips to visit his family and more than once had to explain the deep cuts her fingernails had made into his back.  During these trips he found his encounters with other women severely lacking and found himself wondering if Hilton entertained other men during his absence.

By the second year Ammad referred to Hilton as his girlfriend to everyone but his immediate family.  He attempted to the end the relationship at the end of the year before returning to Harvard to finish his final year of medical school.  Hilton complied, but the break-up scarcely lasted a month and Ammad soon found himself missing rotations in order to visit her, visits where hardly a word passed between them.  Ammad believed the missed rotations and lackluster evaluations that went with them ultimately cost him his spot at Hopkins on match day, placing him instead at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

During orientation he met a shy Arab girl named Lana Yousef.  She had an aunt and uncle from the same part of Gaza as his grandparents.  She also despised UNC’s basketball program, choosing instead to root for their dashing more academically gifted rivals from down the road.  This became known the moment the only other potential suitor removed his coat to reveal a Tar Heel jersey.  Ammad knew at that moment that he would marry Yousef, even before the awkward explanation on the third date of why she couldn’t invite him for chastity reasons.  Ammad had another outlet for sexual needs.

The first year of residency was extremely difficult for Ammad and he required the help of both Yousef and Hilton to survive.  Ammad often woke up in a cold sweat if he hadn’t been with Hilton in a month or more.  He took to sleeping on Yousef’s couch and she more than once had to cover his shift because he was simply in no shape to work at the hospital.  The closest medical phenomenon to what Ammad was experiencing was withdrawal and he wondered if he was addicted to sex.  Several times he made subtle attempts to sleep with Yousef and each time she gently but firmly rebuked him.

The second year of residency Ammad proposed to Yousef after going through all the appropriate steps of meeting her parents, Yousef meeting his parents and finally the two sets of parents meeting each other.  All the meetings ran long, but the latter most unpredictably so and Ammad was dangerously close to missing a rendez vous with Hilton.  He was sweating and he couldn’t stop tapping his foot.  Somehow, Yousef’s parents had invited themselves to stay an extra night and since Yousef’s roommate was returning that meant that Ammad would have to play host the same night of Hilton’s visit.  Ammad immediately excused himself saying he needed to clean-up, and insisted despite protests to the contrary.  He arrived at the bus station almost an hour late.  He forced himself on Hilton as she closed the car door.  He took her to a cheap motel a mile from the bus station where he once again satisfied himself carnally before returning to his own apartment and staging a break-in to avoid questions such as how almost three hours led to so little being cleaned.  Also with Yousef’s parents at a hotel downtown, he would be free to return to Hilton in the dead of the night.

***

The Mistress List was killing Ammad.  With help from Yousef’s father, Ammad had landed a fellowship at Johns Hopkins.  At 34, he was still a good two years out from the type of salary that would make $2500 a month seem like a drop in the bucket.  Hilton had a flower system for reminding Ammad that he was late with this or that payment. A yellow rose stood for a certain amount of money, a purple rose stood for a dozen yellow roses.  Hilton warned Ammad that he did not want to receive a red rose.  Miraculously Yousef never asked about the flowers.

Two weeks after a long weekend an Arab Lab tech approached him and asked if he could speak to him in private.

“Listen Ferhad,” said the tech, “If you need clean piss you’ve got to give me some kind of heads up.  I was really blindsided.  I had to taint the whole batch of samples and fire Latisha to cover your ass.  She has three kids man and I can’t even give her a reference.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ammad.

“You’re positive for opiates,” said the tech.  “I know we’ve never really talked but I thought your dad would have told you.  I handle all of his samples and its not a problem because he keeps me in the loop.”

After a particularly costly settlement the hospital had instituted a policy of random drug testing of all physicians.  Many doctors simply ignored it while others actively protested against it until checks were withheld, at which point most complied with a few genuinely strung out doctors hiring lawyers.  Ammad peed in a cup as an afterthought simply because he was tired of receiving reminder emails.

“You’ve been drugging me all these years,” said Ammad.  It had taken him longer than he wold have liked to admit to figure out exactly how drugs got into his system and was on the verge of having a private test done when suddenly it became clear.  He picked up the phone and called Hilton.

“Being with me is like a drug,” said Hilton.  “We have a connection Ammad.  We should be together but neither of us made the world the way it is and…”

“Save it,” said Ammad.  “I’m a doctor.”

“One that I fooled for over five years,” said Hilton, her voice becoming all business.  The prostitute had left.  Ammad was now talking to the pimp.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Ammad.  “I’ve performed surgeries, I’ve diagnosed patients, I’ve conducted research all within hours of being with you.”

“That is exactly what you meant,” said Hilton.  “You are not smarter than me.  You are not better than me.  The only difference between us is circumstance and the fact I am not cheating on a spouse.”

“We’re done,” said Ammad.

“There is a price for that,” said Hilton.

“I repeat,” said Ammad.  “We…are…done.”

“You’ll be sorry,” said Hilton.

***

The finish line was in sight.  Ammad was in the final rotation of his fellowship and already had an offer to start working in his brother’s private practice.  In two years his brother would be up for partner.  Yousef was also pregnant with their first child.  Ammad had never been happier.

One night when Yousef was out with her parents Hilton showed up at the door.  She looked terrible.  The slip was showing beneath her wrinkled dress.  She wore flats with no hose and a bra that looked like it would be in the bargain bin at a discount store or in a pile of clothes destined for the Salvation Army.  Her nails were short and unpainted. She wore no make-up, and combined with an unflattering haircut made her hook-like nose more prominent.

“I just wanted to give you this,” said Hilton.  She opened a duffel bag to reveal stacks of hundred dollar bills.

“It was never about the money,” said Hilton.  “Obviously that’s not all of it, there were times when I was in a pinch and I had to spend some of what you gave me.  When I heard you were going to be a father I wanted to give you what I had and wish you good luck.  I will wire the rest once I have it.  You won’t hear from me again.”

She turned to leave and tripped revealing granny underwear.  Ammad wondered if she had let her body go as well.  Moments later when they were in bed, he was surprised that she in fact had not.  Ammad was relieved however – not once during their encounter did she attempt to bite, scratch or even kiss him and afterwards Ammad felt nothing.  Hilton was no con artist, she was simply a lover who was willing to do anything, even resort to using drugs, to keep a small hold on the man she loved.  Ammad didn’t notice Yousef standing in the doorway with tears in her eyes.

“Money now,” said Hilton in an Eastern European accent.  “Money in bag? I take bag.”  Hilton picked up the bag and not bothering with her clothes simply put on her coat and tried to leave.  Yousef blocked her way.

“You’re not leaving until I get an explanation,” said Yousef.

Without breaking stride Hilton threw a backfist that caused Yousef to stagger back into the hallway.  The kick that followed sent her tumbling down the stairs.

“I told you you’d be sorry,” said Hilton speaking in the voice Ammad recognized.  “Just so you know you were not the first or the last.  Don’t make any financial adjustments in preparation for divorce just yet, you’re about to send me on a very expensive trip.  Then you’re off the hook.  It would have been much cheaper to pay up front, particularly with a pregnant wife.”

***

“Are you even listening to me?” said Ammad.  He’d just confessed everything to his brother while assisting on a routine procedure for a patient that was not a referral, nor likely to refer others.

“Sorry bro,” said his brother.  “I’ve got my own problems.  I’ve already divorced wife #1 and have a second wife.  Two kids with each, and a third on the way.  Of course my first wife has my only son.”

“I just told you that I’ve been being drugged for YEARS,” said Ammad.  “And that my wife is in the hospital and may lose our child…and this is your brotherly advice?”

His brother laughed.  He told Ammad that when his first wife left him it wasn’t because he’d been sleeping with a psychopath, it was because she was bored, felt neglected and because she saw a way to have others pay for her the rest of her life.  He stated that unlike Ammad, he’d never been with a woman outside of marriage, not even in college, and unlike Ammad he didn’t have a big brother to immediately usher him into private practice as soon as he completed his fellowship.

“Dad paid for your education, your first house, your car,” said Ammad.  “Just like he did for me.  Stop acting like a martyr.”

“You don’t get it do you?” said his brother.  “We’re caught in between worlds bro.”

His brother broke down what happened to him and what Ammad could expect moving forward with the inevitable divorce.  Ammad, like his brother, would have obligations both under American Law and under customs from the Old Country.  Unfortunately these obligations had very little overlap.  Ammad would be paying for alimony and child support under American Law.  In addition to that Ammad would pay for anything his children could possibly want or need directly.  Ammad would be expected to pay Yousef an allowance so she would not have to work as long as the children remained unmarried and after she reached a certain age. Finally, Ammad would have to pay a reverse dowry of sorts to Yousef’s father and a monthly fee to his household, where Yousef would no doubt reside for the rest of her life.  All of this was in addition to supporting himself, his own parents, and any current nuclear family.

“I pay the vet bills on a ‘pure bred’ mutt who snarls every time he sees me, has bit me twice, and has soiled my backseat more times than I can count,” said Ammad’s brother in disgust.  “But it’s a sweet deal for the woman.”

Divorced in the United States with a few kids (particularly a son) was about as free as a woman from the Old Country could get without being permanently exiled from the community.  She was no longer expected to be a virgin.  She was simultaneously supported by her father and ex-husband who were naturally at odds and always competing for the hearts and minds of the children.  The more she spent the more she was legally entitled to and if she worked at all every cent belonged to her while simultaneously putting pressure on her benefactors should it become known in the community that she “had” to work.  Finally, her father and ex-husband would give her wide latitude in relationships if for no other reason than to have another man for once pay for ANYTHING even if it was just a meal.  They also couldn’t risk alienating any potential suitors because if she did in fact marry, that man would have more legal rights and exposure to the children than either the ex-husband or father.

“You better hope she loses that kid bro,” said Ammad’s brother.  “It almost looked like Yousef ballooned up overnight.  She might be carrying twins.”

***

The next 18 months felt like a haze to Ammad.  Yousef lost the baby and with the full blessing of the community divorced him.  During the divorce proceedings Hilton saw to it that a compilation tape of their more erotic exploits, complete with time stamps, surfaced.  On the advice of his lawyer, Ammad conceded to every one of Yousef’s demands.  He received a large bouquet from Hilton, her way of billing him $50,000 to exit his life for good.  Flat broke and with no assets Ammad had to borrow the sum at an exorbitant interest rate.  He had to sell his car and move into his brother’s basement.  One day Ammad’s brother came home furious.

“That bitch is taking the kids to the Old Country,” said Ammad.  “Against explicit court orders.  It’s time for Plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” asked Ammad.

His brother explained.  He would have to take extended leave from his practice.  Then he would have to pay $2,000 for a one-way ticket to the Old Country on the same flight as his ex-wife and kids. This would be a near-impossible task if you were ethnically ambiguous and traveling to or from a certain part of the world.  He’d have to shadow them waiting for a moment when his ex-wife was not in the presence of their children.  He would then present the authorities with marriage papers, still valid in the Old Country where multiple wives were legal, and commit his wife to the hospital where, in conjunction with a doctor he knew perform a hysterectomy on his wife.  While she was incapacitated he would then sell her to a brothel owner where at almost 40 she would be a poor man’s special.  He would then wait a few days, pick up his children, travel by boat and train to a Western country, then return to the United States.  Ammad was shocked beyond words.  He was even more shocked by his brother’s matter-of-fact answers to his questions.

“You’d do that to the mother of your children?” asked Ammad.

“That’s the only fact that’s keeping her alive,” said his brother.

“What about her father?” asked Ammad.

“I’ll instruct the owner of the establishment to send one of the tapes from her first day on the job,” said his brother.  “Even if he suspects foul play he wouldn’t risk bringing shame upon himself and his grandchildren.”

“Why the hysterectomy?” asked Ammad.

“I can’t have her making blood-relative bastards to my children,” said his brother.

Ammad couldn’t believe it.  This was his straight-arrow brother whose only transgression was having the All-American girl as his sweetheart in college.  He was twice ivy-league educated, and had done his fellowship at Johns Hopkins.  Each of his marriages had been arranged by the parents with the blessing of the community. He’d never received so much as a parking ticket. Ammad drove him to the airport.  One month later he received the following letter:

Ferhad Ammad,

Grieve with me brother, for my dear son and your nephew, Malique, is dead.  He was smothered in his sleep by his own mother after she escaped from the brothel.  When I discovered his body she was lying in wait with a long knife, determined to render me physically incapable of siring another heir. The responsibility of carrying on the family name passes to you.  For obvious reasons I can never return to the United States. See to it that our sister takes custody of my daughter and check-in on her from time to time.  Finally it is my sincere wish and parting advice to you little brother that you handle your affairs with respect to your situation with grim finality lest you suffer the same fate as me.

One Blood,

Fariq

He’d said nothing to incriminate himself but it was clear his brother had eventually over-powered and killed his ex-wife, probably guaranteeing the irreversibility of his injury in the process.  Otherwise the mother would have taken the daughter and Fariq would be forced to spend the rest of his life chasing them.  At least this way he could work to absolving himself of sin, perhaps working as a medic in the occupied territories or providing for orphans and be confident that his daughter was being raised properly.

***

It took eight months of searching but Ammad finally found Hilton.  She’d moved from Baltimore to Pittsburgh.  Ammad noticed that she was picking harsher and harsher climates and cities with less attractive people as father time took his toll and Hilton was less able to attract victims.  He found her address right off Carnegie Mellon’s campus where she was posing as a tech research assistant.  Armed with rubber gloves, a handful of syringes and enough morphine to send her to judgment, Ammad banged on her door.  His plan was to overpower her once she opened it, drug her as she had drugged him and leave her to die.  He was sure the body wouldn’t be discovered until rent came due.

When nobody answered Ammad checked the door and found it unlocked.  He waltzed in and was almost immediately mauled by a German Sheppard.  Instinctively protecting his face, Ammad clammered for a syringe almost injecting himself in the process.  By the time he had subdued the dog Hilton was standing in the foyer with a gun trained on him.

“When I first heard the unmistakable knock of a vengeful benefactor you weren’t even in the top of three of faces that flashed through my head,” said Hilton.  She looked down at the syringes. “You’re such a doctor.  What do you think of this headline in tomorrow’s paper: ‘Jilted Lover Accidentally Shot after Breaking into Former Mistress’ Home?”

Ammad began to beg for his life but Hilton quickly told him that she had no intention of killing him.  Instead she tied him to a chair, gagged him, pistol whipped him, and left him in a closet for two days.  She left the door slightly cracked for air, and so he would have clear vision of the bed, where she slept with her victims.  During that time, Hilton prepared a meal for a young Engineering graduate student.  Ammad thought he recognized his accent but couldn’t place it.  Within minutes Ammad was able to predict the flow of the conversation.  It was like watching someone reenact scenes from his own life.  Ammad couldn’t tell if the process was really that formulaic or if Hilton was purposefully directing the conversation to bear as close a resemblance as possible to what had transpired between them.  Ammad realized he was flattering himself to think she could even remember.

“I am letting you go now because your smell is becoming noticeable to my current patron,” Hilton said.  “By now it should be obvious that I do this for a living and you won’t be able to get the drop on me.  I’d also advise against hiring a professional.  If you want me dead, you’re going to have to kill me in a public place, but that has consequences as well.”

Ammad stumbled into the street awash in his own filth.  He had exactly 7 hours to get to Baltimore for a dinner in honor of the founding partner of his practice.  Two taxis refused him service.  Fortunately his hotel simply charged him for the additional days with a high surcharge and left his room undisturbed.  He showered while, for another exorbitant fee, the concierge fetched him a rental car.

Ammad arrived late to a black tie event in normal business attire.  This would have been acceptable because of his profession if not all the guests were members of that same profession and knew that such an excuse when used by a doctor has about a 10% chance of being true.  After all it takes the same amount of time to change out of scrubs into a tuxedo as it does into a suit.  At the event he ran into Yousef on the arm of a very familiar-looking white doctor.  Mentally he checked the face against college and medical school classmates but no match. Yousef caught his eye and the look was unmistakable – guilt.   His brother’s words echoed through his mind, the words about the sweet life of a divorcee from the Old Country, about how Yousef seemed to go from slim to almost bursting overnight and about handling his affairs with grim finality.

***

One year later Ammad returned to the same event only this time he was on time and in the proper attire and Yousef had an engagement ring.  Her fiancé was once again one of the few Caucasians in attendance, the other being Ammad’s own date, a high school friend of Yousef’s.  She was able to confirm that Yousef and her fiancé had secretly dated in high school and she actually attended his prom.  Ammad remembered coming across the photo once, but he had assumed it was Yousef’s younger sister.

“I ran into your gynecologist,” said Ammad.  Other conversations stopped and all attention was focused on him.  “I just wanted to thank her for all she did to try and save our child – children in my family tend to die tragically.  I didn’t realize she was your roommate in while you were in graduate school.”

“Ammad I really don’t think this is the time or the place…” began Yousef.

“You’re right its not,” said Ammad.  “I was just thinking it’s a small world.  I mean what are the chances that I’d meet this lovely woman who turns out to be a friend of yours from high school?  What were you saying about that camping trip honey?”

Ammad’s date, with prompting from Ammad began to tell a seemingly uneventful tale about four girls from the Old Country who were camping, with Ammad’s date being the adopted American Girl.  As luck would have it that night the American Girl was visited by her friend a day early and for some reason neither she nor her tent mates had thought to bring a certain personal item.  In fact they had seemed deeply insulted at the suggestion.  Just when Ammad’s date thought she’d have to spend the next few days squatting against a tree, who should swoop in and save the day but Yousef.

“I feel like I am forgetting something,” said Ammad’s date.

“That you swore never to tell,” said Yousef.  She got up and ran from the table.  Ammad was certain he would never see her again.

***

“You wanted to see me?” said Hilton.  Ammad had asked to meet her in Pittsburgh at a popular diner.  It was late, but the diner was packed with broke students who were notoriously bad tippers.  Service was understandably slow.

“I wanted to give you this,” said Ammad holding up an expensive engagement ring.  “Go ahead, put it on, I just want to see you in it.”

“You look terrible,” said Hilton.  Ammad’s hair was a uniform grey and he seemed to have gained a large amount of weight, unevenly dispersed on his body.  The look was completed with scrubs, a week-old beard and baseball hat.  Hilton stared at him, searching for his motive, but finally conceded to his odd request.

“Is this a joke?” said Hilton.

“No, but it’s funny,” said Ammad.  He then shot Hilton three times with a small caliber pistol fitted with a silencer.  He shot her once in the stomach, and once in each knee.

Hilton’s scream faded into a choked sob.

“I told you!” screamed Ammad banging his hands on the table.  “Not to make a scene!  I also told you when we first started dating that we could never get married, that I couldn’t go against my family’s wishes!  I never should have given you that ring! IT’S OVER!”

Ammad proceeded directly to their waitress who was staring at the blood on his scrubs.  Ammad mentioned something about surgery and handed her $300.

“Sorry about that,” said Ammad.  “Obviously she’s had a rough night, so please take good care of her.”

With that Ammad walked out the door, hailed a cab, and was gone.

Despite her best efforts it was ten minutes before the waitress even got around to refilling Hilton’s coffee.  By then her sobs were more of a whimper and most patrons had returned to their meals.  When the waitress turned to leave Hilton grabbed her arm.

“I’m…dying,” Hilton choked.

“I know it feels that way dear,” said the waitress.

“No, he shot…me…” said Hilton.

“I know, right through the heart,” said the waitress.

“Doctor Amm… “ said Hilton.

“You support them through medical school and residency and as soon as they get ahead suddenly they need a woman with the right ‘upbringing’,” said the waitress.  “Same thing happened to Nancy on the day shift.”

The End