31/Serial

Minet danced. The boys stared. And then some of the girls began to cry. That stopped us. Lacking a plan, we  hadn't thought our scheme through. We'd wanted to join the fun, not ruin the party. Feeling guilty, we confessed. The boys didn't take it well. Enraged, one of them chased us down the street. We were glad he didn't grab the chainsaw a worker had left on the porch, but we were scared. He stopped when we ran up to a policeman. After all, who would the cop believe—four frightened, pretty girls, or a guy in a toga?

Another lengthy Author's Note: Thank you so much for this month, Sabine! I'd intended to wrap it up by returning to my original present-day voice, but as predicted, pacing became a problem. I suppose I could have written out the last five or six posts in advanced and edited them to fit, but I liked the idea of a daily assignment. I want to add that except for the chainsaw (!), every word of the story is true. Last night I came across this video of an old familiar belly dancing song. If you watch the first 60 seconds you'll see what the girls at the party could have done differently. Writing the story and reliving the experience, I wondered why I didn't feel more ashamed of myself.  But it was just so much fun—and, like I said, interesting from a psychological standpoint. And here's something else for the psychologists: A little part of me will always be Minet of Istanbul.

30/Serial

The boys had questions for Minet. They asked Eileen, Eileen babbled gobbledygook to me, and I babbled gobbledygook back to her. It's unlikely that my gobbledygook bore any resemblance to hers, but no one noticed. All that mattered was that the boys were in the presence of a real live belly dancer. A famous one. From Istanbul. Would Minet dance for them? Minet demurred. Minet was shy . . . but perhaps the band could play "Port Said?" The band couldn't. They could, however, play "Night Train." No one would mistake my slow, sensuous moves for belly dancing, but the boys were mesmerized.

29/Serial

I didn't look anything like a belly dancer, much less a famous belly dancer from Istanbul. A natural blonde, I considered my  long hair to be my best feature. I was 5'7" and had average-size breasts, slim hips, and not much of a waist. And I wore glasses. I had a pretty good ear for accents, but Turkish wasn't one of them. Eileen had no linguistic abilities that I knew of. But we walked in there, the music stopped, Eileen gave her spiel, and those boys swallowed it. Every word. Their girlfriends soon drifted off to huddle in the back.

28/Serial

"Eileen. Tell them my name is Minet." (Pronounced Minay, but I always envisioned it spelled Minet.) "Tell them I'm a belly dancer—a famous belly dancer—from Istanbul. I don't speak English. You're my translator. You want to show me American college life."

In a way it was like doing improv—something we'd never heard of in 1961. There was no rehearsal, no script. We had to walk in and become those characters. But in improv you just have to act like someone; you don't have to convince the audience you really traveled 5,000 miles to get there.

27/Serial

In 1961 New York University practically surrounded Washington Square Park. Something interesting was always going on in the park, especially on balmy evenings like this one, and we were strolling in that direction when we heard the music. Inside a fraternity house a live band with an aggressive saxophone was playing a Top 40 tune. We moved closer and could see couples dancing inside. The girls wore their dark hair in exaggerated bouffants. The boys wore yarmulkes. And togas. Jen said, "I wanna dance." Cathy said, "They'll never let us in." And then I said,

26/Serial

There were four of us: Eileen, Cathy, Jen, and me. I was the only one with a car, so we must have been 18. It was a warm evening and still light out when we got to the Village. I don't think we had a plan—that would have been unusual. The only available parking space on the street was too small for my car. So Jen and Cathy got out and stood on the sidewalk next to a Volkswagen, loudly making believe it was theirs as my Pontiac slowly pushed it back a few feet.

25/Serial

(100-word Author's Note: I want to clarify something before I embark on this true story. I mentioned that it was a Jewish fraternity. The story is funny [I hope you'll agree], and images like scholarly young men wearing togas and yarmulkes contribute to the humor. But I just want to avoid misinterpretation. My family is fairly equally divided among Protestants, Catholics, and Jews. I'm enormously proud of my Jewish grandfather, who was an opera singer; his equally talented siblings; and their descendants. So in telling my story I'm having fun, but I'm not making fun. Well, not of Judaism anyway.)

24/Serial

If I had stayed a psych major I probably could have written a paper on what happened that night. It illustrated so clearly how people manage to believe what they want to believe, no matter how obvious the flaws in what's presented to them. It also demonstrated how a belief can spread throughout a group, affecting even those who don't want to believe it at all. An interesting psychological experiment, yes, but at the time all we knew is that our crazy scheme succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. Until it didn't.

23/Serial

Thinking about the Village—Greenwich Village—brings a flood of memories. It's where I was conceived, and where I always felt I belonged. Prowling little shops filled with hand-mades . . . experiencing jazz for the first time and many times after that . . . endless nights at Gerde's Folk City . . . Washington Square, with its haunting spontaneous harmonies, unkempt brilliant old men playing chess . . . hippies playing Go. And the crowning glory of my overdeveloped sense of mischief: the night we crashed an NYU Jewish fraternity toga party.

22/Serial

I thought my dad might buy it. But as I was so many times, I was grateful for his sense of humor. I can't remember how he explained phallic symbol to me, but that's probably a good thing.

21/Serial

" . . . they had the car radio so loud we could hear it. They drove up close behind us, and Jeremy thought they might hit us! He pulled over to let them pass, and when they did they stopped alongside us and stuck their middle fingers up in the air and yelled, 'PHALLIC SYMBOL!!!'"

20/Serial

"Oh, Daddy, it was awful!" I clutched a dish towel to my chest, near tears (or as near as I could manage on the spur of the moment). "We drove down to the Village after going to the museum, and this car came up behind us—a convertible with all these tough boys in it. They had t-shirts on with the sleeves rolled up—one of them even had a tattoo, Daddy!—and they were smoking and

19/Serial

About to open the refrigerator, my father stopped in mid-gesture then slowly turned to face me.

"What did you say?"

I knew instantly I had made a mistake. A big one. But a year of talking my way out of consequences for missing freshman homework assignments had taught me to think fast on my feet. I knew what I had to do.

18/Serial

Of all the comments Jeremy made at the museum, one of them stood out. Maybe it was the way he looked at me when he said it, or the inflection in  his voice. But after I got home and changed my clothes I could still hear it. So it seemed reasonable to ask, "Daddy, what's a phallic symbol?"

17/Serial

My desire to appear sophisticated was strong. I wanted Jeremy's attraction to me to deepen. At 15, I didn't realize that his desire had little to do with sophistication. On the drive home, while I was trying to remember what he'd said about art and artists, he was probably anticipating our next make-out session.

16/Serial

When Jeremy gestured toward some feature of a painting and said it was a phallic symbol, I agreed. I agreed with every comment he made about the art and artists because I was sure he was more knowledgeable than I. And he probably was. But I wonder how many inaccurate statements I agreed with. Jeremy was a food science major.

15/Serial

Jeremy wanted to take me to the Museum of Modern Art. A few years later I'd be a member of MOMA, lunching regularly in their garden, but at 15 I was awed by Jeremy's sophistication. My mother had been an artist, and I hoped to become one myself, but he knew so much more than I about art. This was obvious from the unfamiliar terms he used when commenting on the paintings. Like phallic symbol.

14/Serial

I was 15. His name was Jeremy, and he was 19, a freshman in college. An "older man." It was my first real date with a real boyfriend. (I was ready to move beyond standing close to Alex and talking softly.)

13/Serial

I'm laughing because the gas station's giant balloon man--one of those things that dance around in the wind to attract customers (though they probably drive more people away)--got tangled up in itself and now presents as a rather fat but very erect phallic symbol waving in the breeze. Phallic symbol . . . now that's a story I never tire of telling . . .

12/Serial

But my Aston-Martin days were over (sigh), and on this day of errands and (it is hoped) writing inspiration my only car thoughts involved whether or not I felt like stopping to pump some gas. I didn't, but I did it anyway.

11/Serial

really saw him for the first time: the stocky build, the lines around his admiring eyes, the smile, the wedding ring I wouldn't have given a crap about before.
"Thanks," I said, smiling back. Then I put my 565-hp 6.0L V12 Aston-Martin Vanquish in gear and left.

10/Serial

transformed by what they say. You know your cars. If he'd said, "You have beautiful eyes," or some other traditional compliment, I would have thought he was looking (for trouble, likely). And I probably wouldn't have looked back. But I raised my eyes to this man who had no idea he'd just said something meaningful, and

9/Serial

The cop came back.
"Another witness got the plate number, and we ran it. The vehicle is a 2013 Cadillac SRX. You know your cars."
I once wrote a poem about how nondescript--even blatantly unattractive--men can be 

8/Serial

"Caddy tail lights?" the cop repeated.
"Yeah, you know--Cadillac," I answered, outlining the shape with my hands.
He looked amused. "You're sure about that."
I was less amused. "Yes, I'm certain."
"Okay, wait here a minute, please," he said. As if I had room to pull out.

7/Serial

The cops arrived and started questioning the witnesses. I was fourth in line. When one of the officers came to my window, I could tell he didn't expect to get much information from me. I thought it was probably wise not to mention the eye drops. I told him I'm usually good at identifying car logos, but because it was dusk and the car that caused the accident was so dirty (it was winter, and all of our vehicles were), I didn't get a look at that one. But I added that the car had Caddy tail lights.

6/Serial

I don't remember exactly when it was, but a line of cars, including mine, were stopped for the light. I was putting eye drops in, so I didn't see a car pull out of the parking lot on the right, but I heard it hit the first car in the line and I saw the back of it as it drove away. The line was stuck there until a tow truck could arrive. With the police.

5//Serial

I reached the bottom of the mountain, relieved there hadn't been any surprises at the top. No bears crossing the road, no deer to hit, and no squalls. I'd seen all three, even when the sun shone down below. The first traffic light on the "business route" always seemed to be red, and this day was no exception. It was the same light I was stopped for a few years ago when I witnessed a hit-and-run collision. Whenever I thought of that day, I thought of the cop.

4/Serial

I had a long list of shopping errands, so I decided to get in the car and think about the challenge on the way to town. If I thought about it hard enough, surely I could come up with a good story from my storied life. Of course, the last time I got lost in thought while driving I ended up with a $187 speeding ticket. But that was different. Sort of.

3/Serial

But wait--she said it didn't have to be fiction. I knew my life is full of stories. And if only I could figure out which tense to write one in, this could be the way to go.

2/Serial

Plot. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, boy and girl banter, The End. Oops! I realized I was thinking in women's-magazine mode. It didn't seem likely I could string that plot out for 30 days. Let's see . . . 800 words divided by 30 days = 26. Doable, but Maureen would see through it immediately.

1/Serial

I stared at the January challenge. Crap. A story? I wished I'd ordered that book, No Plot? No Problem! two years ago . . . or was it more like five years? It was when Maureen was encouraging me, unsuccessfully, to do the NaNoWriMo challenge.