Boo! As we come up on Halloween, The Doe shares its scariest stuff.

Goosebumps

It was my girlfriend Liv’s 21st birthday. Because I have ADHD, I naturally had forgotten to get her a present. That day I was meant to be meeting her to spend an evening drinking cocktails at overpriced bars. Instead, I spent a guilt-fueled morning gathering a collection of token presents for her, so she wouldn’t instantly remind me that I was the worst boyfriend ever. The problem was that none of the presents was quite “right.” After all, this was her 21st. I had to get her something spot-on. 

Fast forward six months to the summer we were traveling through China. On one train ride, I had been flicking through a Lonely Planet travel guide when suddenly I saw my way out of the predicament of the present. 

We’d just finished the summer teaching in Chinese classrooms and earning our TEFLs (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). Then a few weeks traveling the big cities: Shanghai, Chengdu, Xi’an.

By the time we got to Beijing, it was time to spring my surprise. I snuck out of the hostel early and spent the morning alternating between the fire that was the Beijing smog and the frying pan of Beijing’s smelly, crowded subways. I returned an hour or so later, feeling both lighter due to the pride that filled me and heavier for all the camping gear I carried. 

I sat at the entrance to the hostel and got chatting with a traveling group. They were heading to Shanghai that day and had some weed on them. Do I want to buy it? They can’t risk taking it through the airport-style security you must go through to get on China’s high-speed trains. 

Weed is especially rare in China. So, what do I say? “Sure!” This is a camping trip, after all. 

I return to our room to explain to Liv what her birthday present is—a camping trip on the Great Wall of China. She asks me if it's legal to camp on the Great Wall. Not exactly, I explain. But it’s 13,000 miles long; they can’t patrol it all, right? 

If you ever go to Beijing and visit the Great Wall, you’ll probably go to Badaling. It’s the part of the Wall that you see in tourist pictures, all rebuilt and shiny new, prepared for your tourist photos. That was not where Liv and I went. We went up to Gubeikou—via six hours of bus rides with three changes. We’re trying to avoid being caught, remember?

So, we get to Gubeikou and to the gate that admits entry onto the Wall. No other English-speaking tourists must ever make it this far because the admittance attendant didn’t have anything to say to us other than “closed.” However, we hadn’t come this far to turn back now. Plus, I was still trying to redeem myself for forgetting my girlfriend’s 21st birthday. 

As I said, it’s a big fucking wall. So, we simply walked away and began to climb again. 

An hour and a half later, we had hiked high enough away from the small village below us and up onto the Wall. Our tent was made and basecamp was established for the night. Liv offered me a wink and a wry smile that said “Well done, you.”

At this point, I pulled out the weed. It was pre-rolled so no messing about. We smoked and smoked and watched as the sun set. At that moment, we were a little pearl in a giant oyster of a Chinese summer adventure. 

It is remarkable how quickly a picture-perfect scene can be so quickly disrupted by the eerie, unnerving descent of nightfall. For weeks, we had taught in classrooms and toured the big cities. Now, up here on the hills of remote China, it was quiet. Too quiet. Unnervingly quiet. There wasn’t even a dog howling at the moon. 

“What was that?” said a startled Liv.

I brushed it off. “Nothing, of course, just some animal.” 

But the sniffing grew louder. Without any light whatsoever, it was too easy to let the shadows play with our imaginations. 

“James,” Liv said, “What animals do they have in Northern China?”

We had Chinese SIM cards, so we quickly loaded up Google to settle our nerves. No such luck. Our search revealed that they have both bears and wolves in this part of China. Now we’re panicked.

We rush into the tent. Inside it, I try to collect myself. Liv has lost her head. She’s sharing her location to her group chat and telling her friends to make sure her mum knows she loves her. I interrupt that there’s no time to think about that now. Sending those kinds of messages would somehow make this whole nightmare more real.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I check? Surely this isn’t how I’m going to go? To a fucking bear on the Great Wall out in the middle of nowhere? I’m not the live-fast-die-young type. Let me grow old in a care home somewhere. 

“Liv. What if we get outside of the tent?”

“If it is a bear, what if we go out?”

Liv looks at me like I have lost my mind. (At this point, there’s a good chance that I have.) If it merely smells us, it might come to investigate. But on the other hand, if it sees us, then it might turn and leave us alone and go hunt some smaller prey. Between us, we can look big in the dark, right?

She leans forward and says I should go first. We find the time to rock-paper-scissors. My heart is banging.

I lean forward. Liv lets out a scream with anticipation. I turn around to shush her sternly, fully aware I have no idea whether a scream makes a situation like this better or worse. There is no precedent for the process of my decision-making. Every reaction is now a hot mess of instinct, conditioning and my brain scrambling to piece together any scrap of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls that I’ve caught over my life.

The sniffing grows ever louder. It’s screaming in my head over against the absolute silence from a petrified Liv in the corner.

I lean for the zip. I take several attempts to grasp it because my hand is shaking so much. Eventually, I manage to steady my nerves long enough to take hold. Do I do it slowly or all at once, like a Band-Aid?

Band-Aid. Go! Zip open. I clamber out. My best foot forward. Or kind of forward. It's shaking so much that it oscillates six inches either way with every inch that I creep forward.

I see what’s going on and my brain pieces it together even though it’s forgotten all other functions. I scream. Liv practically backflips in fear. She has no idea what I’ve seen.

The weed’s got us way too high. I still hear the sniffing still but it’s not a bear or a wolf. 

It’s a rabbit. A big rabbit I must say, but a rabbit, nonetheless.

I turn to her with a huge smile on my face. I can’t even explain at first. God, it really is the biggest kind of rush thinking you’re going to die. Now don’t get me wrong. At this point, I realize I never was in any actual danger, but I thought I was. I genuinely believed I was going to die and so my nervous system acted accordingly. Blood had drained away from every non-essential area and was coursing through my body. I mean coursing. My heart was throbbing right into the underside of my ribcage.

I started to laugh and I just. Could. Not. Stop. 

Liv looked angry, as if she were going to kill me. Still laughing, I leaned in and kissed her. It was meant to be a quick kiss. A reassuring kiss. However, the combination of adrenaline and relief, it turns out, makes for a potent aphrodisiac.

I tried to pull away, but she pulled me back in. She kissed me hard. I could feel her breath panting. There was something in her breath, a heavy breath outward, the kind that would usually be rude, right in my face. She opened her eyes but didn’t look up when I pulled away.

A switch in my mind just flipped. My heart hadn’t slowed down from the scare, but my nervous system managed to spare me just a little blood for one essential purpose. And so it went—the hottest, most passionate, most animalistic sex that I ever had. There we were, young, alive and fucking on the Great Wall of China. 

Adventure

NSFW

Travel

Featured

I Thought I Was Going to Die and Then Had the Best Sex of My Life on the Great Wall of China

Of all the horrors going through my mind during my brief imprisonment at a “behavioral health facility,” perhaps the most terrifying was the thought that I might end up swallowed by the “mental health” system forever. No job. No family. No kids or grandkids. No purpose. Nothing to look forward to except endless drugs and sedation. No growing old or retiring in the countryside. Just a zombie-like existence locked up and medicated in a nuthouse. Forever. 

Those three days of torture, euphemistically described as an “involuntary examination” in an insane asylum, were without question the most horrific of my entire life. Nothing has ever terrified me in that way, before or since. In fact, it’s hard to think of anything that even comes remotely close. It was three days of hell, and even that doesn’t do it justice. 

Pray that you never end up in one of those ghastly places.   

Before I tell you the details of what it was like inside, some background on how I ended up trapped there is in order. The story is as nutty as anything you’ve ever heard. And without getting into all the details, I’ll tell you that even I don’t fully understand what happened, or why. It was surreal, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

It all began toward the end of my time in college. Some friends and I—at least I thought they were my friends—started a relatively successful and influential college newspaper. As we grew, and started looking under more rocks, we stumbled on some extremely serious crimes being perpetrated by powerful people in local government: Crimes that people would kill to conceal.   

One day, I received a strange phone call from a man claiming to be a local Freemason. I had never heard from him before, and I never heard from him again. But he said he was my “friend” and was just calling to warn me that I was in danger due to what we were working on at the newspaper. Basically, he said that if I didn’t stop, unnamed people would either kill me, get me locked up in jail, or have me thrown into a mental institution. He said not to bother calling the cops. They were in on it, too.  

As a 20-year-old college student and a baby Christian, this was all absolutely terrifying. I called my dad. He recommended calling the cops, but I never did—they were supposedly in on it, what the heck good would that do? Eventually, I started getting extremely concerned, perhaps even paranoid. The lack of sleep, from a combination of too much Adderall and too much work, didn’t help matters. And even though there is some mental haze surrounding it, to this day, I’m absolutely convinced that these local criminals of the vilest sort were, at the very least, trying to intimidate me.

At some point, after a trip to Europe during which I thought people were following me, it became difficult to know what was real and what was just a figment of my imagination. Upon my return, in a stupid effort to try to cover my ass from the people supposedly out to get me, I pretended like I was now working with various federal law-enforcement agencies and even Interpol.  

Returning to my college town following the whirlwind trip through multiple European countries—including a stop in Scandinavia to see my future wife, who thought I was losing my mind when I told her what was going on—I shared my troubling experiences with my partners at our college paper. I also shared my bullshit story about working with the feds and Interpol with them, and even told them that I would defend myself with force if somebody tried to take me down. (What a tough guy.) That was a huge mistake.  

Suddenly, a couple of sheriff’s deputies showed up at my friend’s apartment asking for me. Right away, I identified myself. And then, like an idiot, I shared my bullshit story with them, too. All I could think about was the phone call warning me about my fate if I did not back down, and so my assumption was that this was it, I was doomed. Desperately trying to bullshit the deputies, I told them that I was on a mission for unnamed federal and international agencies to root out a criminal conspiracy in the area, and that journalism was merely my cover story. 

They didn’t believe me. In fact, they thought I was nuts. And because I had guns in my truck, and refused to provide any evidence that I was actually working with any legitimate law-enforcement agency, they asked me if I would consent to a psychiatric exam. “No way,” I told them. “Let me talk to the sheriff so we can clear this all up.” 

Long story short: They put handcuffs on me and took me in under a state statute, allowing a person to be held for a few days for an involuntary mental health exam if it is believed the person may be a threat to themselves or others. The ride in the back of the patrol car felt like it took forever. I was sure I was being taken to the nuthouse, just like the creepy “friend” on the phone had promised would happen. 

The intake clerk demanded everything from me when I arrived—including my necklace and rings. At every step of the way, I demanded that I be allowed to speak with an attorney, frantically quoting federal statutes I had memorized about the deprivation of rights under color of law being a major federal crime. I think it scared them. They finally let me call a friend who was a legal expert, and I told him my bullshit story, too. He contacted my family and let them know, which may have been what saved me.  

Because I arrived late at night, the orderlies took me to my shared room without being seen by a shrink first. I would not get to see a psychiatrist until the next day. Trying to sleep in a situation like that is like trying to sleep on a nest of fire ants while covered in peanut butter—it’s absolutely, positively impossible. Another sleepless night, my mind racing, imagining every horrific scenario possible. 

The next day, I met with a psychiatrist. He read my intake report and asked me about it. Thinking he was in on the effort to get me, I had nothing to say other than I wanted to be let out, that there was nothing wrong with me, my rights must be respected, and I fully intended to pursue justice as soon as I got out of there.   

Soon after, he concluded I had bipolar disorder and prescribed Zyprexa for me, a powerful anti-psychotic. Thinking it would paralyze me and allow these creeps to do whatever they wanted, I refused to take anything. (To this day, I believe the disorders and diagnoses used by psychiatrists are even bigger bullshit than my story about working for the feds.)

In fact, after learning years later how these alleged “disorders” were invented—psychiatrists literally get together and vote on this crap, and if there are enough votes, they add it to their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual—I could not believe anybody could take this seriously. Scientology and I have virtually nothing in common, but its exposure of psychiatry’s lunacy is its broken-clock-is-right-twice-a-day moment.

The power dynamics in the nuthouse were unlike anything I ever experienced in my life. And I believe people need to learn more about this abusive system immediately. 

There was a very clear hierarchy. At the top were the psychiatrists, who held unlimited and total power over the lives and fates of those at the lower rungs. They could set you free. Or they could lock you up forever. I think the power gets to their heads, at least for a lot of them. 

Under them, the orderlies. A lot of them were drunk on power, too. If you resisted their commands, you could find yourself tackled, locked up and even pumped full of sedatives that were the equivalent of a mental straightjacket. There was a kind nurse that I still remember, but other than that, it was horrific. It made me think of the infamous Milgram experiment in which volunteers were willing to zap people. Prisons probably have similar dynamics, though I couldn’t tell you for sure. Similar hierarchies existed among those trapped inside. 

There was one evil, giant guy in there, who was very clearly friendly with the orderlies and seemed to have lots of special privileges. He really freaked me out. Other patients warned me about him. The word was that he was in there voluntarily because it gave him access to “fresh meat.” Apparently he could come and go as he pleased. Even though nobody told me explicitly, I assumed he had been abusing my roommate, who never said a single word the whole time I was in there.  

The entire ordeal was freaky beyond belief. And thanks to that phone call, and the attitude of the psychiatrist, I was concerned that I might end up trapped in a hellhole like that facility forever. Eventually, one of the other young guys trapped in there explained to me what the secret was to getting out: Just agree with the shrink on everything and throw yourself at his mercy. So I tried that the next day. It worked like a charm, and my discharge papers were prepared shortly after that.  

As part of that agreement, though, I finally took one of the pills the quack had prescribed for me to show my submission to his “authoritay,” in the immortal words of Eric Cartman. The only thing I can compare that pill to is a (temporary, thank God!) mental lobotomy. It left me completely incapacitated. It was like slowing your brain down to a snail’s pace.

Getting out was the greatest feeling in the world. It may have helped that my dad knew someone on the board of the company that ran the facility. But I still think the real trick to getting out was just agreeing with the chief quack.   

The story has another twist. It was not shadowy conspirators who called the cops and got me thrown into that hell, it was my supposed friends and colleagues. When I finally found out they’d called the cops, it was a devastating realization, and heartbreaking, too.   

To this day I suspect ulterior motives: They had already made clear that they wanted to seize control of the newspaper from me. There had been an increasing divergence in our views. My two top deputies were homosexual libertarians, and even though I was also a libertarian, I had become a Christian. They wanted to promote the LGBT agenda with the paper. I wanted to promote the Bible.  

After I got out, we found out that our ad sales director had been sabotaging our ad sales. Not long after that, he asked me if I wanted to join Freemasonry—a secret society that supposedly doesn’t even invite people to join. Obviously, I said no. 

Perhaps I’ll never know the full truth about everything that happened in that ordeal, or why. To this day, I still don’t pretend to fully comprehend it all. But God used it in remarkable ways. And it taught me some very valuable lessons. Starting with: Avoid the psychiatric industry and their Big Pharma co-conspirators at all costs.   

It has become fashionable to fret about how the homeless problem could supposedly be solved simply by building more mental hospitals and locking up more people in them. But after spending a few days in one, I can say ending up in a place like that is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.  

I still wonder how many people locked up in insane asylums are saner than most of us on the outside. Probably tons—maybe most of them. How many beautiful minds have been rotted out by poison masquerading as medication will never be known, but I bet it’s a whole lot. 

What I do know for sure now is that the mental health system is absolutely, positively, batshit crazy. I know some people claim to have benefited from the services of psychiatrists. But as far as I’m concerned, the whole field is a bunch of quackery, if not a giant criminal operation to peddle dangerous drugs and make big bucks. 

My advice: Avoid it at all costs. Open up a Bible instead.

Mental Health

I Was Wrongfully and Involuntarily Committed to a Psychiatric Hospital

Like many wide-eyed dreamers, I found myself in New York City waiting for the train in a piss-stenched Manhattan subway platform at 21 years old—cold, miserable and broke. 

As I watched trains pass and crowds collide, I often questioned whether I was just tired or actually wanted to die. I had been up since 5 a.m., spending my day on set as an unpaid production assistant, or a script supervisor, or perhaps I was building props. Maybe it was a late night, and I’d left my apartment in the afternoon to attend my second job, where I guided celebrities down the red carpet at big-name movie premieres and sat special guests in the seats. Either way, I knew one thing: This lifestyle wasn’t sustainable.

Two summers ago I decided to move to New York City; it had been a pipe dream for a while as a young theater kid turned pop-culture-obsessed adult. I came close to moving once before, picking up an Americorps gig right over the Hudson River in Newark, but I ended up leaving early. I returned to live with my father after long commutes became combined with the dread of working in an industry (education, at the time) that I felt zero passion for. But this time, I enrolled in a graduate school program focused on media and creative industries, as I was otherwise reassured that my communications degree would get me nowhere. 

During my first night in the city, I called my father crying, yearning to return home. I moved into a tiny third-floor apartment in Northern Brooklyn that I shared with three—sometimes five—roommates. It was the middle of the summer. I saw cockroaches scurry across my barren bedroom floor and heard scratches in the walls, which may have been my subconscious tricking me (the interior of my building was filthy and I had definitely seen a gaggle of rats in the entryway). “They don’t show the actual roaches and rats in rent,” I cried into my phone, cursing myself for my ignorant idealization of the starving artist trope (and my year-long lease).

Otherwise, I was blessed and settled into two jobs very quickly. One was a retail position at a Soho pop-up shop for the television show Friends. The company that hired me also staffed the merchandise booths at a good amount of Broadway shows. I had my “in” and I had it quick. The second job I nabbed prior to my move—a special events assistant that helped primarily with red carpet movie premieres. I remember the post-interview build-up after I got the job, despite the warning messages on Glassdoor forums. “It’s a really cool opportunity,” the interviewer assured me over the phone. “We get really busy most months, especially during awards season.” 

Throughout the moving and settling down process, I channeled a similar kind of energy and excitement—a giddy optimism that comes with finding yourself for the first time. At this point in my life, I was living independently and I was truly exploring my interests and dislikes—my sexuality, my love for sipping cocktails in dark bars, my introverted nature. With graduate school, there is no big mixer or forced days filled with icebreakers: I was a new girl in a new city. I gushed about this to my friends online and offline. “Yeah, movie premieres. Big deal, huh?”

My first premiere was a walk in the park. I was assigned to seat guests at a small premiere for an Alec Baldwin movie. He wasn’t in attendance, but actor Matt Bomer showed up last minute and we quickly arranged the accommodations to get him a prime seat in the house. I stood in my designated area and observed him boast to his friend, “Want a chickpea? I brought my own snacks.”  It remains one of my keenest moments.

The next premiere was for a movie starring Benedict Cumberbatch. On red carpet duty, I escorted the movie’s director, a short, stout man, through photography and interviews and joked to him, “You survived the hard part, now you get to go enjoy your movie!” Nothing frazzled me at this moment. Cumberbatch arrived later and was as handsome and suave as expected. He made small talk to the three of us standing there before gliding around the carpet. It was simple. I stayed quiet and did my job. I watched the other women chat about their outfits and their high-profile jobs and what auditions they went to that week. I noted how one of the other workers wasn’t in dress code. 

The following premieres were a blur. I grew more confident and found myself exchanging pleasantries with my coworkers and bosses. The founder of the company began showing up more, only ever popping in to berate staff. Whispers of “he scares me” filled each room. Months down the line, I was invited to work an after-party and jumped at the prospect. It was another all-star event—a motivator that I still don’t understand to this day. What was I expecting? A Disney wish-come-true? To be discovered as a low-level employee who is secretly harboring some worthy, forbidden talent?

During the tour of the after-party venue, my supervisor scuffed up a placemat. We stood there and watched her call over the newest coordinator to scold him. She made him hustle to pull it back together. Later that night, I was sent messages of varying degrees to “make sure all of the guests are comfortable,” and to “make sure they are all sitting in their labeled seats,” but “don’t be too direct, just make sure everybody is having fun.” It was overwhelming to say the least. The cherished workers stood around drinking cocktails and mingling, occasionally biting at me to fix a placeholder or to rearrange the tables. But I told myself in Liza Minnelli’s voice, “That’s showbiz, kid.”

One of my most harrowing experiences came after an event in which Sarah Jessica Parker attended. She was the caricature of New York City herself, the leading image of all of my Sex and the City fantasies. After the guests were seated and the movie began playing, all of us gathered in the venue’s entrance. This was the first time I was in a group that was invited to eat the fancy leftover food from the reception.

“Did you guys see Sarah Jessica Parker’s shoes? They were gorgeous. I just wanted to hug her,” I gushed happily. 

“Well, I hope you didn’t,” one of my co-workers, a woman who had worked there for much longer than I had, responded. She was close friends with two of my supervisors.

“I mean, of course I didn’t.” I said, avoiding eye contact as she stared at me skeptically. I had basic sense, I read the same handbook as everybody else. 

At this moment, my facade slipped. I wasn’t a gritty, unbreakable New Yorker. I wasn’t a child of a movie producer, just working to get a better feel of the industry. I didn’t have a high-paying job at Viacom. I stood around the table and watched the final slider not be eaten. I turned to the woman next to me who had hardly eaten. “I’m a vegetarian, so I’m not going to eat it,” I joked. 

“I wasn’t waiting for your permission,” she told me, not looking up from her phone. “I’m on a diet.” 

These interactions weren’t idiosyncratic. At first thought, I am reminded of the time where Jessica Walter, the matriarch from Arrested Development, yelled at me for asking to see her guest’s ticket. My assignment was ticketing and I had no idea who the guest was as the two arrived at very different times. My job was simply to look at tickets and see if they had a reserved seat or not. I remedied the situation by grabbing her sparkling water and some popcorn, despite it being a self-served event. I’m also reminded of actor Patricia Clarkson getting worked up because I asked if I’d spelled her name correctly on my whiteboard (used to help photographers identify talent), when I saw her give it a funny look. “If the photographers don’t know who I am by now, my entire career has been a waste.”

Recurring moments like this taught me this lifestyle is unsustainable, and that the constant promotion of “fake it until you make it” is incredibly harmful. I slowly felt my passions and my buoyancy fade away. My days and nights became filled with pretending like I didn’t care, and watering myself down to fit in with pseudo-socialites and privileged members of the upper-class—people generally able to live their life with little care because of their profession. Meanwhile, the only space I have in my closet-sized kitchen is for frozen meals from Trader Joe's, and every night I sleep caressing a can of Raid. 

These last few months have provided me with many moments of clarity. I have been without a job and the recipient of endless rejection letters since March. I’ve reflected on the good and bad of my experience, and found myself at a stalemate, knowing whole-heartedly that my life’s work has been altered. 

I’m a transparent person. I rarely have to question my authenticity. I am malleable and breakable. Many people assume my hopefulness, wonderment and awe gets in the way of my expertise; they instantly place me in a box labeled “fragile and incompetent.” Maybe there’s a place in this glamour-driven industry for me and maybe there isn’t. However, what I know for certain is my worth. I will not allow it to be faked and watered down to placate those who can’t be bothered to remember that we’re all composed of the same cells.

Pop Culture

Style

Money

Working Red Carpets Is a Nightmare

“Thank you,” I whispered, turning my head towards his ear. He locked his left arm with my right. As we walked down the long foyer at the entrance to my building, we stopped briefly. He positioned himself square in front of me, tipped his head, and locked his eyes with mine. He brushed his singular blonde bang to the side. His soft, brown eyes told me, You’re okay now, even though his mouth said nothing. 

Then his arms enveloped me, locking his hands together behind my back, forcing my body into his blue puffer jacket. I nestled my forehead into his right shoulder, holding back my tears, as his firm grasp pulled me closer. His body produced a warmth and comfort I’d not often experienced. And then he let go slowly, and walked to the elevator, gently turning his head around every few steps to make sure I was still standing. He stepped on, and I never saw him again.

About an hour before meeting the Blonde Boy in Blue, I’d left my shift at my uncle’s law office on 15th and Chestnut and headed to the subway, the musty home of crumpled Philly Pretzel Factory tissue paper, hardened gum stuck on benches and an occasional overgrown mouse.

From the building’s door I could see City Hall across the street, my typical stop for the Broad Street Line back to Temple’s campus, but that day I went to Suburban Station, the underground connection point between Philadelphia’s subway lines and regional rail. 

I twisted and turned my body through a crowd of pedestrians walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I moved briskly, feeling the chilly sting of late-winter breeze on my cheek. I held my purse snugly under my right arm, clasping my hand around the strap on my shoulder. SEPTA buses sped by, while bikers navigated the tiny space between the driving lanes and sidewalk, swiftly maneuvering around the parked cars. People congregated on the corners, in front of stores and in stairwells.

When I made it to the platform, I planted my feet shoulder-width apart, my hips and legs swaying forwards and back, and side to side to my own hum. Within minutes, my train arrived and I boarded. It was shortly after 3 p.m., the sweet spot before the after-work crowds bombard the train. Available seats were in abundance, and I chose an end cap, nearest the door. 

As my body shimmied rhythmically with each bump and halt along the track, my eyes focused on the poster across from me, reading each word a few times over. I blinked and shifted my attention to the man sitting across from me, two seats up. He was resting his forearms on his spread thighs, rubbing his hands together in the open space as though he was concocting a plan. He stared right at me, head bent, eyes unwavering. I swallowed and gave a brief, friendly smile, and then redirected my gaze to the door, hoping I'd satisfied him.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him move one seat closer. I quickly glanced his way to see the tip of his tongue pushing out the corner of his upper lip. When he saw me watching, his two front teeth bit down on his bottom lip, as if restraining his temptation. I felt violated. 

At the next stop, I stood up and strode to the next car, slipping in between the passengers entering and exiting, attempting to escape his attention. My face felt hot. 

Rather than sitting, I stood by the door, holding onto the pole above my head. My extended exhale made the woman nearest to me look up in a fleeting moment of wonder. Sweat traced my spine, dripping down past the waistband of my underwear. I released my slippery hand from the pole and wiped it on my skirt. Uneasy, I shifted my weight and held the pole again, grabbing more firmly this time with my left hand. 

Cautiously, I turned around to see the man standing at the opposite end of the car, his posture like a lion waiting to pounce on a gazelle. Now frantic, I inched closer to a middle-aged guy in a black leather biker vest, who I figured could help me if something happened. I tried in vain to make eye contact with him whenever he’d look up from the magazine in his lap, but I couldn’t quite catch him. My heart pounded, and my heavy breathing muffled the sounds around me. The man following me walked my way, never letting his eyes leave me.

We were two stops away from mine, and I considered getting off the train early, but I was afraid I wouldn't know where to go. I froze in place, running possible scenarios: If I stay, he might…If I get off, he'll…

I released my grip on the pole and walked through the doors connecting to the next car, waddling and losing balance because we were still moving. My pursuer followed a short distance behind.

I stood directly in front of the next access door so that once we reached my stop at Cecil B. Moore, I could exit as fast as possible. The doors opened and I jumped off, running for the stairs. Once I reached street level, I looked to my right at the second set of stairs, and there he was, coming towards me. 

I ran to my building's entrance, fear in my eyes. My mouth widened as if to scream, but no sound escaped. Mere steps from the front door, a security officer noticed my erratic movements and stopped the man to ask for his ID. Seeing my distress, the Blonde Boy in Blue pulled me inside.

I wish I could see Blonde Boy in Blue once more to sincerely thank him for reaching out to me in a desperate circumstance. I will never forget that act of kindness, one that likely saved me from physical harm. Through his kindness, I was reassured that good people really do exist. And what a relief.

Acts of Kindness

I Was Followed on the Subway and a Stranger Saved Me

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

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The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Lord help us: They say it's not polite to talk about religion or politics, but—hey—we've already talked politics, haven't we? Prayer's up.

Religion

I have always had an uneasy relationship with style.

For many people, finding a sense of style involves striking a balance between making a statement about who you are and fitting in with the crowd. “Clothes make the man (or woman),” we have been told, a message that what you wear plays a significant role in whether you achieve or fail in your career, social or romantic life. 

Finding my own sense of style involved walking a different kind of path. I was a child of poor immigrant parents, so having any decent clothing, let alone clothing of a certain type or style, was something of a luxury. Even ownership of shoes could be a questionable proposition during the earlier part of the last century, when my parents grew up in the rocky terrain of the mountain villages along the border of Italy and what is now Slovenia. 

They came to Canada from Europe in 1960 with just the clothes on their backs and a few possessions in a trunk. Even in the first years in their new country, clothing choices were severely limited in Canadian stores. As my father once told me, you had a choice of perhaps a few shirts in a certain size and that was it. Maybe that’s why, when I see photos of my father from that period, he inevitably wore simple white shirts.

Thus, from the beginning, I was imparted with a philosophy of thrift—not spending money unnecessarily, being happy with what I had, not expecting too much and not complaining about my lot in life.

I say all this to indicate how low of a priority a sense of style would have been for my parents, one of the last things they would have taught me as they set about instilling the rules of life. Unfortunately, this set the stage for my going on to commit just about every fashion and style faux pas one can think of, as well as forcing me into some awkward situations over the years.

Another element that factored into my style issues over the years had to do with the nonconformist, rebellious streak I have. Something about me just doesn’t want to float downstream with the crowd or keep up with the Joneses. For this reason, back in my formative years during the late 1970s and early 1980s, I was part of the out-crowd at secondary school, and so I didn’t conform to the standards, expectations and demands of the in-crowd. At that time, jeans were the overwhelmingly dominant choice of casual wear, worn between both crowds. Jeans, jeans, everywhere there were jeans. But I never wore them, settling for corduroys or dress pants of some kind. Jeans were (and still are) too country-ish for my liking.

Departing from accepted clothing standards wasn’t too big of a problem in my younger years, as there were usually many nerds, geeks and nonconformists in the out-crowd to fraternize with. It became more of an issue in my working years, however, as projecting an “image” of some kind and positioning oneself for upward mobility became a bigger consideration.

Even then, I didn’t give style much attention, as my first full-time job out of high school was in the property office of the local police department. There, I was called upon to handle and store all manners of found property and exhibits for court. One day might bring in leaky batteries or greasy motors; another, as I well recall, brought in soiled sheets and towels as evidence from an illegal massage parlor.

At the same time, however, I had to be available at the public service counter and presentable enough to assist members of the public and police officers who came calling there. Given these circumstances, I wasn’t about to add any Louis Vuitton or Versace items to my wardrobe.

One of the first inklings I wasn’t doing a good job in the style department was when I heard one of my co-workers sarcastically remark about me to another within earshot. “Nice color coordination, eh?” At the time, I was wearing a rather cheap green, long-sleeve shirt with blue corduroy pants and black shoes.

Up to that point, it hadn’t occurred to me that color coordination was an issue or that it might be a subject for office buzz. Nevertheless, in the aftermath of that rather unsettling incident, I thought I had better get with the program and find out a little about clothing and colors and what would help to “make the man.”

That led me to a paperback copy of John T. Molloy’s Dress for Success, a bestselling 1975 book that studied the relationship between clothing and one’s level of success, both in business and personal life. I hoped it might be a vehicle that would bring me up to speed. Decades later, while I don’t recall too many specifics from the book, I remember it soon prompted me to show up at the office in a quality shirt, dress pants, polished dress shoes and a tie. If my color coordination, or lack thereof, had created a mild hubbub previously, my new attire created a sensation this time. I can still hear the laughter of my co-workers now.

Looking back, it was an over-the-top effort to upgrade my style. It was way out of context to the work environment, and I quickly and sheepishly went back to a modified version of my previous self (paying a little more attention to color coordination, of course).

The next steps on my journey to garnering a sense of style were provoked by several girlfriends over the years. One of my earliest was a big fan of the color red—she drove a red car, wore red sweaters, had red everything. That red fanaticism was eventually directed my way, and when it came to birthdays and Christmas, she always gifted me red clothing. The red attire didn’t outlive our two-year relationship, however, as I didn’t believe red matched my skin tone well. It was too loud a color for my liking.

A stronger nudge occurred sometime later when I had a job in another city about an hour away. I commuted by train and then walked a significant distance from the rail station to the office. For comfort, at least in non-winter months, I got into the habit of wearing white sneakers.

I eventually began dating one of the girls in the office, and it wasn’t before long before she sent me an unsolicited email. It contained an article about what a turnoff white sneakers are for women. I got the point. Though functional, the sneakers did make me look like an adolescent when I was in my 30s. Out they went.

Then there were the blunders that took place during my time in a classic rock band, when I had to come up with something that would look good on stage. In one ghastly photo, I wore running shoes, white pants and a god-awful flowery shirt. What was I thinking? Then the wife of a bandmate told me I had to get rid of the black belt holding up the white pants. Done.

My current partner has been particularly helpful as I wade through my later-middle years. She can spot something that looks good on me when we browse clothing or thrift stores. She also pays greater attention to appealing cuts. For example, I had a bad habit of wearing baggy pants. Now I favor slimmer fits along the legs and have taken her advice to wear untucked shirts in casual situations for a more youthful look. That took some getting used to, as I always thought untucked shirts looked sloppy. It also turned out to be a bit of a science finding a shirt just the right length to properly fit my big torso.

Today, I won’t be getting onto any best-dressed lists anytime soon, and I still don’t have a style to speak of. Perhaps “classic” might be closest to the truth. But I am happy that my color coordination is better, that my pants fit more snugly and that I untuck my shirts more regularly in casual situations. Gone are the white sneakers, flowery shirts and white pants with black belts.

But as I write this, I’ve found a Forbes article describing how Steve Jobs, who was worth over $10 billion at the time of his death, wore a simple “chosen uniform” of a black mock turtleneck, blue jeans and New Balance sneakers. Maybe I actually had it right in the first place?

I’ve Never Had Any Fashion Sense: These Are My Struggles

Most people I know yearn for their childhood, for those so-called “simpler times” when naps and playtime were fundamental parts of our busy schedules and when our biggest responsibility was making sure we brought the right toy for whatever playdate our parents had set up for us. Nowadays, we hear a lot of talk about nostalgia and adults dreaming about the days when life was better, with no social media to distract us and kids could just be kids. As children, we tend to see the positive in everything. The good, the bad and the in-between are all filtered through the rose-colored glasses that our innocence and blissful ignorance grant us.

Whenever I think back on my childhood, the first thing I can remember is wearing poofy dresses, huge hats with flowers on them and hair bows twice the size of my head. I remember getting birthday presents from every single member of my extended family and spending every holiday possible running around my great-grandmother’s backyard with my many cousins. There were yearly trips to my grandparents’ summer house in Texas and a few trips to SeaWorld and Disney World. I had a favorite stuffed toy the size of an adult and a favorite cow costume that I refused to take off—yes, I was very into cows back then. I had more Barbie dolls than I could ever play with and every snack a kid could ever want in the kitchen, ready to be devoured. I guess I was what many would consider a somewhat spoiled child. Not that I don’t agree now, but back then my life seemed pretty average.

While most of those quick memories are seemingly happy ones, upon further reflection, there were some very dark parts to growing up the way I did. See, the thing about children’s innocence is that those rose-colored glasses aren’t great when it comes to filtering out trauma. We might think that a trip to Disney World is nothing more than a nice family outing, but really it’s your parents’ last attempt at giving you all the memories of a happy family before they break the news that they are getting a divorce. And, sure, my life as a kid was nothing short of privileged. But behind every Barbie doll and every makeup kit I received as gifts, there was a darker reality I couldn’t yet understand. 

Growing up, I knew exactly where my favorite dulce de leche cookies were hidden in the pantry; they were next to a small acrylic box containing my mother’s vast collection of caffeine pills and over-the-counter painkillers, her favorite snack. Every day after I was done with my schoolwork, I’d sneak away to the kitchen, grab a few cookies and run back to my room, leaving a trail of crumbs behind me that my nanny had to clean up quickly before my mother got home. While enjoying my cookies, I’d hide away in the room I shared with my younger sister, take all my Barbie dolls out and hope with all my heart my mother would get home, take her pills and quietly go into her room for the night.

I learned at an early age it was easier to avoid contact with her as much as I could. Some days were good. If she was in enough of a decent mood, she’d take me and my siblings out on picnics to one of the prettiest public parks in our town, or we’d spend the day lounging at the country club pool and ordering as many french fry plates and tomato juices as we could stomach. She would talk to my teachers and plan “princess for a day” days for me at school, a weird attempt to make me hate the private school where I was constantly bullied over my weight a little less. Looking back, though, these extra-special treatment days I got only made kids bully me harder. At least she tried sometimes. 

Most of the time, though, she’d get home “too tired” to deal with her kids and would either lock herself up in her bedroom until the next morning or take out all her frustrations from work on us. I remember standing in front of the gold entryway mirror wall in my underwear a few times and being told I was too fat to ever be loved by anyone. “You’re nine and you look pregnant.” Mind you, she was never around long enough to make sure I had healthy meals but always long enough to make sure I knew I was somehow wrong for not eating healthily. 

There were days when I’d be dropped off at my grandmother’s place after school, and I honestly can’t remember a better feeling than seeing our driver take the turn to Grandma’s street instead of driving straight towards my house. At Grandma’s house, nothing could go wrong. I’d eat all the snacks I wanted, I’d spend hours watching Disney Channel and playing with all the vintage toys that used to belong to my mother and her siblings. The best part? I usually got to sleep over at her place and got to continue the fun and relaxation until late at night.

Aside from days at Grandma’s, the only thing that would keep me sane was counting the days until I got to spend a weekend at my dad’s place. Those six days a month away from all the drama and fear of my mother’s house were always the highlight of my young life. It didn’t matter if all we did was hang out on the couch and watch “movies with a message,” his favorite genre. For a few nights, I was happy.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad. Most of it, maybe. But I do remember being a happy child, despite all that I had going on. I fondly remember being an absolute show choir nerd and reading books upon books, filling up my time with fun adventures and characters. I remember sneaking into my grandpa’s study to watch some scary movie my cousins and I were way too young to be watching and helping my grandmother make her famous quiche. 

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder, though, how much was actual happiness, and how much of it was just my brain protecting me and covering up the painful truth with a happier memory? I guess I will never know for certain, so all I’m left with is the knowledge of what was, what should have been, and how I can be better because of it.

Nostalgia

Was My Childhood as Happy as I Remember It?

I was six when the Spice Girls helped launch Channel 5 in 1997. I loved the Spice Girls. When no one was looking, I’d join in with them. They’d tell me, “I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,” and all together we’d respond, “What I really, really, really want is a ziggy cigar.” It was great. Although, I have to admit, I still have no idea what a ziggy cigar is. 

Channel 5, as a youth in the U.K., was also great. It meant television from overseas. It even felt distant, the way the satellite video crackled and hissed, filling the screen with the pale fog. Years later, I remember coming down and seeing that Channel 5 had fixed its reception. Shows came in crystal clear. This magical, foreign channel looked just like any others. It felt like part of my childhood had died.  

Channel 5 brought shows like Xena: Warrior Princess. I remember telling Dad that I liked the show, but I didn’t like how she used her legs to grab men by the head. It wasn't realistic. Not even Conan would use his thighs to snap someone's neck. 

“But that’s the whole plot?” Dad said. He loved Xena.

Some television wasn't good. Stuff like The Golden Girls, a show about old ladies talking and little else. The poor satellite signal made it difficult to hear what the women were saying, not that it mattered much. There weren’t any swords or monsters, so I wasn’t interested. 

Still, boring television was a big part of my childhood. The droning of garden programs and the endless repeats of shows like Airwolf. I remember the first time I heard the name Airwolf. In my mind, it was going to be werewolves flying about in jet planes. Unfortunately for me, this wasn't the plot of Airwolf. I was very disappointed. 

But that was part of old television—you had to do the best with what you had. I remember sitting with my mom watching Rocky for the fifth time that week. There was nothing else on, so we started this Mystery Science Theater 3000 voice-over. Each of us would take turns dubbing the character's voice. The aim of the game was to make the character say something silly and make the other person laugh.

Then there were VHS cassettes. These were little black rectangles filled with tape. One of my favorites was Goosebumps, “A Night In Terror Tower.” It was about these American kids who visit an English dungeon and get transported to the Middle Ages. The episode was 40 minutes long and split between two tapes. I only had the first half and didn't get to see the end for 15 years. It would stop right where the kids were told they'd be burned for witchcraft.

I watched the tape religiously. I loved everything Goosebumps. I even had the bedspread, something which I still own to this day. And though it was annoying never getting to see the end of the episode, in my frustration, I'd stare out of the window and come up with my own endings.

I also loved all things horror, so you can imagine my joy when Sugar Puffs cereal released their new ghostly pencil toppers. They were called Glo Ghosts and looked like Casper’s evil friends painted in bright colors. I remember pestering my mom to get a box and opening one the next day. Dad came in and sat next to me. 

“You know where Sugar Puffs come from, right?” he asked. He’d already stopped me from eating Nesquik by telling me it was rabbit poop. “Why else would they put a rabbit on the box?” he’d suggested. 

“What does bee poop look like?” I asked, assuming he was making the same joke with this cereal’s mascot.

“Oh, nothing like that,” he replied, watching me let out a sigh. "But,” talking in that tone of his, "Don't you think they look like bees?"

I looked at the spoon. “No, they don't,” I said. “Bees don't sit still; they fly about everywhere. Everyone knows that.”

"Yes," he said. "Well, the ones that are alive, anyway."

I remember then wondering if a bowlful of bee stings could pop your belly from the inside. 

I like to tell that story at family gatherings. Dad doesn't mind. He enjoys it—you can tell by the way he sits in the corner, wearing that same smile from my childhood. You didn’t have many options when I was a kid, but you always had a choice. Want to get mad that you only had half of a video? Sure, it makes sense. Cry that your favorite pencil toppers meant eating a box of dead bees? Well, it is terrible. You can complain and moan when someone turns Channel Five into one endless rerun of M*A*S*H. Or get embarrassed when you realize your dad is some kind of fairytale trickster.

Or, if you like, you can do something with it. Me? I still watched Channel Five, even though I couldn’t always hear what was said. I still sat down with Mom and watched Rocky, even if I had nothing funny to say. I never ate Sugar Puffs again or got another Glo Ghost, but I did learn something from my dad. Something about the power of words. I didn’t have everything I wanted growing up, but I did have a choice. When things got rough, I'd ask myself, “Can you own the moment?”

Childhood can be boring, and I doubt that's changed. At least in my day, I could blame it on the limited options, which is a shame for all you new people. Still, the question remains: Can you own the moment when things aren't going the way they should? No doubt, we'll always have some excuse, something to blame, someone to point the finger at. But the truth is, there's nothing quite like taking these moments and turning them into something we can enjoy. It's not easy, not at the start, but it's better than sitting there with no option but to suffer.

How to do it? Now, that's the easy bit. You just sit down and get it done. Don't worry if you're too embarrassed. Just pretend you're someone else. Put on a silly voice, like me when watching Rocky with my mom. You might not be able to change the world to make all the problems go away. You're only human, after all. But you can pay attention. And, in the end, if nothing else, remember this: You can do a lot worse than bring laughter to a tired old show.

Growing Up With Four TV Channels Helped Me Make the Best Of Life’s Obstacles

I got a call from my homegirl. She asked if I was interested in making some extra money on the weekends. Her job was looking for a “phone girl.” I wasn’t interested. I was doing what I wanted—traveling internationally, making money, dancing all night and going to all the exclusive restaurants in Manhattan because I love to eat. What else could a young Black woman like me want? I was already living a “fuller” life than my family new to America. My homegirl agreed, but not before sharing that her boss thought “Black people were lazy and they steal.” Like the princess and the pea, I could not rest. Something inside me asked for the fight. Without thinking, I said, “You know, I think I will come in.” 

I went to the interview on a Saturday morning. The owner was a heavy-set woman, her teeth spaced due to rotting; her hair fine red and wild; her voice shrill, even in the lowest tones, from the packs of smokes she stored in her lungs and the deeply indulgent relationship she had with money and cocaine. I showed up with the same drip I did at my corporate workplace. The interview was simple—pick up the phone and make the caller want to buy. It was fun. I played with my voice, flirted, told stories and then determined how much I knew they would pay. At the end of the first call, the owner got on the phone and called someone and gave them the address I just took from the caller. Her $250 was now $500. Once the communication circuit was complete, she hired me. “Can you come in Saturday mornings?” 

I worked and traveled for my corporate job and answered escort calls on the weekends. My entry to my new Saturday gig became ritual. I met the overnight phone girl each Saturday morning at a small office. She was probably in her 50s but looked older. She spoke with a fast mumble. Her hair was dyed black and greasy. Her lipstick always traveled off her lips and her scent revealed her lack of intimacy with water. I would get paper towels and alcohol then wipe down the cocaine residue that was all over the desk. Then I’d meticulously clean the speaker holes and creases of the phone that were filled with a greasy black substance, which smelled of villainous breath. 

As time went on, my excitement for the Saturday gig grew wildly. The personalities I encountered gave me a new interest and the petty concern about my hours from coworkers was drowned out. I would share stories over my work email with my best friend. It was my first corporate job and it never occurred to either of us that our emails were monitored. Eventually, we were called into human resources. My boss’s ice blue eyes full of tears, I was let go due to using work resources for personal circumstances. She rarely showed emotion. They wouldn’t say it. Walking out, I felt so free. I laughed. My best friend and I went to eat at our favorite restaurant. 

It ended up being perfect—it gave me a chance to expand my interest and more time with the other job. My best friend would visit me and I would send her away with hundreds of dollars just to be sure she was good while in-between jobs. I didn’t recognize what I was moving deeper into, and the responsibility that eventually came into awareness.

With all my free time taking new lovers, I was staying out all night, covering charges on lunches and dinners and throwing yesterday’s clothes in the trash after treating department stores like a daily infinity closet. The women I worked with all had different looks, reasons why they did what they did, and shared unforgettable client stories on returning from a call. I learned a lot.

The stories became relevant when we began to hear through the streets, and then in the news, that there was a Craigslist killer murdering solo, in-call sex workers. By this time, I’d left the owner, whose relationship with us shifted based on what money we brought each day. The women I worked with requested we continue together, so I opened an office and reworked the business model to fit the lifestyles we preferred. The phones would ring and I would be privy if they were law enforcement, a troublesome client or one who would pay just a bit extra to secure a hotel stay for one of the women new in town.

While I did not advertise on Craigslist, the women I worked with knew the women who did. When I scheduled an in-call at a nearby midtown hotel for Jada, a Black woman, I had to describe her as “Brazilian” to close the deal, because racism echoes even into shadows of sexuality. She made enough so she could pay her car bill and cover the home where she and her grandmother lived. 

One evening after work, when the third-call rush began, I sent a client over to see her. She checked in but didn’t call to check out with me. I called to see if she was all right but I couldn’t get a hold of her. This was a moment that was new to me. I’ve never sent anyone a call that resulted in them not responding for any of the reasons you can imagine. I sent allies to check on the hotel room I’d arranged for her while still holding calls for other sex workers. I called everywhere, but she was just gone.

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