INCIDENT ON 12TH STREET
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
---George Santayana. Spanish-Born American philosopher, poet, novelist, critic
Lucid Dream My Vision is Blocked I Can't See
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One evening in 1965, I exited the subway at Twelfth Street and Broadway, on my way home from work. I was wearing heels which enhanced my already five feet nine-inch height. A man approached me. He looked to be in his fifties and was short with thinning hair. Out of breath, he said, “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure,” I replied.
In rapid-fire speech, he declared, “I’m working on my graduate thesis and am conducting an experiment at the nearby New School. I am wondering if you could help me. I would pay you $20.”
“What kind of experiment?” I asked.
“I am conducting scientific research and am in the midst of clinical trials,” he said. “I would need you to accompany me to the experimental laboratory at the school. My wife will be there and the experiment will involves measuring pain thresholds. For example, a woman in childbirth would rate at fifteen, whereas a bee sting might rate at three. I will be hooked up to a machine that measures pain. The experiment will consist of you standing, in your high heels, for one minute on my back, and one minute on my chest. My wife will monitor my pain and measure my discomfort.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “At the New School?”
“Yes. And remember, my wife will be there, and you will be a part of important research project. It will help me with my thesis, and I will pay you twenty-five dollars.”
The pay had just gone up by five dollars.
The man’s rushed speech left me confused and I couldn’t compute exactly what he was saying. If it is a clinical trial and his wife will be there, I guess I could help. The money would pay for voice lessons, I thought. Still, I hesitated.
His voice rose to a squeak as he repeated his request. “Please help me,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars.”
I didn’t question the veracity of his story because I knew the New School had a “New Age” type curriculum and offered courses that wouldn’t be on the schedule of other schools.
“My boyfriend is at home waiting for me. Could we perform the experiment on another day?”
“Oh no,” he said, now looking disturbed. “My thesis is due soon, and my wife is waiting. We had someone else lined up to help. She cancelled at the last minute. I’m desperate. Please, please help. It won’t take very long, I promise.”
“Well, okay, if it won’t take long.”
We walked down the street in the general direction of the school. He started to sweat and became more agitated.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he repeated. “I’ll be so happy to get my thesis completed. This experiment is the last one. I really appreciate your help.”
We approached the door of a hospital with the word “Saint” in the title. He stopped, opened the door, and ushered me in.
This is not the New School, I thought, uneasily. Maybe I misunderstood where the experiment is to take place. But this is a hospital.
I continued to follow him as we walked past the front desk. Three nurses watched. We walked around the corner. He opened a door to the stairway.
“The experiment will take place here on the floor,” he said pointing at the cement floor in the stairwell. There was no wife and no equipment.
Shocked, I suddenly understood, turned around and ran past the three startled nurses. Their heads swung right as he followed me in hot pursuit.
“I’ll let you drive my car and I’ll pay you thirty-five dollars,” he yelled.
At home, my boyfriend Ralph was furious, and explained that some people received physical pleasure from pain. My therapy group also reminded me to be more astute in my interactions with the world.
This episode provides an example of how my denial worked. Even though an awareness of sadomasochism lurked at the back of my mind, I refused to recognize it.
Years later, I discovered who this 12th Street character was. You can read about it in my book.
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My favorite place to camp: Gold Bluff Beach, four hours north of San Francisco.
Onward and upward.
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