Renegades

The Man Who Got America High

He chartered the Rolling Stones while smuggling Pablo Escobar’s drugs on the side. After disappearing for decades, Alfred Dellentash finally shares his unbelievable life story.

It is seven o’clock on a humid Los Angeles evening, and business is winding down at a suburban car showroom. I walk past a team of guys polishing Japanese hybrids with bright white rags, past the twenty-five-cent gumball machines and into the air-conditioned office. An attorney has arranged this meeting with one of America’s most mysterious men — who has reportedly had surgery to change his identity — at his place of work.

His name is Alfred Dellentash. When I first punched his name into Google, six months ago, the results were simply baffling. First, there is an archived People magazine article from 1978, titled: ‘TOURING ROCK STARS GO TO AL DELLENTASH WHEN THEY REALLY WANT TO GET HIGH.’ The headline is a clever joke, you see, because the story is about his multi-million-dollar private jet-leasing business, which he built in his twenties: “Among the acts that have chartered Dellentash’s three Convairs, two helicopters and a Boeing 707 are the Rolling Stones, KISS and the Grateful Dead.”

The next hit told me Dellentash was moonlighting as a wingman for two of history’s most deadly criminal organizations, flying Pablo Escobar’s drugs from Colombia to the Gambino crime family in New York. His mile-high empire was a front for the most rock ’n’ roll drug smuggling ring in history. Ironically, Dellentash was secretly getting the whole of America high — hiding in plain sight as a chartered plane provider, and later, a music manager for 1980s acts including Meat Loaf and the Bay City Rollers.

I requested to speak to Dellentash through Jack Dampf, the Baton Rouge attorney who represented him during his 1984 trial in which Dellentash was charged with criminal conspiracy to distribute drugs. As soon as I mentioned the name “Dellentash,” Dampf broke into laughter and told me: “Boy, this is one hell of a story.”

Online speculators have tried to link Dellentash’s name to the famous D.B. Cooper hijacking in 1971 (he was too young and short to have been Cooper), the C.I.A.’s covert operations in South America, and even the 9/11 terror attacks in New York — tinfoil-hat theorists discovered that Dellentash’s father was once a contractor on the World Trade Center. But the truth is not out there.

Here in the car showroom, he is known to colleagues as “Dell.” While I wait, one of them, Susan, tells me her favorite Dell story: She was dealing with an angry customer who was rejected for poor credit. In a rage the thug rose to strike her, but Dellentash came from nowhere and subdued him with an expert arm twist.

And suddenly he is ready to see me.

Today, Alfred Dellentash, sixty-six, is mustachioed and bespectacled, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt. If there has been any surgery, I cannot see it. The expensive Italian shoes are the only glimpse of his past, when he infuriated the fusty airline industry by staffing his jet planes with Playboy models. According to feverish reports online, back then he was the equivalent of Richard Branson and Tony “Scarface” Montana.

In an office full of salesman trophies, I politely request his first extended interview since being released from his twenty-five-year jail sentence, of which he served just a fifth. I offer the chance to tell how it really happened, for the first time. But Dellentash explains that his head is compartmentalized — he keeps his past locked in a shadowy corner of his mind. This showroom, he says with a wave of his hand, was the choice he made long ago: to leave his past behind and stop running, to enter civilian life and try to win back the only woman who could keep up with him at full flight. He turns down my request.

Weeks later I am surprised when my telephone rings, and a thick New York accent asks:

“Where do you want to start?”

* * *

Alfred Dellentash Jr. was born on August 19, 1948, in New Rochelle, New York. His father was an Italian-American building contractor with high-rise goals, and his pianist mother was the head of the local Republican Party. Alfred sang in the church choir but regularly stole the “Body of Christ” wine. He spent his evenings painting model B52 and B17 bombers at home and wanted to be a rock star or a jet pilot, depending on what day you asked.

Dellentash became a frequent truant and a straight-D student by his own admission, preferring hustling in local pool halls, “moving swag” and loan-sharking. He played in local bars with his band instead of studying. At age sixteen, Dellentash obtained his pilot’s license. “I spent every dollar I had buying flying time,” he says. “I thought about becoming an airline pilot, but I figured I only wanted to fly where I wanted to go.” He flunked high school but excelled at aviation school. While his peers raced fast cars, he soared high above them in planes, flying loop-de-loops.

Dellentash grew up in the suburbs of New York and sang in a church choir. (Photos courtesy of Alfred Dellentash Jr.)
Dellentash grew up in the suburbs of New York and sang in a church choir. (Photos courtesy Alfred Dellentash Jr.)

One afternoon while in Florida he borrowed a twin-engine plane to take a girl on a date, landing the aircraft on a strip of sand just in time for the sunset. “It was completely illegal,” he says, “but she was very impressed.” This was “Mad Men”-era America, where the pursuit of material possessions and individual happiness reigned free.

“My father arranged for me to work for a construction firm, where I joined the union and sat on a crane doing nothing. I just felt trapped in his world,” says Dellentash. “My life was all mapped out for me.” In 1971, Dellentash married his high school girlfriend, and they had two children. Any dreams of becoming a pilot or rock star faded like jet plane contrails in the sky as he settled down in a Montvale, New Jersey, house he couldn’t afford. “It tore me apart,” he says. “I had babies at home to look after and that became the priority.”

But domestic life could not ground him for long, and he yearned to escape the daily grind and lift off once again. In 1973, Dellentash spotted an irresistibly priced aircraft for sale in a copy of “Airplane Trader.” “I just wanted to feel that freedom when my plane left the runway, when I could go anywhere I wanted,” he recalls. Dellentash flew to Oklahoma to complete the sale, but learned that the vendor, known as “Flamin’ Eddie,” had been found dead in his bathtub. The plane was a wreck, and in desperation, Dellentash tried to cancel his check. His bank suggested that he take a loan against the title of the plane instead. Remarkably, he left the bank with a check for $300,000 — for a plane worth next to nothing. “I realized I was on to something,” he says.

A young Alfred Dellentash Jr. with his father.
A young Alfred Dellentash Jr. with his father.

Dellentash quit his construction job and set up an airplane sales and charter company at Hanger 17 in Teterboro, New Jersey. Though he used the bank’s cash to finance his spending, he was often too broke to afford gas. Dellentash recalls buying a consignment of light aircraft in Sweden that turned out to be overhead camera planes used for geometric surveys. They had trap doors on the bottom, and when asked if he wanted them sealed, Dellentash said, “No. I’ve got an idea.”

“I’ll buy as many of these damned trap-door planes as you can sell me,” said Lenny, one of Dellentash’s customers from Oklahoma. Under his cowboy hat, Lenny was a shaggy-haired triple-A athlete who chose booze and girls over the big leagues. Dellentash knew Lenny and his boys flew bales of pot from Mexico, and dropped their load into fields across the Sooner state without even landing. Everyone was doing it, Lenny said. Together, they figured the trap doors would be perfect.

A 1970s New York Times editorial titled FLYING DRUG-RUNNERS REAP BIG PROFITS described these early, aerial smugglers: “They fly low and slow and by the light of the moon, and make $50,000 a night.” The piece quotes a Customs agent, who said: “Anybody who knows how to fly can get into the business and make a lot of money in a hurry if he can get away with it.” Dellentash was intrigued.

“You know anyone who can pick up 1,500 pounds of marijuana?” Lenny asked, one afternoon.

“Where is it?” said Dellentash.

“Belize.”

“Why not?” When opportunity knocked, he always answered.

Dellentash leased a plane for the occasion and flew a rare push-pull Cessna Skymaster 337 over Central America, with propellers on the front and back of the aircraft. It was the first time Dellentash had flown one, and it was certainly the first time the Belizeans at the airport had seen a push-pull aircraft, because one of their men walked around the back and strolled into the rear propeller, still running at full speed. “It was a mess,” says Dellentash. The propeller almost decapitated the man, who fell with blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth. Someone finished him off with a revolver, Dellentash recalls. “It was a horrifying glimpse into my future.”

Dellentash decided against the drug game, instead using his title loan scam to buy more planes with the bank’s money and lease them to rich businessmen. He found a bank in Oklahoma that wasn’t part of the FDIC and wrangled a $200,000 line of credit. This was the era of the “check float” that enabled many con artists: After a check was deposited, three days were required until the funds were debited from the payer’s account. As a result, a check writer could expect to receive approximately nine days of free money. And with that, his Cessnas became Falcons, and those Falcons became Learjets. As America entered the “Me decade” of the 1970s, one man was climbing faster than the rest, and he wasn’t looking down.

But running an airline like Dellentash’s required a 121 Air Carrier Certification from the Federal Airline Authority (FAA), which involved boring application letters and safety checks. Dellentash bypassed the requirements by calling his business a leasing company instead of an airline. He cleverly ran a separate crewing company to dodge the rules. The FAA was not impressed.

In the late 1970s, agent Charles P. Braunstein was assigned to both the New York and New Jersey FAA offices and tasked with investigating fraudulent Air Taxi certifications. “Most operators I met during that time were cordial and interesting to know,” Charles Braunstein told me in an email. “But in each case I was disappointed to find out they were involved with drugs.”

In 1977 the agent was assigned to Dellentash’s “Triple-D” Corporation. He would spend years chasing Dellentash, whose company was — in Braunstein’s words — the epitome of the fly-by-night airlines that were a danger to American passengers.

When he secured the contract to fly Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, the third in line to the Saudi throne (and now the king), Dellentash’s aircraft received automatic diplomatic immunity, taking him above the clutches of the FAA. And the more luxurious the planes he hustled, the richer and more fabulous his clients became. Mick Jagger inquired about a private jet, and Dellentash piloted a helicopter from New Jersey to Woodstock to pick him up.

Within months, he was the personal pilot for the Stones, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, The Grateful Dead and John Denver. He financed the purchase of a Falcon jet by forging signatures on a 300-page loan agreement after a bank turned him down. The planes were a key to the lifestyle he was chasing: More planes meant more money, and more groupies and as much fun as he could handle — as long as he was home for Sunday dinner with his family, like any good Italian-American husband.

The cash and rock connections inspired Dellentash to dabble in his own music pursuits: He dreamed of becoming a music mogul like his famous passengers. He started talent-spotting in New Jersey bars, where he discovered a band called Whiplash. “I said, ‘Let me manage you, I’ll make you huge!’” Dellentash marched them to Manny’s Music and let them spend $30,000 on guitars. “I was at my happiest then,” he says. “I was living a life other kids from New Rochelle could only dream about.” His wife was also struggling to keep up with him. “I tried to involve her in my world,” he says. “She didn’t want to go to rock concerts — she wanted to be at home. I felt like I was torn between two worlds.”

Dellentash’s planes had fully stocked bars, king-sized beds, gold fixtures, thick carpeting, plants, phones, telex printers and electric typewriters, all unheard of in-flight luxuries at the time. “I got great contacts with film people, TV, rock promoters and managers,” he boasted during the People magazine interview. “I got a lot of money and a good business sense.” The article also earned him some unusual attention.

* * *

Miami International Airport, Florida — A piano-black Lincoln town car idled on the street. Leaning against it was a barrel-chested Italian-American clutching a leather purse, watching the jets land through dark-tinted glasses. He greeted Dellentash with a firm handshake and introduced himself as “Steve Teri.” He described himself on the telephone as a real estate developer, keen to talk business with the high-flying New Yorker from the pages of People.

Walking into a private room in his sprawling office, Steve said, “Listen, you’ve got the perfect setup. I need a plane to go to Pakistan.”

“Please sit down,” he added. “I need you to pick up some drugs.”

“The propeller disaster in Belize was fresh in my mind,” Dellentash says, “but everything with this guy just seemed organized. He made it all sound easy. He offered $150,000 in start-up money, so he was really talking my language.” But as Dellentash would discover, this gentleman’s name was not Steve Teri, and he was no realtor.

Dellentash decided to give the smuggling game another try and excitedly flew his Convair back to Stewart Airport in New York. But Charles Braunstein was waiting. FAA agents forced their way inside the cockpit and cited Dellentash for illegally operating an airline. With no foreign diplomats on board to protect him, Braunstein delivered a $770,000 fine and grounded the aircraft. This was the part of the job he loved — taking the keys. But Dellentash calmly asked a stewardess to fetch his briefcase, and minutes later, Braunstein watched the Convair roar into the skies again as he stood gripping a certified check for $78,000, the exact amount of the fine’s “payable.”

Despite Steve’s promises, the Pakistan job was a bust: When Dellentash arrived at the meeting point near Islamabad, armed Pakistani gangsters were engaged in shootout in a hotel lobby. Fleeing in a hail of gunfire, Dellentash escaped back to the States. Then Steve persuaded him to try a similar job in Colombia to recoup their money. Again, he promised it would be easy. He was a hard guy to turn down.

Dellentash took his old Oklahoman buddy Lenny as a co-pilot, for his experience and cool nature behind the controls. Though the pick-up in Colombia was stress-free, they didn’t take enough gas and barely made it back home. “I remember flying over the theme park in Orlando, and I could see the fairytale castle all lit up, and I was flat out of gas with a cargo hold full of drugs,” says Dellentash. “I was flying all over the place, thinking it was the end. We were gonna crash land with thousands of pounds of marijuana.” They searched for the promised buckets of fire. “I was making so much noise it was unbelievable,” he says. “I was coming in hot, but I said, ‘Fuck it, I gotta land this thing, or it’s gonna land me.’”

As the plane fell into a controlled descent, he flipped on the lights as they smashed into a farmer’s field. “Before that night I never thought a cow could have an expression,” he laughs, “but they were scared!” The aircraft skidded into the mud. Dellentash shut down the engine and waited for the sound of trucks. Steve’s gang was quickly on hand to load up the drugs. Then a watchman ordered to fire a warning shot gave the signal that cops had arrived. The trigger-happy cops returned fire.

Dellentash ducked as the unmistakable BING! BING! BONG! of rounds struck the plane. The cockpit window exploded. “They’re shooting at us!” he screamed, and they ran into the dark night.

* * *

Steve was furious. If he had been there, he said, the FBI would have busted him. He told Dellentash that his real name was Salvatore Ruggiero, the younger brother of the fearsome gangster Angelo Ruggiero, and the ringleader of New York’s Pleasant Avenue Connection drug ring, a forerunner to the legendary Pizza Connection. “I’m the most wanted man by the DEA,” he confessed. The mobster was desperate to earn his $250,000 back from the failed missions. “The problem is your guys,” Dellentash suggested. “Respectfully, I want to keep you out of it. You give me the Colombian contacts, I’ll make the pick-up and deliver it to New York. I’ll make it like Federal Express … for drugs!”

Steve, or Salvatore, invited Dellentash to a restaurant in Miami Beach. At midnight a Colombian walked in with two girls on each arm. “He was one of the best-looking guys I ever saw,” says Dellentash. “And the girls he was with? I wanted to pinch them to make sure they were real.” That man was Carlos Lehder, who revolutionized the cocaine industry and teamed up with American smuggler George Jung, making millions of dollars and winning the trust of the biggest suppliers of cocaine in Columbia: Pablo Escobar and his Medellín Cartel. Lehder gripped Dellentash’s hand and looked him in the eye.

Later, at one of Salvatore’s pork stores in Fort Lauderdale, the three men talked as their breath hung in the chilled air. “Here’s another fifty for expenses — now can you not fuck this up?” Salvatore joked as he handed Dellentash a tinfoil package of cash. Dellentash was in business with the mob.

Braunstein was waiting as he taxied down the runway at Stewart Airport in New York one day in 1980. “You’re running an illegal airline and this time we are confiscating your aircraft, Dellentash,” he said, but the pilot pushed past him towards a waiting limousine. Dellentash wound down the mirrored window and tossed him the keys. “You can keep the damned thing,” he said with a smile, as the car slid away. “I got others.”

* * *

Dellentash and I are eating at a diner in Studio City, California. Sly Stallone is holding court five tables down, but the waitresses fuss over Dellentash, mainly because he tips roughly 200%. Over eggs, Dellentash says he would rather talk about his rock music achievements. In around 1980, his rock star passengers introduced him to the famous music attorney David Sonenberg, who asked if Dellentash would like to co-manage Meat Loaf. His first client was one of the record industry’s most successful, and troublesome, talents. “I was delighted, but I felt like being in a pressure cooker,” says Dellentash. “I was living my dream, to become a big player in the music business. Meat Loaf had the talent, and he had the songs. Meat Loaf’s only problem was he looked like Meat Loaf.”

“The music biz was clearly a sideline for Al,” Meat Loaf wrote in his 2000 autobiography. “He would tell these stories about flying to Libya with a load of automatic weapons. It was enough to make me afraid of him. One day Dellentash came into the studio. He’d bought in a shoebox wrapped in tinfoil. I opened it expecting to see cookies. When I took the tinfoil off I saw it was full of hundred-dollar bills. Wrapped like in the movies, with the little seal around them… I said, ‘Whoa,’ and wrapped it again fast.”

Together, Sonenberg and Dellentash wrangled cash advances from record companies for Meat Loaf albums, tours and movies. Dellentash brought street charm and muscle to the bargaining table; Sonenberg crunched the numbers. That year, Dellentash helped the Bay City Rollers sell an album to CBS International for $250,000; he hung out with Jimmy Iovine, who would later go on to form Interscope Records and the Beats by Dre headphones empire. Meanwhile, his airplane business attracted huge clients like OPM, the crooked computer leasing business that stole $225 million from various banks and guru Shri Hans Ji Maharaj, the leader of the questionable religious sect The Divine Light. They were all attracted to Dellentash — and the vast riches he was accumulating.

Dellentash purchased a lavish headquarters on Riverside Drive in New York City and furnished it with Louis XIV furniture. The lobby was dressed entirely in gold and paneled in rich mahogany. There was even a pink room with a pink grand piano at the center. “I had a private chef, and a full-time guy just to keep the fireplaces roaring at all times and a theater room with a twenty-foot screen,” he says. “We’d host sex parties with all the best girls.” Dellentash was now dressed to kill, wearing $400 shirts and shoes made from exotic animals. He employed a former college linebacker for a bodyguard who had twenty-one-inch biceps and reveled in his nickname, “The Brick.”

Dellentash started to become tempted by the beautiful women who populated the music industry, the girls befitting of his new status as one of New York’s rising stars. One spring day in 1980, he held a casting for a Meat Loaf video called “Read ’Em and Weep.” The last girl arrived wearing killer high-heels and a tight pantsuit.

Bonnie was a waitress at the Playboy nightclub on East 59th Street, the imposing nine-story building that boasted over 38,000 square feet of adult fun. To her delight, Bonnie found the Playboy job also came with a host of perks: She launched a submarine in Groton and played baseball with the Navy Seals. When the music business required attractive girls, they knew Playboy bunnies were available.

“I immediately fell for her, the moment she walked in the door,” says Dellentash. At the casting call, Bonnie waited in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Dellentash’s full-time fire-tender, distracted by the blonde, nearly let the flames go out.

“She was drop-dead gorgeous,” says Dellentash. “But she knew it!”

Dellentash with Bonnie, 22 at the time.
Dellentash with Bonnie, 22 at the time.

“His office was ridiculous,” Bonnie tells me. “He sat behind a twenty-five-foot desk, and his chair was an airplane seat. It even had a safety buckle! I just saw this huge ego. He asked me out, but I said no way.”

Somehow Dellentash convinced her to fly on his private jet to watch another of his artists, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, play a sell-out concert at the Blossom Music Center in Cleveland, Ohio. Afterwards, he let her take the controls and they listened to Blondie records as they soared through the clouds, back to his ludicrously appointed residence overlooking Central Park. That night she slept on his sofa and was gone before he awoke. With her blue-collar upbringing and street smarts, Bonnie was more than just a match for Dellentash: She was a challenge. At the time he had the pick of almost every woman in New York, and naturally, he desired the one he couldn’t have.

“Chasing Bonnie had become a full-time job,” Dellentash recalls. But a second date turned into a third, and soon she had moved into his apartment. Dellentash was still married but says his heart already belonged to Bonnie. She was more than a lover; she was a co-pilot.

* * *

The twin islands of Little and Great Inagua are the bird-watching capital of the Bahamas. More than 80,000 pink West Indian flamingos reside there, but that’s not what drew Dellentash to the islands. The coral surrounding Inagua made it inaccessible to Cuban smugglers in speedboats, granting an opportunity to a drugs pilot.

At the pork store meeting, Carlos Lehder enthused to Dellentash about the potential for the Bahamas as a drug transshipment point. He had arrived in nearby Norman’s Cay in 1978, buying up large pieces of property, including a home for himself known as The Volcano and an airstrip. Dellentash knew he had a lot of work to do: “Do you know how hard it is to corrupt an entire island?” he laughs while recounting the story.

Dellentash decided to arrive in flamboyant style: He performed a loop-de-loop when he landed in Nassau and hired the best bungalow at the best hotel on the island, bringing Bonnie under the guise of a island vacation. “When we arrived there were pink sheets, pink pillows and the walls were decorated pink,” recalls Bonnie. “There was even pink toilet paper. He’d hired a Bahamian guitar player to play ‘Love on the Rocks’ for me, by Neil Diamond, but calypso style.”

“The worst fucking guitar player in history,” says Dellentash.

But there was business to do: He had to set up one of the most effective drug routes in history. The first few missions were a dream, he says. Dellentash and Lenny flew down to the Bahamas from Florida and refueled at Inagua. They took with them $40,000 in cash — $15,000 for the Bahamian military, $15,000 for customs and $5,000 for fuel. Soldiers would guard the plane all night from the prying eyes of the DEA or rival Cuban smugglers.

At five a.m. they took off from Inagua, and within hours they were flying over the jungles of Colombia. “You’d be looking for a guy on a tractor waving a red handkerchief,” recalls Dellentash. Out of the woods, a tractor arrived carrying 5,000 pounds of weed.

Back in Inagua, the military stood guard over the plane again as they refueled, then departed for Millville, New Jersey, where he used large hangars that served as ammunition dumps during the Second World War and replaced the padlocks with his own.

“I basically had my own airport,” says Dellentash.

That’s not to say the drug route wasn’t difficult or dangerous. Dellentash avoided the obvious routes into Miami and Jacksonville by flying into Cape Hatteras, a tempestuous strip of North Carolina coastline known to sailors and pilots as the “graveyard of the Atlantic.” There, deadly currents create countless shipwrecks, and few pilots dare to fly during storms. But these were the perfect conditions for “flying dead” through the night — with no lights or navigation, invisible to the authorities.

He remembers his cockpit illuminated with St. Elmo’s Fire, the mystical phenomenon that creates a halo of bright electricity around an aircraft. To some it was an omen of death, but to Dellentash it was just plain beautiful. Lights on the coastline twinkled out of the dark as he pulled the yoke, dropping even closer to sea level. At just a hundred feet above the water, sometimes a ghostly ship appeared through the sea mist, passing his wing by meters. He flew so low that the cold waves often sprayed the plane with seawater.

On board was 10,000 pounds of high-class marijuana wrapped in gabardine bags, with a street value of a million dollars. One night, his gas needle was flat-out dead as Kill Devil Hills loomed nearer. Named after smuggler-talk for rum, this was contraband county, and under the port side, black waters gave way to emerald green hills. At an unmanned Carolina airport he suddenly soared towards the heavens — a fake takeoff, designed to fool air traffic control to think he was domestic traffic. Often, Lenny was directly above him in an identical Cessna: “Double the load for just one radar blip,” he explains. But even with long-distance gas tanks, sometimes they only just made it home.

Under the cover of darkness, they unloaded the pot in Millville. Passenger seats were loaded into the Cessna and marijuana leaves vacuumed away. Then their truck wound its way up the New Jersey Turnpike into the city. A “smash” car followed: If cops pulled the van over, the back-up driver would deliberately crash into the cops and take off. He never needed it, Dellentash says. But it paid to be organized.

Dellentash relaxes with Bonnie in the Bahamas. At this time, he was one of Pablo Escobar's personal pilots, and a partner of the notorious crime boss Salvatore Ruggiero.
Dellentash relaxes with Bonnie in the Bahamas. At this time, he was one of Pablo Escobar’s personal pilots, and a partner of the notorious crime boss Salvatore Ruggiero.

Between 1979 and 1982, Alfred Dellentash imported millions of dollars of Pablo Escobar’s cannabis and cocaine directly into New York, riding a wave of crime that changed the very fabric of American life. His cover made him absolutely bulletproof: By day he was a rock ’n’ roll impresario in the studio with chart-topping acts, by night he was hiding seven million dollars in cash behind fake walls in his home.

When he speaks of this era, Dellentash talks fast, and continuously adds “in the interim,” as a way to cycle between the worlds orbiting his gravitational pull: planes, rock stars, drugs and Bonnie. “Keeping all the plates spinning was becoming impossible,” he says.

Bonnie and Dellentash were hitting the town every night: Studio 54, Underground, Savoy Club and the Ritz, laughing like teenagers in the back of limousines. “People were falling over themselves to let us into the clubs,” Bonnie recalls. “He was a celebrity.” Champagne flowed, flakes of pure cocaine were pushed into long rails. His fame soared.

But cracks were appearing. The Meat Loaf movie was a flop: “Dead Ringer” “barely made sense,” a reviewer wrote in The New York Times. Dellentash spread himself too thin, and while Bonnie had just a small part in the movie, she had taken over the second lead role in Dellentash’s life. That’s not to say he was always truthful: One night Bonnie walked into a restaurant and spotted him dining when he was supposed to be in the Bahamas.

“You said you were in the islands!” she yelled, throwing a drink.

“I am!” said Dellentash, soaked in a cosmopolitan. “Long Island!”

* * *

Bodies started turning up in the Bahamas. A yacht belonging to a retired couple was found drifting near Norman’s Cay. Carlos Lehder was thought to be behind it. “The Bahamians got greedy,” says Dellentash. “Inagua was no longer low-key — you had to line up behind twelve other drug planes to take off,” he says. “The bunk house where we slept looked like that canteen in ‘Star Wars’ — everyone had guns and was doing blow all night.”

President Reagan was now in power, struggling to dig America out from under a new recession. And Salvatore Ruggiero, now earning huge profits from the scheme, tried to interest Dellentash in the heroin industry by giving him a sample. Dellentash arranged for two known junkies to test its quality; both immediately overdosed and were taken to the hospital.

Then, during a party in Manhattan, a fashion model accidentally snorted that heroin, “Pulp Fiction”-style, by confusing the powder with cocaine and collapsed during sex with one of Dellentash’s gang. “I thought I had a body on my hands,” says Dellentash. “I finally bought her around by thumping her chest. I was screaming at her, ‘I ain’t going to jail because of you!’” Heroin was a curse, Dellentash says, and he vowed to avoid it at all costs. “The mob were not supposed to be involved in drugs. The Gambino family prohibited it,” he says. By the spring of 1981, the matter had driven a rift between him and Salvatore.

“We’re going into the heroin business,” enthused Salvatore.

“The problem with heroin is your brother’s involved,” said Dellentash. “And you always said getting involved with your brother is the road to the end.”

In a ferocious argument, Salvatore ordered Dellentash to gear down his music business and concentrate on importing heroin from the Golden Triangle, the infamous drug-producing region spanning Northern Thailand, Laos and Myanmar. But Dellentash was on the brink of making record-label history. He says he was working with an unknown teenager named Jon Bon Jovi, a kid he believed would become a star. Dellentash wanted out of drugs altogether. Then Salvatore threatened him: “That little blonde girl of yours,” he said, “she’s a distraction. Do we need to remove her from the situation?”

Bonnie was blissfully unaware of Dellentash’s moonlighting. She had met “Steve Teri” once and hated him. By now, Dellentash had got her out of the Playboy Club and into fashion school, but she was pressuring him to settle down. He kept on promising “tomorrow.”

“I never felt like the other woman,” Bonnie says. “I was always the number one.”

Salvatore demanded a meeting and told Dellentash to send a plane to bring him from New York to his Florida headquarters for a sit-down. The Gates Learjet 23 was a favorite of Dellentash’s because it had the call sign N100-TA, which he jokes stood for “Tits and Ass.” It took off as planned at 11:35 a.m. on May 6, 1981, from Teterboro airport, climbing to 24,000 feet at a rate of 300 knots. The pilot was informed it was a perfect day for flying, and on board he was joined by a co-pilot and just two passengers, Salvatore Ruggiero and his wife.

“Descend to maintain flight level three nine zero,” came the call from air traffic control, and the pilot duly acknowledged, stabilizing her at 39,000 feet. But one minute and thirty-two seconds later, the co-pilot hurriedly reported that the plane was going down. In the background, air traffic control overheard a warning horn. The plane was in free-fall. It made another transmission, but air traffic control could not understand it.

Dellentash's infamous Learjet, number N100TA, or "tits and ass," as it came to be known, on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.
Dellentash’s infamous Learjet, number N100TA, or “tits and ass,” as it came to be known, on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.

“Say again,” said air traffic control. “Say again.”

A passing fishing boat found the wreckage of the interior of a fancy jet, and told authorities of sharks eating the bodies. Dellentash was in the studio when the phone rang.

“I thought you were dead,” said Agent Charles Braunstein. Dellentash pulled down the volume lever on the mixing deck. He swung his chair away from Sonenberg and held the phone closer to his ear.

“Did you know your Learjet just crashed off Savannah, Georgia?”

“What?”

“Your Learjet just crashed. Who was on board, Al?”

“Must have been a charter.”

“Who was on board?”

Dellentash paused.

“My friend Steve Teri and his wife.”

* * *

The FBI was already listening when Dellentash called Angelo Ruggiero, Salvatore’s brother, with the bad news. Agents disguised as construction workers planted listening devices in Angelo’s kitchen, dining room and even bugged the princess phone in his daughter’s bedroom.

“This is Angelo,” said the voice.

“It’s me,” said Dellentash. “The brother’s dead.”

There was a pause.

“Who killed him?”

“No one. He crashed in my plane this morning. I swear to God.”

“What did you say?”

FBI Agents later heard how difficult it was for Angelo to accept his brother’s death because the body was in “fuckin’ pieces.” Angelo said: “If Sal would have been shot in the head and they found him in the streets — that’s part of our life, I could accept that.”

“Listen, I’ve got guys on my back,” Dellentash told Angelo. “I got his assets, he’s been living in my house and we’re one day away from the Feds being here. I’m gonna have to tell them it was him on board. Okay? We need to clean house.”

“Where’s the heroin?” Angelo demanded.

“I don’t touch heroin.”

“Listen, whoever has this heroin,” said Angelo, “I’m gonna put a shark in my pool, and I’m gonna feed that guy to a shark like a spaghetti dinner.” Dellentash put the phone down, and went cold. Just a moment ago he had an empire, a music career and a future with Bonnie. Now, he was looking at decades in jail, or worse: death.

After all, he knew Salvatore’s heroin was stashed at his home.

* * *

The death of Salvatore Ruggiero set off a chain of events that would create an internal war within the Gambino Family and eventually lead to the crowning of John Gotti as its leader. It also drove a rift between Dellentash and Bonnie. Shortly after the crash, the FBI wrote to Bonnie to inform her that her phone had been tapped. Naturally, she demanded answers.

“I want my own life,” she told him.

On a good night as a waitress at a comedy club in the city, Bonnie was now earning $1,500. She told Dellentash he could have been just a big success without all the schemes and cons. She was an honest girl from a good family and didn’t deserve all this. They split, and, heart-broken, he fled to his winter home in Vermont to clear his head. But his phone didn’t stop ringing.

“I got serious problems, Al, I’m in a fix,” said Lenny.

“I told you I’m on vacation. Call me after Christmas, Lenny.”

“They might take my life, Al. I might not be around next year.”

Lenny said he needed money to get him out of trouble. He said he owed a connection in Louisiana some cash for a cocaine deal, and Dellentash was the only guy he could trust to help.

“How much do you need?” asked Dellentash.

“Two hundred and fifty.”

Dellentash saw an opportunity. “What if I gave you a hundred and fifty, and enough heroin to hold on to as collateral?” he said, eager to get rid of the stuff. Dellentash never liked bringing cash and drugs together in the same place, because it increased the risk for all parties involved. But he could help Lenny and himself, so he agreed to drive to a hotel in Louisiana.

Two men knocked on the door of room 12, and Dellentash let them in. One was tall, black, with prison tattoos and earrings. “The other guy was a nervous junkie,” says Dellentash. “The whole situation stunk. I was gonna get rolled, and I knew it.”

Dellentash pulled his gun, but the door crashed in and twenty guys appeared. A shotgun butt smashed into Dellentash’s jaw, knocking out five teeth. The gun flew out of his hand, and his mouth poured with blood as he staggered to his feet. Another punch floored him. “I was certain they were gonna kill me right there,” he says. “Then they started screaming, ‘Police!’”

“I was relieved!” admits Dellentash. “I thought it was a take-down. I thought I was gonna get killed.” In handcuffs, Dellentash figured it all out. Lenny had been busted, he figured, and turned him in for a lighter sentence. He watched a cop take $10,000 from his stash and hand it to the two crooks. “It was a total setup,” he says.

From East Baton Rouge police station, Dellentash was taken to the local jail and locked up alone. He was charged with criminal conspiracy to distribute heroin and firearms offenses. They allowed him just one five-minute telephone call, and it was a miracle Bonnie picked up. “It’s me. I’m locked up in a dungeon — I’m in federal. Just tell everyone I’m okay.” he said. The money ran out just before he added: “I love you.”

“I thought he could beat anything,” Bonnie tells me. “The arrest made me realize I couldn’t imagine life without Al. He just… got me. He understood me. No other man did. Al didn’t need money or planes to win me. He thought he did, but he didn’t.”

Dellentash was arraigned to appear in Baton Rouge state court. The judge was an elderly Southern gentleman who ordered Dellentash to stand and make his plea.

“Not guilty,” he said, defiantly.

The judge sighed and slowly put on his spectacles.

“You’re from the north, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. New Jersey.”

“Well let me explain in terms you’ll understand. Imagine you are at a barbecue,” he said, as sniggers broke out among the clerks, “and you’re the chicken.”

* * *

Jack Dampf was a popular Baton Rouge defense attorney who had practiced law in the area for eight years. He was thirty-four and kept a busy office thanks to his captivating turn of phrase in the courtroom. He was expensive, Dellentash recalls, but worth every penny.

“I thought Dellentash was toast,” Dampf told me on the telephone. “The cops tested a sample of the heroin he was holding in their lab, and they had never seen anything quite like it. I mean, it was off-the-scale pure. They knew just by the purity of the heroin that Dellentash was involved incredibly high up the chain — or he was Mafia.”

Dampf says he was summoned to a confidential room in the U.S. attorney’s office, where he met a group of Organized Crime Strike Force officers from Chicago and New York. The officers showed him black-and-white photos of Dellentash with various celebrities. “There was Dellentash with organized crime figures, rock stars, and I think I saw one with Frank Sinatra. I was taken aback,” says Dampf.

“He is a very well-known person,” the officers explained. “He’s part of an organized crime gang.”

“And there I was thinking he was toast,” says Dampf.

That night, Bonnie held his hand in the prison visiting room, where they sat among the terrorists, arms dealers, their wives and children.

“You’ll work it out. If anyone can dodge this, you can,” she said.

Dampf pushed for a proffer, an agreement that allows a person under criminal investigation to provide information about crimes with assurances of protection against prosecution. Dampf requested total immunity for his client, because testifying about organized crime and drugs would mean signing his death warrant. And though it broke his heart, Dellentash told Bonnie, “You can date other people, you know. You can’t wait around for me. I’m gonna be gone a long time.”

Gotti’s Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) trial began in August 1986, with the prosecution relying heavily on testimony by convicted felons. “I had to stand there and give my evidence, and the courtroom was packed with wiseguys, staring straight at me,” says Dellentash. Dressed in their Sunday best were John Gotti, Gene Gotti and their crew. In the gallery, Dellentash says he saw one thug mime the unloading of a pump action shotgun in his direction.

The trial was a farce. One witness committed perjury by accusing the prosecution of offering him drugs in prison in return for testimony, while other witnesses admitted that their testimony was buying them shorter sentences. After a long and rancorous trial in which the defense repeatedly traded personal slurs with the prosecutors, Gotti was acquitted in March of 1987.

Dellentash received fifteen years for conspiracy to distribute heroin and ten years for possession of felony weapons. His wife divorced him as he languished in a high-security jail where he paced an isolation cell in his underwear. Bonnie reluctantly moved on. After he was released in July 1988, having served just five years, Dellentash tried to make a new life for himself. He ran a restaurant in Rutland, Vermont, before a federal agent tipped off a journalist who wrote the front-page headline: “Mob Man in Mendon.” But all he really wanted was to get Bonnie back.

“She slammed the door on my face whenever I called,” he says. Though her heart was elsewhere, Bonnie tells me she could never forget about Dellentash: “I’d listen to the radio, and every song would remind me of Al.”

When Bonnie was rushed to the hospital with acute stomach pains in 1988, doctors thought it was life-threatening. A mutual friend told Dellentash, who ran to the hospital. “Seeing him there was magical,” Bonnie tells me. Though it was only a burst appendix, the drama reunited the couple. “You can’t help how your heart feels,” she says. Bonnie agreed to take him back, if he quit his hustling for good.

“You’ve got to have a real life now,” she told him.

“I don’t even know what a real life is,” Dellentash said.

And then one day he woke up and she had run away to California without leaving a note. Dellentash followed her.

“I booked the first ticket out of New York. One way. I had no money left and I had no idea what I was going to do,” he says.

“Luckily he brought only his good side to California,” Bonnie says. “He left the bad guy back East.”

* * *

Dellentash with Bonnie at their house in the Bahamas at the height of his drug-importation success.
Dellentash with Bonnie at their house in the Bahamas at the height of his drug-importation success.

Our last interview takes place at a busy chain restaurant in a shopping mall in Los Angeles. Bonnie is here too, and she is beautiful and fun. She tells the stories better than Dellentash. It is a Friday night, and there are cocktails — Dellentash is in a reflective mood. He finally tells the truth about his motivations for telling his story: He is in remission from stage-four cancer. But this is a now-or-never mea culpa.

He concludes that he spent his life on the run, and his pursuits all followed a common theme: Escape. There were planes, drugs and rock ’n’ roll, but they were all just means of getting higher, faster and richer than the rest. He ran from the domestic boredom of New Rochelle, becoming a modern-day Peter Pan: He refused to grow up and instead flew to mysterious islands, battled pirates, lost his Wendy.

“I stopped running when I took a job as a car salesman,” he says, “being told how to sell a car by a teenager.” Of course the phone still rang: Would he like to produce a rap record? Hire some planes for a trip to Colombia? Move some goods to the Midwest? But all this would mean losing Bonnie.

His supervisors watched with wonder as this mysterious East Coast transplant made sale after sale, quickly becoming one of the area’s best sales managers. Now he mentors young salesmen with criminal pasts. When he married Bonnie they filled a pretty suburban home with nice furniture and had two kids, now grown up. What he was running from all that time turned out to be the very thing that made him feel so complete.

“The prosecutor in the Gotti case said that it was suspicious how Salvatore died in my plane,” says Dellentash. I suggest it was a hell of a coincidence, to which he responds: “If I killed one of the Gambino guys, then testified against Gotti, do you think I’d be sitting here eating dinner with you?”

Whatever the truth is, he still prefers to sit where he can see the door.

The waitress hovers, refilling his coffee after almost every sip, it seems. He takes a bite of his omelet and says, “I’m living a second chance.”

* * *

*Some names have been changed at the request of the interviewees.

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Memoir

Secret Life of an Autistic Stripper

I've always had trouble reading social cues, but in the strip club, where rules and roles are crystal clear, I finally learned to connect.

I walked past the stage and sat down at the bar, the neon lights illuminating my pink teddy, shadowed eyes, and crimson lips. I ordered my first drink of the night and took inventory of the club. There were a few listless customers scattered around, hunching over bar stools, and a dancer circling the pole.

I waved over a colleague, a transplant from Manchester with hair extensions that kissed her velvet garter belt. We grumbled about how slow business was until I spotted a paunchy man at the bar. He was short, with a tuft of gray hair and a slight smile that crinkled his eyes. He was also more animated than the others.

“Do you want to try?” I asked her out of a sense of politeness.

“You go,” she said, waving her hand.

I started off light, asking about his day and his job. His smile widened across his face as my eyes met his. I silently counted to 10 and reminded myself to look away for a second – best not to terrify him. After three minutes, I transitioned to more personal questions, moving steadily through the formula I’d perfected to curate conversation with customers.

He started complaining about his recent breakup, but it didn’t feel genuine, his eyes twinkling with eagerness. I switched my gaze to the top of his nose to put a boundary between us.

I could tell he was interested in spending money, but he’d be hard work. It was time to either close the sale or walk away. He’d take advantage of my time otherwise.

“Ready for fun?” I whispered in his ear to avoid his eyes.

I didn’t bother mentioning the private rooms. After two years in the industry, I knew which customers were worth investing in – not this guy. So, I led him into the corner, which opened up to the club like the bow of a ship, public and safe, for one quick dance.

* * *

Before working in strip clubs, I struggled to read people’s emotions through cues like facial expressions, postures, and tone of voice in real time. I processed events after the fact with tenuous evaluation, like peeling off layers of old wallpaper. At the time, it was not something I had words to explain, so I turned the blame on myself. Whenever I struggled to understand if someone was angry or bored, I went home and berated myself for being lazy, ditzy, and dumb as I obsessively evaluated the night. I just needed to try harder to be more present, I told myself.

One time, I went to a dinner party my sister hosted. A few of her colleagues and friends sat around her table while we snacked on hummus and bread, and someone asked about my recent trip to Europe. I rambled incessantly, illustrating the nightclubs, the hostels I stayed in, even how I bled through my powder-blue dress because I forgot to change my tampon. My voice was loud, a  pitch you use at a concert, not inside. I can see their faces now, wide-eyed and uncomfortable, but at the time they coalesced into one indistinguishable figure, Dave Matthews playing in the background taking precedent. Their distaste didn’t register until my sister pulled me aside and asked as kindly as possible to keep to “lighter” topics.

After dinner, we dispersed to the living room and I attempted to talk to my sister’s colleague, but I forgot to break eye contact, continuously staring wide-eyed while she spoke.

“You’re certainly a character,” she remarked, exiting the conversation. I didn’t realize until later that I’d made her uncomfortable.

I didn’t know what slow processing was then, but I was aware I felt embarrassed a lot, and lonely. Facial expressions, body language, and eye contact are the bones of communication and it’s quite difficult to build and maintain relationships without the ability to read them.

So, I meticulously designed a persona who nodded at the right time, rehearsed lines, smiled when appropriate, monitored personal space, spoke quietly. Before going out, I crafted notecards, scribbling how long to talk about acceptable topics and which to stay clear of altogether, like my period, in small talk. The persona was a mask that helped me appear to interact in the moment, but in reality I crept by, three paces behind everyone else.

* * *

I had just celebrated my 24th birthday in Australia when I started dancing. I settled temporarily in a bustling beach town at the edge of Melbourne and needed money to pay off my student debt. I considered a bar job, but decided to try stripping simply because it meant fewer hours.

When I walked into a club to ask for a job, to my surprise, I realized it was just a bar with the usual roles reversed: women approaching men. I was intrigued, but confused – how did they convince customers to spend money off-stage?

The manager looked at my petite frame and nervous smile, pointed her manicured hand to the dressing room and listed the rules: “Go get ready in there. You get one free drink. Don’t be late for stage. No sex. No drugs on the floor.” Simple enough, but nothing on how to monetize my time. I handed over my $40 house fee and walked into the sea of hairspray and naked bodies.

Hundreds of customers came and went during the 10-hour shift, sitting on plush couches and crowding around the bar. I approached 10 guys, mirroring my colleagues’ coy smiles, suggestive body language and light conversation starters, but I couldn’t tease out who wanted to spend. All but one dismissed me.

I sat at the bar to observe, sipping my free champagne. One dancer particularly stood out with her naturally frizzy curls and tattered black bra. She wasn’t the most glamorous, but every guy she spent more than a few minutes with agreed to get a lap dance, like she had sprinkled them with fairy dust. A few times, she walked away from customers within seconds, once even waving her hand in a man’s face to dismiss him.

From the bar, I saw her sitting alone on one of the upholstered couches that lined the back of the club. She was taking a moment’s respite after a dance to count her money before securing it around her wrist with an elastic band. I took a deep breath and approached her, brushing aside the fringe curtain separating the lap dance room from the bar. It was getting late, two hours before closing, and I was exhausted and frustrated. So far I’d brought in just $50, meaning a $10 profit after the house fee. I thought about packing up and never coming back, but I needed this to work out. My student loan wouldn’t magically go away.

She took one look at me and asked, “Your first time?”

“Yes. I’m struggling,” I said shyly.

She stared at me with a bored expression, so I got right to it.

“How do you know who wants to spend money?”

She turned around and outlined her lips with a beige pencil in the smudged mirror, advising in her Bulgarian accent: “I don’t always know, but here are a few things I’ve learned after five years in the industry: Don’t spend more than 10 minutes with them if they haven’t spent money. Five minutes if it’s busy. You’re not a free therapist. Make them pay big bucks if they want to dump their shit on you. Walk away from customers who want to get to know the ‘real you’ right away. They’re usually creeps.”

Before she left the lap dance area, she turned around and said, “And quit this nice girl bullshit. You sound like a child. Don’t try so hard to be someone you’re not, just be a hyped-up version of yourself.”

As she sauntered off, she looked back once more, “I’m Claire by the way.”

Her words wounded me, but I was impressed. She saw right through my mask. The rambling girl at my sister’s house was a distant memory, but, strangely, Claire must have seen who I was before I tried so hard to appear normal.

After we spoke, I didn’t reincarnate my older self, but I did carve another persona, Piper. I learned to showcase different parts of my persona based on the customer. It seemed practicing social skills paid off – I became a deft conversationalist, sometimes earning my night’s wage just from talking. I moved beyond the foundation I hid behind, laughing, smiling, and chatting more brazenly than before, enjoying eye contact with customers I trusted, dismissing ones I didn’t. Performing felt strangely comfortable, even though the job was foreign and challenging.

That conversation lasted minutes, but the advice made for a successful career. Slowly, Claire’s rules taught me how to read customers for signs of interest by attaching meaning to their words and actions, something most people learn unconsciously, but that I’d always struggled with.

The club gave me a controlled space to decipher the crinkle around people’s eyes for eagerness or raised eyebrow for arrogance, as if I was reading a script from a teleprompter. And when I was unsure, I had her original rules to catch me. Are they asking for my real name? Are they relaying problems in their life without buying a dance first? On the floor of the club, I spent hours practicing each weekend, and for the first time in my life, I learned how to cut through layers of language in real time, just like Claire, until it became effortless.

* * *

Eventually I moved back home to New York and started stripping full time. After two years of practicing by trial and error in the world’s most social job, the tricks I learned in the club seeped into my social life outside of work, and it got easier to notice social cues and use the same formula I used with customers to make small talk with anyone.

Most people I met outside of work told me I was a great listener, unaware of how much time I spent in my room practicing the correct reactions. I didn’t want anyone to know how much I struggled, so I let very few people get close to me – better than anyone finding out that I couldn’t really socialize, that I was a fake.

Nearly two years after I started dancing, my friend Sarah invited me to her birthday party. My least favorite social situation: a dinner party with unknown people. True, I was better at picking up more obvious cues like eagerness and anger, but group settings were strenuous – too many subtleties to keep track of. But I hadn’t seen my friend in a while and I missed her. I packed up my lace teddy and Red Bull into a discreet bag and headed over to the restaurant before work.

The hour and a half crawled by. There were six of us around a small table. I can’t remember the other people’s faces or even what anyone spoke about. I prayed no one would ask me personal questions.

“Sarah tells me you just got home from Amsterdam,” my friend’s brother said politely, turning in my direction. His words mixed in with the background conversation and it sounded like another language. I broke out in sweat.

“I am sorry, what?” I asked.

He repeated himself. A second later the words clicked. I smiled and looked at his nose instead of his eyes while chewing over my words and length of speech, trying to offer the version of my trip they wanted to hear.

Sarah got up to go to the bathroom. I quickly walked over to her and asked: “Were people bored when I spoke?”

“Not at all. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. But I have to go. I’m sorry, I have work.”

She looked confused as I hurried out the door. I didn’t really have to go to the club. I’d made enough that week to warrant a night off with my friends, but work felt easier than this social performance. I let out a sigh of relief as the taxi plowed across the Williamsburg Bridge.

I walked under the familiar lights to the dressing room. I squirted a dollop of foundation on my hand and painted the dark circles under my eyes. For a brief second, I wondered, Is something wrong? Surely work shouldn’t be more comfortable than a night out? But then I swallowed those thoughts and walked onto the floor to escape from myself.

I sat down at the bar and ordered a Hennessy on the rocks. The birthday was successfully buried, and I was buzzing from the bliss of escape.

I spotted a man at the bar – alone, tall, bald with a kind smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand. I ran through the formula and we connected right away.

“Hennessy is a strong choice,” he commented.

“It’s an underrated drink.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Can I get you another one?”

Ten minutes passed. I suggested the private room and he agreed. The private rooms were where I connected with customers, sometimes in a way that was more intimate than my relationships outside the club.

There I massaged their shoulders, let them touch me, expressed vulnerability. I bantered for hours – something I was never able to do before. With fewer stimuli around, it was easier to focus and converse back and forth in a way that felt less strenuous than at the restaurant hours before.

“You have a strange rhythm about you,” he remarked, smiling as I cradled him. Customers who spent money like water didn’t care if I was odd; they wanted an experience. My weirdness was worth their paycheck.

After two hours, I excused myself for a moment to go to a bathroom where I got a message from Sarah: Miss you. Wish you didn’t have work. It’s not the same without you.

Below the message was a picture of the dinner crew, laughing with their arms wrapped around each other. I felt such a pang of loneliness and regret that I broke down in the doorless toilet stall, my eyeliner smearing like watercolor on canvas.

Why am I only alive at work? Why can I give so much of myself to my customers and so little to my friends? Maybe I was just being stupid because I was drunk, but I wanted to be an active participant in my life instead of walking around confused all the time, experiencing my days after they’ve happened, passive from the sidelines. I wanted connection.

Work was a temporary balm, but the interactions there were fleeting, not enough to sustain my longing for people. The force of my rotting loneliness hit like a tidal wave as the reality of how much I struggled to navigate social settings outside settled in.

I allowed myself just one sob before I fixed my face and performed for the last half hour. When I got home, I couldn’t get out of bed for days, my sheets disheveled with self-loathing.

Desperate for answers, I started scrolling through an online forum for women with ADHD, wondering if I might have an attention disorder, looking for an explanation. I started asking for advice, addressing some of my other issues first like getting lost in obsessive thought.

Within minutes, responses flooded that my symptoms resembled ASD.

“What is ASD?” I asked.

“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”

I scoffed, but after I read articles on how autism manifests in women, there wasn’t room for doubt – the evidence was clearly outlined in the bullet points on my laptop.

Central to autism is a difficulty experiencing life in real time. Many autistic people can’t filter out information, which makes it difficult to zone in and focus. All those years, I couldn’t read people’s cues because I struggled to cancel out the world around me. At my sister’s house, the background music, the forks scraping on plates, the blue walls, all swam in front of people’s facial expressions.

But in the private rooms at the club, there were no outside stimuli. The rules were clear, the distractions minimal, so I could focus and interact.

Women in the ADHD forum invited me to the group for autistic women and there I saw myself a hundred times over. Scrolling through were women like me: sex workers, performers, artists, writers, all struggling to make sense of our invisible differences in our own socially awkward, wacky, and beautiful way.

I gradually pulled the blame away from myself and labeled the things about me that were naturally different, not defective. I stopped punishing myself when I got overwhelmed in conversations, stopped beating myself up when bright lights blanched out facial expressions and background noise canceled out people’s words. I took a deep breath and resisted pretending to listen and asked: “Can you say that again?” without apology. I forgave myself when I slipped outside of social norms and said something weird.

No more being sorry for things I can’t help. People would love me or not – frankly I was okay with the risk.

* * *

A few months later, I stood outside the club with a cigarette in my hand, looking over the busy highway at the deserted factories.

“Piper, you leaving?” my bouncer nudged in his Queens accent.

“Yes. I made enough tonight. I’m going out,” I said, smiling back at him.

He waited outside with me until Sarah pulled up in a rideshare.

“This is where you work?” she asked incredulously, her mouth ajar in the window of the car.

I laughed. She knew I was a stripper but had never been to the club. From the outside, it looked grim: tattered brown building on the edge of town. But it was home to me.

“I never said stripping was glamorous.”

I kept the window open as the club disappeared, letting the cold air whip my face, feeling a mixture of relief and excitement. Forums for autistic women advised pulling off masks that many develop to pass as non-autistic. The effects of camouflaging are toxic, they warned. I wasn’t sure I could go back to who I was. The rambling autistic girl at my sister’s house was dead, buried under years of performance.

“Did you have a good night?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah. I’m ready for a night off though.”

Who could I have been if I didn’t try so hard to pass? I’ll never know, but stripping provided a portal to who I might be without fear of rejection – a rare glimpse of the affectionate, brash, and funky edges of personality. But I still had so much to learn. There was vast, dormant space to grow into beyond my work persona.

The twinkling lights opened the doors to Manhattan, my body still moving from the music of the club. The possibilities of the night unrolled in front of me and I intended to savor them.

Hidden History

The Hidden Queer History Behind “A League of Their Own”

The All-American Girls Professional Baseball League did everything it could to keep lesbians off the diamond. Seventy-five years later, its gay stars are finally opening up.

Josephine “JoJo” D’Angelo was in a hotel lobby in 1944. An outfielder for the South Bend Blue Sox — a team in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (A.A.G.P.B.L.), founded the year prior — she had dark, curly hair. Even if you didn’t know her last name, her looks hinted at her Italian heritage.

The hotel was likely decorated with muted colors in the modernist style of the previous decade. Thanks to World War II, there were supply shortages and rations, which put a hold on new design in the early ’40s. All available supplies needed to go toward the war effort.

The story was similar in baseball. With most of the Major League Baseball players deployed, executives decided to fill the gap with female players, paving the way for the A.A.G.P.B.L.

But in the hotel that day, D’Angelo was approached by one league executive and told that she was being released from her contract. This was devastating for the right-hander who’d batted .200 in her two seasons with the Blue Sox. She’d been playing since she was a little girl, and had spent her days working in a steel mill in her hometown of Chicago while devoting evenings to playing ball, before attending a tryout for the league at Wrigley Field. That scene was made famous by the film “A League of Their Own,” with hundreds of women traveling from around the country to the brick ballpark with the ivy-covered outfield wall.

Why was D’Angelo being cut from the thing she loved most in the world? When she told the story later in her life, she gave the reason: “a butchy haircut.” It was a haircut she says she never even wanted, one she was pressured into getting by the hairstylist who assured her she would look lovely with her dark curls trimmed into a bob.

D’Angelo had broken one of the cardinal rules of the A.A.G.P.B.L.: “Play like a man, look like a lady.” But she wasn’t the only one. Connie Wisniewski was told she’d be kicked off her team if she chose to get a close-trimmed cut. Multiple recruits were immediately handed tickets home after they showed up to spring training with bobs, and “Dottie Ferguson was warned by her chaperon against wearing girls’ Oxford shoes, because they were excessively masculine-looking,” writes Lois Browne in her book Girls of Summer: In Their Own League.

Members of the Fort Wayne Daisies baseball team, 1948. (Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida)

Players had to attend charm school and wear lipstick on the field. Their uniforms had skirts instead of pants — not great for sliding, but deemed appropriately feminine by league owner Philip K. Wrigley. All of this was chronicled in “A League of Their Own.” But there was one thing the movie left out: the reason for these requirements.

Though it was never explicitly stated, historians and players alike say the rules were in place, in part, to prevent the women from being perceived as lesbians. Many of the women actually were gay, including D’Angelo, which is another part of the story the movie didn’t tell. By not including a gay character’s story in “A League of Their Own,” the film does to the history of the league what the owners tried to do its existence — erase lesbians from the narrative.

* * *

When Terry Donahue met Pat Henschel in 1947, Donahue was a 22-year-old catcher and utility infielder in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. She grew up playing ball with her younger brother, Tom, on their family’s farm in Saskatchewan, Canada. “She claimed that she was five-foot-two. She was about five-foot,” Henschel tells me over the phone from the home she shares with Donahue. “She had dark hair, blue eyes, and was very attractive, and she was wonderfully liked.”

Donahue was in Nova Scotia for the winter when she met Henschel, who was 19 at the time. The two women hit it off, keeping in touch when Donahue moved back to the U.S. to play for the Peoria Red Wings. “She was a utility player, and the catcher on her team broke her thumb or her finger,” Henschel says. “The manager came up to her and said, ‘Have you ever caught?’ And Terry said, ‘no.’ He said, ‘Well, you’re going in tonight.’” The first game Donahue ever caught ended up being a 19-inning game. The next day was her birthday.

“The only things [women] can’t do, we can’t hit as far and we can’t throw as hard, but we certainly can make all the plays that you see in the Cubs’ ballpark. Or the Sox,” Donahue told the Kane County Chronicle in 2010, referring to the Cubs and White Sox, Chicago’s two major-league squads.

Left, Terry Donahue’s baseball card. Right, Peoria Redwings team photo in 1947 – the year she met Pat Henschel. Donahue played in the team from 1946 to 1949. (Photos courtesy All American Girls Professional Baseball League Players Association)

Today, Donahue, who has Parkinson’s disease, is 92. Henschel is 89. For seven decades the two told almost everyone, aside from their inner circle, that they were best friends. The Chronicle story calls Henschel Donahue’s “cousin and roommate.” But the truth was much more than that. For 70 years theirs has been a love story, originating in a time when the only love stories we were allowed to tell were those between a man and a woman. Try to ask most former players about the issue and they clam up. “I don’t think it was really even talked about, frankly,” Henschel says.

In the ’40s and ’50s, homosexuality was not discussed much; it wasn’t until 1973 that the American Psychiatric Association removed it from the list of mental illnesses. The players could have lost more than just their baseball careers if they had been open about their queerness. They could have lost their families, occupations, and reputations, too. In those days, “you had to be very discreet, and we were,” says Henschel. “No one was even aware of it because we got so careful and no one would have even imagined anything at all.”

That stigma has carried on for decades. As Ila Borders, the first woman to play for a men’s professional baseball team since the Negro Leagues, wrote in her memoir, Making My Pitch, “I remain certain that my professional career would not have been possible had I come out.” In 1994, Borders, a left-handed pitcher, became the first woman to receive a college baseball scholarship. She was the first to start an N.C.A.A. baseball game and the first woman to get a win in collegiate baseball. She then played for the independent, otherwise all-male St. Paul Saints and Duluth-Superior Dukes.

“In 1994 few in baseball — or in the country — were ready to accept a gay player, male or female,” writes Borders. Indeed, that same year, the book SportsDykes: Stories From On and Off the Field was also published. In her essay, “The Lesbian Label Haunts Women Athletes,” Lynn Rosellini writes, “To most lesbian athletes … coming out is not yet worth it.”

“If a woman plays hardball, people figure she’s likely gay,” writes Borders. It’s why, during her baseball career, she constantly had to answer questions about whether she dated men, and had to reassure the public that, despite the fact that she played ball, she was not gay. She understands today that talking about being a gay athlete is a double-edged sword, in a way. There’s the stereotype that women athletes are all lesbians, which is both inaccurate and unfair. And yet, there’s also the truth that there are many athletes who are also lesbians.

“I was deeply ignorant of my small place in the history of women athletes and the whole gay rights movement,” Borders writes of her playing days as a closeted homosexual.

But this stereotype existed long before Borders was even born. Some A.A.G.P.B.L. players cited masculine clothing or appearances as tipping them off about a woman’s sexual orientation, a stereotype that still exists today and may or may not be accurate. “The lesbians, they dressed like men with those big pants and big shoes, most of them. … [T]hey had boyish bobs,” Dottie Green, a former A.A.G.P.B.L. player and chaperone told Susan K. Cahn in her book Coming on Strong: Gender and Sexuality in Twentieth Century Sports. Or, as Dottie Ferguson Key put it, “tomboyish girls” who “wanted to go with other girls” signaled it with their “mannish” shoes and clothing.

A.A.G.P.B.L. players (left to right) Daisy Junor, 27, South Bend; Dorice Reid, 19, Chicago club member; Dodie Healy, 19, Chicago club member; (top) Gene George, 20, Peoria club member, fraternizing in a bunk room over a sports magazine, 1948. (Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida)

It was this perception of female athletes as unfeminine and unfeminine women as lesbians that led Wrigley, a chewing gum manufacturer and president of the Chicago Cubs, to insist that his players be appropriately feminine in appearance.

But the A.A.G.P.B.L. went even further than that, instituting a policy against fraternizing with other teams. The given reason was “to sustain the complete spirit of rivalry between clubs,” but Browne writes that the real reason that teams imposed stiff fines on players who violated this rule was the fear of lesbianism. When the affair was between teammates, chaperones would refuse to let the suspected couple room together and gauge the reaction of the players to confirm their hunch. In one case, the suspected lovers were so angry about being barred from becoming roommates that team manager Johnny Gottselig considered it proof of the affair. One manager released two of his players because he thought they were gay and was worried they would “contaminate” the rest of the team.

In another case, a married player was rumored to have fallen for one of her teammates. “That player converted this young married woman in just two weeks,” said Fred Leo, who was the League’s publicity director and, later, its president. Another time, Leo said that a married player was discovered to be in a relationship with a woman who was unassociated with the league. Leo claimed he notified her husband, who came and took her home.

“Knowledge of gay women in sport ranged from a hazy, unarticulated awareness to an informed familiarity or personal involvement,” writes Cahn. “Often an athlete’s initial awareness of lesbianism developed from seeing women ‘pairing off’ or getting ‘very clannish’ with each other.”

However, many of the players came to the league quite sheltered. They often arrived from small towns or rural areas and were quite young when they left home. As a result, it was not uncommon for new or younger players to be completely blindsided by the relationships between their teammates. Dorothy Hunter entered the League in 1943, when she was 27. Hunter, who was from Winnipeg, Canada, said she had “never heard of lesbianism,” so her teammates regaled her with tales of lesbian love affairs. “They told me they had wedding ceremonies. Well, I just thought they were giving me the gears because I was a green Canadian.”

But many of the players were unattached. If straight players were married, many of their husbands were off at war or were left back at home on farms or in factories. The players’ grueling schedule and constant travel made dating difficult. It was in many ways the perfect environment for gay women to become involved with each other. But in some cases, the near-inability to date was a welcome reality. It made staying in the closet easier, because there was no time for dating and so there was no need to make excuses. This was something that Borders discovered, too, when she was playing ball in the 1990s.

“Playing baseball allowed little time for dating,” she writes. “When people tried to set me up, it was easy to say, ‘No thanks, too busy.’”

These restrictions kept some women out of the league altogether. One of those women was Dot Wilkinson, often regarded as the greatest softball player of her time — and perhaps all time. Wilkinson was a hard-playing catcher for the Phoenix Ramblers. She joined the American Softball Association (A.S.A.) team in 1933, when she was just 11 years old.

“Softball has meant more to me than I can ever tell anybody,” Wilkinson says in the documentary film “Extra Innings.” “I love that game. I never thought about anything else.”

Wilkinson was recruited to play in the A.A.G.P.B.L. “They came to Arizona to offer us some contracts,” Wilkinson said. “They wanted to give me $85 a week [equivalent to $1,240 today] to catch. I didn’t want to leave the Ramblers and I don’t like being away from home so I didn’t go.”

But it was more than that. Wilkinson didn’t want any part of the curfews, the charm school, the chaperones, or the mandatory dresses. She played in Levi’s or her shiny satin uniform shorts, and she liked it that way. She also knew that the league was actively discouraging players from being perceived as exactly what Wilkinson was — gay.

“Softball was my first love and it still is,” said Wilkinson. But she had another love, too. In 1963, Estelle “Ricki” Caito, a star second baseman, joined the Ramblers. Wilkinson and Caito played together for two seasons, until the A.S.A. disbanded. But they also began a relationship that would last 48 years, until Caito’s death in 2011.

“We were born at a time when we were all in the closet and that was just the name of the game,” Wilkinson said. “And you had to live with it and that’s what we did.”

* * *

It is the obituaries that offer the most publicly available clues to some of the players who spent their lives with other women. The most telling evidence is often in veiled language or titles that are open to interpretation. In at least one case, a player had a “special friend.” In others, their relationships are more explicitly acknowledged.

Mabel Holle played third base for the South Bend Blue Sox, and like teammate JoJo D’Angelo hailed from Illinois. Holle’s father was a semi-professional pitcher and she grew up playing ball with her siblings. She attended the mass tryout at Wrigley Field, becoming one of the original members of the league in 1943. During the season, she was traded to the Kenosha Comets. Her contract was not renewed in 1944, forcing her to try out again. This time, she didn’t make the cut. After leaving the league, she became a physical education teacher. In Holle’s 2011 obituary, written after she died at 91, there’s this: “Holle is survived by her longtime partner, Linda Hoffman.”

Babe Ruth and Millie Deegan, 1938. (Photo courtesy The Diamond Angle, via Archive Today)

Mildred “Millie” Deegan played 10 seasons with the A.A.G.P.B.L., from 1943-1952. She is rumored to have impressed Babe Ruth with how far she could hit a softball, and it is said he squeezed the biceps on her arm when he posed with her for a photo. In 1944 the Brooklyn Dodgers invited Deegan and two other women to their spring training camp. Leo Durocher, the Dodgers manager, told the Daily Oklahoma in 1946, “Deegan spent a whole week training with the Brooklyn Dodgers at their Bear Mountain, NY camp. If she were a man, she no doubt would have been a Dodger.”

Deegan died of breast cancer in 2002 at the age of 82. Her obituary in the New York Times mentions Margaret Nusse, “Ms. Deegan’s companion and her only survivor.” Nusse, known as “Toots,” was a softball legend herself. According to the now-defunct NJ Divas Fastpitch site, Deegan and Nusse were partners for almost 50 years. The two shared their passion for softball: Deegan was the coach for the Linden, New Jersey, Arians and Nusse was the manager. Nusse passed away just six months after Deegan died, at age 85.

June Peppas was a pitcher and first baseman from Fort Wayne, Indiana, who played in the A.A.G.P.B.L. from 1948-1954. The player known as “Lefty” had spunk. Fort Wayne Daisies manager Harold Greiner relates a story in Browne’s book Girls of Summer: “Once there were some men out in the street, and some smart aleck said something. I didn’t hear what it was, they’d watched till I wasn’t nearby. Anyway, all of a sudden I hear ‘Wow!’ I turned around and saw that June Peppas had decked the guy — and I mean she really decked him. He crawled away.”

The A.A.G.P.B.L. meant a lot to Peppas. She was the first chairperson of the Players Association Board and two-time A.A.G.P.B.L. All-Star. Polly Huitt was Peppas’s partner for 46 years before she passed in 2007, nine years before Peppas died at the age of 86. The two operated a printing business in Allegan, Michigan, called PJ’s Printing, from 1975-1988. They sold the business and retired to Florida where, according to Peppas’s obituary, they enjoyed “golf and an active social life.”

Fort Wayne Daisies player Marie Wegman arguing with umpire Norris Ward, 1948. (Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida)

One of the best pitchers to ever play in the A.A.G.P.B.L. was Jean Cione. The girl from Rockford, Illinois, played 10 seasons in the league. In that time she threw three no hitters, had three 20-win seasons, and had an unassisted triple play — something that has only happened 15 times in Major League Baseball since 1909. Cione spent her rookie year in 1947 with the Rockford Peaches and finished with an astonishing 1.30 ERA. “She was a lot fun to be with,” Cione’s partner Ginny Hunt told the Bozeman Daily Chronicle after her death in 2010. “If you didn’t ever experience watching a baseball game with her, you really missed something. It was a treat to watch a game with her. She analyzed every play.”

Catcher Eunice Taylor and her partner of 45 years, Diana Walega, owned and operated a pet supply store for 40 years. Outfielder Barbara Sowers was with her “loving companion” Shirley Ann Weaver for 45 years. And there are many more, players with “longtime,” “beloved companions,” whose names I have chosen not to include here out of respect for the fact that they were likely still closeted during their lives. Their obituaries, which are historical documents, offer us glimpses into their lives and are open for us to interpret.

* * *

“Our relationship is one of the best,” Pat Henschel says of her partnership with Terry Donahue. “We’re very lucky and we know it.”

Photos of the women throughout the years give a glimpse of the life they’ve had together. In their younger days, they look like they could be sisters as they pose in front of a Christmas tree in a picture that might have been taken in the 1960s. They each sport short, dark hairstyles and wear sleeveless turtleneck shirts. In another, they are perhaps in their 60s and they dance together in front of a fireplace. They are both laughing. Their hairstyles have not changed in the decades between the two photos except to turn from brown to gray.

Members of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League and an umpire, 1948. (Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida)

They are ready to tell the world the truth about their relationship. Donahue’s great nephew, Christopher Bolan, is working on a documentary about their life together. Another photo shows the two of them doing what they had only ever done behind closed doors: they hold hands, weathered and wrinkled by the years they’ve spent together, and they kiss each other on the lips. Their eyes are closed. It is sweet. It is intimate. But they hid this truth for as long as they did because, for most of their lives, they had too much to lose by coming out.

But today, Henschel says, “They either accept it or they don’t.”

* * *

Fifty years after the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League ended, Ila Borders was making history. She had ascended to a level that no woman ever had before. She was playing — and succeeding — in men’s professional baseball. And then, she quit.

We are sitting together in the stands at JetBlue Park, the Red Sox’s spring training facility in Fort Myers, Florida. We’re watching a group of women play the championship game at the team’s Women’s Fantasy Camp, where Borders is coaching. “It got to me,” Borders says about being in the closet. “It’s why I quit. It’s the worst thing on Earth to hide who you are.”

That, Borders says, is why she ultimately came out — for the next generation of girls who want to play ball, so they can be themselves, no matter who they are, and so history doesn’t have to repeat itself.

Borders looks out onto the field of women whose uniforms are streaked with dirt. “If you are a ballplayer, it’s O.K. to play hard and just be yourself,” she says. And she’s finally at a place in her life where she truly believes it.

Memoir

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

My Daughter Is Trapped Under Five Feet of Snow

In the remote mountains of Norway, a father claws himself out after an avalanche….then starts frantically searching for his daughter.

My Daughter Is Trapped Under Five Feet of Snow

In the remote mountains of Norway, a father claws himself out after an avalanche….then starts frantically searching for his daughter.

 

Narratively is thrilled to present the English-language debut of this interactive story, produced by Bergens Tidende newspaper.

Originally published in Norwegian, it was a viral hit and recently won the “Best Storytelling” prize in Scandinavia’s prestigious Schibsted Awards.

Memoir

My Roommate the Prostitute

At first, the quiet girl from Craigslist seemed like a great match—we had just the occasional tangle over cats and cleanup. And then the men started coming over.

It was late morning, and I was putting up a fresh pot of coffee when I heard the first meow. It sounded awfully close, as if from inside the apartment instead of the backyard one story down. Then I heard it again, and there was no doubt.

WTF?!! I texted my roommate. You got a cat?!

I’d made it clear when she moved in: no pets. “But I want a kitty so bad,” she said a couple weeks later. I suffer from allergies — through spring and summer I have a persistent itch in my nostrils, and the lightest bit of pollen or dander or even a freshly mowed lawn sets off sneezing spells that leave my entire body sore. I was also concerned about the smell. And besides, the landlord forbade pets.

It’s a friend’s, Jenny texted back. I’m only taking care of it for a few months.

Don’t give me that bullshit, I keyed my reply, then backspaced over it, reconsidering. I have a tendency to overreact, to exacerbate conflict. Instead I went for calm and firm, and maybe slightly paternal.

We need to talk.

Later that afternoon, in the kitchen between our bedrooms, we talked, leaning on opposite counters. Jenny (not her real name) kept her eyes downcast, and when I told her she was being inconsiderate and disrespectful and this was not the way grown-ups behaved, she said, “I know. I’m sorry.” I’d expected an argument, but her posture was one of submission, as if I was her dad, or a schoolteacher. But I wasn’t her dad, and she was an adult woman, even if I was twice her age. I was left somewhat unsettled.

In the end, I told her she could keep the cat, but she better take care of it properly.

“Thanks for not being hard on me,” she said, before disappearing back into her room. “I thought you were going to kick me out or something.”

That conversation was the longest we’d ever had. We were unlikely roommates, a Craigslist arrangement: I, a near-middle-aged man, several years divorced, with adolescent children of my own. She, a twenty-year-old recent college grad. We were living in Gravesend, an unremarkable neighborhood in a remote part of Brooklyn, where restaurants, bars and coffee shops are scarce, and when the friend I’d been living with moved out, finding a new roommate wasn’t easy.

At first, I had a parade of eccentrics, men who seemed to have something to hide, smelling of whiskey, with slurred speech, crooked teeth, telling me about jobs as investment bankers or corporate accountants, claims I found dubious. One man, a flashy young Georgian, took one look at the room and grew alarmingly aggressive as he tried to force his cash deposit into my hand, even after I explained that I wasn’t ready to make a decision just yet. He left just as I was about to call the cops.

So when Jenny showed up, I was inclined to like her. She looked like a typical post-college young woman: hair dyed reddish-blond, large earmuff headphones over her ears. She walked with a kind of childish languor, as if it hadn’t fully settled in that she was an adult. Her speech tended to the monosyllabic.

I showed her the room.

“Sweet,” she said.

I showed her the bathroom.

“Sweet.”

Then she asked what she needed for moving in, and I told her: proof of employment, credit report, rent plus security deposit.

“Sweet,” she said.

I assumed this meant she had all those things, and at first, it appeared that she did. She told me she worked two jobs, as a clerk in a stationary store in Midtown Manhattan and as an art-school model. Several days later, she brought documents attesting to her claims, and it all seemed to check out. She moved in a couple weeks later, with the help of her dad, whom I found affable in a way that put me further at ease. Some time after she moved in, I met her boyfriend, who seemed about my age. “He’s an artist,” she told me afterward, unsolicited, as if that explained something.

I did have some mild concerns. I wondered why she would choose to live here — a part of town where she had no friends or family — and with me, a man twice her age. But I needed a roommate, and for the most part, she matched my criteria: stable enough to pay rent, normal enough not to stab me with a kitchen knife or steal my meager possessions. She wanted to be a writer and filmmaker, she said, and was hoping to get into NYU’s film school for graduate studies. There was something familiar about her, almost bland, like an unremarkable extra who might appear repeatedly in so many movies, which meant she was safe and normal and predictable — exactly what I needed if I was to share my home with a stranger.

It was soon after the cat incident that I began to notice she was home more. In fact, she rarely seemed to leave her room. On days I worked from home, I’d hear her throughout the day, in short bursts of action — the turning of the microwave at ten, the fridge opening and closing at eleven, the doorbell with her lunch order at noon. It didn’t bother me; I barely caught glimpses of her. If she’d lost her jobs, it didn’t show so far: She was always on time with rent, and she appeared to have enough money to buy groceries and order in meals. But I wondered, if she wasn’t going to work, how was she supporting herself?

One afternoon, a couple weeks after Jenny took in the cat, I heard her voice and then a male voice I did not recognize. It was definitely not her boyfriend, whose voice was high-pitched; this one was deep, almost gruff. I was in my room, working, and I heard someone enter the bathroom, and then the toilet flush, and so I opened my door a crack for a glance. In the hallway, emerging from the bathroom, was a short, squat man, gray-haired with a bald temple. The man disappeared into Jenny’s room across the hall, and I felt a rush in my brain and gave an involuntary gasp.

There weren’t too many scenarios for why a young woman would be entertaining a vaguely Soviet-looking gentleman who looked to be about her father’s age. I felt a kind of indescribable rage, almost like a personal affront.

How dare she — in my home?!

An hour later, I watched her escort the man to the door. She was wearing blue suede pumps and a very short, ivory-colored dress, somewhat crumpled, as if she’d just removed it from under a pile of laundry. She appeared to be going for a sultry, long-legged look, but she looked instead like a little girl wearing her mother’s discarded clothes. I felt instantly sad for her, and part of me wondered if I shouldn’t offer to help her somehow. Another part of me was so angry I wanted to evict her immediately. The rest of the day, I wrestled with my thoughts, my mind feverish with indecision: Should I say something? Should I tell her boyfriend? Should I call her dad? Was it any of my business anyway?

I decided to wait, see if it happened again, and just a few days later, it did. This time, it was a tall black man wearing an ill-fitting suit and tie, like thrift-shop formalwear. He, too, emerged from the bathroom and disappeared into her room, and after an hour or so she escorted him to the door, again in the blue pumps and rumpled ivory dress.

I took to Google: What to do if my roommate is a prostitute?

More than what to do, I was seeking clarity on why it bothered me. Who was I to judge if Jenny chose an unorthodox profession? Why would I care if she used her room to ply her trade? Still, I couldn’t stomach the thought, and the Internet validated my discomfort. On Yahoo Answers and in Google Groups and various other forums people wrote about similar experiences, and the consensus was: Don’t let your roommate turn tricks within your home. It’s dangerous, it’s illegal, and it can bring nothing but trouble.

I wondered about the practical aspects of her work: Does she have a Backpage ad? Did she use Craigslist? Could I find her on The Erotic Review?

I imagined the conversation we’d have. “This isn’t a brothel!” I wanted to yell at her. “Where do you even find these guys?” Then I reconsidered, thinking I might speak to her in a more caring way. Sit her down for a talk. Maybe get some women’s organization involved. Point her in the right direction. Rescue her.

* * *

I didn’t do any of that. Instead, when we met in the kitchen the next afternoon, passing between the refrigerator and the trashcan by the sink, I decided to bring it up. I was washing a dish, the water running lightly, and she was behind me, waiting for something in the microwave.

“I’ve been seeing some strange men around here,” I said.

She turned slowly to face me, nonchalant, with a thin smile. “What?” she asked. I was certain she’d heard me.

“I’ve been seeing strange men around here,” I said again.

“Oh, yeah.” She had a self-satisfied look, as if she was taunting me: What are you going to do about it? This was not what I’d expected. She’d been remorseful about the cat, and so I’d imagined a repeat.

“Friends of yours?” I asked, hiding my indignation, though I hoped she’d pick up on my mocking tone.

“Yeah,” she said. After a pause, as if realizing something, she added, “I’m friends with some older guys.” She took a sip of water from a glass in her hand, without breaking eye contact. “They’re harmless.”

Harmless. Was that an acknowledgment that they were not, in fact, “friends?”

She offered no further explanations, and we both retreated to our rooms. If at first I’d thought to treat her kindly, I was no longer inclined to. I’d given her the chance to explain. I had offered: Let us, as adults, discuss this situation. In return, she took me for a fool. I’m friends with some older guys. The words infuriated me, and I began to plot her eviction.

Several days passed, however, and still I did nothing. Then, one evening, I was out with a woman I’d recently begun dating. We had just finished dinner at a SoHo restaurant, paid the check, and were about to head to her place when my phone rang. It was my landlord.

“Somebody call 911,” she said. “Police, ambulance. I don’t know what’s happen.” My landlord is Chinese, and I often have a hard time understanding her, but her tone told me all I needed to know. There was trouble at the apartment. “You come home now,” she commanded.

Was Jenny hurt? My thoughts went to the men. I knew this couldn’t end well.

My date raised an eyebrow to me. “Give me a sec,” I said. We were outside the restaurant, in the cool night air on a quiet street, a jittery yellow cab passing over the uneven cobblestone.

I texted Jenny: Everything ok? Landlord says someone called 911.

The response came a few seconds later.

this is kaylee shes dead

I stared at that text, uncomprehending. I didn’t know anyone named Kaylee.

Who’s dead? Who are you? Call me.

A few minutes later, my phone rang with Jenny’s number, and a young woman told me she was Jenny’s best friend. Jenny was dead. She had been dead, in fact, for the past twenty-four hours, in her bed, in our apartment. Kaylee, whose tone was so completely lacking in inflection she sounded almost robotic, told me she’d grown alarmed when Jenny didn’t respond to her texts and phone calls, and so she came by the apartment and convinced the landlord to let her in.

“Probably an overdose,” she said.

My thoughts in those moments would later seem incongruous with the event itself, but at the time they were automatic, a cascading stream of impolitic ponderings. Mostly I was relieved that I’d been spared the task of evicting her, and was now desperately hoping that my evening would not be spoiled any further.

I hung up the phone and looked at my date, who was gripping my arm and staring.

“My roommate’s dead,” I said.

My date reacted as I expected. “Oh, my god! Are you O.K.?”

Of course I was O.K. The fact that my roommate was dead was unsettling, and I was somewhat shaken, but I wasn’t sad, or feeling any grief-related emotions. Mostly I was just annoyed that her death was getting in the way of my evening plans. Jenny and I had lived together for four months, but I barely knew her. Kaylee? A friend? I didn’t know Jenny had friends. An overdose? An overdose of what?

I called my landlord, and told her what I had learned: roommate’s dead, body is still in the house. No, she need not worry about a thing. The police will take care of it all. I was out of town, I said — not a lie, although not entirely the truth either. I’d be back in the morning, and get a new roommate in the coming days. There’d be no problem with the rent.

My date gripped my arm tighter, as if the news of death created some erotic charge, at once frightening and gripping, and we went off together to her apartment a few blocks away.

* * *

In the morning I took the subway home, and remembered: My roommate was dead. It felt surreal, and I found myself ruminating on the nature of death, and youth, and the way we often know so little about the people living just several feet away from us. I thought back to what I’d done the day before: got myself breakfast, worked, then lunch, then anticipated my date in the evening. I’d been annoyed that Jenny had left dirty dishes in the sink and a half-eaten chocolate bar on the kitchen counter for two days straight.

When I got home, the door to Jenny’s room was sealed with a strip of police tape. I also discovered that in addition to the cat, she’d had two large white rats, which I found sitting in tall mesh cages in another room, probably moved there by the cops. It appeared that someone had taken the cat.

Later in the afternoon, my phone rang.

“Hi Shulem, it’s Steve.” There was a pause. “Jenny’s dad.”

I felt momentarily caught off balance. Until that moment, I had imagined that Jenny’s death would affect very few people. She had seemed like a rootless child, unattached, unaffected. I knew she had parents, a little sister, extended family somewhere, but I knew so little about them they were almost unreal to me. Her entire life seemed confined to her room across the hallway, as if she mattered to no one but herself.

“I am so sorry, I am so terribly sorry.” The words tumbled out clumsily, lame and ineffectual. “I was so shocked. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. I am so, so terribly sorry. This must be so devastating.”

I could hear him sniffling on the other end of the line. “She was a sad girl, Shulem.”

A sad girl? There were the signs, of course. And yet, she’d always seemed vaguely chipper, even after I’d started seeing the men come by.

It was heroin, Steve told me. Her boyfriend, who was an addict, had introduced it to her. Steve thought she must’ve been using for only a couple weeks. He asked if I’d noticed any changes recently, and I told him that I hadn’t.

“Jenny’s aunt will come by to collect some of her things,” he said. “We know Jenny wrote some poetry, so maybe we can find it on her computer.” He paused, then said: “I’m really sorry you have to deal with this.”

When I hung up, I felt guilty for feeling as unmoved as I did. I sat at the desk in my room, a blast of cold air from the air conditioning hitting my face, and thought about Jenny’s death, disturbed that I didn’t feel something more. This was a young woman, just beginning adult life, who’d lived with me for four months, and when I had heard she was dead, my strongest emotion was annoyance. Her father, at the same time, seemed to expect exactly that. I’m sorry you have to deal with this. As if he knew that someone like me would be affected only by the trouble of it all.

* * *

Over the next few days, I checked Jenny’s Facebook page, and was surprised by the outpouring of grief from friends — dozens and dozens of them — who’d tagged her name and wrote messages on her “wall,” in the language of tweeting, text-messaging millennials.

rip jenny (tear-face smiley)

cant believe shes gone i loved that girl

omg why???????

Here were people reminiscing about her, friends writing about the time she helped someone with a college essay, or about high school adventures, or that time they got passed-out drunk and high on that crazy spring break trip.

Two days later, her aunt came.

“This is the biggest nightmare of our lives,” she said, and then she, too, apologized that I’ve had to deal with it all. The aunt packed up some of Jenny’s things — her computer and a handful of personal items. She packed some of her clothes into a few large trash bags. “I think I’ll take these to the Salvation Army,” she said.

Still, out of the entire collection of Jenny’s possessions, she left most of it, a room full of belongings, and told me to throw it all in the trash. I stood in the room afterward, looking around at the things that make up a person’s life, but now no longer mattered. The bed that was ordered online just four months ago. The easy chair Jenny had brought from her childhood home in Westchester. A bunch of keys on a key ring, a bracelet of blue beads, a MetroCard, a bag of cosmetics. Things that, just three days ago, Jenny might’ve thought important, but now, poof — so inconsequential.

Later, I stood in the middle of her empty room, after I’d emptied the closets, swept and mopped the floor, and cleared out all her things. It looked just like it had before she moved in: bare, clean, uninhabited but inviting. I closed the door to look behind it, and noticed a taped-up card, from HashtagThePlanet.com: it hurts now. but it will get better. i promise.

It amazed me how quickly a person’s life could be dismantled, all these concrete physical objects discarded or recycled. I thought about how our physical possessions are like phantom lives: You can go into a person’s room and look at her bed, her desk, the flip-flops in the corner, the little trashcan with the empty coffee cup and dirty tissues, and almost see a living being, by the effects of one. But then, these things are collected, dispersed, in a kind of parallel death — three days, and a healthy young woman’s presence is scraped clean off the planet.

I left the note on the door, and kept a few of Jenny’s things for myself: a small hammer, a pack of AAA batteries. A lamp. Her easy chair. It made me sad, but I had little use for the rest, and ended up putting most of it out with the trash. There it all lay, right by the curb, plastic storage bins and large trash bags filled with the effects of Jenny’s everyday life; the contents of her drawers and closets, whatever her aunt had left — bed linen, hair accessories, underwear, a blanket and some pillows, a bright red blow dryer. The stuff sat on the edge of the sidewalk for a day or two, and through the window I watched as people passed, glancing at the items. Some stopped to pick through them, holding up items for inspection, taking what they pleased, until the pile was about half the original size. Then the trash collectors came and tossed it all into the monster-mouth of their truck, until nothing was left but a shattered light bulb that slipped out of one of the bags, now spread in tiny bits of glass among the fallen leaves of a nearby honeysuckle tree.

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