Excerpt from Safari (Agam Books, 2011)
So Michael Beck left me. My nerves are shot. I can’t stop my head. Cocksuckers, sons of bitches, motherfuckers, ass fuckers.
“The more you enjoy—the more you suffer,” I explain to Daniel. He tilts his head into what seems like an angle of agreement.
My room has a wall to wall carpet. One night I saw a fat black cockroach coming out of it and I couldn’t sleep there since. I was sure that there were bugs and moles under the carpet. Someone told me that it cannot be, moles live underground, but it was still impossible to sleep there.
Daniel, Adam Dagan’s new boyfriend is an obnoxious job-having, suit-wearing guy from Ra’anana. He’s apprenticing in a law firm and says that he always gets up in the morning, and always on time. I’m looking at him, trying to figure him out.
I can’t control my rage anymore, it’s only getting worse. I constantly humiliate and subjugate everyone around me, especially Maya Gilman, that fat, boring, self-righteous bitch who only wants to suck cock all day long.
“Have you no self-respect?” I ask her, and she just laughs and hugs me.
My room only has a bed and a carpet and moles that dig under it in circles all the time, making mouse noises. The room is huge and the ceiling is tall and it suddenly feels like I’m sleeping in an airplane hangar. I look and see all the nicks in the walls. The crumbling paint, the cracks, the holes from the nails that used to be there.
I lay in bed, dressed in Chloé skinny jeans and a white Zara sweater, my eyes burn from all the crying, but I decide to open my laptop and make lists anyway.
Michael Beck–ex boyfriend, I was in love with him and he didn’t want me. A drunk, useless slacker, and just generally fucked up in the head.
Maya Gilman–close friend, self-righteous, completely hetero, my bitch. Treacherous whore, slept with Michael Beck while we were together.
Oren Speizer–friend, but not too close. Good friends with Michael Beck. Has been wooing me without admitting it for a while, always backs out at the last minute. For a few days I wanted him as well. Arrogant and mean.
Edgar–lover, psychology professor or something like that. Sweaty. I hate fucking him, he adores me, writes poems about me, stingy as hell.
I’m trying to think of more people that I’d like to murder, I’m scanning all the people I know in my head, but can’t seem to think of any more names. Michael Beck, Maya Gilman, Oren Speizer, Edgar, Avi Armon, Michael Beck. I can murder my sweaty lover, my treacherous fat friend or Michael Beck. I can murder the garbage man from downstairs, or Andrew the Filipino cleaning man. Nothing will stand between me and my satisfaction.
I open a new tab and check my email.
“Dear Hagar,
I’m sorry I have to do this over email, it’s just impossible to reach you.
Who writes like that? What does he want from me? Where’s my phone? I don’t have any missed calls.
“You know I love you.” Who is this?
But you haven’t been in the office for two weeks now, and there’s a lot of work to be done, so I’m forced to fire you. You are not eligible for severance because you’ve worked for less than a year. I’ll give you a full paycheck for this month, you’ll see it in your bank account.
Hope you’re all good.”
Ron Shem. It’s my boss, that nobody, who thinks that since he’s managing three or four people he’s god or something. People who get up for work in the morning every day are pathetic, and you can fire me twenty more times for all I care. And if you even dreamed that you would ever fuck me you can forget about it. I don’t fuck middle management.
I’m sad and crying really hard. I wake up at two p.m. to see my mascara smeared all over my Calvin Klein cotton sheets. I decide to devote the whole day to planning the murder, but tonight there’s some rooftop party. Even though we broke up, Michael Beck and I were planning on going together. Some gay friend told me that it’s going to be a hot party, but I couldn’t get invites, so we backed out.
Oren Speizer calls and says that there’s a party on Rothschild boulevard. He suggests that we all go together, but then changes his mind and says that we should go first and tell him what it’s like. I tell him to go fuck himself so he picks us up.
Turns out it’s the same party.
A ton of people are standing in line, trying to get in. Oren Speizer and Michael Beck say that they’re on the list. While they’re talking to the bouncer I sneak in. Oren Speizer sneaks in after me. The rooftop is packed with people and all kinds of celebrities. I’m pushing Oren Speizer toward the bar, must get drunk. I look around for Michael Beck and realize that the place is crammed with homos. Shit, it’s a gay party.
An old gay guy in white pants and cowboy boots is standing next to an insanely tan young guy with lips full of Botox. I ask him for a cigarette but he doesn’t understand, probably a tourist. I notice a lot of ageing gays and it’s disgusting. Anyway, I suggest to Oren Speizer and Michael Beck that we’ll have a gay night. I don’t mind ending up with a girl.
Michael Beck says fine by him.
Oren Speizer makes a face and drinks his vodka tonic like it’s apple juice.
I down drink after drink and stare at Michael Beck talking to two ugly lesbians. I think Michael Beck is gay. He says he only sleeps with guys when he’s in a self destructive mood. I don’t buy it, I think he just likes sucking dick and fucking men. That’s why he sleeps with a different girl almost every night, has to prove that he likes pussy. No one is buying it, but who cares.
Oren Speizer calls me over, he looks nervous and tells me that he saw his dealer. He suggests we buy X. I get excited immediately, but by the time he makes a move, we lose him in the crowd and it’s off. Oren Speizer sits off to the side and drinks his vodka tonic like he’s in mourning. I’m shaking my ass in front of his face and loving it. I would totally sleep with him but I slept with too many friends and friends of friends and I don’t want to be a whore, even though I am, I’m the biggest whore in Tel Aviv, but no one thinks that about me because I have nice clothes and money.
Oren Speizer disappears. Michael Beck drinks a ton and we leave the party. He’s drunk and doesn’t remember where he parked his Chrysler Cruiser, he wants to drive to the Milk Drop, he’s sure he lost his phone there in an after-party yesterday. What a loser.
I remind him that his car is parked under his building, and that he left the lights on two days ago, but he insists that he parked it elsewhere and he drags me down the streets until, finally, we go back to his building and the Cruiser is there, of course, with a dead battery.
Michael Beck is sweating like a pig. He calls Itay Beck, his younger brother, who arrives with his hot friend, some Itamar Fish. I stand on the side of the road and watch them as they try to start the car. The three of them are sweating and revving the engine, but Michael Beck’s car won’t start.
It’s four a.m. and I’m still standing there like a zombie looking at them. The car’s hood is open and it looks like an animal’s viscera.
* * *
I start having an affair with Edgar. He’s, like, smart and all, an academic that goes abroad to talk in psychology conferences or whatever. I think he’s in love with me because he writes me all these poems. I know nothing about poetry, but I’m pretty sure his poems suck.
As he was slave to the Romans—Alcman
I wish to be a slave to you—Beckman
Your virginity I will take
And then I’ll let you pet my snake
And more of that horny shit.
All of Tel Aviv is talking about our affair. He takes me to restaurants and buys me cigarettes and nice alcohol and gives me money when I need it, so what do I care.
He’s a lousy lay, he can’t even kiss right. He sticks his tongue in my mouth and moves it wildly from side to side, and he tastes like those sweet cigars he smokes. When we fuck he sweats like a pig, dripping all over me and getting me all wet. I always pull my hair back before we fuck so it doesn’t mess with my straightening job.
Due to his heavy smoking, straining himself makes him wheeze, and right before he comes he starts shaking and choking and every time I think he’s going to have a heart attack and die in my arms. Sometimes I actually fantasize about it. I would rather have him die on top of me than continue this terrible fuck. After that he gets all lovey dovey, and only wants to talk about our relationship, about passion, about love, about the struggles and benefits of our age difference. I get grouchy and lecture him about how he doesn’t treat me well enough (meaning: doesn’t give me enough money and presents). He just keeps giving me fucking books. He always wants to stay home, read, cuddle and just talk. If those actions cost him any money then I probably wouldn’t mind.
The whole thing with Edgar started just because I was bored with Michael Beck, and I wanted to make him jealous. And he did get jealous, but he didn’t say anything—except for that one time at the Olsen Sisters. We were eating seafood pizza at a table with Uri Gottlieb, who the internet claims is sexy, but in reality isn’t anything special. Ido Rosenblum, or Doron Rosenblum—the one from that stupid matchmaking TV show—was there too. He’s hot and I felt like sleeping with him.
Michael Beck asked them what they thought about my affair with Edgar and tried to spark a conversation about age differences. I didn’t give a shit, and nobody else did either, except for Michael Beck. I ended the conversation with “Better old and smart than young and stupid”. I was trying to hurt Michael Beck, even though it wasn’t true. I much prefer young and stupid. At least they get hard and fuck you right. Unlike Edgar, who tells me stories about all the girls that like it when he fucks them with a flaccid cock. They say it’s soft and nice but I just think it’s gross. I’d hoped that Michael Beck would come and snatch me from him, but that didn’t happen.
Edgar calls Michael Beck “Bambi Eyes” because of that vacant look he gets, and “Hercules Legs” because of his muscular calves.
Even though we broke up, Michael Beck and I are fucking on the couch in the living room, Super Nanny is on. Keren Shalem once told me that fucking Michael Beck is so good because it’s better than listening to him talk. I think that Michael Beck fucks in the same manner in which he watches the news, eats a fried egg, drinks a Vodka Tonic, hits on a girl. He does everything with the exact same level of enthusiasm. He’s fucking me well but I don’t come. It’s not him, it’s me. I guess I’m still in love.
He used to produce techno dance parties with Avi Armon, but now he stopped and he’s jobless, drinks all night, sleeps all day. At first I thought that it was unemployment depression. Then it seemed like it wasn’t depression at all, he just kind of forgot that he’d ever had a job. I don’t understand why he won’t just marry me. I can cook, I watch soccer with him and act like I’m into it even though it bores me to death, and I have sex with him whenever he wants.
I don’t understand why he won’t just marry me.
We’d buy a big house with a pool, or a penthouse with a doorman. We would have kids and hire an au pair and get drunk in the afternoon, but he thinks that there’s some true love waiting for him out there. I don’t understand his ideas about love. I think that the farthest he’ll get with love is a mail-order bride from Ukraine. I mean, someone probably will marry him in the end because he’s rich, but in the meantime no one wants him. What stupid girls. He looks pretty good and he has a Chrysler Cruiser and he likes to eat in fancy restaurants and go clubbing. Stupid girls.
* * *
I’ve got to have a new laptop. I want a MacBook Air. I’m sick of my white MacBook, which suddenly looks too fat to me. I gently start dropping hints to Edgar. He’s going to Los Angeles to give a series of lectures and is not gonna be around for a month. I’m begging him to buy me one, and ask how he expects us to email if I don’t have a new laptop? I add a little more love and wait for him to give me a laptop in return.
It’s taking him forever to agree and I’m losing my patience. When we fuck, I stroke his bald sweaty forehead and imagine that it’s my laptop. Between me and myself, I call him “MacBook Head”. But he won’t buy me a MacBook Air even though he has one. He says it’s too expensive. It’s just 6,500 fucking Shekel. He tells me to start with a simple laptop and then I can get a good expensive one when I have my own money.
Two days before he goes to LA he writes me a check for 4,000 Shekel and I buy myself a 12” Dell laptop, even though my MacBook is way better.
If he thinks just because he gave me money for a shitty laptop I’m going to be his bitch, he can forget about it. I’m not gonna write him any emails, and I’m not gonna pay him back a dime even though I told him I would, and I did a whole thing about how I don’t feel good about taking money from him, and how I don’t want money to be a factor in our relationship. I deposited the money in my account a week after he left so that it’ll seem like I was ambivalent. Now I feel obligated to write him a few loving emails but I get sick of it pretty fast. He does write, about how much fun he’s having, and what a star he is over there, eating in fancy restaurants and buying great clothes at Nordstrom, and he always adds that he’s torn up with longing for me. But I think that longing is measured in stuff, and I build up resentment toward him. Tomorrow he’s coming back from LA. I want to die. I decide that the minute he lands, I’ll break up with him - but then he suggests that we fly to his apartment in Berlin together, and within 24 hours he buys us tickets. I’m gonna make him take me to Paris too, because Berlin is boring and I’ll probably just do lines all day there. After the trip I’ll leave him. Right now I just need a vacation.
Translated to English by Ayala Avitzour