Looking for the Russian Moon: A Love Story—Almost

By Boris Peters

Dade Truth is an average, hardworking Joe living in Milwaukee. Dade, who has learned much from the failure of his first marriage, has come to understand that every relationship is based on trust, faith, and feelings. When he begins dating the beautiful Karen Asherman, Dade does not even imagine what could go wrong.

Karen walks into Dades life with grace and confidence, quickly becoming his soul mate. The magic is obvious. As their relationship progresses from dating to marriage, Dade is happy and in loveuntil she begins attacking him with little nothings that grow larger during their many arguments. As Karen becomes mean and sadistic, Dade suffers from feelings of abandonment and hurt. They are a perfect couplealmost. Dade thinks he can help Karen, and Karen thinks she can change Dade. But when secrets from Karens past are revealed, it is Dade who must come to grips with his wifes realities, as frightening as they are.

Looking for the Russian Moon is the story of a young couples challenges as they fall in love, realize each others shortcomings, and face an uncertain future together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491721605

Boris Peters

Boris Peters has had many passions in life that include teaching, Golden Gloves boxing, surfing, storytelling, and performing stand-up comedy. He is a caring, spiritual advocate for world peace.

Book preview

Prologue

D one. It was four fifteen in the afternoon, and I was done with work. I took off my company badge and wiped the sweat off my face after a long day of working the docks and making deliveries to different buildings. I took off my OSHA safety badge, which listed my forklift certifications, all up dated.

In thirty minutes, I would be out of Phoenix and in a small town, doing what I enjoyed: counseling troubled teenagers. People told me, Don’t quit your day job. But I loved kids and their rawness. After all, I too had once been a troubled teen—confused and searching but enjoying life. Now in my thirties, working overtime on one job and counseling at another, I was not only surviving but also giving back. Besides, these kids weren’t wards of the state for nothing—many had committed heinous crimes. They were tough street kids. Could I really help them?

I made it to the all-boys residential home on the outskirts of a small town in plenty of time for my five o’clock appointment.

Hmmm, a new kid, I thought. Hispanic. I read his file quickly. Then, suddenly, I saw one of my favorite kids and yelled, Yo, Angelo, get Juan and tell him to come see me right now for his hour.

Angelo fired back in fear, He’s playing basketball—he won’t come in now.

You tell him he can play again after our hour! Tell him I’ll let him go ten minutes early."

Reluctantly, he said, Okay.

I had a backup plan just in case. I’d wait five minutes, walk out to the court, and yell, Hey, Juan, come in for a short time. I don’t want to see you picking up trash after dinner. Come on in, buddy. You’ll be right out. If that didn’t work, I would just report him to the staff.

Juan did come in, and to tell you the truth, I was surprised. Immediately, I saw what I had bitten off. Here was a big, strong, muscular fifteen-year-old sweating profusely and out of breath, saying, What?

I did some calming smooth talk and shot from the hip. I got his background and hard feelings about life and formed a bridge with that information. Everything was good, and he told me all about himself.

This was a tough kid, and he shot from the hip too. He was sitting close to me, sweat still dripping off his body and forming small puddles on the tile floor. I didn’t say anything to him about it or wipe the sweat up. I just listened to him go on and on. Every minute or two, I’d notice his skin—brown, red, and wet. He kept flexing his muscles, and he pounded his fist in his open hand—hard. All he had in life were his words and the shorts, socks, and beat-up gym shoes he was wearing.

When he talked about his mom and how she had a few ghetto men come over to her bedroom, he was really angry. His muscles got tense, and he had a killer stare. He said everyone knew his mom and thought of her as a whore. He had gone to the core of his feelings quickly.

I had counseled many teenagers, and I was not afraid of this moment, so I gave him a slight reaffirmation. Juan, I am sure you love your mom. It’s hard being poor. It’s hard surviving. I understand that. I know you’re very angry about this, but I know you don’t want to be angry. After all, your mom isn’t really a whore—that’s gossip and rumors and, well, gossip.

He got intense. Since no kid had hit me yet, I didn’t think he would. He didn’t. He stood up and screamed, "No, you don’t understand! I am angry. She is a whore! I found a bunch of used condoms by her bed in the garbage.

I talked with Juan another fifteen minutes, and remarkably, he calmed down. In the months to come, he got that there were two sides to every story. He learned to have compassion for his mom’s life. He forgave her. He got that he had the power to change many of his perceptions—in fact, to be the head honcho in charge of his perceptions. He was a fast learner—better than a lot of adults. Better even than some educated adults!

He stopped being a victim. He took responsibility for his thoughts and feelings and anger and his responses to people and life. He was a good kid.

He was a good kid in a rough childhood, and he had come to look at life square in the face. He wasn’t bad at basketball either.

Well, I had four more sessions that evening with four more boys. The next thing I knew, it was ten at night.

I worked with the teens twice a week—Monday and Wednesday; plus, I worked overtime on Saturday at my day job. It had been a rough day, getting to work at seven in the morning and leaving there at ten at night. There was a great pro football game still going on, and I wanted to see the second half. It must have been being played in California. If I drove straight to this bar I liked, I could have a few beers and be asleep by midnight.

I had been in this bar once before. It was interesting—it was large and old, and it had some weird cowboys and miscellaneous people there. Still, it had a relaxing late-night-sports-video scene to it. When I sat down at the empty side of the bar, there was one old cowboy two seats away. He was slumped so much that the tip of his straw cowboy hat actually rested in his full beer. That cowboy next to me had to have been drinking since 5:00 p.m. to be clearly catatonic, three sheets to the wind.

Oh well, all I want is four or five glasses of beer and I am done for the day. Again.

The bartender comes up and asks: ‘What would you like?’

Looking past him, I see little pitchers and said that I’d have a pitcher. (It was cheaper than glasses.)

‘I can’t serve you that.’

What?

"I can’t serve you a pitcher.’

Completely puzzled, ‘Why?’

‘I can’t serve one person a pitcher. I have to serve two or more when a pitcher is purchased.’

‘That’s stupid. I can drink individual beers, right?’

‘Yup.’

‘Then why can’t I drink all my glasses in one container?"

Section ten point one in the Arizona FDA. It’s a new law.

We went back and forth with this argument a few more times, and I was just about to concede, when a voice from nowhere—God, if you will—said, Tell ’im you’re drinking with Harvey and to bring two glasses.

I looked and saw that the voice had come from beneath the lip of the cowboy’s hat. This guy wasn’t too drunk; he was genius!

Yeah, bring two glasses, and I’ll put some beer in Harvey’s glass.

The bartender said okay.

Life.

This was one day in my life. There a past, then a future, and now I was in the present. How do I explain this story? How do I let go of the worst thing that could happen to a human being? How can I prepare you, soothe you for this shocking story?

Hang on to your heart, your soul, your kids, your mom, and your dog.—

Later I’ll tell you about the beach with sunshine, waves and open sky. But now,

Hold on Toto—

This isn’t Kansas!

Dorot hy Was Cool

She waited till the end

To click her heels.

All the men she turned to,

The bad-witch deal,

The looking for Oz,

And the monkey too—

Hey, Dorothy was cool!

And her power

Was in her

Heels.

Karen

N ot many people remember the first words they said to the one they fell in love with, but I do.

Eagle Cleaners—we clean eagles, I said, answering the phone.

What? a girl said.

I repeated, Eagle Cleaners—we clean eagles.

I have an eagle, she replied.

Bring it over, lady; we’ll clean it.

We were off. It was love at first sound.

I was rooming with five guys in a huge house in Milwaukee. One guy was moving to South America. We had his bedroom open to rent and had put an ad in the paper for a roommate. That was why Karen had called. Well, she came over, and my red-and-white hunting dog—named Mac because he loved hamburgers from the golden arches—and I answered the door. It was love at first sight. Mac was all over Karen! First of all, Mac loved women. I guess it was because Mac and I were so close that it was natural for him to like the opposite sex, including the smell, the gentleness, and the way he could get his way with females. He climbed up on the couch, head all over this Cinderella, getting all the attention. I made him get down and wait his turn.

Cinderella was beautiful. I took all of her in. As I look back, I am positive Cinderella was excited and nervous to meet her eagle cleaner. There was biochemical DNA energy in the air, and two warm human beings were meeting. It was electrifying.

When Cinderella walked into the kitchen, I just stared. She was tall and had fine brown hair, the illusion of big breasts beneath her T-shirt, pretty blue eyes, a long but good nose, and a ton of femininity and charisma. She was about ten to fifteen pounds overweight, which I thought she could lose jogging with me. Heck, Cinderella was sexy! Everything about her! Besides, she liked animals and Eagle Man. We were off.

As I sat back on the couch, she said her full name—Karen Asherman—and I told her mine: Dade Truth. After we said our names, we stopped talking, as if we needed to classify them or something. Then we just smiled and looked at each other for a minute. I saw a young twenty-something trying to appear relaxed. She looked so natural dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. So easygoing. So beautiful. Her skin was a little tan. Her eyes never left me except to gently push Mac’s nose away from awkward areas. She had a soft, intelligent voice that said the right things. After an hour of talking straight, the interview was over. Two thumbs up!

Oh yeah, you don’t know how I look. Well, it’s simple. I’m five feet ten inches tall and have long, curly brown hair and brown eyes. It’s been said that I have bedroom eyes. I have a medium, muscular build and a smooth, athletic walk. Overall, I’m easygoing, funny, and personable.

Like Karen, I was trying to relax, and I was dressed in a white T-shirt with brown shorts and gym shoes. I was tan, and the living room was dark—perfect for my eyes.

Suddenly, Karen said, Are you going to show it to me?

Show what?

The house, silly.

It’s real big.

‘What’s big?’

The house, silly!

We were walking.

After showing the entire house, including the four bedrooms and a messy kitchen, I walked Karen into the second living room. It was mostly empty of furniture, had sand on the floor, and still had empty bottles of Beck’s all around.

What’s this room? Karen asked.

We have big parties here. You know, the college is close, and we all have our friends come over. They usually last all night.

Karen looked at me and said I can go all night long.

When Karen left, I thanked her for answering the ad and said, "Just call back tomorrow. My friends and I will decide tonight. We already interviewed two others and well, I hope it’s you.

The next day, Mac and I returned from jogging and one of my roomies said, We told Karen that Bobby got the room.

"How’d she take it?’

Pretty good. She thanked me very much and said make sure to thank Dade. In fact, she said she had looked forward to being your roommate and to be sure to tell you that.

Karen and I had connected.

I remember our first date. I was standing outside my house in the dark, and she was an hour late. I had been ahead of time, anxious. She was behind time for the same reason. I called and said, "If you aren’t coming, then forget it!’ She apologized and said she would be there. We went to see Pinter’s play The Birthday Party. Down the block from the play was an all-black bar, where we had drinks and talked. We caught the last commuter train and rode the short distance to my house. We only had a couple of blocks to walk, but there was a cloudburst. It couldn’t have been more romantic. After a good night out, we were alone together, completely soaked. Cold, wet, and looking into each other’s eyes, we kissed and held on to each other’s wet clothes passionately, knowing they had to come off for a variety of reasons. They came off quickly.

The last piece of clothing plopped to the floor and made a puddle. We stood eye to eye with droplets of water all over our faces. In that one moment, all of my thoughts and dreams of a perfect union came together. We held each other and kissed for the second time. It was a long, open-mouthed, all-consuming kiss. Our bodies pressed firmly in all the right places. I put one hand on her butt and held it close, and my other hand was pulling on the base of her back. Our tongues were hot, and our bodies were warming up. Kissing didn’t last long, as we were both naked and in want of more. In a split second, we went from standing next to my bed to sliding under the warm sheets and blankets, doing all the right things that lovers do together. I was on top, and Karen was counter moving in perfect time. Our flesh, muscles, kisses—all were in sync. It’s funny what a wonderful play, a few drinks, and a rain shower can do to change your life. It’s funny what one person can do to your entire universe. It’s funny when love turns to sex and sex turns into love. All I knew was our hearts were beyond sex. Our lives had come together. The cork on our bottle had come off, and the genie of love had come out.

For moments, we held each other, our hearts beating. We smiled, looking into each other’s eyes again. This time, with a different anticipation. This time, instead of bodies saying yes, our souls were saying yes.

The next morning, I left for work. When I returned, I saw the bed we had lain in. Karen had crawled out of bed, leaving the sheets and blankets undisturbed, as if we were both still there.

Karen was beautiful. Everything about her had its own grace and strength. She could have been a model. She wore clothes wonderfully. She was all mine and was my soul mate now. Our second date was to Wildwood, Wisconsin, where I grew up. She wore a handkerchief as a skimpy top, which I didn’t understand, because she was already so fine. We had drinks in two different bars and hit the popular bar for dancing.

Karen kept saying, I don’t dance. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable about something. Anyway, a dark side of her appeared, and she became angry and insistent about not dancing. I couldn’t understand this at all.

I guess that was our first fight of many to come. I hated fighting and never wanted it or sought it.

There was one particular five-year study on anger. The result of the study was that anger is always from the past. As Dr. Phil would say, It’s not about what you’re talking about.

Karen was an angry person—short school bus—and I didn’t want that in my life. But I loved her.

Anyway, we had a quick flash point together right there on the dance floor. The dark side of my anger was out, and I wanted it out! She went out the back door. I followed, and we