What R Friends 4?

By Dian Jaeger

Shortly after graduating high school in l969 Dian Jennings mother dies unexpectedly and her father commits suicide moments later. She is suddenly all alone. The suicide note directs her to sell the house to the bank manager for $75,000. Her father had conned him into believing that there was buried gold in the basement. Later, with the help of friends, Dian is busy decorating her new apartment just 20 miles down the Hudson in New York City. From her ground floor window, her studio is clearly visible and after some weeks, draws the attention of an art dealer.

Plans are made for a Spring showing. She works feverishly to meet the deadline, working temp jobs and creating a whole new group of friends among whom is an older Persian man Momar, or Mo. Mos charms evaporate when suddenly his behavior turns bizarre and he becomes her stalker. A truce is set to free her for the Holidays and she agrees to meet Mo the day after New Years her birthday.

The cab that Mo sends heads for Idlewild Airport and she is taken kicking and screaming aboard a private jet where she see five men and one woman in Persian attire. Oh, oh. A beautiful woman named Jasara reassures Dian that she is in the hands of Friends a covert international group of good guys. Jasara shows Dian a friendship ring like her own, the emblem only showing palmside. She is instructed to trust no one who does not display the emblem. Landing in Tehran, Dian is paraded before mobs of fanatics and false documents are produced to show her identity as an infamous Jewish journalist Debra Stern. She is depicted as a Western degenerate who spreads scurrilous lies about Hesbolah, Elfatah and other such sacrosanct entities. As she tours the country, she is reviled. Interrogated by a half dozen abusive men, one good-looking young man Moustafa is particularly offensive. Back in her locked room with a frightening portrait of the Ayotallah, she is visited late at night by a would-be savior. She repulses his groping and crowns him with the portrait off the wall and finishes him off with a chamber pot. Immediately, another official bursts in demanding to know what is going on. Dian explains and the old man is circumspect. As the culprit stirs the old man lays him out, clutching his chest as he drags the unconscious man out the door. Next day, police charge her with double homocide and she is removed to new digs a dorm in an empty school. She scrounges around and makes a concoction that burns out the staring eyes of yet another even larger portrait. Her new keeper is a suspicious old crone and when she sees the desecration, she runs out screaming. A timid young man named Mohammed tells her the old lady claims to have seen her cast a spell on the portrait and she escaped. Now, the real A wants to see her. Mohammed conscientiously translates for her at the conference all terrorist organizations.

Her appearance creates a furor and she is actually shoved before the A and proceeds to tell him off. The audience becomes an excited unruly mob. Amidst the excitement, Dian puffs her bottle of body powder. Screams of Poison and she is grabbed and dragged offstage through the crowd, Mohammed in tow. Captors or rescuers? She is pulled unceremoniously behind a man who shows the ring but not his face. No matter. The trio escapes in an old Jeep. Sleep. She awakes screaming starvation and the Jeep stops and the driver comes to her, his face still obscured by his headdress. Then he pulls her close and kisses her. Shock! Moustafa! Oh, no. Mohammed says he seized the opportunity to throw off the tyranny of his repressive regime for Friends.

They are overtaken by men on horseback who lead them away to a fabulous tent city. Desert thieves? No, just a huge group of Friends. Their leader, the Sultan, is a complex and charismatic man. He explains to all that a ridin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 29, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465330895

Dian Jaeger

In l970 Dian Jensen had just graduated high school when suddenly her mother dies and her father commits suicide. She’s all alone when she is abducted by a covert organization known as “Friends”. She lands in Iran where she is portrayed as the epitome of Western degeneracy. Charged with double murder of high-ranking officials, she’s the star attraction at a terrorist summit, allowing her Friends to film the plans. On to Hong Kong : she gets the confession of a drug lord and pilots a ferry boat into a triads cocaine-loaded yacht and escapes to Rio where she repulses a rape attempt by an escaped Nazi Commandant only to be rescued by a serial killer. Ho hum.

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Copyright © 2005 by Dian Jaeger.

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Contents

1     

PRIDE AND SUICIDE

2     

I’M JUST PLANE SCARED

3     

EAST MEETS MIDDLE EAST

4     

DON’T TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

5     

WHICH WITCH IS WHICH?

6     

FROM THE FRYING PAN

7     

INTO THE FIRE?

8     

IT’S ALL DONE WITHOUT MIRRORS

9     

TRAITOR OR MARTYR

10     

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED—LET’S GO HOME

11     

YOU GOT A LOTTA CHUTZPAH

12     

A MOMENT TO REMEMBER

13     

LEGACY OF LOVE?

14     

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN, JIGGITY JIG

15     

ANOTHER FORK IN THE ROAD AND PERHAPS A KNIFE

16   

CRITICAL ENCOUNTER

17   

WHAT KIND OF JUNK IS THIS?

18   

FRIEND OR FIEND?

19   

ANOTHER HEMISPHERE—ANOTHER MAN TO FEAR

20   

NEW CAREER—NEW FEAR

21   

DYING OF TERMINAL STUPIDITY

22   

I COULDN’T DO THAT EVEN IF I . . .

23   

FRIENDS DON’T LEAVE FRIENDS IN THE LURCH

24   

WHERE IT ALL STARTED

25   

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN JIGGITY JOG

26   

REMEMBER ME/ YOU DESTROYED MY LIFE

27   

IN SANITY OR OUT

28   

WHERE THE LOST ARE FOUND

EPILOGUE

Dedication

Naturally, I dedicate this book to my friends who encouraged me to think my book could possibly be more than a mere intellectual exercise but could actually be a source of enjoyment for thousands of readers. Thanks friends.

1     

PRIDE AND SUICIDE

The gnarled old man shuffled along the busy village street, hugging a sack against his chest and glaring malevolently at everyone around him. Now and then, he would spin around to confront a would-be assailant. Of course, there was no one there. He entered the bank demanding to see the manager, whereupon a pin-striped dandy appeared, his black hair pomaded to his scalp. He was accessorized all in pink, from his carnation to his pointy little tongue that darted out to announce, I’m Vincent Di Pinto, bank manager. How can I help you?

The old man was loud and abrasive but little Mr. Di Pinto did not flinch—his facial muscles having been permanently affixed in a wan smile. Certainly, sir, a caricature of pomp under the circumstances. His favorite new customer was ushered through a labyrinth of technology to assure Frederick A. Jennings of the latest in security.

The guard, seated outside the iron bar door, heard the latest deposit clunk, clunk, clunk into the large metal box. What ya got in there? Rocks? he said amiably as Jennings exited the vault.

None of your business!

Sorry, sir. I . . . I . . . , the old guard stuttered as he unlocked the door for the ill-mannered customer.

That guy’s paranoy. What’s he got in there? I think it’s gold nuggets, he said as Jennings departed, a faint smile under his hooded brow.

It’s begun. Step one.

Jennings made daily trips to the vault, presumably to count his stash, all the while evincing his inimical charm all around, attracting the necessary attention to create the mystique of the golden fleecing. Rumors abounded. Someone claimed to have seen one nugget purported to be valued at least $10,000—a fair piece of change in the late ’60s.

Jennings was known about town as a wealthy eccentric. He was neither wealthy nor eccentric. He was just plain crazy and he was my father. I knew more about my father from gossip than I ever discerned from his presence in the house. It’s difficult to explain our relationship, basically because it was all but nonexistent. We hardly ever spoke. My mother and I lived our lives completely apart from my father in the big old Victorian on the corner.

My mother was the breadwinner, supporting my father for as long as I can recall. Father contributed nothing to the household. I don’t know why. I never asked and I don’t know why I never asked. We all lived lives of avoidance. The air was always heavy with hostility between my parents. No. Maybe I do know why I never asked. It was fear. I was afraid to know the dark secret of the Jenningses.

My mother was a real beauty who had had a brief career on Broadway. However, she acquiesced to Gramma’s disapproval of her musical endeavors and quit. How she wound up in the New York suburbs of Westchester as a real estate broker is another story.

Father maintained his daily routine of visiting his cache for some weeks until one day he staged a scene, complaining that he didn’t trust the bank with his valuables anymore, so he was taking them out. He screamed incoherently at the manager—something about burying it in his dirt-floor basement where he could guard it himself with his trusty rifle, letting everyone know that he had been a screw at the Leavenworth Penitentiary in Kansas. As he exited backward from the bank, again clutching the mystery satchel to him, a grin spread across his lips so that he had to hide it with his hand. Now we have step two. Step three’s a killer.

That was my senior year at Doddsberry High, just twenty miles from New York City. While my father was making a spectacle of himself, I knew the whole town was talking about the strange goings-on. The strange thing was that no one ever mentioned my father’s peculiar behavior to me. I knew other kids were ridiculed for far less.

While all my friends were making plans for college, struggling with SATs, working for scholarships, I kept myself occupied not thinking about college for it was a foregone conclusion that I would stay at home with my mother. I had to be her protector—from my father. Is that crazy? He had never, to my knowledge, made any overt threat; it was just that indefinable feeling of menace. As if I could forestall any calamity by merely being a buffer between the two adversaries.

I pretended not to want to go to college, feigning a desire to get on with life by working my way into the art world in New York City. Mother readily accepted my subterfuge for fact, although she had to remember how I had always dreamt of going to the Sorbonne and had saved all my earnings and invested in stocks (in my mother’s name) in order to pay my way. It was not to be.

Graduation for me was somehow anticlimactic. The anticipation, the ceremony, the parties, and suddenly it was all gone. I drifted about in a blue funk, trying to figure out what the devil to do with myself. God forbid I would have to go to work. The thought sent shivers down my spine. But not yet. I gave myself permission to take the summer off. Then, just as my friends would all be heading to school, I would be joining the Nine-to-Five Club.

About this time, my mother complained about some vague symptoms of not feeling quite well. I suggested a call to Dr. Haskell in the morning. But the next morning when I called the doctor, it was because I had found her unconscious on the kitchen floor. She was rushed to the hospital where Dr. Haskell announced that my mother had suffered a stroke. When I returned to the house to pick up some articles for a hospital stay, my father asked what had happened to Mom and I explained. He suddenly looked shocked, his chin trembling, and I thought he might cry. I want to go see her. Will you take me? he asked

Sure, I said. I was surprised at his reaction. We drove in silence and when we arrived at Mother’s room, she was asleep.

Father held her hand and was obviously struggling to maintain his composure.

Dr. Haskell said they would know more in the morning and suggested that we should return then. I took Father home. This time the silence was broken by a single sentence. I’m so sorry. That was all. I returned to the hospital to find Mother still asleep, all vitals stable. I went home about 4 AM. I slept a few hours and ran through a quick morning routine then I went to Mother’s desk to call the hospital. As I dialed, I noticed a note lying against the lamp: Ms. Jennings, Your father called the station this morning to inform us . . .

Hello. Mrs. Jennings, room 403, please. This is her daughter.

I’m sorry, Ms. Jennings. Your mother never gained consciousness . . .

". . . That he intended to commit suicide. We were unable to reach him in time. He didn’t want you to find him. I’m sorry. Please call . . .

After the nurse heard a thud followed by a clunk, she informed Dr. Haskell and he made a rare house call. He cradled me in his big arms, saying, I’m so sorry. You poor kid.

I’m a norphan. No mommy. No daddy. All gone, I whimpered in a singsong, childlike voice. I giggled and I cried, embarrassed by my own behavior.

Don’t worry. Yours is not the first case of shock I’ve witnessed, he reassured me. Is there anyone you want to call?

Yes, my friend Kathy Keiling. After that, I remember very little of what happened. I do recall being told that my mother and father died within minutes of each other; my mother at age fifty, my father at sixty-five. I wonder if they are still together and still hating each other. My friends rallied around me and led me through the myriad details involved with sudden death.

The one thing that was marked indelibly on my mind was the letter my father left for me before he slit his wrists: "To My Beloved Daughter, Dear Dian, I have always loved you ‘though circumstances prevented me from letting you know. There’s no time to explain.

"Now that you are alone, you must sell the house and I have arranged for you to sell it for $75,000 cash. You will sell to Mr. Di Pinto, manager at Fidelity. He’s a greedy little man. Tell him I said it was best for you to sell out quickly and leave all the memories behind. Tell him you want a cashier’s check in two days and be prepared to leave town immediately.

"After you leave here your life will change greatly. You will need all your faculties but I will guarantee your life will be exciting and fulfilling. It is ordained.

"Forgive me. Bless you.

Love always,

Father"

I did as father had directed and Mr. Di Pinto acted shocked when I told him my price. After spending an inordinate amount of time in the basement, he acquiesced, saying he needed to be sure that he could remodel the basement and also claiming to have great sympathy for me and holding my father in high regard. He produced the check and I departed for New York on the next train, having previously sold all household goods, bringing my total cash to $77,772. I was eighteen and it was l969.

Again, my friends came to my aid. They just wouldn’t let me feel sorry for myself for very long. I had no known relatives, but as Toddy reminded me I did have some really good friends and $77,772. Yet, everything was different. Out of tragedy was born a new person with new choices. Suddenly everything was possible. I could even go to the Sorbonne—maybe next semester.

With the help of friends, I found a large apartment on the Upper Westside of Manhattan. It was purported to have been an abortion clinic, but I didn’t get any bad vibes. Its only redeeming feature, aside from the low rent, was its first-floor location and very large windows. I used one of the front rooms as my studio. Since it had no window coverings (not even shades) passersby could watch me paint and see my gallery where I held court regularly. Hanging out of my window, I talked with neighbors and friends.

Toddy’s father, Todd D. Pressman, Jr., helped me to invest my lucky sevens. To cover my expenses, I decided to work for a temp agency while I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a lot of fun and met some interesting people.

My school friends came frequently and we explored the city and it was all very exciting but suddenly sad as they all departed for various schools. Being alone once again, I concentrated on my new friends and on my painting. That big studio window was the proscenium of my little theatre and my newfound celebrity was a constant source of joy. My social calendar was full. The dates on my calendar were all older men—actors, waiters, bankers, French, Russian, Puerto Rican, etc. An interesting assortment—lots of fun but no big romance.

One of my most platonic beaux called one day to ask me to dinner. Love to, Mo, but I already have another date, I said.

What do you mean you have another date! he cried. You are my woman. To which I unfortunately responded with a great guffaw. Not smart. This clearly enraged him. You have to understand our relationship. We were nothing but friends. He was much older than I, a Persian, very charming, but the consummate male chauvinist. So much so that I thought some of the outlandish things he said were merely said in jest. We would go out for lunch or to a street fair. Once, we went on a picnic and he read to me from Omar Kayam. His real name was Momar Said. So naturally, I called him Mo; he always corrected me.

MY NAME IS MOMAR, he would say with exaggerated patience.

OK, Mo.

When I queried him about how he made his living, he would only say that he was a simple businessman.

Mo would chastise me for my revealing attire. In my country, no woman would show herself so, he told me.

Then it must not be as hot in your country as it is in New York City, I replied. He said with a bemused smile on his face that American women in general, and I in particular, behave very brazenly.

It seems you don’t like my clothes or my behavior. Why do you bother with me? I asked.

Oh, but I do care for you. I was merely making a comparison.

Then came a time when he tried to enlighten me about a number of things, especially the Muslim faith, until one evening, at the point of exasperation, I finally said, Look, it’s all very fascinating, but please don’t try to proselytize me.

Oh, my dear. I would never do that.

Yeah. OK, happy Hanukah to you, too.

At this flip remark, he grabbed my wrists and said, You are not Jewish. You are big Christian.

Well, I’m Christian. I don’t know about big . . . and what’s wrong with Jewish? And if you ever manhandle me like that again, I’ll clobber you, you hear me?

Profuse apologies and then he took my hands and pressed them to his lips.

Enough! I barked and pulled my hands away.

In the midst of all this turmoil, a note was left at my door from a Madison Avenue art gallery, asking me to call a Mr. Xavier who was interested in my paintings. I had to think about the offer. Was it some sort of scam? After about six seconds of intense analysis and considering the possibilities, I had to find out and made the call. Mr. X asked if he could come by to see any of my work that I might want to exhibit for sale. For sale? Is he crazy?

During an unrelenting freeze, Mr. X and his assistant, Le Roy, arrived at my West Ninety-eight Street apartment. My god! It’s almost as cold inside as it is outside, said Mr. X.

It’s simple ecothermodynamics. Warm air rises and goes straight to the penthouse. There is also a socioeconomic paradigm at work here. Welcome. Perhaps some coffee will help thaw you out.

They meandered about the studio, hugging coffee mugs. You did all these? You paint in all these different styles? Mr. X inquired.

As well as oil pastel and Crayola, I replied. Le Roy said he had rarely seen such innovative technique, especially in one so young. How do you do it?

After much experimentation, I discovered that by manipulating various densities of certain colors, I could distinguish the delineation of forms, thereby creating a kind of optical illusion, I said as seriously as I could.

Oh, I see.

You do?

After you explained it so clearly. We both laughed and Le Roy backed away, holding his chin with thumb and forefinger, pantomiming intense concentration.

I’d like to arrange for a spring show. Could you produce any more of this quality?

You betcha.

As they were leaving, Mr. X turned and beamed at me. It’s going to be a real pleasure working with you, Ms. Jennings. You’re quite an amazing young woman.

I know. Why did I say that?

In the weeks that followed I worked so feverishly on my painting that I began to run out of ideas. Worse yet, I ran out of acrylic paint. A pristine mantel of white lay over the city. That was yesterday. Today, it was filthy slush. The boots, puff coat, gloves, and into the bitter cold and into Mo’s arms.

I’ve been calling you for days. We must talk. Your stubbornness . . . He grabbed me and I resisted and he held me close, his eyes wild.

Let me go, you maniac, you, I cried as I wrenched myself away. My words only enraged him more and he lunged toward me. We both slipped on the icy pavement and Mo lay spread-eagled in the slippery mess as I regained my balance and ran across the street, dodging traffic with car horns blaring, crossing to the other side of the street. I ran and ran and cried and ran, until my labored breathing made me stop. No Mo. I remembered being told never to tell a crazy man that he’s crazy. I’ve only made things worse. What to do?

It was Christmas in the city but I could not enjoy it because I was a prisoner in my own home. So I decided to call Mo for a truce of two and a half weeks to allow me to come and go to work without being harassed by phone calls or accosted on the street. If you agree to my terms, I’ll meet with you after the holidays, the second of January and we’ll hash all this out. OK?

In my country ‘hash’—

I know. I know, I interrupted. Will you agree?

Of course. I am your friend, he said after a pause.

Merry Christmas, Mo. I miss you.

Merry Christmas, Dian. I miss you, too. Happy Hanukah. I hung up and sat on my bed and cried. When I was growing up I decided that no one would ever see me cry (I don’t remember why). I stolidly kept my vow under the most painful circumstances until one day I saw a moth get washed down the drain and I was bereft and my no tears resolution went down the drain too. Once started, the tears refused to stop, until I became alarmed. But after what seemed like hours, the tears subsided and a kind of euphoria came over me. Since then, my new motto has been When in doubt, cry it out.

Now amid the tears, I tried to fathom the dreadful chasm that had developed between Mo and me. What went wrong? How had I lost my friend?

In the meantime, I could contact my friends and try to get into the Christmas spirit. Six of my friends of the Great Eight brought me my own genuine imitation Christmas tree with all the trimmings, which I put in a front window. As I gazed at my tree, I glanced out the window to see Mo standing in the snow, looking up at me, his coat collar turned up and his hands shoved into his pockets. I waved to him and motioned for him to come up, but he turned and strode off. Who’s that guy? asked Toddy. That’s my friend Mo.

You failed to mention that he’s so good-looking, purred Kathy.

A few minutes later I called Mo to ask why he had left when he saw me, but there was no answer. I returned to my friends and was soon immersed in joyous chatter.

Through all the festivities, parties, shows, seeing all the sights of Christmas in New York City, the sight of Mo standing in the snow would come to my mind and make me wince with pain. Everything had been so good between us, but he had to go and change. Why? What had happened to ruin everything?

I didn’t see Mo nor hear from him until New Year’s Day when Mo called to wish me a happy New Year. He reassured me that indeed he was my friend, and no matter what happened, he would always be so. Without allowing me to question his remark, he hung up. I must remember to ask for clarification, I thought.

2     

I’M JUST PLANE SCARED

Snow flurries accompanied the fierce cold as I waited for the cab. I wore my favorite crimson coat with a fur muff and fur helmet. I was ready for