Dancing in Puddles

By Daniel Riseman

Dancing in Puddles explores the emotional paralysis that strikes many students, especially young men, when theyre in college. Up until college, most teenagers have been brought up with a delusional sense of self, stemming from parents, teachers, and coaches constant praise. Theyve experienced little constructive criticism and have had their lives managed by other people.

Jacob Feldman is a senior at the University of Michigan and is desperately searching for meaning in his life. He delves into religion, science, philosophy, and sexuality in an attempt to make greater sense of the world. Jacobs inability to live a carefree life leads to his taking real risks. His first bold move results in his working as a nude model. Jacob begins to question his relationship with his long-distance girlfriend. Shes his first real love, and Jacob wonders about his lack of experience and need for other women. His best friend, a self-described nihilist, causes Jacob to think about life without her. Following graduation, Jacob moves out to Massachusetts to teach English. Even though the school is less than an hour away from his girlfriends apartment, he refuses to live with her. Jacob soon grows tired of his life in suburbia and heads to San Francisco to meet up with his best friend. It is there that Jacob finds his lifes real meaning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456899448

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Riseman.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011906749

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4568-9943-1

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4568-9942-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-9944-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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96934

For Elliot, Max, and Judy

It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing

definite- only a sense of existence.

—Henry David Thoreau

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank the following people for their support and insight: Lauren Fox, Randy Sklar, Jason Sklar, Jonathan Brown, Elizabeth Hoyt Jackson, Amy Flamenbaum, Ezra Kenigsberg, Eric Kuhn, Jennifer Solomon, Bill Feingold, John Nieman, Jenifer Swirnoff, Amy Elder Peters, Nathan Bernstein, Ethan Freedman, Don Raden, Mara Raden, David Abel, Jessica Leffler, Samir Saluja, Dave Snyder, Ellen LeMaitre, David Kerr, Amy Tessmer Pappas, Karen Prince, Michael Rosenberg, Daniel Swiecki, Geri Alumit Zeldes, Andy Fried, Amy Woodruff, Joe Selvaggio, Carrie RaCosta, Brian MacMullen, Phil Gillen, Jackie Cutler, Winston Cutler, Rebecca Riseman, Nick Schoen, Kate Riseman, James Riseman, Hanna Cassorla, Eleanor Jackson, Virginia Barber, Beth Riseman, Carl Riseman, Mike Achenbaum, Julie Haas Brophy, Rachel Dara Ginsburg, Bonnie Morris, Paras Parekh, Kelly Stanaj, Carol Pfeffer, Marcy Morgan, Sam Krinsky, Gwen Abramowitz, Ari Abramowitz, and Judy Bernstein.

It started off as a dare. One of my roommates came across an ad in The Michigan Daily looking for male models. The ad stressed muscular legs and since legs were my signature, he came directly to me. He tossed the paper into my lap with a Check this out. Our other roommates remained fixated on the television, watching professional baseball.

Fifteen dollars an hour was solid money. But more importantly, getting hired meant immediate respect from the guys. My housemates knew I tried out to be a shirtless maid earlier that year. That would have been twenty dollars an hour. Tragically, I didn’t make the cut; I rationalized that maybe they really weren’t looking to hire men. However, this new gig still paid better than anything else I’d seen. The phone number was right there on the page, so I called in front of the guys to schedule an appointment.

**

I pulled up to the house on Chalmers Drive in my old Grand Marquis. Since my car and I were created in the same year, I had real feelings for her. She had known me my entire life, and over the years, I fell in love with her distinct appearance. She was pure white on the outside yet rosy inside—a traveling red velvet cake. Now she was completely mine. My parents had moved on to a newer model.

She was with me in high school when I was nearly put in jail for underage drinking. Luckily, my prom date was quite promiscuous and had a past with the police officer. Despite their fifteen-year age difference, their bond allowed me to squeak by with just a warning. I still wonder what really took place in the front seat of the cop car as she explained our situation to the officer; I was in the backseat, closed off by several inches of plexiglass.

The Marquis was also with me when I accidentally drove through a cornfield. I was looking for a classmate’s house when I forgot that I was in reverse while pulling out of a driveway and ended up in a cornfield. The rain that afternoon made the field quite muddy; I still believe it was God that found us a dry, flat area from which to escape.

As I left the Marquis, a full sun greeted me. To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the sun. Besides the obvious skin cancer correlations, I just don’t like cloudless days. They bring too many expectations. Plus, I cannot stand the overload of Nice weather we’re having today. Such insincerity drives me to extreme escapism—fly American Airlines at least once a week and hope to eventually play the odds right and get the plane that malfunctions in midair.That’s my resolution. Friends and relatives would never uncover the fulfilled self-prophecy. You may say that wouldn’t be a bona fide suicide, but think again. Aren’t we the physical manifestation of our thoughts? If such thoughts are negative, then who’s to say an overeager masochist hasn’t consummated his self-relation? And that’s what brought me to the artist’s house.

His lawn and the clusters of bushes surrounding his house were manicured to the point of molestation. A brick path delivered me to the front door. Champagne-colored drapes covered four large rectangular windows, perfect symmetry—two on each side and a wooden door in the middle.

Aaron greeted me with a discerning smile. I’m glad you made it. He ushered me into his oversized foyer. These are some of my favorites, he said, pointing to framed drawings lining the wall.

Nice, I responded coquettishly, surprising myself.

Made these years ago up in Ottawa.

You’re Canadian?

Born in Manhattan… dad’s job took us to Moosonee when I was five.

Cool, I said, a bit let down by my vernacular.

I still have a place in Toronto. In fact, I’m there most of the time. That’s where I work.

What do you do?

Environmental consulting.

Thanks for the details Aaron. What the hell do you really do?

The conversation suddenly died. I did my best to remain comfortable, searching the walls for something familiar.

The Sojourner wrote that piece… I enhanced it. His comments startled me.

The igloo burnt bright with snow’s flames;

Ice was singed and pained,

Yet sheets of lake’s wind

Buried the day;

And the Negro cried,

Holding his feet.

Aaron had sketched a large flame atop an igloo in the right-hand corner; an imposing black man sat in the upper left. He was footless with masked eyes and clenched fists.

Who’s the Sojourner?

An old friend. He did this in the mid-sixties.

Take a look at this. Aaron pointed to a piece on the opposite wall.

Licorice drapes down my lips

Without me;

I’m left alone to feel this pain

Unassuaged yet

Unconsumed.

Aaron had drawn on the canvas a strand of licorice kneeling with its eye directed towards the heavens. This piece reminded me a bit of a poem I just read in class. I loved Emily Dickinson, especially the following lines:

I started Early—Took my Dog—

And visited the Sea—

The Mermaids in the Basement

Came out to look at me—

My professor told the class, The Mermaid is woman’s ultimate sacrifice… giving up her genitalia for man’s entertainment. Dickinson is not romanticizing mermaids; they symbolize women’s complete submission. I always liked Dr. Weisbaum’s lectures. He was incredibly organized yet carried a big chip on his shoulder. Even as the department’s chair, he recognized that one of his colleagues was getting most of the attention. Professor Wills drew colossal crowds. He filled lecture halls beyond capacity. However, he was in no way as organized as Weisbaum. Unlike Weisbaum, Wills incorporated mostly showmanship in his lectures. Dr. Weisbaum didn’t like talking about Wills.

Since this was the University of Michigan, even Dr. Weisbaum’s lectures were filled with hundreds of students. Following his talks, the hundreds filtered into discussion groups of around twenty a piece. Sadly, I was left to the brilliance of Shilpa Rava. She was as stimulating as pornography to a eunuch. My classmates were perpetually bored, yet for some reason, I stayed focused.

Shilpa attempted to expound on Dr. Weisbaum’s lecture with her usual hackneyed commentary. Sexuality is the thread that runs through Dickinson’s poems. ‘But no Man moved Me—till the Tide’ . . . ‘made as He would eat me up.’ Very explicit stuff. Yet an extremely weak observation.

**

Please take your clothes off, Aaron calmly ordered.

Anxiety transformed my penis to a slash-and-burn remnant. My testicles felt like two kiwis trapped in a latex glove.

Let’s start over here, he instructed.

I moved my goose-bumped body across the rug and wooden stands. I gently placed my bare buttocks on the scarlet, vinyl couch and made eye contact.

Please lie back… relax.

I followed orders.

That’s perfect.

My calves rested on the couch’s arms, which spread my legs shoulder width. My arms were pressed against my sides. As his eyes voyeured up my right leg and climbed my thigh, he advised, Try crossing your arms.

So I did.

What’s your major? I sensed his soft question was an attempt to massage my thinly disguised fight-or-flight.

English, I weakly uttered.

Wonderful major… it was mine as well.

He continued dancing with the charcoal as he talked. His eyes peeked up at me and then back towards the canvas in a hasty sunrise-sunset production.

Where are you from?

Michigan, I said.

Very nice. Good place to grow up I imagine.

I thought about his comment for a few seconds, and wanting to play with his mind a bit, I said, "It was like the movie School Ties. I was the only Jew. My nickname was Dave Ogilvie. Ogilvie came from the home perm kit… David from the Magen David. As the only Jew, I got lots of attention… girls thought I had a Star of David tattooed on my privates."

An artistic circumcision, Aaron joked.

These three words released the lips of my tightened balloon. It was my first real laugh of the afternoon.

You’re into women… right? Aaron inquired.

I don’t know where this came from, but I had nothing to hide.

Yeah… I like women. Now it was time to impress him. Actually… I grew up on feminism… my sister taught me.

What’s her name?

Jessica.

Where’s she now?

On State Street with a few housemates. She’s a semester away from receiving a dual master’s… public health and social work.

Vanity got the best of me as I asked, How are things looking?

Magnificent. You’ve never done this before?

This is my first time.

Let’s change that.

I