Where did Kalinda come from
When people ask me "how did you find that", I usually answer "I got some help from a friend". I always think of my parents then, how surprised they would have been to see me claim to have so many friends. I never used to have friends.
But at some point in my life I figured the friendship thing out. A friend is someone who does things for you. And once in a while I might you something for them. Once the code became clear, my social life got so much easier. People seem appalled when they hear this definition of a friendship. But I think that they are just trying to cover up the guilt they have for the fact that they don't bother to give their friends anything but their company.
I was almost 16 when I lost my virginity. We were lying on a blanket in a secluded corner of the park. I looked at the boy - I'd only met him a short while before, and slept with him mostly out of curiosity with the concept. Suddenly I felt that I could read openly. I could tell that he was sorry for me, for being a girl who had just lost her virginity to a boy she hardly knows. I could tell that he thought he knew something about me because we had been together, though he really didn't. I could see that he thought that he had now attained some kind of hold on my life by being my first, though he really hadn't.
It suddenly occurred to me that I could use this, the difference between what people might assume sex meant to me, and what it really did, and the way that they kind of pitied me for being lonely, and the way that they thought they were getting to know me better gradually, when actually they weren't. People say "became intimate" to mean both sex and telling personal secrets. I could never understand why they would make any connection between the two.
I was born in Manchester, to immigrant parents who never got over the insult of being treated as second best (or maybe second-to-last) citizens. My mother was a cafeteria worker and my dad worked as a typesetter for an academic magazine. He kept correcting mistakes in the papers, which used to drive the writers and editors mad. They should have appointed him as a proofreader but his English was not British enough, they said.
I was obsessed with superheroes. That's my first memory. The idea of them was instantly appealing to me. I felt that it was my birthright to change myself on call, from just a girl in the suburbs to something amazing and powerful and self-made. We were all looking for metamorphosis – my father, my mother and older brother, nine years older than me. I think it must have been a gene we all had, that drew my parents to leave their home in Pakistan and come to England in the first place.
One time, my father saw me reading the superhero comics, and said "Leila, if you like the superpeople so much, why not try to be one?".
"Pa, I can't be a superhero. They have magic powers".
"But what is it that you like about superheros except their magic? Can you figure it out? Can you strive to do that?".
That certainly gave me something to think about. What would it take to be a real-life superhero? Batman had no powers, but he had technology. I was just a girl with no money and no friends. But I had the idea that my father had put into my head.
Then, my neighbor lost her cat. I decided that this would be a wonderful first run for my talents as superLeila. A lot of people in our neighborhood tried to find that cat, but for me it was a matter of identity, If I could find the cat, I would transform. I canvassed the neighborhood straight through the middle of the night, asked for help and advice from anyone I could think of, and kept doing it for days, long after the supposedly loving and grief stricken owner of the cat had given up. So, I found the cat.
I noticed an interesting thing then about looking for things. Most people treat looking for something as a ceremony. They will make the motions of looking and think that in this way they are somehow appeasing the God Of Lost Things and he will therefore turn up their lost item that He has taken away. People can be strange like that. But if you really look for something as if your life depends on it, you will find it. After all, things are there. They didn't just cease to exist. You just put them somewhere and forgot about it. If you are thorough and determined enough – how can anything stay "lost"?
I decided that this would be my super power – finding lost things. I offered my services whenever people needed them, and made a bit of a name for myself in the neighborhood. The witch who finds lost things. But people were really grateful when I uncovered their lost stuff. I never let them pay me, so they stayed kind of indebted, This could be very useful, if the person was for instance a teacher, or someone old enough to buy me alcohol. I still didn't feel like a superhero, though.
One morning when I was about 9 and my brother was 18. I was sitting in the kitchen throwing popcorn at him. Why ever did I do that, I can't imagine today. I wasn't the type, even as a kid, to throw things at people and think it funny. No, not me. I must have been angry, trying unsuccessfully to get his attention. My father looked over at us. He had been tired for a while, people at work were unpleasant and money was tight, and the more years passed the less he could imagine anything changing. Well, he looked over at us, saw the popcorn mess on the floor – I would have cleaned it, really – and began to scream and scream at me. Right in the middle of screaming, he dropped dead. Right there in the middle of the kitchen.
The next few years were not very easy for us. I missed my father terribly and couldn't believe I was powerless to return him. 9 is such a young age to learn that there are stories with no happy endings. In addition, we'd turned poor, even in the standards of our neighborhood.
Each of us dealt with my father's death differently. My brother became a bitter, irritable person. In addition to that, he started to take me everywhere with him. It was his way of being protective of me, of making sure no one would take advantage of my situation, fatherless and adrift. There was now a bond between us, stronger than even our sibling bond, since we had both seen our father die in front of our eyes. We both knew, but never talked about, who's fault it was.
I went with my brother to parties, pubs, I went to his job, to the unemployment line once in a while, to wash his car, to political rallies. When he got into college, I started to hang around there too. People started to roll their eyes when they would see my brother and the 10 year old kid tagging after him, but some of them came to respect his total loyalty to me. My mother was all for it. She kept telling us that we had no one but each other and that we had to keep together.
So it turned out that the first boys that I met were men. Mostly they were amused by me, they found my finding skills useful, but of course most of them would not touch me – I was my brother's very little sister. You wouldn't do that to a friend unless you were a scumbag. So that is why most of the boys I got closer to early on in my life, were scumbags. My brother had a very diverse group of friends. The fact that he was studying to be a lawyer didn't stop him from befriending low-level criminals. I have since found out that this is not rare.
When I grew a little older, not much, one of those scumbags proposed to marry me. I agreed, thinking it made me a real part of my brother's gang and not just a tag along. Also, he was sexy. My brother approved since he thought this way he would be able to keep an eye on me. My mother approved because he was white, a real brit. I was really climbing on up, she thought.
Marriage confused me. The high point of my day was having sex with Nick. What can I say, it was physically gratifying. Who knows why. He smelled good. The low points of my day were everything about Nick that didn't involve sex. He was either boring or intimidating, or drunk with his friends. I liked hanging around with his friends but he seemed bothered and baffled by the fact that I wanted to actually with them, to do anything but wait at home and have sex with him, maybe tidy up a bit in the meantime. If I mentioned the possibility of sex with other people (how about a woman? Would that bother you as much?), he blew up in a way that made me fear for my life. But it wasn't much of a life to fear for, so even that left me indifferent.
I knew the type of wife Nick was looking for. It seemed easy at first, since this was the type of woman I grew up around, but I really couldn't stand it anymore. Every day all of the neighborhood wives would meet and bitch about their husbands, that's what helped them survive. She who had the worst and weirdest complaint about her husband would get respect like she had won some contest. You milked your dumbass husband for laughs and intimacy points. I couldn't join these conversations. Airing my life as a failure for a joke seemed disrespectful to myself, and the so called friendship and female solidarity that supposedly grew out of this, meant nothing to me.
There were two other types of women in the neighborhood – the doctor woman (she might also be a nurse), and the computer programmer woman. The last kind made as much money as the men, and that immediately made the idea attractive to me. It was easy to get Nick to agree for me to go get my programming degree – I could see him counting the future money in his mind. If was more difficult to convince him to let me work in an office full of men.
Right when I was realizing what a mistake Nick was, my brother graduated from law school and on to the real world, which he didn't like. He kept noticing how it was rigged against people like us. When he would talk about this in his booming loud voice, his big eyebrows going up and down, I would shrug. God knows things were harder for me – not just an immigrant, but also a woman, and orphaned at a much younger age than his - I almost had no memory of when things were normal. So there was no use shouting about it, I though. Who would ever listen?
But there was no stopping my brother. He wrote hundreds of talkbacks and letters to the editor, went to political conferences and shouted at the politicians, uploaded youtube videos. He had made a bit of a celebrity of himself, or a nuisance.
What does the British Empire do with it's irritants? One day we got a call from a polite lady who said she was a casting director from "Big Brother". She effused compliments for my brother that even he didn't buy, and tempted him with the widespread audience that he could be allowed to shout at. For me, the idea that the person closest to me on earth would be so exposed to the public, was sickening. But he was confused by the spotlight.
The casting director sat on the couch in my brother's house sucking up to him like no tomorrow. I excused myself to go to the toilet and as I walked behind her I read the preparatory notes she had written. "Sister. anti social personality. Neighbors call her "the witch". Possibly battered wife". I saw red, then and there. I looked at the casting director's neck and located a very good spot to stick a blade where it would hurt. I composed myself and went to the toilet, seething.
"Don't do it", I pled with my brother. But he wouldn't hear of it. his metamorphosis was being handed to him on a plate. What he hadn't quite managed to achieve by going to law school, he would get through fame. After all, if everyone wants fame, there must be something to it. Right?
"But I won't be able to come with you", I said, reminding him of the days when we had done everything together. "I won't be able to communicate with you for months, none of us will".
"Nah", he said, "they'll kick me out after the first week". Maybe they all say that to themselves. Maybe that's what helps them cope with the decision.
I turned my TV to the 24 hour big brother channel, and braced myself for the worst. Nick would sometimes watch with me, snorting and laughing. I wasn't laughing at all. I don't, really. Besides, it was immediately obvious that something was wrong. My brother did not get along with anyone. Production was poisoning everyone against him, for some reason. They had typecast him as someone quick to insult, and to make their point they made sure he was insulted again and again. He would get into these endless monologues to the camera, that got less and less connected to reality, (the real one, not "reality"), the longer the show went on. I didn't like what this was doing to him. He was looking thinner, paler, as if he was getting way too little food and too many cigarettes, which he probably was. I kept praying for the audience to kick him off. Once in a while he would say something about wishing they would do it already, but no.
After about a month I had had it. I figured he wanted to come home, too. "Can he just say he's done?", I asked Nick one day. "What does the contract say?".
"I dunno", he said, "but if I'd put so much money into a TV show, I'd chain the characters to the fence, hands and feet, never mind the bloody contract".
It killed me to see my brother through the glass of the TV, untouchable, unreachable, suffering small and large slights from all of those dickhead stereotype-types. I had to get him out of there, and in order to do that, I had to see the contract for myself.
The damn thing was the most guarded document in the kingdom, and I figured out quite early on that I wouldn't just find it lying on a table if I happened to walk by. I could try to take a picture of it with a professional camera through a window, if the offices themselves weren't guarded like a maximum security prison. I was beginning to realize that I would need a human to help me, someone who would trust me and let me in.
There were two possibilities. Either to befriend someone, or to have sex with them. Befriending someone to the level where they would take you home could take years. With sex, it could be done in a few nights.
I don't have to actually have sex with them, I thought. I only have to get the situation rolling and at the last moment, find some excuse. But who might have the contract? The best bet would be a lawyer. Of course they had the contract, probably on a laptop without a secure connection, since they weren't part of the production company. Well, good thing the producers had been sued regarding exactly this contract in the past, so I found out easily exactly who the lawyers in charge were. Problem – they seemed to all be women. But wait. Facebook told me that one of them preferred "women and men". People tell the internet the weirdest things these days.
Her name was Gladys. I'd never met a Gladys before, and had assumed they were all over 60. But this Gladys turned out to be about 45, trying hard to look younger and not really succeeding. Age doesn't flatter those pale, pinch-faced British ladies.
It wasn't difficult to set up a meeting with a lawyer. I told her I had a potentially high-profile case about a friend of mine who had been sexually harassed by a high-level executive at one of the major TV channels. I could see that she was trying to figure out whether I was really talking about "a friend" but she also said "I don't represent the talents. Only the production companies".
If she agreed to represent me she would probably not try to sleep with me, so I had planned to tell her that her services were too expensive, adding a little bit of class guilt to the equation. But this was even better.
"You never represent the people?", I said.
"There are people on both sides".
"Oh.. yes of course but you know what I mean".
"Yes"
"Ok see you around", I exited quickly before she could say anything more. The next step would be to bump into her "accidently" and see if anything would happen. It was a loose plan. Her mother had a posh yarn shop a few blocks away. Maybe I could go buy some yarn.
And then the next evening as I was getting off the metrolink near the gay bars, thinking maybe I would get an idea how to pick up a gay woman by hanging out there, her face was right in front of mine. "hello!" she said, possibly a bit drunk. "you came to my office, right?".
"What are you doing here?!", I yelped. I couldn't figure out how I'd managed to conjure her up in a city of 2 million people.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "Why, don't you think I belong here? Do you think all lesbians are fat with shaven mowhaks, working in 'art' and living off their parents?"
I had no idea how to answer that.
"Lesbians can be lawyers and dress like women, too".
The only thing I could think of saying was "but you're bisexual". Her Facebook had said so. I had no idea how such a comment would figure into the political faux pas she was trying to blame me for. Why would someone white go so out of their way to assert that they were marginalized? Well, it was none of my business. I was on a mission.
"Do you want to have a drink?", I said.
She laughed then, and her laugh was cute. She agreed to the drink. I felt extremely excited – it was working! The excitement turned me on.
We went to a fancy place with small food and lesbians who looked just the way Gladys had said they didn't all look. She got properly drunk. I wondered about her life, her sex life, too. Didn't it bother her that her parents could see she was gay on the internet? Maybe they were dead. Did she get laid a lot? Was it usually casual? Well, it's none of my business, I thought again. It's bad enough that I'm using this woman, I don't have to pry into her intimate life, too.
We kissed, and I realized that I wanted it. I had worked hard. This was my prize. Her lips were on my neck. It worked. When you're horny and there are lips on your neck, does it really matter who they belong to? I wondered what Nick would say if he saw us, and it made me scared and even more aroused. I scanned the room to see if there were any of his friends there. Never mind, none of them would dare tell him "I went to a lesbian bar and guess who I saw".
"My place", Gladys said. It was actually happening today. The adrenalin rush nearly blinded me. She called a cab. Classy. Imagine having to ride the tram in this state. Didn't it bother her that I was so much younger than her? Maybe she could only tell age on white people.
We went into the house, and I looked around trying to mentally map everything. The laptop was on the couch, she moved it away thoughtlessly and pulled me down. We smashed against each other. She had breasts. I had no idea what to do with them. At some point she would probably figure out that I had no experience with girls. Would it bother her? Make her suspicious? I tried to reverse-engineer what I liked Nick to do to me. She cried out. It was too aggressive. I calmed down a bit and let her take the lead. She massaged and licked my breasts. Nick didn't do that, he wasn't the breasty type. Would she expect me to lick her as well? Everywhere? Well, I discovered I wanted to. Why not? She deserved it.
"Let's go to a bed", I said.
"Why?"
So you can fall asleep and I can get to the computer, I didn't say. "It will make me feel more comfortable", I said. She looked bewildered, but didn't want to stop. The bedroom was on another floor. I couldn't believe my luck. It would be so much easier to poke around the living room later. I also thought – rich lady. I should have married someone like this and not my looser husband.
Being in her bed was suddenly uncomfortable, strange. She noticed and said "wait a minute" and brought us both some sweet liquor from a high-neck bottle. It was one of those killer liquors and I was getting hazy. Maybe she thought I wouldn't go all the way with a woman without it. Nothing to worry about – I was curious and also determined to see her orgasm. It would make her sleep better.
I woke up after about an hour, terrified that I had missed my chance. But she was sleeping deeply, exactly like I had wanted her to. I put on my clothes, and went downstairs. I turned on the Big Brother channel. If she came downstairs I would say I had trouble sleeping and wanted to watch TV. Yes, well, lame excuse but I could probably do worse. Besides, I wanted to know what was going on.
I would look around for a paper version of the contract. That would be the easiest. If not, I would hack the computer and copy the files to a memory stick. If I heard her getting up, I'd just run out with the computer. Let's see her trying to catch me. She probably had no idea what my name was. I'd said just "Leila", and maybe she didn't remember.
On TV, my brother was shouting at someone on mute. It seemed to me suddenly that he had always been shouting on mute. Then my brother was falling, on the floor of the Big Brother house. And then everyone was around him, trying to see what was wrong.
I was motionless for a second, and then I ran for the phone. "I need an ambulance for the Big brother house!" I screamed down the line. "Yes, we all saw what happened", the lady said calmly. "They have their own medical staff on call". "No, but it's an emergency!", I screamed. "I'm his sister! His father died of the same thing!". The nurse hung up on me.
I had no idea what to do next. Going there would take three hours even if I stole Gladys' car. It would be too late, too late, if it wasn't too late already. I woke Gladys up. She was half passed out drunk. I handed her the phone. "You have to call channel 4 up and tell them to get a real ambulance to the Big Brother house", I said. "no joking around or milking it for rating. They have to get some real medical help in".
She looked at me utterly confused. "Tell me who's number to look for", I said. She gave me a name. I dialed and put the phone in her hand again. "Kendra", she said. "What's going on?". I yelled "I'm his sister, tell her that his father died of it. They have to act quickly". Gladys said "uh uh" into the phone a few times, and then "OK". Then she said "for some reason I have his sister here". Then she said "OK" again.
Then she hung up and looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry dear", she said. "It's too late".
I couldn't say a thing or move. "let me drive you over there", she said. I agreed and she put on some clothes and led me out of the house, not asking how come I was already dressed. She was too drunk to drive, but there was not much traffic and we made it somehow. As we got there, camera men surrounded us. "I can't believe you alerted the welcoming committee", I said to Gladys. But what did I know about her. She had by now gotten un-drunk enough to realize that it was probably not a complete coincidence that I had been in her house. Who knows how she felt about that.
As I got out of the car someone pushed a camera into my face and someone else led me into the house through the red carpet. They intentionally walked me by all of the dimwits who had pushed my brother over the edge. The in-house cameras turned towards me, I was obviously supposed to shout and scream at them, but I didn't. I was trying to wake myself up from this bad dream because what else could it be? Me, in the big brother house? My brother keeling over in mute and dying just like my father? And then the cameras were gone, and there was the body. "Do you recognize him?", someone asked. "Of course", I said. "Everybody does".