Have You Ever Been Arrested?


“Have you ever been arrested?”

This was one of the first questions my friend’s date asked him as they were headed out for dinner. Andrea rested her hand languidly on the steering wheel and looked at my friend expectantly.

“Um … no,” he said, glancing at her. “Have you?”

“Of course.”

Of course. Ben shifted slightly in his seat.  His friend had insisted he would like Andrea, even though Ben had sworn off blind dates for eternity. His last blind date had been a disaster, the girl (Dina? Diane? Dana?) sat silent and looked petrified, her eyes widening in horror when the waitress approached their table. 

But after seeing pictures of Andrea, he caved. Andrea was attractive, in a wholesome, all American sort of way. Her honey-colored hair, freckled nose, and brown eyes portrayed something light and airy, almost refreshing.

Now here they were, encapsulated in Andrea’s Honda Civic heading north. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, her being arrested. Maybe she was protesting for an honorable cause and was taken into custody for trespassing. Or perhaps she took the heat for a friend, allowing them to escape while she stood there bravely, letting the cops slap handcuffs on her dainty wrists.

Ben cleared his throat. “What were you arrested for?”

Andrea glanced at the road before resting her gaze on Ben’s face, unwavering. “Vandalism.”

“Vandalism?” Ben repeated. “Like, graffiti?”

“Nah. I keyed my ex boyfriend’s car.”

Ben wasn’t certain, but he thought his heart stopped beating for a split second. 

“You keyed your boyfriend’s car? Why?”

Andrea shrugged, staring ahead. “He broke up with me.”

Shit. This date had to end fast. The last thing he wanted was anything to happen to his BMW. His BMW was his baby, his pride and joy. This was the very reason he insisted Andrea drive. Their lunch destination was located on a road that hadn’t been paved in decades. Ben didn’t want to take the chance of pebbles or debris scratching his Beemer’s freshly waxed exterior. Now that paled in comparison to what Andrea could do.

“Wow,” was all Ben could muster. He frantically made plans. Act like a jerk, so she’ll never want to see you again. No … no. That may piss her off. She’ll track me down and disfigure my car. Boring! Be really boring so she’ll never want to see you again!

So Ben tried to be a dud. He sat stone-faced, like Dina (Dana? Diane?) and said very little. Andrea didn’t seem to notice. At one point she reached over and stroked his hand with her thumb, announcing how happy she was to be there with him. A sense of dread engulfed him. 

Driving home, Andrea started to plan their future. Ben panicked.

“I don’t think this is going to work out,” he said. Silence. He watched Andrea’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning a shade of white. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just not ready for anything …” 

Ben stopped talking. Were they going faster? The scenery flying by Ben’s window was gathering speed. He grabbed the edges of his seat. Andrea was facing forward, her foot gradually pressing down harder on the gas pedal.

“But I know someone perfect for you!” he blurted out.

He could feel Andrea’s body relax. Her foot eased off the accelerator. “Oh yeah? Who?”

“My buddy.” Frantically, Ben thought of his friends. Who would be attracted to someone like this?

“Which buddy?”

And then Ben thought of Doug. Doug who was always kicked out of bars for crazy behavior. Doug who just took it one step too far. Doug and Andrea would be perfect for each other.


Doug?” she repeated. “What kind of name is that?”

But she was satisfied and dropped my friend off in one piece, but not without the orders of Doug contacting her immediately. On impulse, Ben went into the garage to check on his BMW before calling Doug.

“I’ve got a girl for you. But I’m warning you -she’s crazy,” he told Doug.

“Niiiice,” Doug said, “You know what they say. Crazy in the head, crazy in bed.”

And so, Andrea was handed off to Doug, who decided that even she was too nuts for him. But Ben’s BMW was never touched.






He didn’t mean to like her as much as he did. After all, he was drunk when they first met. Very drunk. Besides, he never went to strip clubs. He knew how his wife felt about them. They agreed strip clubs were in the category of cheating, and his wife had that big, annoying squishy heart of hers that felt strip clubs were demeaning to women.  

Yet, here he was again with her. She went by the name Raven. It wasn’t her real name of course. Her real name was Carly, and she swore him to secrecy. No one knew her real name but him. She never told anyone, she said. And she liked being a stripper, he could tell. She really got into it. Plus, she was an afternoon/early evening stripper. Not like those trashy nighttime strippers. Carly was different. 

He tried not to think about his wife, who was home with the kids. In fact, his cell phone kept dinging with texts and pictures of the kids from her. He slid his hand into his pocket and turned the volume off. The time in the city was his time. 

His wife thought he kept returning to the city for business. She was so trusting and gullible that it was ridiculous, making it way too easy for him to hop on the train and see Carly. Every time he came home, he’d rush his suits to the cleaners, saying they got dirty on the train. And his wife would agree, saying MetroNorth needed a good scrubbing. Could she make this any easier for him?

Carly was small with caramel colored skin. Her hair was black and long and smelled spicy. Her breasts were obviously fake, but they felt good in his hands. His wife’s breasts were too small to get a full handful. Ever since her pregnancies they went from nice firm peaches to droopy little pears. Oh, how he had missed the feeling of his fingers wrapping around full, round breasts.

The lap dances, my God, the lap dances. So many of them. The way she moved on him was insane. She was like an exotic drug. Plus, her brother had died, she said. Committed suicide and she was stricken with grief. He listened to her, then she offered another lap dance as a thank you for listening. How could he say no? Her brother had just died.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He knew his wife was pretty with a nice shape. She didn’t let her body go like other dudes’ wives. She was still petite and thin – maybe even too thin. And their sex was great (even better when he pretended it was Carly). But his wife was too good, so run of the mill. Plus, she tended to argue with him sometimes. There was always something his wife needed to discuss. 

Carly always listened. She never argued with him. Granted, Carly was a little dumb but he liked that, it made him feel even more intelligent. Conversations with Carly were simple, yet somehow deep. He loved when he ordered food for them to share. It felt good to eat with her, like she wasn’t a stripper but just some really hot girl who was totally into him; who would climb onto his lap and take off her clothes and put his hands all over her body. Her skin was softer than silk.

When he walked into the club, the managers and bouncer knew he was there for Carly. He chuckled to himself, it was like ordering his usual at a coffee shop. Everyone knew what (or who) he wanted before he even opened his mouth. In fact, he had started reserving Carly in VIP rooms. Sure, it took some finagling with the credit card company, having to raise his credit limit and all. But having Carly (his usual) all to himself? He felt like a king.

Plus, then other dudes didn’t have access to her. He admitted he had become somewhat possessive of Carly. He didn’t want other guys watching her pole dance. He was possessive of his wife too, and now Carly. It made sense – he was a sensitive guy. He cared about both of them. 

Sometimes when he returned home his wife seemed extra annoying. Granted he was always hungover and his head throbbed. He would tell his wife he had a headache and she was compassionate, giving him shoulder massages. But then there was all that shit she asked him to do the next day. Pay the bills, help fold the laundry, run to the store for groceries. She didn’t work for Christ sakes. Why did he have to do everything?

Carly understood. She always did. He tried not to talk about his wife, but when he showed her pictures of the kids, sometimes the topic of his wife would come up. He didn’t have a lot of pictures of his wife on his phone. In a sense, it was like she was fading. She had lost that spot in his heart. Anyways, his kids were his pride and joy. 

Sometimes he worried his wife would find out about Carly and the club. It would destroy her, that he knew. And let’s not to mention the money he was spending here. He had maxed out a few credit cards, and that stupid savings for a new kitchen his wife wanted. That was long gone. His wife was so needy. Their kitchen was fine. Sure, the oven had broken and she was using the microwave and some little indoor grill to make meals, but life wasn’t easy for him either. 

So yeah, he spent their money on Carly. HIS money. His wife certainly wasn’t contributing financially. So maybe he was having trouble paying some bills. He told his dad he was having some financial stress, and that it was because his wife refused to work. He also told his dad that he met someone too, another woman. (He didn’t tell his dad that Carly was a stripper, he wasn’t that stupid.) His dad understood – his dad always understood. Anyways, his dad gave him money to get out of trouble, and he shared that he too had been involved with someone during his marriage to his mom. His dad was best the man he knew.  If his dad could have an affair, then anyone could. 

But he was also a good man, a good father, and a good husband. He knew he should stop coming here. He just couldn’t.


I’m a telemarketer

I’m a telemarketer. This is not something that makes me proud, and certainly not something I intended on doing. When I was twelve, I didn’t look at my parents and announce, “Forget being a doctor or attorney. Nevermind being an architect or physicist. When I grow up I want to cold call businesses and ask them if they need insurance.” 

Prior to being a telemarketer I had naively (arrogantly) assumed that anyone who would phone complete strangers for a living must have zero education. Or perhaps they had education but made some poor choices which led them to this very sad job. Regardless, I found telemarketers intrusive at best and rather pathetic as worst.

And now I am one. An educated (I have a master’s degree from a well respected NYC University) telemarketer. What led me to telemarketing was a series of, as Lemony Snicket would say, unfortunate events: putting my career on an eight-year hiatus to stay home with my kids, cancer diagnosis and treatment, then needing full-time employment ASAP because of a divorce. 

I had standards though. I would never call someone’s private residence. At least, that’s what I told myself to lessen the sting of calling random strangers all day. However, I was quick to find that calling businesses is merely one step above calling someone’s home. People are busy at work and already have the insurance I sell. As so many people have told me when I call, “If I wanted your insurance, I would call you.”

I am expected to make 75 calls a day: The more calls I make, the better likelihood of a sale. It’s a numbers game. I’m supposed to call each business every other week. This means twice a month I call in the chance they suddenly decide to use us – in the hopes the person who makes the decisions about insurances has changed.  Or, magically, the person who has been avoiding us for years suddenly decides one morning to answer the phone and give this pesky telemarketer their business. 

The boroughs of Manhattan are the worst; Nassau and Queen Counties a form of audiological torture. I knew New Yorkers were rough, but cold calling them for insurance releases a whole new side of this already aggressive humanity.

I’ve been threatened (“I don’t ever want to hear your voice on my phone again, is that clear?”) demeaned (“I would never work with someone as low as you,”) and messed with (“this sounds fascinating, tell me more” and then hanging up while I was explaining). I cry less than I used to, but some days I still get a sinking feeling in my chest before each dial.

I call armed with scripts – an algorithm of how to respond to their responses. Happy with their insurance? Then I say this. Recently switched and don’t want to switch again? Then I say that. It’s dancing through the raindrops – if I get that far. Most often I am hung up on or sent to a general voicemail, which is equivalent to a verbal shredder.

I speak with dozens of receptionists (or as we call them: gatekeepers). Some are akin to highly trained offensive linemen keeping callers like me from speaking with their superiors. When I ask to speak with a specific person, Nassau County gatekeepers are notorious for simply saying, “No” and hanging up.  

Despite the number of businesses I have called, I have made very few sales. I stumble over my words when I finally get the correct person on the phone, shocked they’re even listening. I’m also bracing myself for the impending hang-up, insult or quickly deciphering which script I should use in response to why they’re not interested. 

My manager tells me I need to shrug it off, to not take these people personally. So basically I need to possess some attributes of a sociopath. There is nothing natural in calling complete strangers and after being treated poorly, hanging up and immediately calling another one. 

I dial on, trying to meet my quota, hoping I make a sale, though I have found making a sale doesn’t thrill me as much as kind people do.