Salon.com > Alix Wall

He made me his drug mule

Wed, 01 May 2013 11:45:00 +0000

Facebook has been used to find ex-lovers, childhood BFFs or the one who got away.

I used it to find the guy who, without my consent, made me his drug mule.

It was 1989, long before Israelis were involved in the international ecstasy trade. I was a University of California, Santa Cruz, student in need of a break. My plan was hardly original: Go to Israel, live on a kibbutz, learn some Hebrew.

Before leaving, I attended a Jerry Garcia Band show at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. After the show, my friend and I got a ride back to Santa Cruz with some random guys, one of whom was Israeli. When I mentioned I was going to Israel in a few days, he asked if I would take a birthday present to mail to a friend. It was already late.

Given my strong Israeli-dar, I knew he would do no harm to Israel. What I failed to consider was whether he would cause any harm to me. He told me it was jewelry. He wrote his name and return address in Israel on the back of the envelope, and his friend’s on the front.

My mom was adamant that I not take it. Duh. But I was 20. I believed that my fellow Deadhead and Jew could be trusted; he was a brother.

The number that will outlive my grandfather

Mon, 01 May 2000 16:00:00 +0000

Not too long ago, over dinner, my grandfather described to me the epitaph he wants to have inscribed on his tombstone. When I dutifully reported his wishes to my mother, it did not go over well. My grandparents and I live in New York, my parents in California. Although she speaks to them often, my mother relies on me to be her conduit for information on her parents' lives. And so I transmit dispatches of news from the Upper West Side to the suburban desert where I grew up.

As I awaited my mother's response to this latest communiqui, I could envision the tears welling up. And sure enough, when her words came through the receiver, she had elevated the simple wish of an old man into the next family crisis.

My mother was not upset simply by the idea that her father was planning for his death. After all, it isn't that unusual for a man in his late 80s, whose days are defined by which doctor he has an appointment with, to treat his own death as imminent. It was the inscription itself that she found so offensive; that in his final resting place, in addition to his name, my grandfather wants to be remembered by a five-digit number.