Back in our tiny flat in Village, we’d purchased proper radio with clock. It was 2:05 AM and on KQNF, New York’s cool FM station, Robby Krieger had just launched his solo.

“I knew our story was not over, my love . . . there, in DC, at first with my parents at the temple, then alone in my room, I said prayers for the first time and began to have feelings I had not felt before. At first, I was so self conscious, like someone might find out and laugh at me. But, Misha . . . I started to talk to God.”

“That is a very sweet thing, Rivka. Was it a feeling like God was present, or just a physical thing like intense pleasure.”

“Hmm, I think both. I felt God’s presence. And maybe it was just endorphins, maybe alpha waves, but it was a comfort, and yes, an intense pleasure, and I wanted to feel it always. I know. I see you smiling. Almost hear you saying, ‘Opiate of the masses.’ You didn’t always feel that way and my eyes are open. Being a Jew is not to be lulled. It’s a fucking call to arms.”

“I know, right. But that’s all I feel now, a call to arms. I’m just so angry, Ri.”

“Mmm . . . my warrior angel. I truly did have a hole right here,” my hand over my heart,  “a big one, but I came to feel strongly, I mean, I knew . . . we would be together again. We have a purpose together, Misha. I don’t know exactly what it will be, but whatever it is, I will be by your side.”

“Kind of interesting, da? I lose my faith as you find yours.”

“I feel a song coming on.”

“Xa!”

When Max returned to New York, three of us began playing together, figuring each other out. My keyboard became glue and I loved being glue-master. I could solo and improvise, but mostly I loved being glue. Glue and vocals, and . . . songwriting with my lover, my best friend.

The two of us were on fire, writing ten songs in first month. By end of February we had another eight. They weren’t all good, maybe about half. Our process . . . actually we had no process. Misha would wake up at 3am with idea, wrestle with it, get up and write it down. Or we would be walking along street, truck would go by and hit a manhole cover, creating two notes followed by a woman yelling something and that would trigger me. 

We’d be on train. He’d dah dah dah melody.

“Uhhh, How about it does this?” I’d sing variation.

“Da, better. Lay your head, lay it on my chest dear . . .???” 

“How about ‘Rest your head, rest it on?’” 

“Da, da. That’s good, Ri.”

“You can hear my heart beat,” I’d sing.

Then he’d sing, “It’s beating just for you.”

“It’s a hit!” I’d scream. We’d laugh, write it down in notebook we carried with us, and then get off at next stop, looking for more inspiration.

Max’s day gig was as factory floor manager for furniture manufacturing company and at night he gigged. He had couple regular bands playing top-40s in clubs in Brooklyn and Bronx. When those bands weren’t playing Max was filling in throughout five boroughs. Any gig he could get. Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, corporate gigs, jazz, klezmer. Max was definition of gigging musician. He lived in Bronx in warehouse where we got together to rehearse, initially once a week, but as things heated up he took fewer and fewer random gigs and was devoting more of his time to our band . . . our band which had no rhythm section.

Misha and I were full-time songwriters. Holed up in our flat over bakery, we’d spend hours writing on electric piano Misha had loaned me years ago, which lived on fold-down ironing board, and acoustic guitar. We seemed to feed off each other’s energy. Kot functioned as Muse. If song was going well he would purr in sphinx. If he didn’t like song, “Mrrrff,” and he’d take off. When we weren’t writing, we were having sex. When we weren’t writing or having sex we were roaming New York, looking for inspiration.

Me, breathless, spent,“Baby, you make love to me so sweet.”

“I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I’m never going to leave you. My love is a rock.”

“Constant as the Northern Star?”

“Da . . . you’ve heard this before?”

“Da, da, da, all my Russian girlfriends have said this to me.” 

We’d been up writing until 3am, then made love, passionately, my butt on kitchen counter, slept for few hours, then made love, him sitting on kitchen chair, me straddling him.

“Misha, do you think I am a nympho?”

“I think you like being intimate with me,” he answered cautiously.

“That’s very sweet. Why are you being so diplomatic? I’m not trying to trip you up. This is not a trick question. If I wanted to ask you a trick question I would say, Misha, do you like me at this weight or at weight I was in High School?”

He had look on his face like, Oh, I know how to answer this one. He began, “Oh, I think”

“No, Misha, there is no correct answer. That is a trick question. What I am asking my boyfriend is to answer me honestly about his opinion of my sexuality.”

“Ok . . . I think that label, nymphomaniac, is the label given by certain people to certain other people who are having more sex than they are.” He was in pedantic mode. “It’s demeaning, sexist, patriarchal and condescending – saying these women, these ‘nymphos,’ are like animals in heat. I think the term is disgusting and has absolutely no place in a serious discussion about sex and sexuality. I think you like to um . .”

“Fuck?”

“I was going to say ‘have sex’ but ‘fuck’ also works. I think you like to fuck . . . a lot. Meaning you like it when you’re doing it, a lot. And you like to do it frequently, quite frequently.”

“Misha, I jacked off all the time in High School. Wake up in the middle of the night, jack off. Wake up in the morning, jack off. Go to the toilet at school . . . you get the picture?”

“That’s a lot of jacking off.”

“Not so much now, I mean, really not at all. Every time I think about sex, I reach out and you . . . rise to the occasion.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I am a nympho too.”

“Xa!”

                                                                                         ***

***

“Those guys were good. I’m not saying they weren’t. I’m just not sure it’s a great fit. It just felt like two warring camps . . . I thought maybe I should have put up the white flag.” Misha was maybe being little bit of drama queen describing our session with drummer and bassist.

“I don’t think either one of them respected me.” I was standing up for my rights.

Max said, “I don’t think they had any sense of who was fronting at any given moment.” Misha and I both looked at Max, questioningly. “Look,” he said. “A song is an ocean . . . or better yet, a river . . . at any given moment a vocal pops up out of the water or fronts, next moment, a little farther down the river, keyboard bridges to the next moment, next moment guitar screams . . . are you understanding the words I am speaking?”

We were both been staring at him, mesmerized by his eloquence. I said, “Yes, we are now understanding you. Max, you are one smart motherfucker!”

“Fuck you both.”

“No, really Max,” Misha added.

“Fuck you both twice!”