"Bianca" is a Rio de Janeiro native who had lived in various locations
around eastern Massachusetts (most notably, the MetroWest area) since
approximately 1999. Up until the evening of July 3, 2004, she was a
part
time exotic dancer at my local
club in Fitchburg. She is very pretty, stands about 5' 5" (without
her Plexiglas heels), has black hair, a darker complexion with tan
lines, and a petite
to medium build. At the club, she loved to wear fringed panties and
white laced bodices, and carried a tiny black pocketbook. I estimated
that she was in her early to mid 20's.
I met Bianca on the night of May 15, 2004. From the first
private dance I had with her, I knew she was special. I told her that I
had not been to the club in 15 months because I fell upon hard times
financially and I "didn't have the heart to gyp the girls." She smiled
and replied in her subtle accent, "Well, I know you're going to get a
really good job so you
can come back and visit us often." She then came over and gave me a
warm hug. While exiting
to the parking lot several minutes after
that first dance, I quietly said to myself, "To meet her is to love
her."
For a number of reasons, there was a three week gap before I saw Bianca
again. Since I had been away from the club for 15 months, my next few
visits occurred on different nights of the week. I wanted to spend some
time getting familiar with the entire lineup of current dancers.
Furthermore, on at least one of the Saturday nights during this period,
Bianca had been recruited for a bachelor's party
and she was no longer there by the time I arrived.
A couple of weeks after our introduction, I was conversing
with a male friend and mentioned that I had returned to visiting the
club. He asked me to describe some of the dancers I met on recent
visits. In order to give pithy, yet accurate descriptions, I found
myself slipping into "boy talk" and using graphic language to describe
their attributes and personality traits. I saved Bianca, the most
significant discovery, for last. I described her in glowing
terms,
summing her up succinctly with the phrase "hot pussy and a warm heart."
Finally, on the evening of Saturday, June 5, 2004, I walked into the
club and there she was, nude
on stage in the middle of her routine. She recognized me immediately
and
walked right up and greeted me by name. She was obviously delighted I
had arrived,
as if she had been anticipating it. The exuberant, mesmerizing private
dance she performed for
me later on left no doubt as to how much she had been thinking
about me. The song that played was
performed by Lords of Acid and was entitled - of all things - "Pussy."
(You
certainly won't hear it on over-the-air radio). She spent
several minutes backstage just prior to the dance and there is a good
chance she arranged to have it come up. But
whatever the case, she never took her eyes
off me while doing her moves, and she lip synched every salacious lyric
right at me, with more conviction and enthusiasm than I have ever seen
an exotic dancer display during a private dance. Furthermore, it was
the first time I heard this song played at the club, and it felt like
she had telepathically eavesdropped on the conversation with my friend
a week earlier and was deliberately playing up to it. Immediately after
she finished, she ran over and hugged me before she could fully get her
top back on. Then, as we began to release, she hugged me again.
Time only confirmed what I initially sensed about Bianca. Never in all
my
years (I was 49 at the time) had I met a woman where the elements of
beauty, sexuality, expressive warmth and affection, and reverence
for family and friends were in seemingly perfect balance. During this
and in many subsequent
visits, we had long talks
and it was obvious we had quickly evolved into a best customer/best
dancer
relationship. Before and after her private dances, we would embrace
and she would hold my hand while we talked. Undoubtedly, Bianca could
have made more money by spreading herself around. But instead, we
almost always seemed to gravitated toward each other.
If I made any mistake in those early weeks, it came at the end
of that evening of June 5th. I was preparing to leave at a "typical"
time, but it
was obvious that she wanted me to stay and she was a bit disappointed
when I didn't. Perhaps I was surprised by her enthusiastic reception
and I was not totally prepared. Perhaps my personal history - a 49 year
old man who has never been married, never been engaged, never been in
any real long or even short term relationship, and has had his heart
broken too many times - caused a moment of caution. Or, more likely, I
had a need to end the evening savoring and daydreaming about the
beautiful experience I just had. But one thing was sure. Whether I
just needed to go home and daydream about Bianca, or whether I ended up
staying until closing (and even taking her home for a night of wild,
passionate sex), I knew on that evening that I had fallen in love with
her. I assured her that I would return on Tuesday night, even though I
had to work until 9 or later.
When Tuesday night came, it seemed that something had changed, at least
for the time being. We exchanged a very friendly greeting, but that was
the only contact we had all evening. I came in late, so time was at a
premium, but she also ending up leaving early. It turned out to be the
only night when we were both at the club but didn't have a private
dance and a long, intimate talk. The following Saturday night, she was
not there for her usual shift and no bachelor party had come in to
recruit her. She was also not there the following Tuesday night. I was
missing her and I was becoming concerned.
Finally, on the next
Saturday evening, she finally returned for her
regular shift. I
was so happy and relieved I offered to buy all her drinks
for the
remainder of the evening. When I asked why she had missed all her
shifts
over the past ten days, she said she had developed a rash that spread
over much of her body. It itched quite a bit, but she didn't know what
it was or what caused it. Given the time of year, and having
grown up in southern New England and learning the hard way, I knew what
was
coming. Nevertheless, to be sure, I asked her to describe the rash
through its
various
stages. It wasn't long before I heard all I needed to hear. "Oh, I know
what that is," I replied. "It's poison ivy. You must have come into
contact with some." Obviously, as a Brazilian, Bianca was still
unfamiliar with the perils of the local environment.
I have several fond and humorous memories of my visits to the club
that followed Bianca's "poison ivy absence." One evening, a young lady
came in, apparently with her boyfriend, and there was
something about the atmosphere of a strip club that set her loose. She
began to have these long, animated conversations with each of the
dancers while they were on stage, her hands
gesticulating vigorously while she spoke, and occasionally pointing to
various parts of their bodies. She was behaving as if she had
never seen another woman nude before (and possibly even herself ). All
her poor boyfriend could do was sit there with a look of mild
embarrassment on his face. At one point it appeared that
she may actually be touching the dancers, and that alerted a member of
the security staff to come over and remind her of the rules.
When
Bianca came on stage, she received the same treatment from this lady
customer as the others. But eventually, Bianca made her way over to me
and
I couldn't help but comment
about the situation. Using blatant American slang in my speech, I
exclaimed, "Boy,
she is
wired!" On my next visit, I deliberately used the term
again in conversation, this time to cleverly describe my own mood. A
little bit
later, while Bianca was again on stage, she walked over to me and asked
the inevitable English-is-my-second-language question: "When you say
'she's wired,' do you mean she has, like, wires?" She gestured by
holding
each of her thumbs and index fingers together then pulling them apart
as if she were holding and spreading a wire. I moved as close to her as
I could, and very slowly and clearly I replied, "In a manner of
speaking... yes." She immediately burst out laughing, then smilingly
continued her routine on stage.
On one of the Tuesday nights during this period, I had just come in
from a work shift that had ended around 9 PM. I was feeling a bit
more sleepy than usual and my state of mind began to influence
my behavior. When Bianca approached me while she was on stage, it
felt appropriate to just stare up at her with awe and reverence and say
to her in a dazed voice, "I'm
in
dreamland." She had to repeat the word "dreamland" to herself for the
meaning to sink in, but when it finally did, she smiled back at me.
Later that week, I was once again in a similar position, with her on
stage in front of me, and this time I said, "I'm a deer in the
headlights." This time, she asked me to repeat the entire phrase. But
it was obvious on the second take that she not only understood what
I meant, but also associated the comment with the one I made earlier in
the week. It was moments like these - the little ways I appreciated her
and kept her entertained - that I will cherish and carry in my heart
for the rest of my life.
During this period, I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to
get together with Bianca outside the club, even to the point of getting
on my knees to beg
her for a date. But when we were in each other's presence,
all I was
able
to do was savor each moment I was spending with her. Whether
she was on stage, or private dancing, or holding my hand and telling me
about her life, when I was with her, the present moment was all
consuming and fulfilling. I couldn't even think about planning for
later that night, tomorrow, next week
or next month. The only time that existed was the present moment.
By far, the pinnacle of my experience with Bianca occurred on Sunday
June 27, 2004. The club is normally closed on Sundays, but on that day,
a
special invitation only birthday party was held in honor of Nadia, the
chief supervising dancer. Nadia had invited me and dozens of other
regular male customers to the event. Because it was a private party,
the usual state and local ordinances that prohibit certain activities
at strip clubs no longer applied. Lap dancing and touching, which were
normally
off limits, were the main staples at this event as long as they were
within a dancer's
comfort zone. When I walked into the party, it was a wild frenzy with
the girls instantly jumping off stage and lap dancing customers. Some
fortunate guys had the opportunity to sit in a chair in the middle of
the stage
while being smothered by several nude
girls at once. The atmosphere was nothing short of
electrifying.
When the time was finally right for Bianca and me to lap dance in the
private dance area (which was hardly "private" during this event with
six or seven couples in play at any one time), the familiarity,
friendship, physical attraction, and my feelings toward her combined to
create the most wonderful, ecstatic interlude of intimacy
and exuberance I've ever been able to enjoy with a woman. As we held
and embraced each other to begin the dance, I asked,
"You know where I want to take you?" I gave her a brief kiss to her
side and
continued, "I want to take you on a poison ivy tour." With sweet
exasperation she smiled and replied, "But I'm over that now."
[Given
the atmosphere, the volume of the music, and English being her second
language, she may have thought I was referring to the poison ivy
infected areas of her body... ] "Yes," I said, "But
after we get done, you're going to know the plant so well, you're never
going to get it again!" She then turned face down on to the
bench to lap dance me from a doggie position. She looked back at me
from over her shoulder with an enormous
grin, obviously amused by my offer.
Bianca
later remarked that it was the best lap
dance she had ever performed. As the event was
winding down and it was time for me to leave, I walked over to her to
say good-bye. I
handed her a small sheet of paper with my contact information. Then
I gave her a tender good-bye hug while saying in an almost boyish
voice,
"Thank you for making me so happy." While I was still embracing her,
she asked if I would be back on Tuesday. I said it might be
difficult given my work hours, especially if I have to stay late. But I
would definitely be back on Saturday.
In spite of my hours, I couldn't resist dropping by to see her after
work on Tuesday night. During a conversation a couple of weeks earlier,
Binaca had told me how she began smoking in high school thanks to
"peer pressure." (I had to refresh her memory of that succinct
Americanism.) She went on to admit how terribly hooked she is now and
how much she regrets it for all the expense, inconvinience, and risk it
causes in her life. I replied by recalling that a few days earlier, I
had heard a radio talk show host mention that nicotine is five times as
addicting as heroin.
As I walked into the club on that Tuesday night, she was once again on
stage, and she was
obviously surprised I managed to showed up. "Jeff! I thought you
wouldn't be back until Saturday," she exclaimed. "I couldn't resist," I
replied. "You're five times as addicting as heroin." Once again, I had
her laughing and smiling. Later, before our private dance, she held my
hand as I related the euphoria I felt while sitting in my car after
driving home from Sunday's
event. I told her I had looked at my car's clock, then up
at the sky, and then observed out loud, "It's 8:52 and there's still
daylight. It's the season of the summer solstice." Then, by leaning
over her, I mimicked how I had leaned
over
to the passenger seat with my hands held toward the heavens
proclaiming, "Isn't it WONDERFUL to be ALIVE?" I told her that I had
had
an
"epiphany." (Bianca loved learning new English words. "Write that
down!" she implored.)
After her dance routine, I went on to comment on how the atmosphere
around the private dance area that day felt like a non swinging group
sex situation. I could see how a couple, who may have been lukewarm
toward each other for a while due to other obligations and concerns,
could walk into a scene like this, and all the love and passion would
return with a vengeance. She replied that during the two years
she was with her ex-boyfriend, they had actually gone to a sex
club where they remained coupled, but she described (with great
decorum, typical of her) a three-some that was happening on the floor
in front of them. Then she asked if I had ever had such an experience.
I said to myself, "Oh no, she would have to ask that, wouldn't she?
Given the
social circles of my distant past, even if I were lucky enough to have
had a real relationship with a woman, who's to say she would have been
open to such activity?" I dropped my head and admitted quietly I had
had too much bad luck with women all my life to have had such an
experience. At that moment, she was still directly in front of me in
her
private dance space. She reached out, held my hand fervently and said,
"You WILL have that experience. I know you will. You will find that
woman. You will find her." I looked up at her with obvious hurt in my
eyes that must have said, "But, if I am ever to have that experience, I
want to have it with you."
At this point, even after the euphoria of June 27th, I was confounded
and confused. It had been so obvious that Bianca was fond of me. Yes,
she
made a similar comment once or twice before, and
even I once shyly spoke of relationship in the third person. But that
was back during our earliest conversations. Naturally, I was having
some difficulty in the days
that followed, not understanding fully why she said what she did,
downgrading my expectations, and preparing for a
more difficult wooing process. "Not this again," I thought. "Why the
same thing over and over and over, especially this time with THIS
woman?" It set the stage for me not being my usual cheery, witty self
on my next visit on Saturday, July 3rd. As I
was to find out, the nightmare that I am now living began on that
evening.
When she first saw me that night, she asked if something was wrong
because I looked "pissed." Actually I wasn't, and certainly not at her,
but in retrospect, I wish I had prepared myself for a better mindset or
not shown up at all. Parts of the evening actually did not seem bad.
The
private dance was wonderful and she wore a new cranberry colored
fringed panty that was just adorable and I highly praised her for it as
she twisted it around her waist. She also revealed some information
critical to solving her visa situation, a subject of critical
importance to her and one we discussed nearly every time we were
together.
I never said anything negative or insulting to her that night. But
there was a period when we were sitting at the bar and I ended up
singing her praises a little too strongly while briefly putting my arm
around her. I knew my timing was off. I probably
sounded a bit like a desperate man shooting from the hip on the night
of the full moon. Her perplexed response was, "You see that in ME?"
During the earlier immigration discussion, I had also briefly put my
arm around her and remarked that if she was ever deported,
I would break down and cry. (Yes, that was apparently too heavy of a
revelation for her mood that evening as well.)
She went over and talked to the shift manager for a while, then chatted
with me briefly again in our more usual way. I felt relieved, hoping
her reaction was only a momentary response. In fact, she wanted to get
together with me on the next day, the 4th of July,
because there appeared to be something urgent she wanted to discuss.
She was also going to be alone for the holiday and didn't want
to be. I badly wanted to take up her offer, but it caught me by
surprise. "I definitely want to get
together with you," I replied. But I had a work
commitment followed by a trip to my parent's cottage already in my
schedule. With brief,
subtle disappointment she replied, "It's a good thing you are seeing
your parents. Family is important." (This was the second time in a week
she had made a comment about family being important.) I suggested
meeting
later in the week, or possibly the following weekend, near her home in
Framingham. But she never followed up on it. I stayed until closing
that night expecting her to do one more round on stage. But she had
disappeared out a side door shortly after midnight, never giving anyone
a chance to see her or say good-bye.
I showed up at the club on Tuesday night July 6th, which would have
been
her
next regular shift, but she wasn't there. Now I was truly worried, and
considerably more worried than I was during her poison ivy absence.
On Thursday July 8th, I was
concerned enough to call the club to see if they could relay a message.
But the club manager told me that Bianca had decided to go off the
schedule and "give it a rest for a while." My heart sank like a stone.
All I could say to him for a few moments in hushed tones was, "Oh, no
really?... Oh no..." She was expected to call in later that
day with more information, but they no longer had a current phone
number for her. (She had recently told me she had just completed a move
from Westboro to Framingham.) After I hung up the phone, I turned to an
image that reminded me of her and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I
never meant to hurt you."
Somehow I held up okay that afternoon and even felt a tinge or two of
optimism. But that evening it all hit me, and while the thunderstorms
raged outside, I was raging in desperation on the inside. I experienced
what was probably close to a nervous breakdown. I was wailing loudly,
shouting epitaphs about how I wanted to die as Bianca's handsome but
failed suitor. The emotional breakdown, combined with a slight virus I
picked up that July 4th
weekend, altered my voice for weeks. In the months that followed, I
averaged
two to three private weeping spells per day brought on by my visions,
memories,
and concerns about her.
One of the reasons my reaction was so extreme was the timing of her
departure. It
couldn't have been worse. I had just determined which car in the
employee lot was hers and, knowing how exotic dancers can mysteriously
disappear, I was going to get her tag number so that I at least had
something to trace her should the worst ever happen. Most importantly,
in
the 48 hours that followed the night of July 3rd, I had come up with a
brainstorm for solving one of the most pressing problems she had in her
life.
I hesitate to admit this on a public web site, and the last thing I
ever
want to do is get Bianca in trouble if she is still in the
United States. But she was here on an expired visa. (It should have
been no surprise. Much later, I was to find out that up to 70 per cent
of the Brazilian population in Massachusetts is here illegally or on
expired visas.) Our immigration laws seem to favor
dependent family members over individuals like herself, who come
largely independent of anyone else and are trying to pay their own way.
So it was very difficult for her to qualify for a green card. But
somehow, she
wanted to get over this hurdle and eventually achieve dual U.S./Brazil
citizenship.
For weeks I had been occasionally combing through information on the
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration web site trying to come up with ideas
to make her legal at this point in time, but it was next to impossible
on an expired visa. The only thing that the government seems to have
some empathy with in this area is marriage. But a
K-1 fiancé visa can only be issued to an intended who is
still
outside U.S. borders, not one who is already here (and illegally, no
less).
One positive development that occurred on the night of July 3, 2004 is
that she
told me she had talked to her youngest brother and he really
wanted her to come home to watch him graduate from high school in
December of that year. She also hadn't seen her mother in person in
five
years. I
could see from the hurt on her face how much she was missing them, yet
she knew with her current status that if she left the
United States, it would be very unlikely she would ever be able to
reenter this country.
In the days following July 3rd, my mind was reeling with ideas about
this.
Then it hit me. I realized that her desire to return to Brazil in
December
was EXACTLY what was needed to fill the missing link in a sequence of
events I
was assembling. Of course, the U.S.
authorities are not going to come out and tell you this. But if you
read between the lines, you eventually realize that if you are in this
country illegally, the best thing to do IS to go back to where you came
from, then re-enter the United States on a different visa.
Basically,
my
plan called for her to go back to Brazil in December, arrive for her
brother's graduation, and stay through the holidays. At least three
months before her planned return to the U.S., I would go to the
Immigration office in Boston and
declare her my fiancé, providing all the necessary data
using
her mother's home address and phone number as her legal residence. Once
such an
application is approved, a visa for her would be sent to the U.S.
Consulate Office in Rio de Janeiro where she would pick it up before
her departure back to the United States. The fiancé visa
would
cover her return legally for 90 days, just like it would for the
typical "mail order bride." But she would have to marry me before the
ninety days were up because the visa is not renewable.
[Note: It wasn't until May of 2007 that I discovered this plan
probably would not have worked. For many years, Homeland Security has
been tracking everyone departing the country via air travel. If she
returned to Brazil then applied for another U.S. visa, air passenger
data would be referenced, the long overstay of her original visa would
be obvious, and any future visa applications would be denied until
2014. The simplest solution - from an immigration perspective - would
have been to catch her before she left the country and marry her on the
spot.]
I did not consider my idea to be merely a "paper" marriage scheme
because, obviously, I loved her quite deeply.
If I were ever to be married,
I would want to be married to her. If there was any potential "paper"
aspect, it would fall on her side
of the deal, in light of the possible implication of her comments on
the night of July 3rd. I would have tailored the arrangement so that
outside of a
few requirements, plus the sequence of events that
must be followed, SHE would be the one who decides how much interaction
she
would have with me at any time in the relationship. The arrangement
would culminate in five years when she could earn her U.S.
citizenship as my wife with my help. After that, the marriage would
remain in effect indefinitely and would only be dissolved if she met
another man she truly wanted to be married to more than me. My hope, of
course, was that over time, she would see how rewarding a partnership
with me would be, having proven my integrity and love, and the
marriage would then become truly mutual.
All I needed were a couple more bits of information from her that I was
hoping to get on Tuesday, July 6th. Had she held on and not quit, I
would
have told her that her desire to return to Brazil in December was
exactly what was needed to make all the elements of my original plan
fall into
place. I would have told her that within two weeks I would run
everything by an immigration attorney, then submit it to her in a
written report for her consideration. But apparently, it
all wasn't meant to be.
The next day (Friday July 9th) I reshuffled my schedule and drove down
to
the Brighton section of Boston in an attempt to find her. A number of
times, Bianca had talked about her other job at an automotive insurance
agency, one that was "owned by Russians."
She commented that it took a while to
learn everything involved, but now she knew the job well. I
was amused
when she admitted that during slow periods, she would take interesting
license
plate numbers she saw on the street and look them up in the state data
base. She wanted to see if she could gain any insights into the owner's
personality. She had asked if I
could
give
her either my license or registration number so she could do a complete
printout with a proposed rate schedule. My first thought was a
superficial one. "Oh, no... an exotic dancer from a third world
country... she's after my credit cards!" But I sensed she was
trustworthy, so a week later I gave her the information. "Good!" she
exclaimed, in an accent that was much more noticeable than
usual. "Now I can find out EVERYTHING about you."
Bianca never revealed the name of the agency where she worked and
I never asked her. I did, however, ask her what
town it was in. She said it was in Brighton and also mentioned
that she would commute up
Commonwealth Avenue (pronouncing that multi syllabled English name as
best she could) to get to work. Thanks to the notoriously
incomplete nature of some internet "yellow pages" searches, I could
initially come up with only one auto insurance agency in Brighton.
Ironically enough, on that first day of searching, I found a car parked
on
Washington Street in the center of Brighton that looked exactly like
the unusual car she drove to the club, a light tan
Chrysler LeBaron GTC convertible from the early '90's. Unfortunately,
I had a work
obligation that prevented me from staying until the vehicle's driver
showed up. At the time, I was so convinced that this car was Bianca's,
I
left a note on the windshield. I urged
her to call me, saying that I had been in agony since I found out she
left the club, but that I also had good news about her visa
situation. I closed by apologizing for any damage I may have caused to
her life. I never received a response to the note. On advice from a
friend, I returned to the same area of
Brighton on Monday morning July 12th to see if I could intercept her
between
the car and the office. But there was no sign of the car anywhere.
[As it turned out, in January 2005, a private detective determined
that the car I had found belonged to a hair stylist who worked at a
salon in the neighborhood. She had never met Bianca and had no
knowledge of her. Finally, in June 2005, I followed a hunch and did
some internet research. After three weeks of study, we finally
determined - and received confirmation - that Galaxy Insurance, located
on Commonwealth Avenue at the Allston-Brighton line, was the agency
where she had worked. Galaxy is one of several agencies in the
Allston-Brighton-Brookline area that is owned by Russian immigrants.]
The focus of the search then returned to the club. On Tuesday July 13th
I once again talked to Don, the manager to see if they had
received any word from Bianca since my last call. My fears were
confirmed. On Thursday July 8th, Bianca had called saying it will be
two
months before she returns, if at all. She had made her initial request
to go on leave with an assistant manager on duty the night of July 3rd.
(I witnessed that conversation late that evening, but
I was too far away to hear any of it.) Furthermore, she did not give
the club any new phone number where she could be reached. Indeed, she
was gone. But just a week before she left, she had told me
enthusiastically, "Don't worry. I'm not going
anywhere. I'm staying right here."
With this discouraging news, my focus again shifted to Brighton. The
agency on which I had concentrated had a Brazilian girl named Beatrice
who was
around Bianca's age but... let's say she definitely did not have the
body of an
exotic dancer. I was told there were 39 insurance agencies in Brighton
alone
and a good number of them deal in auto insurance. I discovered that a
total of three of
those agencies were within walking distance of where I thought I had
found Bianca's
car on July 9th. On Monday July 19th, I walked several times in front
of
the
agencies on my list, but there was no sign of her. The other two
agencies near where I thought I had found her car had primarily
Hispanic
employees, but she was not one of them. Another agency right on
Commonwealth Avenue (Sawyer Insurance) had two or three employees that
could have been of
Russian descent. Although she had mentioned traveling up Commonwealth
Avenue, I didn't assume at the time that her agency was right on it.
And there was no sign of
her or her car anywhere. This agency was also too far from the car
I had discovered on July 9th.
By late July of 2004, I had concluded that Bianca had quit her
insurance job as well. (Although this conclusion was based upon the
wrong evidence, it indeed turned out to be true.) On Monday July 26th,
I planned on
calling all the insurance
agencies I surveyed on the 19th under the guise that I was concerned
for a
missing friend who had apparently quit both of her
jobs very suddenly and disappeared. Instead I went at it from the
"owned by Russians" angle
because it seemed simpler and faster. I asked people at a few Brighton
agencies if they knew of any other Brighton insurance agency that may
be owned or managed by Russian immigrants. Nobody had heard of such
an agency, and only one woman said she may have heard of one
over in Brookline. By the afternoon of July 27th, I had considered my
efforts to find her in Brighton a failure. Bianca had mentioned that
she was
looking into another job in Framingham, closer to her home. But
switching jobs that quickly in this economy is difficult. And the last
thing an undocumented immigrant should do is perjure herself by
filling out more W2 forms and Declarations of Citizenship.
By August of 2004, I felt that my last hope of finding Bianca through
any tangible means might be
through a private investigator. Back in July, I had tried contacting a
firm in Westboro
but kept
getting a fax machine, so I wrote to them a summary of the situation. I
never received a response because they had gone out of business. I was
finally able to get help from licensed P.I.'s starting in December of
2004 and January of 2005. But outside of determining that the car I
found in Brighton was not linked to her, it cost me a lot of money for
tasks I could have ultimately done myself.
When you have apparently exhausted all physical means of trying to find
someone, you have no choice but to turn to far
less tangible (i.e. metaphysical) means. But such pursuits leave you
vulnerable to all sorts of tricksters and dishonest hustlers who have
nothing better to do with their lives than to prey on the broken
hearted.
During August of 2004, I spent $400 on "spiritual" efforts to
get
Bianca back into my life. $300 was wasted on a dishonest store front
"psychic" who also ran
her own "church" (supposedly). She absolutely guaranteed that she could
get
Bianca back to the club and back into my life as my willing lover. This
"psychic" said that she knew my heart and claimed a success
rate of "17 out of
17" in such situations. She even had the gall to declare she wanted to
be "invited to our wedding." But by two more sessions it became
apparent that all she cared about was getting larger and larger sums of
money from me (probably to support her bratty little kid). She
received a copy of this testimony but didn't even read it. (Hey,
she's "psychic." Perhaps she doesn't need to, right? Curiosity and
empirical
facts are foreign concepts to spiritualist kooks.)
Finally she
wanted me to put up $700 toward a $1500 project involving a "cleansing
of my bloodline," and warned that a demon may be violently released in
the
process. It would include an erection of a human sized candle, molded
and clothed in the image of Bianca, which would burn at the "church" in
an effort to cleanse her heart and bloodline as well. She claimed that
the reason I have been plagued for my entire adult
life with a pattern of love being snatched away from me, just as it
seems to be falling into my hands, is tied to my bloodline. Well,
that's
funny. Then how come no other members of my family, on either side - in
any recent generation - has had this problem? I admit we are all a
product
of the
physical bloodlines that produced us. But to me, only karma - which
applies to individual souls - can begin to explain the suffering I have
endured in my personal life.
At that point, I finally drew the line. Most Fitchburg panhandlers
operate out
of sidewalks and parking lots. Others like her are "successful" enough
and have their own store fronts. She was a phony, but I'll give her
credit
for one thing. In her initial consultation she remarked, "You would
be utterly shocked by the number of marriages and relationships that
come out of strip clubs" ...Yes, they exist - in spite of the
pseudonyms, flaky
customers,
high turnover rate, the money motive, and jaded dancers who won't even
consider a customer as a potential lover. But it's about the only sage
observation she had to offer.
What did I receive for my $300 of "psychic consultation"? Two large
"anointed" candles - one symbolizing love, the other
symbolizing prosperity - which I kept lit for several weeks. I could
have bought them myself at K-Mart for less than $10.
Phony "psychics" like this one merely project their own experience on
to
yours. But they make sure to tell you what your heart wants to hear so
you will
keep pumping money their way. Her prediction was that Bianca would be
compelled to return. But by the third week of August 2004, the
prospects for her return in September of that year did not look good at
all.
Furthermore, not
only did it seem that I had nearly exhausted my options to find
her. But so had the club - an entity with far more information,
resources, and networks of people at its disposal than a mere
individual patron like myself.
While I was at the club on Thursday August 19th, Nadia, the dancer
supervisor,
brought up the subject while we were chatting after a private dance.
"The club has been trying to locate Bianca," she explained, "but we
can't seem to find
her anywhere. It's as if she dropped off the face of the earth. It's so
sad because she was such a beautiful, sweet girl."
"I know," I replied while nodding my head
solemnly. "I love her... I'd die for her."
"We love her, too," Nadia responded. "That's why we are going to keep
on searching. And if we
do find her, we will send her your love."
As for the other $100 I spent on "the metaphysical," it went toward...
well, let's just say
an ancient spiritual practice. Oh, the things we do for
love...
Jeff
Original Compositions - late July and late August 2004
Revised, edited, and updated - early July 2006 on the second
anniversary of Bianca/Daniela's disappearance
Additional details concerning immigration and Bianca's second private
dance for Jeff
were added at the third anniversary of that dance in early June 2007.
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