I was watching Carrie Mathison on “Homeland” last Sunday, and when it got to the part where she insists they bomb the terrorist Haissam Haqqani even though it would have killed her mentor and friend Saul Berenson, who was standing, like, six feet away, it made me glad that we were no longer close.
Actually, she didn’t just insist a 50-pound warhead be dropped on Haqqani, she screamed her head off when her order was countermanded.
This was so Carrie. It reminded me of the time we were coming back to the city one Labor Day weekend and when I stayed on I-87, she screamed: “Take the Palisades! Take the Palisades!” which would, of course, have gotten us hung up outside the George Washington Bridge for two hours. She even tried to grab the steering wheel. I was amazed she didn’t get us both killed.
You are no doubt wondering how our friendship began. I was at an AA meeting, pretending to be an alcoholic because I had heard AA was a great place to meet men; Carrie was there trying to get close to a Marine sergeant and former Al Qaeda captive named Brody.
“I know he’s married and I suspect he’s a terrorist agent, but I can’t help thinking what a goofy looking baby we’d have and who I could dump it with immediately after its birth,” she said. “Got any risperidone or lithium? I’m out. Then I need you to give me a lift so I can I tail Brody for the next 36 hours. What do you mean you have to get back to your job? We’ve known each other five minutes and this is the first time I’ve asked you for something.”
I know what you’re thinking: How could I even begin a friendship with such an obvious wack job?
It was her hair. I’ve never seen such gorgeous hair in my life. I just wanted to be near it. And over the years, no matter what Carrie was doing, it continued to be perfect. It didn’t matter if it was a meeting with a guy who was siphoning money to Al Qaeda (yeah, I know: C.I.A. agents aren’t supposed to talk about things like that, but we were close) or being chained to a pipe in a deserted mill with layers of dust or gallivanting around Pakistan.
You know how some women take off their scarves and have hijab hair?
I never once saw that on Carrie.
I did wonder, as she also spent a lot of time traipsing around the Middle East without a head scarf why she didn’t dye her hair and try to be at little less conspicuous, but when I mentioned that to her, she turned on me.
“Are you my friend or aren’t you, Joyce?,” she said. “Nobody made you sign up for this. You approached me, remember? ‘Excuse me, your hair is just so great, I’ve got to ask: Did you do that yourself or it that a professional blowout? Because if you did it yourself, you’ve got to let me buy you a drink and tell me how.' ”
But I am making it sound as if Carrie was always a shrew. There were times she could be generous; not merely assigning a drone to follow a suspect boyfriend, but offering to blast him to bits when the camera caught him cheating.
“That’s really nice of you, Carrie,” I said. “But I don’t think we should. He is doing it in my apartment and even a small warhead would pretty much destroy it. And I’m not sure my co-op insurance covers covert acts.”
“That’s so typical of you, Joyce” she said coldly. “You can never finalize a breakup with anyone. Look at me: I sleep with a guy I’ve turned, he loses his usefulness or his cover is blown, I move on. Sure, I may have a moment when I lose it and give an irrational order that could get innocent people killed, but I don’t bore everyone to tears brooding about the guy for months.”
There were also times, particularly when Carrie was careless about taking her meds, she could be horribly selfish and obsessive. The breaking point in our friendship came after she got the job of station chief in Islamabad. It involved that sweet young medical student, Ayaan.
“I’m thinking I should wear a black lace camisole when I seduce this kid who can lead me to Haissam Haqqani,” she said. “But I know he’s a virgin and I don’t want to overwhelm him. Maybe I should wear a tight black T-shirt instead. I’ve been going back and forth on it for the last four hours. Will you log on to Skype? I’ll show you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Carrie, it’s 2:30 in the morning in New York,” I snapped. “You’re keeping the world safe from terrorists and you can’t decide on a top? News flash: it doesn’t matter which one you wear. This kid is maybe 19 — he’d do it if you’re wearing a garbage bag. And while we’re on it, this trading sex for assets thing is just plain wrong. It’s anti-feminist — — “
It was then I realized she had hung up on me. My friendship with the best agent the C.I.A. ever had was over. Good riddance. She never did tell me how she got that hair.