Bragging Time

Bragging Time

Today must be my lucky day. Three women--- old women, women just younger than me by a few years and I am an old man (though I keep hearing from people that I am still young-looking and devilishly handsome) in mid 60's--- called me up and beat around the bush, saying they were lonely and they wanted to have company. They kept talking, going from one gossip to another. I pretended that I was too dense to know what the first one was up to. I just listended and kept saying "ah huh " and "right" occasionally. Finally, she got tired of talking and hung up after complaining that I hardly called her. Later in the evening, as I was lying in bed, all alone, reading an anthology of short stories, trying to look for an idea to expand into a story, when another old lady called. I think I once wrote a story about her. She was the one with a silver Mercedes and stylish clothes though she claimed she was going broke because of gambling problems. Her name is Sylvia. She is still quite good-looking although lately her looks have started fading. Wrinkles are claiming territory on her face. However, she still looks hot, in fact muy caliente to me with that ample bosom of hers hardly concealed in the ever-present low-cut blouses she wears and her shapely derriere swaying when she walks. Anyway, we talked. Nothing deep or controversial. If you know women as I do, all you need to do is to listen and agree with most (not everything, otherwise they would know you're a liar) of they say, and they would be fond of you and are likely to think of you when they are blue and need a sympathetic ear.

I must admit once upon a time, like three million years ago, a woman like Sylvia would make me pant with desire and I would jump at the first available opportunity to ask her out and later when I felt she was ready, I would make my moves and waylay her and have my way with her. But I am a much older man now. My blood is not running hot anymore. I had several bad experiences. I had quite a number of cases
of misplaced affection. All I have left is my ego and my mind. I don't even have much money left, after blowing most of it away in the stock market. Money, as they said, is only important when you don't have much of it when you need it. Money used to mean very little to me when I was a millionaire. Now it means a great deal to me when there exists a small step for me to be homeless. Everyday presents a challenge for me to raise capital so I could stay put in the condo, and put food on the table and gas in the tank.

So I calmly told Sylvia that, yes, when she wants to have company, when life is a bit too much for her to bear alone and she wants me, just pick up the phone and call me and I will be ready for her to pick me up in that fancy Mercedes-Benz of hers. She shyly and sweetly said, "Si', si', gracias, buenas noches, mi querido. Hasta luego. De acuerdo?" I said, "Claro, hasta luego." I know a smattering of Spanish. I pick up languages like a flunkie picks up troubles, here and there. I study languages in order to impress women. I want to appear urbane and well-travelled and sophisticated. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Latin, and Chinese. I know, I should concentrate my energy on English,
the language I have problems of mastering. I tend to mangle, masturbate, mutilate, and murder the language when I speak it. People often ask me to repeat what I said. It's downright embarrassing, let me tell you, considering I've been living in the United States for 35 years now. Okay, I admit it. I am afflicted with an inferiority complex, so I cover it up by acting full of bravado and insouciance.
Where am I now? Ah, I remember. This stream of consciousness is supposed to be a paen, a panegyric of myself, an exercise in bragging, and not an attempt of self-put down! Be careful, Roberto. Watch what you are doing. Don't talk like an old man.

Let's see if I can continue. The other day I read a piece about an accordion. The author went on and on for fifteen pages reminiscing about her father, using her father's accordion as a leitmotiv. What was remarkable was that she could sustain the interest of the reader over a story which read more like a memoir, with no dramatic tension and thus no subsequent conflict resolution. In fact, her story
inspired this bragging exercise of mine. I know, I know. Bragging is distasteful, but I can't help it. I am a distasteful kind of guy, a rake, a cad, but somehow women like me, not only in these twilight years of my life, but have been so since my first year in college, almost five decades ago. Throughout my life, my best friends have been women, and some are more than friends. Having women take a liking of me has been good not only for my ego, but also for my body. It has
forced me to keep my body in a good shape, just in case. You never know when it may come handy.

After Sylvia and I said goodnight to each other, I had a big grin on my face, all smug and confident-like, and I resumed reading the anthology I referred to earlier. Actually, I was re-reading two stories there. I have read these two several times before. They made an impact on me. They affected me. And every time I read them, I felt
much calmer and wiser. I almost came to the end of the story where the
so-called Mr. Misfit made a raw yet eloquent re-examination of the whole Christian ethos, the message allegedly brought by Christ. He said he didn't really know if Christ really did and said all the things attributed to him in the Bible because he (Mr. Misfit) was not there and he wished he had been there, so he would know if Christ actually raised the dead because the answer would have a direct import
on Man's ethical conduct. The end of the story would always shakes me up, no matter I already know how the story reaches its violent, gory ending. I would shudder, feeling drained and exhausted and in awe of the power of words and imagination. By the time I reached near the ending when the hypocritical, babbling grandmother made a desperate attempt to save her life, the stupid, smug grin already left my face.
I felt pain. I felt a shortness of breath. I felt a constriction in my throat. I felt I was snooping on a scene of execution in the primeval forest where an old, pitiful, egotistical woman was trying to save herself from a senseless death brought on by her big mouth, when my cell phone rang again.

A third call in one evening, wow, this didn't happen before. Today was really special, a day to cherish and treasure and remember. It should be recorded in the annals of the life of a man who is fond of bragging, hence these words. The call came from Saundra (that's right, with an u), an old friend with all the meanings of the word, calling from Europe, from the country with the shape of a boot. I had to make the conversation short. Remember, money is scarce nowadays to me. Saundra is Jewish. I met her there more than a decade ago when I was prosperous and brimmed with confidence. Soon, she came out saying she felt like a leaning tower and I was a construction engineer who could save her from falling down. I replied that she must have mistaken me for somebody else. I was only a talker. Words were my game and Roberto was my name. I was into books and dreams, not bricks and falling
towers. The truth was that Saundra was a good-hearted woman, a good
mother, but she was just too self-centered for my taste. She once told me in all seriousness that she survived all life's difficulties because "God watched over me". Upon hearing that, I gave her an instant, on-the-spot retort, riposte, repartee, rejoinder, and reply that essentially ventured into an inquiry of what made her so special and what made 6 million Jews and 20 million Russians, not counting countless others, who had perished in World War II, not special enough to be saved by
God. We always talk about God and this time was no different. This time she remarked that I was too "doctrinaire" (!) and rigid in my thinking and that I had to open my heart to the possibility that most others were right and I was wrong. Then she added a clincher, "what made you think YOU are so special?" I gave out a long, audible sigh, suddenly realizing my phone bill would be a bear at month's end. And I said the following to her:

"Look, all the stories you heard and read are only that--stories---all right? Products of human imagination, wishes, dreams, hopes, and fears. No scientific or even logical basis in them. There's only one force at work and that's called the physical process and transformation of energy. I have to go. By the way, why did you call? It's three a.m over there.."

She gave me a throaty cackle and intoned: "Because I want to hear your voice and I want to kiss your belly."

I said, "You certainly may and don't forget to travel south."