Storyteller

Storyteller

I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that. You know that. She knew that, too. I was trying to tell her something the other day. I felt funny and restless whenever I saw her, and more so when she was standing up close and personal. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. In addition, blood rushed to my face. But how come, I continued, I don't feel like this when being around other young women, even when they're far prettier than you. She smiled and said, sounds like a personal problem to me, and then she sashayed away from me. I swear she swayed her hips a bit more energetically than usual because she knew I would watch her from behind at her behind. I swear she knew she had an effect on me, a newly penniless old man in his mid 60s, and she was only a chick at 20, not old enough to get a drink in most bars, and young enough to be my granddaughter.

I met her at the library, at the Green Valley Branch. She was bending over to look for a book at tbe bottom shelf. I happened to walk by. She had no bra on. And the sight was breathtaking. I was transfixed. She looked up and saw me crudely gawking at her. She stood straight up and admonishedly me gently with a smile, dirty old man, enjoyed the view? I blushed and stuttered, sorry, couldn't help myself, I normally don't do this. And then I walked on to the Foreign Languages section, feeling stupid and somewhat ashamed of myself. About five minutes later, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard, so you know Spanish?, from behind. I turned around just to be sure, but I already knew it was her. How could I ever forget such a voice, the smile, and yes, the view? For some strange reason, my normal diffidence departed from me that Saturday afternoon and my gift of gab asserted its presence.

I turned around and saw her smiling at me, eyes twinkling mischievously.

You're not following me, are you?
Gosh, no! She laughed out loud, displaying pearlish white teeth. I'm looking for some Spanish books. Then she changed into rapid-fire Spanish that I had difficulty following. So I told her in English that I read Spanish better than I speak it. I also told her my name and asked for hers (Anita) and then I looked straight at her beautiful almond eyes and said I would love to see her again.

No problema, she said, I am here most Saturdays, around this time.

After I left the library, I seriously considered for the first time in my life to dye my grey silver hair. Eventually, my pride won out. I just had to go with the flow, relying on my charm and animal magnetism to win her over. Hair color be damned. Life has a very strange way of turning out for me. Here I am, a lifelong bachelor, turning down many inquiries and overtures when I was in my prime, rich and handome, now get all excited and bothered in the twilight of my life, penniless and decaying, over a young woman who is wise and childlike at the same time.

I must make a detour. I am as "anxious" as you are to know what would or will happen to Anita and me. But I don't know; honestly, I don't. So I'm taking a break in order to meditate on the nature of our "relationship" via homespun advice I came across in an article concerning a basketball coach who lived to a ripe old age of 99.

Success comes from knowing that you did the best to become the best that you are capable of becoming. Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are. Failure is not necessarily fatal, but failure to change might be. Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.

Wow, what a heady and handsome advice! I wish I had come across this when I was young and green, when hot blood coursed through my veins. This evening, as I pulled into tbe driveway of my condo, flashbacks flared up again and I was seized by a paroxysm of anger. I had to rush inside and drank a full glass of cold water. I didn't want to get angry; I didn't want to suffer. Living long and in prosperity is the best revenge. I was telling myself so as I forced myself to gulp the cold water.

Back to Anita, she is in her third year at Arizona State, majoring in Spanish. She wants to become a teacher. Quite an ordinary, unambitious dream. I told her to dream bigger. Big things come to those who dare dream big. I don't want big things, she said. Then, typically enough, she turned the table back on me: What about you? Did you dream big when you were younger? Are you still dreaming?

I went into a soliloquy in answering her questions. It's now or never. Make or break speech. I cared about her, but I had to be honest. She must know who I really was and am. So I said, sure, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn't pan out because I was not good enough to be admitted to medical school. I didn't study hard enough. I wanted then to become a writer, a world famous one, winner of Nobel Prize, but while I appreciated literature, I discovered I was not a creative writer. I used to dream of living with the Pygmies and then the San people in Africa because I was fascinated with their lifestyles, but I didn't pursue the dream because I was scared of catching some deadly tropical illnesses. So, you could say I was a quitter or a self-doubter and/or a mere idle dreamer. Now I settle for reading books on philosophy and history, studying languages for fun, and avoiding to put myself in situations where assholes would have power over me because I have a fiery temper and I can commit acts of extreme violence if sufficiently provoked. By the way, I have a hate and love relationship with humans. I love my fellow humans in the abstract, but I tend to hate most humans I run into because they are mostly selfish, lying, hypocritical motherfuckers and assholes. You should also know I used to have a lot of money, but I blew most of it away in the stock market. Now I live from hand to mouth.She didn't interrupt me. She listened very attentively. Then she said, you're okay, you're a good man, muy simpático y sincero también. Take good care of yourself. I don't care about the money. Soy tu amiga. I wish you were much younger.I wish so, too, Anita, I said. Then I turned and headed towards my Maxima which was baking in the parking lot. We only met on Saturdays at the library. I never asked her out. I never asked her if she had a boyfriend. I never touched her, but she knew I wanted to. We just talked no more than an hour and at the end, I was always the one who said, hasta próximo sábado, and she replied with a smile, de acuerdo.

I could not help but observe if she went braless again. But she didn't. I dared not ask her what happened on the day we first met. She was in a hurry? She forgot to put it on? In talking to me, she was friendly, vivacious, but she was not a flirt, not really. And I was a gentleman. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. I didn't know where she lived.

We saw each other on Saturdays for six months, then she disappeared. She stopped going to the library. I kind of missed her, but I didn't suffer. I refused to suffer. I am too old to suffer over a woman. When I was in my early twenties, I foolishly suffered over a woman who turned out prosaic and common. When I discovered her true nature, I realized all my sufferings were for nothing and were only the direct results of my ignorance and willful idealization. I have learned my lesson since. Go gently amidst delights and distractions, but never lose your head nor your dignity.

I still go to the same library on Saturdays. I occasionally pass by the shelf where I first spotted her bending over, searching for a book. I don't think she will ever come back to this library. I wish her luck and happiness. I am rebuilding my wealth. I look forward, not backward. Somehow, I think I will live till 105. I have 40 more years to go. Forty years are a long time. Many exciting things can happen in 40 years. I am still learning Spanish. And I still think of Anita now and then, and of her mysterious disappearance. Did she get run over by a bus or disintegrated by a falling meteorite or did she simply walk away without bothering to say goodbye? And if she's still alive and breathing somewhere, I wonder if she thinks of me whenever she bends over to look for a book in a library wherever that library may be.

Wissai
June 24, 2010

Author's explanatory note and self-criticism and praise:

I wrote this "story" on top of my head, except for a paragraph about advice from John Wooden, a famous deceased basketball coach. I lifted the advice verbatim from a magazine article.

I wrote the story without notes nor planning and without any preconceived idea where the story was going to go and how it was going to end. I didn't think the story mark any progress on my "development" as a wannabe short story writer. I write because I answer to a nagging urge, but I don't take my "craft" seriously at all. I do like the story overall, even if it is not a great story. I like it because of its good beginning and occasional striking phrases and slight but beautiful touch of eroticism and unresolved sexual tension. Although the story sounded autobiographical, it was all made up and pure fantasy.

I could not and would not stretch the "narrative" any longer. I write somewhat like some pieces of Borges: short and impressionistic. Most writers spend weeks and months, even years, to work on a story. Mine took only a few hours and I made things up as I went along with each sentence. Very often I didn't know what the next sentence would be. To me, it was hugely fascinating to witness imagination at work.

Everybody, at least those fancy that they are verbally gifted and can express themselves, has a secret wish to write well. Anybody can write memoirs, trip reports, dog bites, and "essays" about poems and songs to evince his "sensitivity". But creative writing is a different animal, difficult to tame, and almost impossible to please.

Lying is easy. A child can do it. But I hate lying and liars although I can lie as easily as the next guy. To resolve my conflict about lying, I seek refuge in creative writing where I find an outlet for my febrile imagination and lies.

One more thing. I often express my distaste for the appearance of nude and semi-nude photos in a forum of which I visit from time to time, because I don't derive feelings of aesthetics, nor even a stirring of eroticism from these photos. On the contrary, I find them quite crude and crass and damaging to the very notion of eroticism itself. I wrote the story as part of my answer to what eroticism is meant to be. I might not execute it well, but I believe I was on the right track. Eroticism often involves imagination and suggestion, not outright full revelation.


Wissai
June 26, 2010