When did love begin and when did it die?

When did love begin and when did it die?

Recently a friend of mine told me that he was definitely ending his 42-year marriage and would marry his 20-year- old secretary whom he had hired merely 6 months prior. He further added that he was so much in love that he had an urge to get on top of a building and shout it out. He then proceeded to show me the photo of his prospective Hispanic bride on his smart phone, I felt sorry for him because she was stunningly beautiful and sexy. I also felt in my bones that my friend was heading for some old-fashioned colossal heartache. There is no more pathetic fool than an old fool. He is a successful CPA with two offices. And now he is falling for an oldest game in human history. He has his hair dyed and is going through a weight reduction program while convincing himself that the young woman is in love with him.

Not too long ago, I was also convinced that a certain woman was in love with me. She pushed the right buttons and said the right things. I was lonely then. I just went through a painful divorce, my fifth in fifteen years and I was living south of the border in order to escape the pain and to immerse myself in a language-acquisition experiment. I met a Mexican graduate student in anthropology through a mutual friend. We hit it off right away. Soon she moved in with me. I provided her with free room and board. We had fantastic sex together and I thought she loved me simply she said so. Then I caught her lying to me on several occasions. I began to put my thinking cap on and looked at her with my eyes wide open. What started my dissociation with her was a musical instrument: a keyboard. She was taking lessons in learning how to play the keyboard. One day she bought a larger keyboard and said she would give me the old one so I would have something to work on my musical aspirations. Unfortunately, she didn't keep her word. Her excuse was that I would have no time to learn to play any musical instrument as I would be too busy with my fledging business while her nephew would surely make better use of the instrument. I just smiled when she explained to me the reason for her change of heart. Then a few months later, I had some pain in my left foot, which necessitated the aid of a walking cane. Strange as it may sound, it so happened that she had a walking cane she had bought about five years before she met me, after some pain developed in her knees. The pain disappeared after medication and she was not using the cane when she moved in with me. When I asked her if I could borrow the cane to see if it would alleviate the discomfort in my left foot. She firmly answered me in the negative and told me that I would easily afford a cane, considering my financial situation. Once again, my reaction was mild. I smiled and said nothing. I then immediately drove to a Walgreens and shelled out $46 for a cheapo cane. By then, I was fed up with her selfishness. Two months after the cane incident, my business crashed, thus giving me an opportunity to move back to the States. One morning over breakfast I told her a moving van was coming shortly and she needed to vacate her belongings within two hours. Stunned, she asked me why. I told her I had to move back to the States in a hurry and I would contact her later on. Of course, I didn't. And I rarely thought of her until my CPA friend showed me the photo of his young girl-friend because my friend's belle bore a striking resemblance to my old flame except for the hair style.

The reason I am spilling my guts out today was that this morning she somehow tracked me down and dished out some insults over the phone. Among her choice words were "stupid, crazy old fool". To be honest, I was quite glad she employed such epithets. They would vastly help me in the future should I foolishly fancy some sexy, young female would madly fall for me because of my charms and looks despite the huge age disparity. 

I have to stop this confession because my cell phone just rang and my latest female friend, a 19-year-old sophore whose major is Psychology, is on the phone. 

Roberto Ngo

May 21st, 2011

Bye Bye, So Long

Bye bye, so long, sad cry of a love went dry

I sent you a "dear Jane" missile.
It sailed through the cyber sky
And tore your heart asunder
Or so you claimed.
In retaliation, you fired back a denunciation,
Calling me all kinds of names,
And cursing my soul be damned in Hell.
You wished me dead or not, I couldn't tell.
All I knew that you were full of bile.
You were not the same girl with a sweet smile
That used to make my heart flutter
Your bitter voicemail made me shudder
In realizing of how close to damnation I could be.

Roberto Wissai
August 29. 2011

Sad but not unexpected ending to a saga

When I was in my second year of college, I came across a concept that "Character is Fate" while studying Shakespeare. Ever since I have found the concept a powerful explanatory tool to understand myself and others.

While everybody struggles to find meaning and purpose in their existence on this planet, few are honest enough to admit that most at the time their lives lack zest, meaning, and purpose. On the contrary, they falsely assert to others that there's nothing wrong with their lives while the truth of the matter is that if death comes unexpectedly for them,, that would be a blessing and a relief, rather than a sad ending to a dynamic, exciting, and meaningful life. I posed that rhetorical question to a common and unaccomplished woman. She gave me a cowardly and dishonest answer that pissed me off so badly that I decided to stay away for good because quite frankly I cannot hang around stupid but vain people. Her answer made me realize that an unexamined life is indeed worthless and a wasteful consumption of resources.

(to be continued)

A Meaningless Life, typical of of so many

Recently I posed a rhetorical question to an underachiever (loser) if she thought her life had purpose and meaning. Surprisingly, she affirmed that it indeed did and proceeded to give me the reasons why she thought so. The reasons she furnished were so flimsy that I realized that I tended to underestimate the tendency of humans to inflate their own worth. Luckily for me, her ridiculous disclosure of what she thought of herself enabled me to form enough contempt for her and thus walk away from her as I finally realized that she was delusional and had an inflated, undeserving sense of self, besides being stingy and vindictive.

The unpleasant encounter with this bitch reminded me that I was still naive. Then she followed her ugly letter with two phone calls which I refused to pick up. That resulted in two vile, harsh voice messages from her, which both surprised and saddened me with their intensity. I was thus realized that words spoken in deep anger would tend to harm the speaker than the addressee. Surely enough, today I heard through the grapevine that she had died of a combination of a stroke and a heart-attack. Anger and sorrow are silent stalkers of unwise humans. I should know. They almost killed me 12 years ago. Nowadays, I just don't give a fuck anymore. Well, maybe I still do, but not as much as I used to because I have a mission. I intend to live until at least 95. You can bet your sweet ass I will. My real life has just begun.

The Heart is the Lonely Hunter

Carson McCullers came up with that beautiful title and I have been caught up in that search since 1967. A fan of hers used to impress me because I thought the fan had a heart. It turned out that the fan was as common as dirt despite her intelligence. Since I regard myself as uncommon, I could not bring myself to do to Verfe what Laura did to me: being selfish and cruel. I would rather be the one who would suffer the slings and arrows of spitefulness.

Last night she called and I had to lie once more. How long will I keep up with the charade? Meanwhile my health and my finances are going down the toilet. One thing I am learning is that I am paying more to the issue of dignity and self-respect than ever, now that I realize most people around me are not as noble as they profess to be. I just have to realize they are merely insects and low forms of life masquerading as humans with their petty delights in viewing female anatomy and in telling smutty sex jokes while forgetting that they are men nearly 70 years of age . What a pathetic bunch of cowardly assholes who are ostensibly concerned about dignity and self-respect! As I often remark, we don't know who the assholes are until they are tested. I don't want to play the game of pretense anymore. Now if I don't like an asshole, I just stay away from him. I am not strong enough to engage in any acting.

So, I finally gave up pretending and wrote her a "dear Jane" letter in which I outlined two main reasons that I found her unpalatable to my taste. I was as pleasant and courteous as I could be. I concluded my goodbye missive with a heart-felt wish for her well-being. What I got back from her was an unexpected vituperative, thunderous denunciation of me couched in the most vile, unpleasant language. Thus, it turned out that not only she didn't really understand me at all, I also didn't understand her either. In fact, the bitch was dumber and more self-righteous than I thought. And my decision to dump her was right on target. Her distasteful letter taught me a lot about the psyche of human females and reminded me that I am more stupid than I think I am and that I have to be on guard in dealing with the human species. At any rate, thanks to that stupid letter of hers, I am sleeping better because I am more at peace with myself. I am not a cruel guy.

She walked in beauty

She walked in beauty;
Her swaying hips sent me into ecstasy.
So I followed her from one city block to the next.
I felt I was being hexed.
She stopped at the traffic lights and looked back.
There I was, standing behind her, face reddened, feeling like a potato sack.
Then lo and behold, she smiled at me, her teeth glistened in the sun.
Emboldened, I softly said to her, 
"Miss, has anybody ever told you that have very lovely buns?"
Flushed with embarrassment, she lowered her gaze and murmured "Yes"
I pressed on, "Really? I thought I was the only one with discerning eyes".
She then remarked that I was being sly. 
I was fishing and fumbling for a reply
When the lights turned to green.
I walked next to her as we crossed the street.
I stuttered and stammered and sputtered against the rising heat,
"May I walk behind you for another five minutes?"
She put on a sparkling smile once more,
Dug into her purse and came out with a business card.
"Give me a call later this evening.
I hope you won't be a bore!"

Roberto Wissai
July 31, 2011l

Postcriptum:

The above literary endeavor triggered two inquiries from female aficionadas and amantes. One questioned whether I wrote it from a personal experience. The other reacted in a more peevish manner. She commented that the piece failed to hold her interest and left her feeling flat. She did state that the ending was somewhat intriguing and could lead to further development. Here was what I replied to her:

"The work was pure imagination. I was proud of it because of its originality. It was a very short story in verse. I am not a butt man, but a man endowed and cursed with a rich and romantic imagination along with some verbal dexterity. It was not easy to write a short story in verse."

The poem had its genesis in the greeting card sent by an old friend who wished "May you walk in beauty". The card showed a wintry scene. The wish stayed in my mind for hours after I viewed the card. I rarely walk in beauty or amidst splendor. On the other hand, there have been some females who moved me tremendously from the way they walked. So I just let my imagination run wild for a few minutes. The result was a poem with an intriguing ending which could be segued with the following possibility:

I was stunned. I took her card, speechless. It was one of those rare moments in my life when words failed me. She gave me a wink and sashayed away. I swear that she was swaying her hips with more energy and determination as she knew I was standing like a fool on the sidewalk watching her disappearing slowly from my view. I felt breathless. I looked at the card. It said, "Elizabeth Chavez, Attorney at Law. Personal Injuries, Divorces, and Estates." The address was in the Heights. The phones listed included a cell number.

I walked back to my office. I couldn't concentrate. I was going through the motion. I made a couple of phone calls soliciting some business, but to no avail. Finally, I left the office around six and headed to the gym. I desultorily pumped some iron and then went for a long, leisurely swim during which I replayed the encounter with Elizabeth in my mind. I was wondering if she was playing with me or I was being lucky. Either way, I would soon find out. I did realize, however, that all would depend on my performance. In all my amorous activities, this might be the toughest challenge. I told myself I would just play the prospective conversation by the seat of my pants. I had nothing to lose, except my ego.

I went home, had a banana with some roasted peanuts along with a glass of beer with plenty of ice. I liked my beer diluted, the way I used to drink when I was living in my home country where the climate was hot and humid all year round and beer was just like a cold refreshing drink to satiate the thirst rather than an alcoholic beverage. I am 62 now and have been in exile for almost 40 years, but I still cling to most Viet way of doing things, especially with regard to food, sex, and money.

She answered her cell phone after the third ring. I tried to impress her with my broken Spanish, but she tersely told me in Spanish that she would prefer that we talked in English.

-Well, what are we going to talk about? How much time do I have?
-As long as you like provided that you don't bore me.
-That's a tall order since I have a propensity to bore people, except myself, but I will try. Let me begin by stating why I followed you. Believe it or not, it was the very first time I ever did what I did. I just followed my feelings, an impulse that arose from nowhere. You walked by. I looked at you. I became breathless. The only way I could regain my breath was to follow you. I had no intention of speaking to you. I was shy. I just had an aesthetic sense that your walking gait brought me joy and I wanted to prolong that joy which I believe was private and would hurt nobody.
-Fair enough. Would you please tell me about yourself, your David Copperfield wonderland, if you know what I mean.
-I don't really understand what you meant, counselor, but this conversation will end soon enough. I am 62, will be soon retired, read stories and indulge in writing for fun and release, have had women who told me they loved me but somehow I feel lonely and misunderstood and unfulfilled. You probably wonder why I have not asked you any questions. Of course, I do understand what is going on here is like an interview and I am an interviewee, not interviewer. I agreed to subject myself to this somewhat humiliating experience because I am a sucker for exotica and serendipities. Jessica, You are exotic and I feel that maybe I am into some kind of adventure which I won't forget.
- Roberto, if that's your real name, you passed the interview. Please write to me at jessicachavez@yahoo.com. I also have the feeling that we might have some unforgettable adventure together.
- Good. One question. What makes you think I will ever write or call you again?
- I know men. Roberto, do you know women?