The call of the wild heart

IThe call of the wild heart 

Love, whatever its form and manifestation, is a political act. It involves the Other. And maybe a person who really has love within acts like a politician. He is not content with just loving one beloved, one convert who believes in him.  Love is not a solitary pursuit, prompted from within. It always originates from the Other. The Christian message that God is Love is a radical one. It fuses religion and politics. The intent may not be so, but the outcome surely is, at least to me. 

In a moment of weakness I shared the the preceding paragraph and following confession with a bunch of guys and gals:

"How many individuals that you know personally can write as I do? These are my own words, distilled from a lifelong pursuit of love and truth, and study of the English language. I am a thinker, a poet, a braggart, a person full of humility and arrogance, a walking contradiction. I am no mere man. I am different. I am unique. I don't try to be different. I just am.

Nobody has really understood me, including you. That's why I always feel lonely."

Right away, a self-righteous, stupid bitch who went by the name of "Red Rose" wrote back in an insulting manner, bringing clarity to my vision: the bitch is full of venom and I must stay away from her. I didn't bother to reply her because she was too dumb to comprehend my beautiful lyrical prose full of layers of meanings. There is no way she understands, even if I try to drill into her thick skull my epic, majestic prose. She failed to capitalize gracefully on the kaleidoscopic kismet (a fancy way to say: that's me, Wissai in my multicolored splendor) that was flowing her away. 

That day was my "lucky" day. After a happy day at work, I marched into a casino. When I pushed the glass doors and took a step inside, I was in a world of make-believe and fantasy. My senses were assaulted by a cacophony of sounds produced by the whistling bells and thumping drums from slot machines and the beat of radio pop song, the lights from the ceiling, and the  wafting fragrance of perfume and aftershave. Right away, I was greeted by a young Asian woman who said, "hello, gorgeous handsome sweet Asian prince." as I was walking through the entrance. She was exiting the casino and was quite tipsy, based on the slurring of her words and the alcohol on her breath. I normally avoided women like her as I would stay away from predators and rabid dogs, but this time I didn't know what came over me, I just blurted a flirtatious answer while putting on my best, friendly smile, "thank you so much, you're no slouch yourself. In fact, you're  breathtakingly beautiful. " She was very pleased to hear that classic line of flattery. Unless a woman is downright ugly and repulsive, most women fancy they are pretty, if not in fact beautiful. So she got closer to me, seized my hand, dragged me to a nearby bar in the sports bets area, and said, "let's have a drink, I pay." I normally don't drink, but today I thought a drink or two would not hurt me, or so I thought. I ordered a Heineken while she asked for a Tom Collins. 

People often mouth off that knowledge is power. I am not the type that goes for power, but I do hanker after knowledge, not for the sake of power, but for the sense of freedom and the beckon of choices that knowledge brings. I wish I had had more knowledge about myself and about the woman with whom I had a few drinks in a casino bar in that sultry June late afternoon when the summer heat had not dissipated from the desert floor.

As best as I could recall, the conversation went as follows:

-So what's your name?
-Denise, what's yours?
-Roberto, glad to meet you. Thanks for the beer.
-Oh, that's nothing (a chuckle, showing nice teeth). You're welcome. You tourist?
-Not really.
-What you mean? You live here? (sounds a bit disappointed).
-I visit here so often that I might as well live here.
-Where you staying? 
-In a motel near downtown.
-Yech! Be careful, it's not safe there.
-I know, but I'm cheap. I want to save money.
-Not at the expense of your life.
-You've got a point there.
-How long you'll be in town?
-Two weeks.
-What you do in two weeks? Gambling, meeting?
-None of the above, I'm here on a mission.
-What mission, mission impossible? (chuckle again, this time eyes sparkled, showing intelligence and mischief)
-Can't tell you. If I do, I'll have to kill you.
-Oh, come on, you can tell me. I won't tell nobody (sounds uneducated, I feel disappointed).
-Seriously, I'm a hit man, looking for somebody.
-Really? (exited, real squealing in the voice, a sign of discomfiture) 
-Really.
-No, I don't believe you. You must be kidding. You look nice, too good-looking to be a killer.
-How many killers do you know? 
-None.
-I guess so.
-Can we talk about something else? I don't believe you're a hit man. You don't look the type. You talk too much. No hit man is going around telling strangers that he's in town for a hit. That's stupid, excuse my French or Chinese or whatever. That doesn't make sense. You're uptight as hell and lonely to boot. You need to unwind and relax. And I can help you, for a price of course.
-You're not afraid that I'm a undercover vice cop?
-Not at all. You don't look and talk the type, all right? Just drop the pretense. Let's go. Your place or mine.? Three hundred for a throw. Five hundred for the whole night until 5 in the morning. 
- You got me all wrong. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm cheap. I don't pay for sex. Nice meeting you. 
-Wait a minute. Did I make you mad or something? Am I not pretty enough for you?
-You're very pretty, even beautiful. But as I said, I don't pay for sex. I'm cheap. 
-So, you're saying you would fuck me, but only for free? 
-I'm not saying that either. I don't pay for sex. Period. And I'm not in the mood to have intimacy with somebody I just met. 
-I see, the old-fashioned, go-slow, romantic dude. I got it. Here's my card. Call me sometime. We'll have a date or something. Give me your cell number. 

She got up, paid for the drinks, and walked away after planting a light kiss on my cheek. I looked at her sashaying away from me,  unsteady on her legs. I was thinking of running after her and hailing a cab for her, but something inside me forced me to stay in my seat.  I hope she didn't have a car. A DUI or worse would be really bad for her. I couldn't tell if she was a lone operator or had a pimp in her life. I didn't look down on her. She had to eat. She was pretty and she was Asian. Strangely, we didn't get around asking each other's ethnic background. I could tell she was somewhat attracted to me, but she had to hustle. I ordered another Heineken and nursed it in the next half an hour, thinking about her and "Red Rose".

Red Rose was Vietnamese, like me. She was as an old college classmate of mine. I secrehly lusted after her even though I already had a steady girlfriend then. At that time she was quite sexy and pretty, though not very bright. She possessed a beautiful voice and easy smile. Although I lusted after her, I kept my feelings secret and never once let her know of how I felt about her. We lost contact with each other after we graduated from college. By chance we ran into each other after a hiatus of 25 years. I learned that she was divorced and had single- handedly raised three children into highly- respected  professionals. I told her I was on my fifth marriage and had one son about to graduate from college. When we first met again, I kept my old feelings of lust for her under a tight wrap. I only told her of my past marriages and the current one. We corresponded and occasionally talked on the phone. I could tell she really liked me. She talked about her frustrations of getting ahead professionally and her loneliness. I just listened and didn't tell her of the loneliness that was gnawing at my soul year after year. We kept up the communication for about ten years during she kept me abreast of what was going on in her life.

One day I emailed her my erotic fantasies. She called me on that and professed indignation over what I had written, but I could tell she was interested and excited because she kept the conversation going on for over two hours and it was I who in the end had to end the conversation as I had things to do. Shortly thereafter she asked me to visit her. She picked me up at the airport and drove me to her apartment. I was in the apartment no more than 30 minutes when we began to hungrily undress each other. The sex was good, but I didn't feel the earth move. I sorted of loved her and I supposed she felt the same way. There were two things that kept us together: loneliness and reminiscences of our time in college. I didn't feel uncomfortable in her company, but as time I went by, I realized she was selfish, egocentric and didn't keep her word. The thrill went down and in its place grew a mistrust. I finally politely beat a retreat but still maintained a lukewarm email correspondence with her. Her stupid, biting, bitter, and self-righteous comment of my short treatise about love at the beginning of this "story" killed any remnant of my affection for her. But I learned something about myself and about her during our long association: I was sentimental and she was not really in love with me and she had an undue, unwarranted high opinion of herself. 

Thinking about the strange, direct, bold approach of Denise and the sad waste of my time on fantasizing about Red Rose depressed me. I got up and left the casino. I was no longer in a mood to gamble, not like I was addicted to making wagers with the odds against me. I was stupid and self-destructive, but not all the way. I initially went there because I wanted to keep my mind from the verbal altercations I had with two assholes on the Net. These two scumbags were really despicable: ignorant, stupid, rude, low-class in language usage, and a sick failure to acknowledge their ignorance and stupidity despite overwhelming, incontrovertible evidence. I was not quite joking when I told Denise that I was a hit man. Killing these two animals would be really easy, but dealing with the aftermath would be hundred times more complicated. Besides, there were two important considerations that mitigated against taking a decisive action against them: they are filth, not worthy of my trouble and there are millions of assholes like them. 

I drove to the gym where I spent time in the sauna, the whirlpool, and the pool. When I got back to the condo I inherited from Henrietta, my deceased girlfriend who died of too much indulgence in sex despite having a weak heart condition, I felt much calmer.

Henrietta and I had a torrid thing going on for 6 months. I went through a long grieving process after her passing away from this life. I kept her pictures in the condo, her ashes in a vase on the altar along with the photos of her mother and grand father and several Buddhist and Chinese deities that she believed in. Every morning I lit up an incense and said a few words that were a mixture of prayer and incantation to communicate with her. Scientifically my daily ritual made no sense, but it calmed me because that was what she would do every morning during her living with me. Her earnest prayer cum loud words of meditation echoed in the stillness of morning brought me feelings of love and peace although intellectually her words were just gibberish and self-induced hypnosis. She was the only woman in this world who really loved me and made feel me wanted and at peace. After her death, I started going to the casino so I wouldn't think too much of her. 

I already threw away Denise's card and hardly thought of her when she called.

-Hi Roberto, this is Denise.
-Who?
- Boy, I really made an impression on you, I can see that. We met last week in the casino, we had a drink at the sports bar, you said I was pretty but you would not pay to have sex with me, you remember?
-Oh, of course. I remember. I'm sorry. I've got a lot of things in my mind.
-How was the mission? Was it accomplished yet? ( chuckle)
-It was aborted. The employer changed his mind. The mark was lucky. 
-Really. So when you leave town?
-Next week.
-Do you want to get together?
-Yes, but not for sex. We can talk and get to know each other. You seem to be a very nice girl and you intrigue me. I've got a feeling that you're not a professional hooker.
-My God! How you know that? You're really something.
-Yes, I am. Meeting me may be one of the luckiest events in your life. You like Vietnamese food? You Vietnamese, right? Meet me at the Pho Number I on Spring Mountain tomorrow at noon. Don't be late.

Wissai
March 8, 2013