Conversion and Conversation

Conversion" and "Conversation" 

The phone rang for a long time in the old red phone booth. I was at its door, watching it. I was mesmerized and perplexed and confused. I didn't know where I was really. I had thought I was in the second decade of the 21st century, but I wondered what I was doing here, trying to make sense of the presence of the red phone booth, smack in the middle of the sidewalk, while throngs of pedestrians walked by, obviously oblivious of the anachronistic phone booth. Nobody seemed to pay attention to it except me. Meanwhile the phone kept ringing. Persistently. So I finally stepped forward and picked up the receiver, "Hello?" I said gingerly. And the phone went dead. Thoroughly perplexed, I  put the phone down. Suddenly I wanted to pee badly. Then I woke up. 

I then realized that I had been dreaming. The iPhone was on the bedside table. I looked at it. No sound from it. I picked it up. There was a voicemail. I hit the button, "Roberto, how are you my man? Got your emails. You certainly were busy. Merry Christmas. Give me a ring, will you?"

Sunlight was struggling through the thick bedroom curtain. The digital radio clock said 1:25 pm. So I passed out cold for almost 7 hours solid. Last night I went bar hopping with Bob, one of the very few friends I had. By the time I drunkenly got home, it was in the wee hours of the morning. I just went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, crawled underneath the blanket and crashed. I only remembered one thing of the whole evening. I was driving (Bob's license was revoked a long time ago for having too many DUis) and I pointed to the overpass bridge as I stopped at the traffic lights. 

"That bridge will still be here after you and I are gone." 

Bob turned to me and made a face, "What do you mean?" 

I looked at him and sighed, "Bob, there's hardly a day I don't think of death. I'm trying, maybe a bit late, maybe very late even, to make sense of my being here on this planet."

Bob kept silent. I knew what I had just said affected him. After all, he almost died twice during the last two years. In fact, if not for me, he would have died. I took him to the emergency room of the VA hospital in North Vegas both times. He himself admitted that I had saved his life. He had a weak heart, but he kept being a heavy drinker and smoker. Freud was right. Some humans do have a death wish. Bob is one of them. And maybe so am I. 

Bob remained silent during the remainder of the drive home. He just said, "Good night. Drive carefully." after I dropped him in front of his apartment. 

I indeed drove very gingerly to my condo. I knew I was tipsy, but not very drunk. I was still lucid and in full control of my faculties. I didn't want to get a ticket. I got home without a mishap. 

I was debating with myself if I should continue sleeping or get up and "seize" whatever left of the day. From the strength of the filtered sunlight, it looked like the day had been splendid. I got up and parted the curtain. I was right. The sky was bluest blue. Sunlight was dancing on the parked cars' wind shields and on the tree tops of my condo complex. I decided to stay up. I walked to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror. The prior evening's carousing with Bob didn't do damage to my gorgeous, rugged, handsome face. I still looked young for my age. I was 65 but easily passed for 55, especially if I put a cap on to hide my gray thinning hair. 

I got dressed and headed to my Jaguar XF. After years of skimping and saving and being a cheapskate, a few months ago, I took into my head that I might have only a few years left to live, so I sold some stocks and got myself a black Jaguar. A Jaguar had to be black. Other colors would be fake and feminine. 

I punched in the phone number. Her voice came on the car speaker.

-Roberto, darling (sic!). Merry Christmas. Haven't heard from you for a while. How are you?

The voice belonged to Leslie Lovelace. However, she made it known that she preferred to be known as Leslie Lovely. She didn't want people to know that she was indeed related to the infamous movie "actress" in the late 1960's. She was a print journalist. She interviewed me twice a few years back. I wrote about the interviews in my blog. Interested and "concerned" readers may want to dig them up. Anyway, she and I "got involved" after the second interview. The sex was very good. She was a jaguar in bed and I did have scratches and some bleeding after every single marathon sex session. After a while I was concerned that I might develop anemia or worse if I kept having sexual excursions with her. So I told her that we both needed to play it cool for a while. After all, I was no spring chicken. And she was only in her early 30's. She probably needed to go out with men her age, I told her. She got mad, cursed at me, and stormed off. However, we still are friends. I send her my "literary productions " and she keeps me abreast of the news and the gossips. I have not slept with her for over a year.

She and I pulled into the parking lot at the same time. I saw her first. I pressed on the horn. I pulled my car alongside hers. 

-Wow, a new car! And a Jag at that! Living high on the hogs now, huh? That Henrietta of yours must have indeed left you with a lot of money. How's the car? Can I look inside?

-No, not now. You're embarrassing me. Let's go eat. I'm hungry. You're paying, right? You invited me! 

-Yeah. I am. Cheap bastard! Just don't go crazy and order wine.

Bombay Bistro is a standard Indian restaurant where you can have either a vegetarian or meat-based buffet for a reasonable price. It was not crowded, but not deserted either on that day. Only the locals patronize it. Leslie and I used to eat there frequently when we were dating. I had my usual Tandoori chicken, nan bread, lentil, yogurt and spinach. Leslie had stewed goat and a salad mainly slices of cucumber and tomato. I ordered a beer while Leslie had tea as her choice of beverage. 

-So you're really in love now? 

-Not yet, but it's getting there.

-Is that right? Tell me what about her that attracted you so much. Tell me what she's got that I don't have.

-Please, don't put things like that. I don't know. Attraction is a nebulous thing, closely allied with animal physicality. Affection is a more concrete feeling. With her, the affection preceded the attraction. The attraction came in when she revealed more of herself to me. That was when I realized I might be in presence of and in touch with somebody who is grander and nobler than myself. You cannot love someone for whom you have neither affection nor respect. You cannot love someone who is less of a human in terms of morals than you. Love must ennoble you, makes you a better person. Love must be transcendental. 

-Cut the crap, will you? I want to know the specifics. Does she have bigger tits than me? Is she better in bed? I know she's filthy rich. You already told me that.

-Come on, Leslie. Please don't be crass. She and I don't have sex yet. 

-You don't?

-No, we do not. But sooner or later, it will happen. I don't worry about that. I'm worrying about something else. 

-That's she's having herpes?

-Leslie, please! Today's Christmas. Be nice. By the way, here's my Christmas present. Merry Christmas!  

-Oh my God. How thoughtful, how lovely of you! I didn't know expect this. Sorry I didn't get you any present. I feel bad. 

-Don't feel bad. You invited me out to lunch. That was nice of you. Go ahead. Open it.

-What is it? Oh, it's so beautiful. Roberto, you didn't have to. 

-Put it on. There you go. It looks nice on you. You really like it?

-Of course, I do. Thank you so much, honey ( she leaned over and gave me a kiss, right on the lips).  Tell me, what did you get for Cherry? 

-Nothing. I didn't know what to buy. She's got everything. Besides, she didn't come over here to see me for Christmas. She's staying in Denver with her kids. 

-I almost forgot. You got me sidetracked with this bracelet you got me for Christmas. What you're worrying about her? You were saying that there's something about her that got you worry. What is it? Can you tell me, please, please?

-You see, as I said earlier, affection is one thing, attraction is another. I definitely know I attract her, but I'm not sure about the affection. Affection comes in with understanding and respect. I'm  probably too direct, too blunt, and too anti-Christian for her. But I'm telling you what? At my age, i don't give a damn. I'm going with the flow. I'm just being who I am.

-Roberto, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You're just going around in a circle while singing nonsense about affection and attraction bullshit. But I'm getting an impression that you're imagining things. The woman does not give a shit about you. Am I right?

-I don't know if you're right or not. I really don't know, and frankly, I don't care. I'm just concentrating on bettering myself. I'm using my affection for her as a transcendental tool. 

-But who is she really? Do you have a picture of her on your smart phone? You do? Of course, you do. Let me have a look. Well, she didn't look too bad, much better than I thought. I would be pissed if she looked like an old hag. You didn't tell me that she was Hispanic. All along I thought she was Vietnamese. So she is what? Mexican? 

-Cuban.

-Cuban. How interesting! And you met her on a cruise. And you fell in love with her?

-Not quite like that. 

-So, how is it really? Tell me!

-Leslie, you're interrogating me! I don't have to tell you about her.

-But you did, and you're going to tell me some more. Roberto, for fuck's sake, we slept together many, many times. And I still care about you. I have a right to know. 

-(I sighed) Leslie, please. I am tired. I went out drinking with Bob last night. I was sleeping when you called. It was sweet of you to treat for lunch for Christmas. But talk about something else, okay? We'll talk about Cherry some other time. I promise.

-Is Cherry her real name? Quite unusual for a Cuban.

-Of course not. My pet name for her. Her real name is more prosaic. 

-You're being evasive again. What's her real name?

-Salomé.

-What? 

-Salomé. 

-What's a fucking, weird name. Sounds French to me. What does that mean? 

-How's the fuck do I know? I'm sounding like you now. Cursing and swearing on Christmas Day. I will not go to heaven.

-That's funny. I thought you were an atheist.

-But that.... Never mind. Finish your lunch and I will take you out for a drive in my Jag, if you want. Let's rent a movie and go back to my place or yours. Doesn't matter to me. I don't feel like being alone today. All this interrogation from you is making me feel lonely, all of a sudden.

We checked out the movie Shadow Recruit and ended up at her place, a house on the east side of town. She bought it in 2010, at the bottom of the housing crash. The price has since moved up nicely. I'm happy for her. She had it nicely decorated. When we were going out a few years ago, I spent a lot of time there as it was much nicer than my pad, a mere condo in the southwest part of town. 

We watched the movie in the living room. She snuggled close to me and soon fell asleep. I stayed awake because the movie was very good. The acting was superb, the pace nicely set, the dialogue sparkling with immortal lines, such as: You Americans think you are direct, but in fact you are rude. And you Russians think you are poets, but you are only touchy. 

I fell asleep myself when the movie was over. We were first sleeping on the sofa and then later retired in her bed. I woke up with a start. I was dreaming that I was not prepared for the finals and I just couldn't locate the classroom. I was getting hysterical. Things must be getting to me. Too many bad dreams recently. Too many warnings. Can I still hang on? Can I manage or the center is falling apart? 

She was not in bed. Then I heard noises in the adjoining bathroom. Water was running steady. She must be taking the shower. I looked at the bedroom curtain. No light filtered through. My watch said a few minutes past seven. I decided to linger in bed. I opened my eyes when she got back in bed, snuggled close to me. Her hair was still damp. A nice perfume was wafting from her body. She had no clothes on. She planted a soft kiss on my forehead while stroking my hair, "How are you? Still tired?" and smiling invitingly. Her pert, pink nipples were fully erect. She then climbed on top of me, and lay there, skin to skin, her face resting on my chest.

-What happened, honey? Still think of your new love?

-Yes, and many other things. 

-Such as?-The human heart is mysterious. You know that already. Just look at your mysterious love for me. Examine how humans, you in particular, use language. That's why you need to confront your strong, but camouflaged, aggressiveness. Be honest with your self-conflicting and confusing  feelings. 

Love is the search for self, for identity, for self-worth, validation, affirmation, confirmation, and comfort through life's storms. In the end, gentleness and kindness and silence say it all. 

Death is the most eloquent voice of silence. It is the eternal silence. Once I depart from this world, an aching emptiness will torment you as nobody knew and understood you as I did. And you will cry your heart out and wish if only you are able to take back all the nasty things you said about me. And you will blame yourself for hurting me, for being a selfish, egocentric bitch, for just thinking of your own needs. With me being gone for good, who will listen to your heart's plaintive cries, who will comfort you in moments of distress, who really understood you? And a flashing insight will come to you: "maybe if only I really loved him, and not using him to serve my needs, he would open his own wounded, bleeding heart for me." 

Remember that silence has many kinds, the most oppressive one is the one of regret. Yes, I love my wife, in my unconventional. way, just as she loves me in hers. We are two strong-will, flawed, wounded souls trying to wrestle with the sadness and the impossible and the silence. Yes, I love Salomé, maybe to no avail, but I don't mind because I find in that strange love a strength to get on with my intellectual pursuits. 

Leslie got off my chest, sat up straight (her big tits in my direct view), took both my hands in hers and said in a crescendo of chock-full of words:

 -No, you're wrong, wrong, wrong. I love you. I really do. I cant't help myself. Many times I asked myself if I was playing head games with myself, if I was only interested in the conquest and you were the elusive prey. You know I am fucking arrogant and proud of myself. But I pushed my pride aside. I called you today, didn't I? I wanted you. I didn't want to lose you to Salomé or what the fuck her name is. 

I was taken aback, flabbergasted, stunned by Leslie's display of raw emotions. I suspected that the emotions were real, though the display a bit theatrical. I was moved, but not much. I was not a cold son of a bitch. Not really. This was not the first time a woman cried on me. Several had done so before and I believed their tears. And I was hurt afterwards. Badly. I was stupid and naive. Now I am more jaded, more cynical. Also, I have done my share of crying. I have shed my tears over unworthy, undeserving bitches. 

Anyway, I got up, pulled her towards me and she collapsed on me, still crying. Her tears wet my chest. I gently told her to hush up. Things were getting too melodramatic, even for me. Then, of course, I spoke some more. Words are my strength. When I am nervous and anxious, I speak, even when I am alone. 

"Leslie, I'm flattered and honored by your love. I didn't know. I didn't expect much. I thought we were just two lonely people, two solitary ships passing through the night, with no lights on, and we bumped into each other. And we moved on, still in the dark, still without lights, on the big sea of loneliness. But apparently, I meant a lot to you and still do. For that I'm grateful. I care about you Leslie, but I'm not sure I'm in love with you. Maybe I will be in the future. About Cherry, I mean Salomé, I do like her a lot and I suspect she likes me, too, but there are barriers between us. Real barriers. But I don't really worry them. In my world, fantasies are more important than realities. 

Lately I'm thinking of having a dog, a fierce and loyal one, like a pit bull. Dogs love you even if you don't know how to love yourself . There are times I wonder if I really love myself. My love for myself is like an iceberg moving. Very, very slowly while my Death Wish is like a howling wind in a blizzard over the barren steppes. I hear its noise, loud and clear, like a siren. It is like a  repetition compulsion, what Freud defined as “the desire to return to an earlier state of things.” In my case, it's the state of childhood innocence when life was all peace and pleasure, yes, there are times I want to end it all and return to that eternal peace. But then, I say to myself if all those motherfuckers and scumbags out there who find life worth living, but I must have the fortitude, the strength to do likewise. And do you what, there are times I want to do the other extreme. I want to go hunting those motherfuckers down and beat the shit out of them and then cut, not their throats like the ISIS jihadists do, but pieces of themselves over hours. I would surely enjoy myself. I would have plenty of liberating catharsis."

I thought Leslie would crackle with delight over my words. I thought she would find them filled with the tinctures of wildness and sharp intellect. But I was wrong. Apparently, my baritone, cadenced, soothing voice calmed her and all the crying purged her of conflicting feelings since she fell asleep in the middle of my monologue and snored! I was about to ease her to my side when my cell phone rang. I reached for it as it was one the bedside table. The screen said, "Cherry". My heart skipped several beats. I didn't know what to do. Should I answer the call? Or should I call Cherry back later? The phone kept ringing, then Leslie woke up, "Who is that? Why don't you answer the phone?". I said, "It's Cherry". When I saw the look of horror and hurt on Leslie's face, I put the phone back on the table. The phone stopped ringing. And for the first time since I started seeing Leslie a few years ago, I experienced a feeling that was unmistakably called Love.  

Wissai

2/16/15