November 2011 – Page 4

I’d heard that Korean mothers are particularly critical of the men who date their daughters, and this is the vibe I picked up. I could see it in her forced smile. I tried to imagine what it might be like to be a Korean man and realized I didn’t know enough to do it. I’d only seen some films. Some of them were dubbed.

I parked across the street and approached. It was important not to be the guy who sits in his car and waits.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” She was shorter than you. Her hands were even smaller.

She welcomed me into the foyer, where I waited for nearly a minute. I liked the small framed paintings of country cottages. You never believed me because you’ve seen them since you were a kid. Your mother stood there politely as I told her the name of the film we were going to see. I was prepared to discuss what I do, where I’m from, and all those usual things, but you got us out of there quickly. You explained that she could be overwhelming.

“So can I. Are you afraid she’d chase me away?”

“No! She’s just nosy. I didn’t want to make you go through it.”

“I’d be alright.” I wanted to add that we’re all adults, but it felt ignorant. I don’t know what it’s like to be a mother or a daughter.

The rest of the night went well, for a first date. The film, the tamales, your frankness and mine. It was relatively new to me, but you slipped into it like a warm bed. A side some people didn’t get to see. We were far more personal than I’d become accustomed to in our morning talks. Your love of virtual pets was endearing. I’d never told anyone that I cared for a pair of mice for a brief time in third grade.

“I like you,” I said. “I think we’re hitting it off.”

“I think so, too.” You were inviting. Your smile.

“Would you like to come up? I mean, come back. With me.”

Your face was flushed, but not nearly as much as mine.

“Mm hm.”

“Let’s pick up a bottle of wine.”

I thought about your mother again when we were meant to be asleep. It was a series of thoughts. It goes: I’m fucking your daughter. You hate me, but I’m fucking your daughter, and she’s here in my apartment tonight instead of the bed in your house. I’m keeping her safe. She’s warm and I hope you won’t argue about any of this when she gets home tomorrow. She loves you.

I do not deny that I apply meaning to much of what I experience, and as a consequence of being young and a hard motherfucker, I’ve suppressed it. I ignored the obvious. In human terms, I would have been in love with someone so beautiful it hurt, and fallen hard, had I allowed myself to do so. I allowed rationality to win in an attempt to be reasonable. Such bullshit, if you understand the concept of embracing the moment. The moment is all that a finite being has. It is a waste to realize this in one’s twilight years. Worse yet is slipping in and out of personality as a classic example of hot-cold behavior. Textbook being.

Would have fallen in love had we only met? Lord. You were there, brother. You were there long before you came to terms with yourself and lost her. Forgive this simpleton, o god of man. Forgive this broken-winged bird, forgive his endless calls and pithy chirps. He is a bull in the emotional china shop. Love! Distance! Sex! Attachment! Melancholy foundations crumble at the first sign of something better. Someone better, someone fuller. Someone with more years and an improved sense of self.

Jesus, it’s cold out here. That barmaid will give herself to the first man to treat her like a human being. This cigarette tastes like shit. These sophomoric activities do not comfort. My only desire is to demonstrate that I’m the better man—The best.

When asked again what I look for in a woman—you know, at first glance—I said eyes. When asked for clarification, I explained indifference. The attempt to seem in control. I was told it’s the attitude. The chase. The hunt. All of which is evidence that yes, I am still a young man. I’ve yet to internalize the notion of what to do when the hunt is ended. I recreate the experience imaginatively, whether through unorthodox sexual practices or imagined scenarios that are as benign as the safety of a committed relationship.

In other words, if you caught her, you wouldn’t know what to do with her, besides continue to see her as a prize to be caught and played with.

I have dedicated several hours of time to the search for an image. It is a fairly well-done pencil sketch of a woman wearing a plastic tiger muzzle, possibly in pounce-ready repose. The image haunts my dreams and remains beyond my research abilities. I have seen it, here and elsewhere, and it exists. It does. The cold’s been nipping at my heels as I move from couch to bed at night. The cat-nose woman invites me to stretch and curl before the fire.

cheese in the beans

Couldn’t have been more than 10 years old when I saw that dead body. No way. I remember being in a kid body, small the way it feels in a big car. We’d just gotten out of that shithole desert. Sonora. Really, it’s just an absolute fucking hole. I know I wasn’t saying or thinking that way, but it’s how I translate it. Fucking hot is what I’m saying. Pop decided to take the Impala down to Jalisco that year. You ever been in a cherry ‘64 Impala? Well, me neither. Not cherry, anyway. But it was a sight. Two grown men, one woman, and three kids. Think about that. Just like people joke about. I just know it was a squeeze. We’d been out of Sonora enough to see green and some signs of the valleys. Fields of corn from here to the end of the world. No joke. We were on a two lane highway and had just rolled through a small pueblo that didn’t have asphalt streets, just cobblestone. We bumped through and didn’t stop for sodas. At the edge of the pueblo we found a paved highway. It was dark out there and cold as it gets when it’s only you and your car out there in the middle of nowhere. Doesn’t matter how many are inside. I was at the left window, watching ragged trees. When we’d gone out a ways I heard my uncle remark about something. Something exciting as near as I could tell. When I looked forward, there was just a rusty curved fender truck sitting on the side of the road, and beside the truck a couple of guys looking down. I could tell the body was a man’s body. He was dark-skinned, leathery as all the farm people we saw on the road. One of his brown leather shoes was missing. It’d gotten sort of dark but the black pool of blood beneath his head was obvious. He wasn’t deformed in any way, just lying dead, missing one shoe and some blood. We drove past and kept going into the depths of my head where I forgot the rest of that trip. Don’t even remember what we did when we got there. The night before, we stopped in a restaurant. I was given a bowl of refried beans with a single slip of cheese in the middle. By the time it got to me the cheese was soft. They looked at me like I would never eat it all, but I did.

cheese in the beans

I was at home and she was in her car when I asked her what she was wearing.

“Just my work clothes.”

“What are your work clothes?”

“You know, the usual.”

“I might not. Go ahead and tell me.”

“Well… My jeans. A green shirt.”

“And underneath?”

She paused. Knowing her, she was thinking of an attractive lie.

“A black bra and black panties.”

“And when you get here?”

“… just a dress. Maybe my flowered one.”

It was as awkward as it reads. I prefer demonstration over conversation.

As we continued we discussed how much I was looking forward to seeing her, how I’d been thinking of her, etc. Partial lies, of course, since I’d been thinking of more than her. Being on the rebound will do that. She’d have all of me when she arrived for dinner anyway.

“One more thing,” I said.

“Yea?”

“Is your apron with you?”

I could hear shuffling noises. “Yes, one of them. I need to get it washed.”

“Don’t do that. Bring it with you.”

“Um, I guess I could. Why?”

“I’ll show when you get here.”

And in spite of that momentary innocent lull, she knew why I wanted her to bring the apron. I’d like to think she smiled knowingly.