Poetry & Parallel Worlds

A couple of weeks ago, I had to write a blog post about Barcelona’s literary side. I knew the blog masters in charge wanted a snappy, touristy thing about Shadow of the Wind and the like. I wasn’t gonna give it to them. I knew there was a whole lot more to the city’s fictional universe than a couple of bestsellers. I spent a long time on Enrique Vila-Matas’ website where I came across a post by Juan Pablo Meneses.

The Chilean writer recounts evenings hobnobbing with the city’s literary crowd, and I instantly got the excited, slighty anxious and envious feeling of this whole other world playing out around me and not being a part of it. Instead of writing my blog post, I searched out several local publishers and liked them on Facebook.

A few days later, one of the publishers, Alpha Decay, posted something about a poetry reading by one of the writers Meneses mentioned in his post, Jaime Rodríguez Z. By now, I’d virtually stalked the vast majority of our local literary talents so I knew that he’s Peruvian, recently moved to Madrid, has a new poetry collection – Canción de Vic Morrow – named after an actor who’d been decapitated by a helicopter blade, and is married to another writer who everyone seems to be talking about all of the time. I “liked” the event and A. got excited about it and said we should go.

The thought of actually going hadn’t really materialized in my mind. A. told me how ridiculous it was to talk about discovering something new, finding out all this information, “liking” it on Facebook and then not actually getting off my ass to check it out. The reluctance, of course, was part of my old junior high anxiety of not getting invited to the party or – worse – showing up and realizing I’d been cast as the verbal punching bag. Ridiculous, I know. We’re all grown-ups now and besides, none of these people know me. It’s also a public event, A. pointed out with a look that summed up the entire absurd nature of my thought process.

The reading was at a bar in the Raval called Bar Raval. I must have walked down Doctor Dou hundreds of times, but I’d never noticed the place before. The people smoking outside the entrance all seemed to know each other. I was early and A. hadn’t arrived yet so I stood near a skinny tree and called a friend. We talked for a bit, I asked her if she wanted to come down, promising this would be much better than previous literary excursions, but she had just made chicken for dinner and had a friend coming over. I walked inside and looked at an enormous statue of a flamenco dancer. I looked at the photos on the wall. Circus performers. The photos were dark and slightly menacing.

The bar was almost empty. A group of twenty-somethings playing cards at one of the tables. A woman with a hurricane of red hair hugging people at the bar. And the poet, in a white shirt and grey V-neck sweater, talking to another man at a table stacked with copies of his book. I sat down in the back and decided I liked the bar. It was old Barcelona, wood and worn red leather, a long bar and tables with curved legs. The waiter brought me a glass of wine and some nuts.

People started arriving, and the woman with the hurricane hair greeted them all, and it was a bit like crashing a family gathering. But not in an uncomfortable way. They seemed like a friendly family, unpretentious and genuinely fond of one another. A. arrived and took an instant liking to the poet because he reminded him of a friend from La Paz. Right when everyone settled down, three girls walked into the bar, a Russ Meyer trio with breast shelves wrapped in black and polka dots. They sat down next to A. and me.

Another writer I’d encountered in Meneses’ blog, Jordi Carrión, introduced the poet. He made a joke about how he’d started dressing preppy since moving to Madrid. He talked about how he’d wondered whether the book would reveal anything new about the poet, because his wife had written about him on so many occasions. The audience loved hearing stories about the poet and his wife, especially the one about him writing her a birthday poem on Facebook. But, Carrión went on to say, the answer is yes, the book reveals plenty about the poet. About growing up in Lima in the late Seventies, about fathers and violence and childhood memories. And somehow he wove all of this together with an old TV show and a supporting actor best known for his role in a most macabre death.

I liked how Rodríguez Z. read his poems, without sentimentality or overwrought flourish. A humble, straightforward delivery, like he was reading to friends in his living room. Which he kind of was, except for a few new faces and the fact that everyone paid for their own drinks. The poems moved through different emotional spaces, at times mysterious, unsettling, funny or immediate, a concoction of pop-culture references and childhood recollections stirring up curious, vivid images. The audience was clearly enjoying themselves. Only the Russ Meyer girls seemed oblivious, sitting in the back, flicking through a copy of Cosmo, red lips in a pout.

Barcelona is small, but occasionally I stumble upon something new, something that’s been happening parallel to my own life this whole time. I walk down a street I’ve walked down almost every day and enter a bar I’ve never noticed before. I find myself in this parallel world, surrounded by people I’ve never met, and suddenly realize the city is a whole lot bigger than I think.

On World Cup Fashion, Part 2

When I arrive at Xop d’Or to watch the Uruguay – Netherlands game, a man tells me about an octopus that has the uncanny ability to pick winning teams.

“So how does he do it?” I ask.

“He’s given the choice of two containers, one for each team in a match, and then I guess he picks one with his, uh, tentacles.”

Apparently, the octopus, who goes by the name of Paul, has not been wrong once this whole World Cup. So besides the ability to hide in its own ink, change color and shapeshift, the octopus is now a bona fide oracle.

After rooting loyally for Ghana, watching Uruguay cheat them out of their quarterfinals win (Ghana was robbed!) and my World Cup boyfriend Gyan weep on the field, I feel the need to present Ghana with several awards.

Most intense goalkeeper: Kingson, the Purple Tank of Ghana, because he’s fierce, fearless and looks splendid in both lilac (game vs. the US) and the very fashionable brown and orange combination he wore during the game against Uruguay.

Best Facial Makeup: the Fans of Ghana for going all out, having vibrant colors and imaginative designs.

Best Celebration of Scoring a Goal: Team Ghana for their sexy little post-goal dance. Definitely beats the “spread-arms-look-at-me-me-me” or “fist-pumping-the-air” run across the field.

Runner-up for Best Celebration of Scoring a Goal: Miroslav Klose’s hands-free-two-feet-above-ground-somersault after goal 4 in the Germany vs. Argentina game.

Ghana may have been cheated out of its rightful place in the semifinals by Suarez’s attempt to take over as goalie, but Gyan, Kingson and the Boys are definitely my pick for Best Team of the 2010 World Cup.

Brazil lost it’s top ranking for Best Use of Color Psychology as a Game Strategy when they made the fatal mistake of wearing their friendly, baby-blue shirts versus the black-and-orange-clad Dutch, who resembled a furious hornet’s nest. The German team also sought inspiration in the insect world. Swarming the field in black with gold stripes, they were as formidable and unsettling as a perfectly coordinated cloud of wasps. Argentina (dressed in what looked like blue and white striped pajamas) didn’t stand a chance. One of their players even lost a shoe. I’m afraid for Spain. It all depends on whether they’ll be wearing their amiable, boy-scout red and blue or their dark paramilitary getup that reminds me of the Mossos de Esquadra.

So…the award for Most Intimidating Paramilitary Style Uniform goes to Germany.

And proving that you can still be intimidating while dressed as a clown fish, the award for Most Outrageous Use of Color goes to the Netherlands for their All Orange Uniform.

Award for Most Likely to Be Confused with an Ice-Cream: Uruguay’s day-glo lime goalkeeper uniform, because it looks just like a popsicle.

Best Shoes: Argentina for their classic, old-school look in black with yellow stripes.

Funniest Name of a World Cup Player: Bastian Schweinsteiger (for all you non-German-speakers out there, the man’s last name basically means “Pig-Mounter”)

Most Regal Name of a World Cup Player: Prince Boateng, who also has a deck of cards tattooed on his neck.

World Cup Player Most Likely to Be Cast in Twilight: Uruguay’s Edinson Cavani.

Player Who’d Be A Lot Better Looking If…he shaved off his tiny facial vagina: Spain’s David Villa.

Player Who’d Be A Lot Better Looking If…he stopped gnashing his teeth on camera: Uruguay’s Diego Forlán.

Most Bizarre Victory Promise: Maradona ‘s pledge to prance naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if Argentina won the World Cup, only topped by his assistant, who offered his anus to whomever scored the winning goal.

Here’s a few contenders for Attractiveness Awards, although none can hold a candle to my boyfriend Asamoah Gyan.

Award for Good Sportsmanship and Lustrous, Glossy Hair: Argentina’s goalkeeper Sergio Romero.

Honorable Mentions for Potential Cuteness Factor: Uruguay’s Alvaro Pereira, his teammate Martin Caceres and Spain’s Iker Casillas.

I’ve discovered that showing up early enough to catch the teams singing their anthems (or in Spain’s case simply standing there, I guess, since the anthem has no words) is crucial to identifying player attractiveness level. It’s the one time they stand still and the camera gets a nice, long, fat close-up of each one. Wish I’d figured this out before…just thinking about all the lost joy and awards not given makes me feel a little cold and dead inside. Oh well, I’ll be better prepared in four years, I promise.

Tomorrow Spain faces the Wasp Battalion from Up North in the semifinals, but I’ve shaken some of my fear.

The octopus picked Spain.

On World Cup Fashion

I’m not much of a sports fan and only really develop an interest in football every four years. For some reason, I can’t get all hot and bothered over club football. It’s not the same as countries from all over the world gathering in one place to duke it out on the field. It wasn’t until my early twenties that professional sports started playing a role in my life. My boyfriend at the time harbored a great love of sports and was pretty much omnivorous in his consumption: basketball (the LA Lakers), baseball (the LA Dodgers), ice hockey, American football (a sport I can’t get into to this day, largely because of their silly uniforms. Granted, their butts look firm in their shiny tights, but combined with all the padding and the helmet, the players remind me of 1980s action figures. Also, they have thick necks, an instant turn-off). Given that I didn’t know anything about any sport, I had to find something to hold my interest during the game, and I picked “boyfriends” to cheer for. In the late 90s, the guys had Kobi Bryant and Shaq. I had Robert Horry, the cutest Laker playing at the time. My all-time favorite basketball boyfriend, however, was Allen Iverson. I know, he didn’t play for the Lakers. I was flagrantly cheating, but I couldn’t help myself. Short, rude and demon fast, he really got me excited about watching a game.  “He’s a punk!” my then (real life) boyfriend would exclaim outraged. Such reckless disloyalty was cause for much distress amongst the boys and occasional threats of being banned from future game nights.

Baseball was a bit of a drag. On TV, it had a soporific effect on me. A live game was alright as long as it was sunny and we had plenty of beer and pot. But the uniforms remind me of pajamas and there’s too much standing around involved and some of the players have big guts. Surprisingly, I enjoyed hockey, even though you can’t really appreciate any of the players’ physical attributes what with all their protective gear. As to the argument why hockey players get a pass and football players don’t – here it’s really about the game (I know it sounds odd coming from a professed sporting ignoramus). Hockey is lightning fast and ferocious. The players get into vicious fights and seeing blood is a definite possibility. This creates true, exhilarating drama.

Nothing, however, beats football. And with that I mean the football the rest of the world plays, the football that actually involves kicking the ball with your foot, what Americans call soccer. As a game, it is beautiful to watch even if you don’t know the rules. But by now it’s obvious that the elegance of the game is what matters least in my sports analysis. Yes, it’s about looks and style. Superficial indeed, but so what. It makes watching a game a lot more fun. Football players have splendid physiques. Not too big, not too broad. Watching their leg muscles ripple in slow motion is a joyful, zesty experience. The uniforms are fitted just right – not too tight, not too loose – and I love the knee socks. And now that it’s World Cup time, I am fully invested in my quadrennial sports addiction. To celebrate this glorious game and its many heroes (and diss its cads, divas and sissies), I’ve decided to present my own World Cup 2010 Awards.

Best looking player: Asamoah Gyan (Ghana)

Funniest hair: Carles Puyol (Spain), because he looks like a cast member of Anvil: The Story of Anvil.

Worst hair: Fernando Torres (Spain), because he gets it wrong every time – mullet, blond tips. It’s all bad.

Best socks: Ghana (uniform worn in game vs. USA), because red and gold is a stylish, winning combination.

Runner up for best socks: Paraguay (the red and white striped socks in game vs. Japan), because they look like candy canes.

Award for Best Use of Color Psychology As A Game Tactic: Brazil. (Granted, Brazil has a built-in freak-out factor what with their multiple World Cup wins and formidable reputation as the world’s most ass-kicking football nation. But add an avalanche of yellow shirts rushing across the field, and the opponent may easily experience fear and a sense of inadequacy. Sure, yellow is a friendly, cheerful color, but it’s also been associated with feelings of frustration, eye fatigue and even vision loss. In the game vs. Chile, the Brazilian team’s goalie sported a green uniform that almost matched the field, yet another strategic move. I’m not saying that if Brazil wins this World Cup, it’ll be due to their ingenious use of color, but beyond the ability to play well, there’s plenty of subtle factors that deserve careful consideration.)

Most Bizarre Fashion Moment: in the Spain vs. Portugal game when Fernando Llorente sported a torn football jersey. Is the tattered chic look breaking into football? What’s next? Bleach stained shorts with carefully orchestrated rips just below the crotch?

I hope to closely examine the fashion sense of additional teams as we enter the quarter finals. New awards will no doubt be presented shortly!

Poetry 101

A while back, I decided that perhaps I should engage with my local writing community. Reach out, meet some fellow scribblers. Be less of an arrogant misanthrope. A few days later I got an invitation to a reading and saw it as an opportunity to exercise my new openness. I arrived late, because of a group of Nigerians singing “Give Peace a Chance” on Plaça Sant Jaume, holding up Nigerian flags and banners that read “Nigeria is not a terrorist nation.” I stood in the rain watching them sing, a small group of men, women, children on a Sunday evening in front of the deserted city hall. When I got to the gallery, people were still standing around, drinking beer and wine from plastic cups. A woman was fiddling with the music stand and the microphone. I hadn’t missed anything. I got a cup of wine for a euro, which made me happy, and checked out the crowd. Mostly middle-aged, dressed in subdued winter fashion. A smattering of people in their thirties. One woman in her twenties in a purple turtleneck. And then I saw her. She was short, in her fifties, with shrill red hair and thick lips painted orange, heavy eyelids and an enormous smile revealing tiny teeth pointing in all directions. She wore a thick, wool sweater and gold paisley leggings and hiking boots. I hoped that she was amongst the evening’s readers.

We sat down on plastic folding chairs, and a woman in her forties with sharp black hair welcomed us to an evening of poetry and prose in Spanish, Catalan and English. The first woman to read was young and covered her entire oeuvre from the age of sixteen to the present. At the beginning there was lots of stuff about elves and magic kingdoms and brooks in the moonlight. A waterfall interrupted her sonnet, and I glanced at the pipe in the corner closest to me and my neighbor whispered that this was just something that happened when someone flushed the toilet upstairs.

Up next, a woman in a loud shirt with a book full of what a friend once uncharitably described as Hausfrau poetry. The woman in the purple turtleneck read a couple of despondent short stories, the kind that always end in death, because of the faulty assumption that only death results in poignancy. She wrote about death like someone who has never encountered death. I was about to sneak off for another cup of one euro wine when…my gold paisley woodland creature made her way up to the music stand. Yes! Finally! I sat upright in my squeaky plastic chair. She stared at us, her hands on her hips, and grinned.

“I will read my poems in Spanish and then I will read the translation into English. Yes? So, first in Spanish and then the same in English!” she said loudly and happily and immediately launched into a verse about waves kissing rocks. She read as if devouring something incredibly tasty. Her hands never left her hips. She looked up and grinned. “And now in English!” she called out cheerfully and read a literal translation of the poem in thickly accented English. Her poems were neither good nor dismal, but she was magnetic up there, performing poetry as if it were an endurance sport. “And now!” she called out, “A very short poem, first in Spanish and then translated into German!” Only two lines long, the vanishing line of the horizon, something like that. Her German was unintelligible. But it didn’t matter. She moved from one poem to the next so swiftly, it was like watching a magic trick, the classic trick with the coin that vanishes and pops up in all sorts of orifices. You have a vague notion of how it all works, but you could never explain it let alone repeat it, and yet you are mesmerized.

We stood around as the organizers gathered up the plastic folding chairs and the woman in the loud shirt asked my neighbor, a young novelist, if she was coming to the Thursday meeting, and the novelist smiled without saying yes or no. She later confided that I wasn’t missing much; mostly a bunch of old guys sitting around and telling everyone else how they should be writing. Someone flushed upstairs and water roared through the gallery walls. The young novelist and I smiled at each other.

The Letter, Part 1

She was reading the letter out loud, wondering what she would do when she got to the part that revealed everything. Would she blurt it out or glide across it so seamlessly that he’d never even know she’d skipped a paragraph. Or would she hesitate just long enough to make him suspicious. Half a page to go. She sat upright in the office chair across from him, the back of her legs sticking to the pleather seat. He had taken his glasses off and was running both hands through his thick hair. Light brown, no gray yet. A youthful 34. Old next to her though. She was reading a letter from her best friend. Something about a play they were doing at her high school. He wasn’t really paying attention. He was thinking about best friends. He hadn’t referred to anyone as his best friend in a long time. Perhaps best friends die out with adolescence. Perhaps at 34 all you have left are acquaintances. Again he was hit by the gulf between them. The office was silent. She had stopped reading.

She was disappointed. He hadn’t been listening. Otherwise he would have noticed the tiny pause she’d slipped in. But it had hung there, ignored. She blushed. What if she was wrong? She’d die of embarrassment.

“What’s the matter?” he asked and put on his glasses, “Was that everything?”

“No,” she said, her eyes fixed on the letter in her lap.

“Go on then. I was enjoying it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She was holding the letter with both hands. Unsteady hands. Her cheeks were on fire.

“I can’t. It’s private.”

“Now I’m definitely curious.”

“It’s better if I don’t.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he smiled.

She watched him closely, deliberating the consequences of her next move. If she was wrong, she’d get herself into a world of trouble. And if she was right… She had no idea what would happen if she was right. She’d come up with all sorts of fantasies, but that’s all they were, fantasies. The cramped, airless office vibrated in the neon glare. He was watching her with penetrating blue eyes. A silence full of noise. The blood in her ears, the hum of the computer fan, the drone of the central heating system. The laughter of students outside. Recess was almost over. She wanted to know. She jumped up and slammed the letter on his desk.

“If you really want to know,” she said loudly, “Read it yourself!”

She walked out of his office before she could change her mind.

Henry sat and observed the letter from a distance. The pale blue paper with a floral motif in the center. The girlish handwriting. Smily faces as punctuation, swirling ink patterns to fill up blank space. For some reason, he was afraid. He wasn’t sure why. He knew what it said in the forbidden paragraph. He’d known for a while now. She wasn’t hard to read. He wasn’t afraid of her feelings. She was 16 and curious and had no concept of death or the end of things. He was afraid of his own feelings. They’d met during her interview at the exclusive private school that had been his meal ticket for the last five years. We’ve got a student interested in drama, Luke, the admissions guy, had told him. Henry taught drama so he interviewed her as he had interviewed so many other potential students over the years. But she wasn’t like the others. She seemed older, poised, incredibly bright and self-assured. European girls are like that, Luke told him later. Luke would know, he’s English. Henry had never been to Europe. He had never been anywhere, really. After high school he’d driven his old Buick from San Clemente, California to New York City to become an actor. When things didn’t work out and he was broke, he pawned the gold watch his paternal grandfather had left him, a man he’d never much cared for, and drove back across the country. He got married to his high school sweetheart. Always a bad idea. Two years into college and they weren’t the same people anymore. Divorced, luckily no children. He got married again, to a woman who was much taller and much smarter than him. She wore billowing dresses and was working on her Ph.D. in philosophy. He always thought she’d leave him for one of her university colleagues, but in the end, he was the one to stray. An actress, adorable and bubbly and not at all intimidating. His co-star in a terrible community theater production of The Seagull. After a few manic, exciting months, she burned all of the photos of his previous wives in a metal bin in the backyard. When he broke up with her, she stalked him for half a year. First he changed his phone number, then he moved to a new apartment. He spent a couple of years alone, in recovery. He started working at the school. He had a brief affair with a fellow teacher, who decided to go back to her ex-husband in Chicago at the end of the school year. His entire romantic life was a drab cliché. A string of lamentable choices. He eyed the letter. Perhaps the fear was his self-preservation instinct kicking in. These stories never ended well. This was professional and personal suicide. He laughed. He hadn’t crossed the line. Nothing had happened. Nothing would happen. Stop being ridiculous, read the damn letter and tell her tomorrow, gently but firmly, that nothing could come of this. Ever.

Ava walked out of his office and down the hall, white noise in her ears, sweating, her footsteps faster and faster. She pushed through the glass doors to the courtyard and then she was running. She ran across the courtyard and the lawn, past the library and down the slope to her dorm. She ran down the carpeted corridor, breathless and elated. Into her room, slamming the door behind her. Beth and Anne sitting on the bed. She barely saw their faces. Stars danced before her eyes.

“What’s up with you?” Anne asked.

She bent over to catch her breath.

“I did it,” she croaked.

“Did what?”

“I gave him the letter.”

The stunned silence she’d been hoping for.

“No way!”

“He’s reading it right now?” Beth asked.

She nodded and sank onto the bed between them.

“You are totally nuts,” Beth said.

Anne studied her with what she hoped was newfound respect. Anne, the unrivaled leader of girls, the object of desire. Blonde, glamorous, outrageous Anne who wore a tiny trench coat and golden heels to class, who kept a bottle of rum and tropical drink mix in her closet and weed in her underwear drawer. National Honor Student, dorm counselor, vice-president of her class, third generation to attend the school. Anne got away with everything. The other girls clung to her, hoping that some of her golden shine would rub off on them. Ava liked to think she was different, an echelon above the sycophants. A true friend.

“I’m impressed,” Anne said, “A little obvious, perhaps, but daring.”

“It might turn into a total shit storm,” Beth remarked.

“I know,” Ava sighed, “I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t stop myself.”

“I’m definitely taking a more subtle route with Mr. Sanderman,” Anne said, examining her nails, “I think he’d totally freak out if I pulled a stunt like that. But we’re making progress. I just got him to help me with my Spanish after school,” she batted her eyelashes coyly, “because I want to improve my conversation skills before the family trip to Puerto Vallarta.”

She rolled her “r’s” expertly.

“You’re terrible,” Beth muttered, “Both of you.”

“But I’m sure Mr. Lynch was into it,” Anne added, “After all, it’s pretty theatrical.”

“He’s probably gonna go home and rub the letter all over his body.”

Ava squealed and buried her face in a pillow.

* * *

Henry took off his shoes and his jeans and sat down on the edge of his bed with a tumbler of bourbon. He looked around his tiny apartment and for the first time it struck him how lonely it was, how devoid of any effort to make it a home. The TV and VCR formed an island in the gray, carpeted room. His bed stood in one corner. A coffeemaker, a pot, three glasses, that was the extent of his kitchen utensils. All he ever bought was water, coffee, milk and bourbon. He never cooked at home. When had his existence become so dreary? How had this never bothered him before? He poured himself another bourbon and picked up the letter and carried it over to the bed and read it again. He wondered if she regretted giving it to him. He wondered if she meant it. And if she did, was she capable of knowing what it meant? What did a sixteen-year-old girl know about love? She’d been crazy about Tom Leland for most of the fall semester. She’d told him all about it. Tom had gotten expelled, and she’d snuck off on two dates with him and then it was over. Now she never even mentioned him. It was as if he had never existed.

* * *

Ava lay on her back in the dark, staring at the sickly green constellation on the ceiling. Beth was snoring softly, her hands folded demurely under her cheek. They had pushed their beds together on one side of the room and sometimes they fell asleep holding hands. When the other girls in the dorm teased them about being lesbians, Beth and Ava just smiled. They had figured out that they’d been born on exactly the same day at exactly the same time on opposite sides of the world. They dyed their hair the same color red and loved The Pixies and The Violent Femmes and drifted between cliques without really belonging anywhere.

Ava couldn’t sleep. The exhilaration had worn off, doubts accumulated in the dark. She knew he cared for her. Even if she was wrong, Henry would not rat her out. He’d done her plenty of favors in the past. Back in the fall, whenever Henry drove them to the mall, she’d met Tom in the parking lot instead of going to the cinema with everyone else. Only once, when she’d been late for the van pick-up at Baskin Robbins, had he told her to be careful. This was after Tom got expelled for smoking weed. It was inevitable, really. Tom would show up late to first period, stoned to the eyeballs. He was a day student and sometimes he’d smuggle beer on campus and they’d drink it down by the softball pit after school. Or he’d bring his flask to the lame school dances and spike their drinks. He also sniffed glue, but Ava preferred to ignore this. There was no rebel drama in glue. She worried about Tom, and Henry was the only person she could talk to about him. After he got expelled, she saw him a few times. On their last night together, he picked her up in the mall parking lot and they drove to the park. They hadn’t seen each other in two weeks. He’d brought a blanket and spread it out under a tree and told her he had something important to tell her. He seemed lucid and earnest. He told her he’d quit drinking and smoking weed and was seeing a shrink. He said it felt weird to see things so clearly. He was happy. He said he loved her. Ava wasn’t sure why, but his declaration left her cold. Suddenly he seemed so ordinary. Just some guy from the suburbs getting over a drug problem and flunking out of school. The sense of adventure deflated like a balloon the morning after a glorious party. They made out for a while, but when Tom asked her if they could have sex, she told him she’d be late for the van pick-up at the mall. On the ride back to school, she sat up front next to Henry, and he was telling them about a play he’d seen in Hollywood over the weekend and how terrible it was and how no one understood subtext anymore.

“You guys are way ahead of these theater flunkies,” he said and smiled at her and the smile made Ava tremble. And then she knew that all along she’d been making up excuses to avoid the glaringly obvious. She was in love with Henry.

The glow in the dark constellation had faded to a pale shimmer. 5am according to the red numbers on the alarm clock. Her brain hurt. Ava got out of bed and did a shot of cough syrup in the hopes of getting at least a couple of hours sleep.

to be continued…

The Funeral

I was seventeen and I’d never seen a dead person before.

He lay in the coffin like a wax figure, his hands folded across his sunken chest. The inside of the coffin was lined with white ruffles. It reminded me of a cream tart. His face was an unnatural shade of orange and he was wearing eyeliner. I’d met Henry’s grandfather once. We’d visited him at his little house in Hemet, a desert outpost where the residents refer to the fifty-somethings as “the youth”, and he’d made us instant coffee and we’d sat amongst towers of old newspapers and he’d complained about his nurse.

“You can’t trust the Orientals, you know,” he’d said, sucking on his oxygen mask.

“Asians,” Henry had said.

“What?”

“The people are Asians. Oriental is used for carpets and furniture.”

“You always know everything better, dontcha? Always been a smartass. Look at you now. Still teaching at that high school, arentcha? Whatever happened to your great acting career?”

“He’s always been that way,” Henry told me later that evening, “Hateful. I think my grandmother died just to get away from him.”

And now he lay stiffly in his funerary cream confection, looking like he’d spent every free minute on a tanning bed instead of hiding behind dusty curtains and a lifetime of accumulated stuff.

The nurse had called Henry a few days ago and told him of his grandfather’s death. Mid-rant, apparently. Something about a “wetback invasion.” He’d gotten so agitated his throat had seized up and he’d choked.

“The paramedics tried to revive him, but it didn’t do any good,” the nurse said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henry told her.

We drove out to Hemet for the funeral. A beautiful clear morning. The sunlight reflecting off the palm trees sharp and blinding as we drove through the desert. Henry listened to NPR and didn’t talk much.

“Is your sister coming?” I asked.

“No.”

“They didn’t get along?”

“You met him. You saw how he was. Getting along with him was impossible. He hated everybody. He told my sister she was too fat to ever find a husband. She stopped talking to him years ago.”

“He must have liked someone…or something.”

“He liked seeing people fail.”

We sped past a crooked sign. Hemet, 10 miles. An artificial geriatric island in the middle of a vast, sandy emptiness. Single-story homes with wilting front yards. A few nursing homes. A hospice. A main street with forgettable chain stores and restaurants. A few miles out of town people cooked up meth in broken-down trailers. Sometimes they’d blow themselves up, but usually death came to Hemet quietly and undramatically.

The service was being held at a local church, a flat, peach-colored stucco building with a couple hibiscus out front. We walked in and eight elderly people turned to stare at us.

“Wow. I thought we’d be the only ones here,” Henry remarked.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

Henry shrugged.

A woman of about seventy in a velour jogging outfit came up to us. “Did you know the deceased?”

“Yeah. He was my grandfather.”

“Oh, of course! Henry, right? I’m Pamela. I lived next door to your grandfather.”

She looked at me and beamed, “And who is this lovely young lady?”

Henry cleared his throat, “My, uhm, my niece. Ava.”

“So nice to meet you, dear,” Pamela’s face went into mourning and she clasped my hand, “So sorry for your loss.”

I nodded vaguely. Six more months, I thought. Six more months until my birthday. Six more months and we’d finally be free of nieces and cousins and all the other invented relatives I’d played in public. I wanted to hold his hand, not some old lady’s I’d just met, I wanted to kiss him in the middle of a crowded street and not lie about my life when I ran into old friends from high school. Be patient, Henry would tell me, just a little while longer. I fought the urge to kiss him right there, in front of Pamela and the priest and the seven wrinkled faces examining us like a rare species. Seeing the outrage ripple through the room would almost have been worth it.

“We reserved a table at the Homestyle Buffet for after the service. You’ll join us, won’t you?” Pamela spoke slowly, over enunciating every word as if we were toddlers or hard of hearing.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Pamela pointed to some chairs in the front row. We sat down. The priest stood next to the coffin and read something from the Bible. He closed the book and looked at us awkwardly.

“Would anyone like to say something?”

The room sat in silence. I could feel their eyes on us, expecting Henry to get up and deliver some kind of eulogy for a man no one had ever liked. Henry stared at the scuffed tips of his shoes. I curled my hand around his. A man in the back cleared his throat and we all turned to look at him. He was short with an impressive stomach plunging over his belt buckle. Bald, except for a wispy crown of white hair. He stood up and cleared his throat again.

“Frank was my neighbor. He lived at number 15, I live right next door, number 17. He was a quiet man. Always minded his own business. He was good at fixing things,” he paused, his arms hanging limply on either side of his bloated belly, “Once he let me borrow his camera. That was a nice thing to do, because he loved that camera.”

He glanced around the room nervously.

“That’s all,” he said and sat down. We all turned back to the front of the room.

“Thank you,” the priest said.

We took turns walking up to the coffin. Pamela tucked a hibiscus flower under his hands and I wondered whether she’d plucked it from the bush outside the church. Henry stared at the old man for a few seconds. His mouth twitched like he was about to laugh. He turned and walked out, eight pairs of old eyes following him. I felt uncomfortable standing by his coffin, looking at his waxy, orange face with the thick black eyeliner, a joke of a death mask, trying to think of something nice anyone had ever said about this man and coming up empty. When I went outside, Henry was standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, staring out at the rows of identical stucco houses. I stood next to him and felt young and stupid.

“We’re heading to the Homestyle Buffet,” Pamela pulled up in her car, the window rolled down. She was wearing a green plastic visor, “Maybe it’s best if you follow me. That way you won’t get lost!”

We got in the car and Pamela honked as we pulled up behind her and we drove down the street, a slow-moving caravan that a random onlooker might have mistaken for solemn.

The Homestyle Buffet was on Hemet’s main street, next to a hardware store and a pharmacy. We parked in the lot behind the restaurant. Henry sat back in his seat, his hands flat on his knees.

“This is gonna be profoundly depressing,” he said, “We should’ve brought the flask.”

“We don’t have to stay long,” I tried to sound comforting.

“We’re definitely not staying long.”

I leaned across to kiss him. He pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t. I’m not feeling romantic right now. Let’s go and get this over with.”

We crossed the parking lot, not speaking, a tense three feet apart.

Pamela waved at us from a long table at the rear of the restaurant.

“Grab your trays and join us!” she called out brightly. The portly neighbor sat next to her, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth. The other mourners shuffled along the buffet, piling food onto their plates. We joined the line with our blue plastic trays.

“The creamed corn is very good here,” one old lady told me, “I always get the creamed corn.”

We paid at the register and carried our trays over to the table. A red plastic “reserved” sign stood next to the salt and pepper shakers. We sat across from Pamela and the portly man.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s just say a quick prayer for Frank,” Pamela said and held out her hands. She wiggled her fingers. The portly man looked guiltily at the mashed potatoes and put down his fork. Henry rubbed his temples. His patience was running out. But he played along and we held hands and Pamela mumbled a few words and everyone said “Amen” and then Pamela smiled cheerily and said, “Let’s eat!” and everyone dug into their food.

“So you came all the way down from Seattle for the funeral?” Pamela asked me. I stared at her blankly.

“I’ve never met your mother,” Pamela continued, “But Frank told me his daughter lived in Seattle.”

Oh, right. My mother. I forced a smile, “Yes. We live in Seattle.”

“A pity your mother couldn’t come,” Pamela said, shaking her head reproachfully, “At times like these…” She paused expectantly, waiting for me to provide an acceptable excuse. I sucked on a mouthful of bland creamed spinach. “Anyway, it’s none of my business…” Another loaded pause. Others at the table had gotten interested in our conversation. The woman next to me fiddled with her hearing aid.

I glanced at Henry. I wanted to tell them that Henry’s sister hadn’t come, because she’d hated the old bastard. I wanted to tell them that she wasn’t my mother at all. I was sick of pretending all the time.

“My sister just had an operation,” Henry said calmly, “She couldn’t travel.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” the woman with the hearing aid asked loudly.

“No, nothing serious,” Henry said and smiled. He squeezed my thigh under the table. I jerked my leg out of reach and stabbed into a pile of wilted lettuce on my plate. Henry folded his hands in his lap and kept smiling.

The conversation soon turned to the mundane matters of retired life in the desert. Ailments and hospital stays. Who had what and where what hurt. Tips on new meds. Everyone was very upbeat, swapping golfing stories and sharing updates on recent hip replacements. A comparison of recent funerals yielded the conclusion that Eunice’s service had been splendid, her family had done a great job with the floral arrangements, and wasn’t it a relief that she’d gone the way she did, a stroke while putting on her lipstick (oh Eunice, she was glamorous all the way to the end!) and not like poor Margaret, who’d lain crippled (but didn’t she suffer bravely? Such a noble spirit, that one!) at the hospice for months before slipping away in a morphine haze.

“I need a drink,” Henry muttered.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We stood up and thanked everyone for coming to the funeral.

“Aren’t you staying for dessert?” Pamela asked.

“We’ve got a long drive back,” Henry replied.

“Well, it was real nice meeting you,” Pamela said and patted Henry’s hand and then mine, “Come by any time. We might still be here!”

Everyone except for the lady with the hearing aid laughed.

“Drive safe now!” Pamela said and waved as we walked away.

We headed out to the parking lot. Everyone else picked up their trays and went back for seconds.

On the Price of Things

A week ago I was scoping out the new, shiny Terminal 1 at the Barcelona airport. Very shiny. So shiny that you can look up a woman’s skirt as she crosses the polished black floor. After staggering out of security with my shoes in hand and pants falling down, I found myself in the airy, curvaceous, white glory of the airport mall. It was my first time in the T1 and a little reconnaissance was in order. I had plenty of time and I needed some lip balm. Somewhere amidst the souvenirs and designer rags there had to be a pharmacy. How naive. Why would anyone want to sell something useful at an airport mall? This is where all the colorful, shiny, useless things go to when they die, a consumer heaven populated with bored people who can’t escape. Expensive perfume, wool coats, big hams. Desigual with clothes that look like a giant moth ate its way through a costume party and threw up. Zara and its parade of synthetic clones.  A Ferrari store. And Natura, the haven for the conscientious mainstream shopper. 50 Euros for poorly glued boots made in the People’s Republic of China. 20 Euros for a 100% acrylic scarf. But hey, the bags are made from recycled paper and deliver happy, fuzzy messages about taking it slow and sharing the love. A German woman was rummaging through a plastic bin of cheap baubles, plastic beads and pendants covered in silver paint.

“How much?” she asked the sales girl.

“1 euro,” the girl said, “1 piece, 1 euro.”

She held up a bauble and one finger to illustrate her point.

“Cheap!” she added, smiling.

The woman beamed. “Yes. Very cheap. Good!” She started a little pile of baubles next to the cash register.

I swallowed to stop myself from blurting out something rude and coughed loudly. After all, why should I care about this bit of highway robbery. Obviously the woman enjoyed getting ripped off. She walked out of the store with six plastic baubles that would probably lose their silver coat in a matter of days. But it’s hard to get anything for a euro these days so when it’s right there in front of you, that shiny bright useless thing, yours for just a single coin, you gotta strike. It’s so cheap! You’d be a fool not to!

The reconnaissance work left me hungry. I weighed my options.

8 euro wok noodles fried up in cheap oil, 6 euro cheese sandwich, 5 euro ice-tea, 4 euro muffin.

I know, I know. It’s the airport, and airports are always a rip-off. But if that’s true then the whole world is turning into one gigantic airport. Or at least the city of Barcelona. My local restaurant, for example. Two years ago I was a lunchtime fixture. 8 Euros got me a good, 3-course meal, beverage included. Now the same menu is 12,50. The food hasn’t changed. The portions haven’t gotten any bigger. Nor has anyone’s salary. In fact, salaries are plummeting. And those with a shrinking salary are the lucky ones. In some parts of the country, unemployment has reached 20%. Public coffers are running dry, the government is about to raise the sales tax. Groceries, rent, utilities…everything has gone up, except for our paychecks. The more we work, the poorer we get. That sounds like bad math to me.

I know that this scenario plays out all over the world, but in some countries the rip-off is done with kid gloves. In Spain, the rip-off happens unabashedly, in your face. Deregulation was supposed to lower our phone bill. Telefonica still charges me almost 80 Euros a month. Every time I call to complain, they promise a discount that never comes. Every time I call to complain about the discount that never came, they claim the discount never existed in the first place. When I’ve called the company, the phone lines are usually full of static, their operators come in faint and tinny, as if they were using skype to run their customer service. I’ve flirted with the idea of switching providers. But who to trust amongst this shameless cabal? Who terrorize their potential future clients at all hours of the day? Andrés and I have developed elaborate dissuasive techniques. I try selling operators on their competitors. Andrés plays them heavy metal. I speak to them in a language they don’t understand. Once Andrés even told a phone company salesperson that I, the contract holder, had died. I can’t wait to see what happens now that the electrical market has been deregulated!

And the political class? Their scandals have been getting plenty of ink lately. Ransacking public coffers, using taxpayer money as their personal (or party) cash cow. Caso Gürtel. The Palau Incident. When public and private sector are so deeply in each other’s pockets, it comes as no surprise that citizens are footing the bill. At all ends. Slowly, you start to feel like an idiot.

And the most astounding thing of all – we put up with it. All the time.

Sure, we complain. A lot. In the supermarket check-out line. In the elevator. At the bus stop. We bitch about the cost of living. We erupt in outrage when our bills arrive. We vent to friends, family, co-workers, neighbors, complete strangers in bars. We feel united in our outrage, bond over our shared abuse. We’re outstanding complainers. But what we should really do is take it a step further. Find ways to boycott the worst private sector offenders. Identify them. Refuse them our money. They are big and we are small, but starting small is better than not starting at all. Our power to consume – or not consume – is the only power we have. And our voice. Spain’s “consumer protection agency” is a joke. How about starting an online platform where people can post comments about and rate companies, providing others with helpful information to guide their choices? And we must all become loud, vocal, obnoxious, public pains in the ass. Writing letters, starting blogs, initiating neighborhood actions. The best citizen action, of course, would be for all of us to stop paying our taxes until we get the kind of laws that close the gulf between the cost of living and our salaries, laws that reign in a system spinning out of control, laws that allow us to live and work with dignity.

Babbelingua

Last week I attended a virtual translation conference. A free gig designed primarily for companies to push their overpriced software on us underpaid translators. I sat at my computer in my pajama, drinking coffee and maneuvering my avatar around slick Second Life-style spaces that looked curiously outdated. I tried to snag some free software, did a quiz to win an ipod, showed up for virtual lectures only to realize I was in the wrong time zone. At 5pm GMT there was a virtual cocktail hour and at some point I attempted a little networking in the translators’ lounge. The following is an excerpt from a chat with translation colleagues from around the world…

(For the non-translators out there, here’s a few terms you might find useful:

CAT tools or CATs – Computer Assisted Translation tools

TRADOS, Wordfast, Across – examples of CAT tools. TRADOS is the CAT behemoth that has pretty much taken over the market and charges accordingly. Wordfast is a cheaper tool, and Across is free.

TM – translation memory, an element within a CAT system. Many translators are extremely protective of the TMs they build up.

Source and target language – the language you’re translating from and the one you’re translating into.)

And now…Welcome to the Translators’ Lounge, where linguistic experts gather to discuss the essential matters of their trade…
A. M:
Welcome A 🙂
O. G:
Am I paranoïd or being censored
M. W:
some languages, like german, have long words.
B. W:
just because you are NOT paranoid G. does NOT mean they are NOT out to get you!
M. S:
In Germany we charge by line of 55 characters includin spaces
M. W:
less number of words but more characters to type. i really like to charge by character.
M. R:
Hi, greetings from Mexico
M. R:
Who’s there?
A. D:
View XXX.com conferences on video!
Click to visit our site!
M. S:
Hi to Mexico!
S. L:
Hi, I am S. from Spain
M. R:
Where are you from?
R. P:
US  It-EN translation
M. W:
malay is a bit like german. longer words and more wordy sentences but less wordcount. so translation tends to expand without the benefit of price increase
M. R:
Hola S.
C. W:
from Argentina, living in Israel
M. S:
M. from Germany
S. C:
Hello all from California, French translator, I am reading this chat and I am surprised by the possibility of some to charge by the target language.
K. S:
Hello! Greetings from Hungary.
S.L:
Hola M. R.
M. S:
S. C: In Germany you can. Even for translations into French
M. S:
they tend to expand about 20%
B. W:
how many of you think the end client KNOWS how many words there are?
M. R:
that’s what you really type!
K. V:
Hello everyone!
M. S:
Haaa they don’t B.W.!
M. W:
rule of thumb is to to assume they do KNOW.
P. E:
depends on origin x target language. english to portuguese, origin is a trap
N. E:
S.L -de donde en espana eres?
J. F:
In the early Cretaceous when there was no Trados (just imagine …) one always charged by target. Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say.
S.L.:
no idea – I have only one end client and, yes, they know exactly how many words there are
I. D:
In my experience, customers aren’t interested in numbers of words, just numbers of pounds and pence!
S. C:
Yes, in French it is much longer too, but how can you be certain of the number of words?
S.L.:
de la costa blanca
O. G:
Thank you B W but my answer has disappeared 3 or 4 times into thin air I give up
R. P:
CATs are for translators to use, not for translators to be used.
M. D:
The client didn’t pay for them, did he?
B. W:
can I throw a cat among you pigeons…who agrees that it is time for translators to start setting the rukes…….rather than having the tail wag the dog?….discuss!
M. N:
How is wordfast?
P. E:
G: you lost the answers?
O. G:
In fact I manage to make it shorter sometimes
M. S:
so right!!#
P. E:
I like wordfast
M. F:
I agree with you,P!
O. G:
I tried to explain how I get a wordcount from a pdf
R. P:
ditto
C. W:
Wordfast is great!
M. N:
is it better than trados?
O. G:
select copy paste into word and Voilà
T. S:
I agree that translators should not be used by cats!
M. W:
i think it’s good business to generally agree before starting work.
S.L.:
a lot better than trados
O. G:
Finally !
C. W:
contact me and i’ll tell you (they don’t pay me for saying this)
S. C:
yes sometimes some sentences are shorter
P. E:
I copy and paste to word.
B. W:
wrong kind of CAT!
R. K:
I think these CATs too costly for translators in eastern countries
P. E:
I prefer classic
C. W:
i don’t know if it’s better, just very good and cheaper
T. S:
For me all these CATs are very expensive.
R. K:
yes
M. S:
across is free for freelancers
T. S:
Translators are not well paid in Belarus
L. G:
maybe this can help
R. P:
I was not about to spend close to USD 900..
P. C:
Personally I think Trados is a rip off
P. E:
speaking of cats what about forming a group and “chipping in” for a tool?
M. S:
across is free.
L. C:
Talking about dinero, i would like translation rates in Europe
R. P:
Will the agencies next step be to extract the TM we have in our head?
B. W:
only if there is 20% in it for them
R. P:
LOL
A. P:
Any Mac users in the lounge?
M. S:
20%? Show me that agency! They’d charge 50 at least!
A. I:
Hi, good afternoon to all
J. F:
Yes, I expect so, R. P. The British (soi-disant) government is already trying to do that.
C. M:
R.P, I think it will
P. C:
A. P, I am a Mac user!
B. W:
actually, they usually charge 30%
C. M:
are there any free CATs?
A. D:
Hi! Hello all! If you have a Facebook account and are interested in XXX conferences, add “XXX Conferences” as a friend, and visit the official group: XXX!
M. D:
yes
M. D:
OmegaT
M. S:
YES! ACROSS! but noone seems to listen!
B. W:
there are LOOADS of free CATS but are YOU willing to stake your rep on them?
A. D:
Interested in organizing a XXX Conference in your city/country? Apply here: XXX!
M. N:
if you have to take a test for a translation project in Europe, typically how many words should you accept to do for free?
A. D:
Want to share knowledge at XXX conferences and be a speaker? Apply now here: XXX!
A. I:
Mac user in the lounge
A. D:
Feel free to come visit us at the XXX Training and Conferences booth to find out more about our upcoming events – we are in the XXX Hall.
R. P:
One of my “agencies” wanted a discount every time they gave me a TM….beware of foxes
A. D:
Don’t forget to visit our upcoming conferences page under XXX – look for some 2010 conferences to be announced soon!
I. D:
No more than 500 words.
S.L:
200 – 300, depends on the subjact
A. P:
This chat is way too schizoid for me! Next time it might be a good idea to divide the lounge into thematic spaces, otherwise everything just becomes one deafening chat chaos!
J. L:
anyway, how is wordfast better than Trados?
M. N:
but not 2000 words, right?
A. B:
any experienced English- Catalan translators out there?
B. W:
2000 ????? they are pulling your leg!
I. D:
2000 words is way too high, unless it’s being paid for.
S.L:
no, M.N. – never ever!!!
S. C:
2000 words is not a test
O. G:
It is the software that is schizo
M. N:
thanks for the tip.
S.L:
someone is trying to get a translation for free off you
S. C:
it is someone trying to rip you off
M. N:
is across a name of a tool?
B. W:
at least the famous highway robber Dick Turpin had the decency to wear a mask!!!
G. S:
oofff, 300 words is a test, 500 even, but 2,000…!!!
O. G:
Even going back in the conversation, it keeps jumping every time someone sends a message
G. S:
I was wondering about across too.
I. D:
Copy and paste into Notepad for jump-free reading.
M.N:
you just have to scroll up, C. W!
O. G:
jumping
P. E:
someone at XXX cancel automatic scroll please?
O. G:
Hihihi
O. G:
This is getting schizo !
M. S:
yes, please
M. N:
it’s a like true tower of babel, am loving it!!
A. P:
This chat is pure dada.
L. C:
indeed
A.L:
please, I also want to read previous messages
R. T:
Hello, we are looking for German-English translators. Regards from Stuttgart (Germany)
G. S:
can’t you just click on the individual u want to chat with?
E. B:
Any frustrated Macintosh users out there who need low-cost TM software?
M. S:
yesss, Dada
O. G:
The dada is galoping ! Jajaja !
A. R:
dada or lady gaga?
B. W:
Mr D….you are a goddamn genius!!!!
G. S:
I love the guy in the middle waggling his fingers all day ;.D
A. P:
I am a frustrated Mac user!
D. M:
Oh, this chat is driving me mad…I should continue my translation work instead…
O. G:
A dada is a horse in French so I thought the joke was not so bad …
J. B:
this chat  is a cocktail party with three or four different converstions in earshot
B. W:
you would think you were Scottish!!
O. G:
in baby talk french
O. G:
Scott me ?
B. W:
no.,…Mr D.
G. A:
I love dada but what about where to go to improve myself online for Spanish grammar…
E. B:
P: got you already.
C. G:
beam me up
E. B:
Spread the word, please.
S.L:
now, I am completely lost and off for a coffee …..
L. T:
This window really does move fast.
J. B:
You found the bar???
L. T:
Perhaps more coffee will help ;-P
T. S:
I really need some vodka. Coffee is not helpful
O. L:
I was trying to read for 4 hours….
R. P:
Well. un the US we still drink coffee while you’re cozily in bed…the way the world turns
B. W:
and while you are there…..tell them ROUND is a good idea for wheels!

(Note: edited for length, but no changes made to original phrasing or spelling.)

The Voyeur

In my late teens I lived with a much older man. We had a small, sterile apartment in a gated community in Rancho Cucamonga. The town consisted almost entirely of gated communities and empty lots covered in scraggly weeds and trash. They had hopeful names like Sunset View or Hawaiian Horizons and overlooked giant stretches of concrete avenues and strip malls.

I attended the community college at the top of the hill. I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license, and every morning I walked down the parched avenue, past the withered weeds and sun-bleached piles of plastic, and waited at the bus stop with the overweight denizens of the Inland Empire. In the evenings, I usually caught a ride back down with my friend Dusty. Dusty was Mormon. She loved tap-dancing and tupperware parties. Sometimes we’d have lunch together at the Mormon Youth Center. Henry, my boyfriend, and I went out to dinner every night. International House of Pancakes, Applebees, Soup Plantation. He hated the smell of food in the house. Sometimes we went to In & Out and ate burgers in the parking lot.

Henry loved movies. We went to the multiplex cinema in the strip mall across the street or rented videos. I probably watched close to ten movies a week. Sometimes we got drunk and played games. Every once in a while I saw my old friends from high school. Some of them were studying at the Claremont Colleges. I felt out of place at their parties. I didn’t know the right bands, I wasn’t clued in on the gossip, I had no idea how to beer bong, I wasn’t there to get laid.

Henry taught drama at a high school in a nearby town. Cow country. The auditorium reeked of fertilizer. Towards the end of the semester, he spent more and more time at school, rehearsing a play. Dusty dropped me off after classes and my evenings stretched out long and empty. After about a week, I got bored of watching movies and reading and sitting alone in our small apartment staring at the blank walls. I started playing around with the police scanner Henry kept by the side of the bed. I don’t know where Henry had gotten it from, but he was proud of it. He said civilians weren’t allowed to have scanners like this. At first, I found the idea of listening to cop calls titillating. But after a while, I realized they mostly talked in completely unintelligible code.  A torrent of numbers that meant nothing to me.

I twisted the dial back and forth. More codes. More warbled voices. Static. Lots of static. And then, a distinct voice. A woman’s voice, slightly hoarse, as if she had a cold or smoked a pack a day. She spoke softly, and her voice came in so clear, it was as if she was lying next to me on the bed. She was talking about a trip. She needed to get away. He answered. A nervous voice, tinny and urgent. A cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains. Next weekend. I crept closer to the scanner. Yes, she said. I can’t wait to be with you, she said. This was better than television.

I listened to them every Tuesday and Thursday around 7:30pm. Occasionally they called each other randomly; I imagined short, breathless conversations when her husband stepped out or had gone to bed. I knew this because sometimes I tuned in and had lost the thread, new developments had happened while I’d been away. It had been going on for a while now, a few months, ever since they’d met at a wedding in San Clemente.

Some evenings, Dusty would suggest going to a movie or grabbing a bite, but I’d make up excuses about homework or Henry. I hurried home, I made some tea, I sat by the scanner and waited for them. Tuesdays and Thursdays her husband worked late. Tuesdays and Thursdays were sacred, they belonged to us.

They were planning another weekend in the mountains. It would be tricky this time. Her husband would be in town. She’d have to make up an elaborate lie, a visit to a girlfriend, perhaps, or her sister in Orange County. He disliked her sister; he’d never call her there. I’ll think of something, she promised, I have to see you. I wondered about them, who they were, where they lived. I knew so little about them, nothing really, except for their most intimate, closely guarded world. In my mind, she looked like Lena Olin, sultry, with a mane of dark hair, dressed in pencil skirts and heels. I knew he liked nature and fishing. An outdoorsman. Maybe he had a beard.

Time was running out. Henry only had ten days left until the play opened. Then he’d be home again in the evenings, and our threesome would fall apart. The thought of sharing them with Henry never crossed my mind. He was rehearsing weekends now, and I kept the scanner on. They were supposed to be away this weekend, in the mountains, probably bathing naked in some cold mountain stream, but I just wanted to make sure. The channel was quiet. I took a load of dirty clothes to the laundry room. I started the machine and sat down to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I watched my clothes tumble in circles, listened to the rhythmic thud of the washer. My neighbor came in, a middle-aged guy with thick graying hair and broad shoulders. We often did our laundry at the same time. He was an obsessive runner. I’d never seen him in anything but sport’s gear. He loaded his clothes into a washer and fed it a couple of quarters. We sat in silence, me staring at the foamy water, him leafing through a treadmill manual. He cleared his throat and looked at me. I looked at him. He started telling me about a marathon he was gonna run in Northern California. Sports was all he ever talked about. The length and time of his last run, upcoming marathons, basketball and football and baseball scores, records broken, games lost and won. I went back to staring at my clothes, the repetitive thuds replacing his voice in my ears. I skipped the dryer and took my wet clothes upstairs and checked the scanner. Nothing.

Their time in the mountains had been beautiful. They’d grilled fish and drunk cold beer. The flashlight broke and they’d lain in the cabin lit by a single tea candle and when it went out, they’d lain in the dark. You are such a wonderful listener, he said. No, she said, you are. So am I, I thought. They sounded exhausted and a little sad.

Our last Saturday. Hot Santa Anas were whipping across town, and a peculiar tension hung in the air, an almost imperceptible high frequency. I kept the scanner on, just in case, and when I got out of the shower, they were there. She was alone, she told him, he was gone, off on one of his trips again. I can come over tonight, she said. She sounded happy. Can I take you out to dinner? She hesitated. We’ll drive to Malibu, he said, no one knows us there. Okay, she said. I don’t even know if I care anymore, she said. Her voice was muffled. I heard water and distant cars and wind.

The apartment smelled of slept-in sheets. I opened the balcony door and let in a rush of dry Santa Ana heat.

All he cares about is his TV, she said, and that stupid treadmill.

I stopped.

He laughed. On the scanner.

She laughed. On the scanner and on the wind blowing in through my window.

I can think of much better ways to exercise, he said.

I bet you can, you naughty devil, she said.

Her voice reached me in stereo. Slowly, I tiptoed to the balcony railing. I peeked around the corner into my neighbors’ backyard. The sports fanatic. His wife. My Lena Olin was his wife. There she was, in khaki shorts and a green polo shirt, watering the hedge, a black cordless phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. My neighbor, who drove a Saturn and worked at Long’s Drugs. Who had a flat butt and limp blonde hair and no chin. She spotted me and waved with her free hand. I ducked into my apartment.

Everything okay? he asked. Yeah, just got distracted for a moment, she said. Tonight’s gonna be real special, he said, I got a little something…

I bolted across the room and killed the scanner. Closed the balcony door, stood aimlessly in the middle of the room. The air quickly turned hot and solid. I lay on the bed, sweating, and examined the sudden demolition of my fantasy.

Henry’s students performed their play, and then Henry was home again in the evenings, and we went out to dinner and watched movies. A few weeks later, I bumped into my neighbors in the parking lot. He told me all about his recent kayaking trip, and she smiled and nodded. But her eyes were distant and her smile was not for him or me.

Drinking for Charity

The other night some friends invited me to a benefit event at a bar in the Born (Barcelona’s supposedly chic neighborhood where you’ll find choice restaurants like the Italian “Gente de Pasta” which roughly translates to “People with Dough.” Classy.), the purpose of which was ostensibly to raise funds for a school in India. My idea of a benefit event had always included aging socialites in stiff ball gowns, chandeliers, clinking champagne glasses and speeches. The only thing the imagined and actual event had in common was the drinking. The crowd was mostly young. Lots of skinny jeans and Converse, leggings and patent leather heels. A significant Italian contingent with gelled hair – as stiff as those ball gowns – and t-shirts with enormous lettering that didn’t spell anything, at least not anything in English or Italian. The specials that night were mojitos and caipirinhas. Everyone felt good about ordering cocktails, after all, half of the bar’s proceeds were going to help poor Indian children get a better education.

The children were also present, at least virtually. Giant images of them, big eyes and smiles, standing in front of colorful walls or playing on a dusty square or sitting in a simple classroom, were projected on the wall inside. Posters and flyers for the benefit event were pasted all over the bar. The staff wore t-shirts with the event’s logo. Outside on the terrace, my friends performed a fire show. A crowd gathered. We watched, mesmerized.

After the show ended, the staff started to usher us inside. Noise is a big issue in the Born, and every bar owner lives in constant fear of the all-powerful neighborhood lobby. A group resisted, holding on to their table, ordering another round of mojitos.

“It’s for charity!” someone said indignantly, “I’m only ordering this expensive crap, cause it’s for charity!”

A very drunk man stood on a chair and waved his arms about.

And it got me thinking. What is it that my generation is really good at?

Partying. It’s something we’ve cultivated with great care and dedication. We’ve elevated the party to an art form, turned it into a variety of careers (DJing, event management, the list is long and impressive), so wasn’t this a natural extension of what we do best? Drinking for charity? Partying for the poor around the world? Why not. Partying is something we do naturally and well. The only thing that starts to gnaw at us as we get older is an uncomfortable sense of guilt. That we’re not doing anything to make the world a better place. That we should quit partying and get our asses in gear and do something important. Something meaningful. Only many of us aren’t cut out for building wells in faraway, hot lands. So, why not turn the party into an act of solidarity? We get to have our drinks and feel good about it too!

Inside the bar, the gelled-up Italians were dancing madly to mid-90s dance hits. Behind them, the children smiled. A woman with enormous breasts in a tiny, black tank-top announced that it was time for the striptease. A man burst through the bathroom door and onto the dance floor. His black suit jacket and white shirt strained against a bulky mass of muscle. The crowd squealed, some in delight, some in embarrassment. The man danced with a couple of women in the front row, teasing them with a red rose, awkwardly pushing his large frame back and forth. The children were still smiling, their projected faces huge on the white wall, as the man wiggled out of his clothes.

I thought about the stiff ball gowns. The speeches and the black tie band. The champagne and caviar on toast. Who had thought a stripper was a good idea?

“What does it matter?” a friend asked, “If the children get their notebooks and pencils and desks – isn’t that the most important thing? They don’t care if some dude took his clothes off or a bunch of expats got really wasted.”

She’s probably right. The stiff ball gowns are also drinking for charity. It’s just a question of aesthetics…but sometimes aesthetics make all the difference in the world.