was. First her lips? No. First her eyes, then her lips. Then her breasts—her round breasts stretching her uniform. Then the curl of light brown hair hanging down to the dimple in her cheek. The feeling of destiny. And then the dread that whatever I would do was pointless. She was the most beautiful girl in town. There was no way she didn’t belong to somebody. There was no way some lucky bastard wasn’t counting off the minutes until the end of her work day. Miracles don’t happen, I decided, and walked out.
*
Something suddenly thrashes in my stomach and my insides knot up into a small, hard ball. I sit up in bed and stare into the silvery threads of darkness. I listen. Is there someone in the house? I hold my breath and try to figure out if there’s someone in the living room. I swear I heard something. THERE IS someone. I can hear the blinds moving. I get up cautiously. I reach for the bedside lamp, unplug the cord, roll it up and grab it by its metal stand. Then I realize I’m naked. I can’t just burst out of the bedroom nude and start chasing off criminals like in a Swedish film. In the dark, I manage to make out the three white lines of my running pants. I put them on carefully, without dropping the lamp stand, and move toward the door. I press my ear to it, struggling to catch a sound.
I hear the ticking of the clock. I hear the hum of the fridge. I hear the blood in my head like a distant freeway. I also hear another, barely perceptible noise.
I take a deep breath, burst through the door, and leap into the living room with a scream.
No one. Then something on the patio clatters, and I fly in that direction. A raccoon, paw stuck in the cat-food can, frantically tries to scramble over the fence outside. I lower my improvised weapon and start laughing.
You felt like eating some cat food, huh, fatso? I almost want to help him push his chubby butt up, but I know that I’ll scare him even more. The can slips off his paw and rolls under a chair. The raccoon gets over the fence. He stops for a second and throws a final glance at me. “Hey,” I yell. “You know you look like a bandit with that funny black mask on your eyes. You scared the shit out of me, Zorro! Now shoo! Go away!”
I doubt I’ll be able to fall back to sleep after this. I stay on the patio for a while. The canyon beneath the house rustles. The palm tree in the backyard sways. The wind has picked up. One of those winds that slides down from the cold mountains in the fall, whooshing through the sizzling hot desert, drying up everything in its path to the Pacific within a matter of days. One of those sick, dry winds named after a saint.
I throw a jacket over my shoulders and go out. I take a left at the traffic light, then a right—I don’t know where I’m going, so I don’t care where I’ll end up.
I come to my senses somewhere near the freeway, walking through one of those newly built neighborhoods with artificial lakes and cute miniature waterfalls, petite jet-powered streams and little bridges decorated with “Made in China” gas lamps. I walk along the winding trail past the houses, trying to peek into other people’s windows when I can. In some, I see bluish light flickering through the blinds, framed family pictures on the walls, posters of movie stars in the kids’ rooms, pianos with the lids down, unlit candles, a vintage calendar of Manhattan, a Thomas Kinkade print.
The normality of this night is insulting.
It’s insulting that sooner or later they will all turn off their TVs, brush their teeth, and fall asleep. Then it will be dawn again and a new day will come as if nothing ever happened. It’s insulting that tomorrow the sky over the neighborhood will be the same as it was when Stella was here. It’s insulting that people will keep working at places like General Electric or AT&T; they will go on being truck drivers, florists, accountants, postal workers, and receptionists. It’s insulting that there are words like “shingle,” “nugget,” “waffle,” “halibut,” “persnickety,” “boodle,” “dungarees” . . . It’s insulting that the craters on the moon will be the same, the salinity of the ocean—the same; the octane number of gasoline—the same; the calories in a Pepsi—the same. Some things just stay the same.
*
—look at me
—i’m thirsty
—look at the camera
—i’m cold
—c’mon, please
—i need coffee . . .
—we’re almost done
—i want to get dressed already . . .
—this is the last roll of film and i swear we’re done
—the last one?
—the very last one
*
I walk back to the house, grab the keys to her sports car, the one I surprised her with for her last birthday, and turn on the lights in the garage. I unlock the car and get in. Before I turn the ignition, I close my eyes and lean my head back. The interior of the car, unaired since she’s been gone, still smells like her. I exhale loudly and start the car. The garage door opens and I peel out, tires screeching in the night. I roll down all the windows to chase away her presence. The cold canyon chill seeps in. At the ramp for I-5, I stop at the light. West Hollywood is an hour north. I know someone there. Mexico is less than an hour south. I have no reason to go to Mexico. I will have to decide which way I’m going before the light turns green.
The light turns green and I hit the gas pedal.
*
Miracles don’t happen, I repeated in my head as I crossed the street. She was a beautiful blue-eyed girl with big, round breasts and an intelligent face who would never pay attention to a guy with a uniform and a moronic haircut. I hadn’t smelled a girl for two years. Before I got drafted, I was always the “life of the party” and had lots of friends and all, but I had no idea how to act around girls, and it seemed I would never learn. I would always try too hard to come up with something clever and hilarious to say, and would always end up going home alone while my boring buddies made out with girls under the lindens. I was a loser. A dumb, dorky loser.
I strode down toward the beaches, beating myself up, but I knew, mercilessly, clearly, I knew that I had seen and felt something different this time. Sure, I had the same major hard-on I always did when I fed a pretty girl to my inflamed imagination, but this time there was something more. My mind—as ridiculous as this might sound for a guy in an army uniform—my mind had a hard-on this time; my intellect was aroused.
I walked into the city park known as “The Sea Garden,” wandered around the cool pathways for a while, until I reached a row of benches scattered with old people, overlooking the bay. I found an empty one and sat down. The view was nice—the sea, the sky, the horizon. North was to my left, the old Gala Lighthouse to my right, Varna Bay in front of me, and behind me, the love of my life.
I took a deep breath, got up, and walked back to her.
*
—will you always take pictures of me?
—always
—even if i get fat?
—yep, even then
—with a huge booty?
—all the more to photograph
—really?
