On sad lovers and the cut that kills the knife.
There’s nothing more disgusting than desperation. It’s the most unattractive of human traits. Grasping at straws. That idiot humor. Those attempts at irony that just come across as a sad sort of sarcasm. That longing. But if wanting something so badly just to eventually toss it aside isn’t just as sad, then what is it? Explain that to me. It’s all about the chase, right? That’s the only fun part, I know.
I don't have any spare effort to go around, anymore. I used to think it was a preemptive strike fueled by a fear of abandonment. Yeah, exactly. Excuses. But I used to think I had it all figured out. All my flaws -- you know, all those old issues and inherited neuroses -- no one could discover and interpret them any better than I could. That was fine for a while. I lived in peace with my chaos. I turned it on its head. You're not leaving because I'm leaving first. You can't fire me, I quit. So as long as I knew why a certain something came up and as long as I knew exactly where it was at all times, it never really bothered me much.
The problem is, I’m notorious for losing interest in people just like that. Mostly male people. Mostly after a typical roll in the hay leaves me at that strange emotional impasse. You know the one. “What have I just done and why?“ I’m well-acquainted with the one-hit wonders that ain’t so wonderful. Diet personalities. Like the sugarless gum that becomes a stale lump of rubber after two minutes? I know all about those, and they’re not worth sticking around for. Not even just for kicks. That’s when it gets complicated. This is why I always tell people (though not exactly the actual people who need to be hearing it), if you really think you might possibly like me, maybe, for the love of god, please don’t sleep with me right away. It's all over if you do. I'm not going to be caught with my pants down in an empty house, so to speak. I'm beating you to the punch. I'm already halfway out the door. I'm running backwards at top speed and it's not my fault.
One of my earliest memories takes place at or around age three. This was just before mom had Jannette. Just before moving to LA and when we were still at home with Mama and Apa and mom’s youngest siblings, aunt Esther and uncle David and possibly also aunt Norberta. There were always people around, so it’s hard to say.
We were living in that little white house by the side of the curve in that long stretch of road that takes you from Kerman to San Joaquin, just outside of Fresno. The same vineyards still surround the house to this day and that same strange silo that might be a water tower still looms just down that same side of the road. The sun, I’m sure, still sets to the rear of the house in a cloud of dust and crickets, but sometimes so many years ago I’d awaken to the sound of the roosters crowing at the sunrise just outside the bedroom window. The smell of the Noxzema on aunt Esther’s face, still breathing in that deep cadence of sleep on the pillow to my right, is always tied to my memories of that little house.
Usually, by the time I was up, Mama would have breakfast going and several cousins would be parked in front of the TV in the living room. Chespirito or Odisea Burbujas would be up too loud and someone in the other room would always shout for it to be turned down. (Who knows where mom was? Who ever knows, anyway?) I'd stumble barefoot into the kitchen and, Look who's up!
One strange morning, though, our usual routine fell on its ass. It still seems like a dream. Though I remember it clearly, it's all covered in a dense layer of fog and time. I wake up alone in aunt Esther’s bed and the house is quiet. Not just early morning quiet. Quieter. It was like the quiet where my older cousins swore you could hear the ghost rattling chains in the empty bedroom. But even that ghost, I think, would have been less of a shock than the empty house that morning. It was like that movie we once watched. That movie about the Rapture where everyone disappears except for the girl who's gone next door for butter? Turns out everyone's been raptured and whisked off to meet God but she's left behind because she was wicked for refusing to accept Christ as her personal lord and savior? It scared the shit out of me and my fears were manifesting themselves that morning as I ran around the house looking for Esther or Mama or even mom, at the very least. It was like the whole world had suddenly held its breath as I ran out the front door in my underoos, tears streaming down my face as I cried out for everyone to come back home, time frozen. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. It seemed the faster I got away from the empty house, the sooner they’d realize I didn’t belong there; I belonged with them, wherever they were. I ran along that road, hoping someone would drive by and acknowledge me, and I got to the silo before I stopped and realized what had happened. Everyone had left me. I didn’t know what I’d done or where they’d gone, but in my little head I pictured my family packing up suitcases and going somewhere I could never find them. (My own baggage, clearly, would be of the emotional variety.) I turned around and made my way back to the house and I don’t even remember the dogs being out front, but by the time my bare feet slowly reached the lawn, I’d resigned to my fate. A three year-old’s resignation. Isn’t that something?
A hundred years seemed to pass before Esther found me crying in the kitchen. She’d been out back hanging clothes up to dry. Everyone else was at church. She’d stayed home to let me sleep in.
Years later in LA, I'd wake up late one night and lock myself in the bathroom. Jannette would be asleep in the bunk beneath mine and her dad would be asleep on his chair in front of the TV and I'd be sitting on the toilet clutching mom's slippers, kissing them and praying for her to come back home, though she was just out with friends that night.
Another time, back at my grandparents' house after the divorce, I'd have a crying fit while sniffing the bottles of perfume on Mama's dresser. I'd convince myself she'd fallen off the face of the earth and I'd never see her again, though I knew for a fact she was just visiting Esther in Palm Springs.
I don't cry anymore, though.
I don't have any spare effort to go around, anymore. I used to think it was a preemptive strike fueled by a fear of abandonment. Yeah, exactly. Excuses. But I used to think I had it all figured out. All my flaws -- you know, all those old issues and inherited neuroses -- no one could discover and interpret them any better than I could. That was fine for a while. I lived in peace with my chaos. I turned it on its head. You're not leaving because I'm leaving first. You can't fire me, I quit. So as long as I knew why a certain something came up and as long as I knew exactly where it was at all times, it never really bothered me much.
The problem is, I’m notorious for losing interest in people just like that. Mostly male people. Mostly after a typical roll in the hay leaves me at that strange emotional impasse. You know the one. “What have I just done and why?“ I’m well-acquainted with the one-hit wonders that ain’t so wonderful. Diet personalities. Like the sugarless gum that becomes a stale lump of rubber after two minutes? I know all about those, and they’re not worth sticking around for. Not even just for kicks. That’s when it gets complicated. This is why I always tell people (though not exactly the actual people who need to be hearing it), if you really think you might possibly like me, maybe, for the love of god, please don’t sleep with me right away. It's all over if you do. I'm not going to be caught with my pants down in an empty house, so to speak. I'm beating you to the punch. I'm already halfway out the door. I'm running backwards at top speed and it's not my fault.
One of my earliest memories takes place at or around age three. This was just before mom had Jannette. Just before moving to LA and when we were still at home with Mama and Apa and mom’s youngest siblings, aunt Esther and uncle David and possibly also aunt Norberta. There were always people around, so it’s hard to say.
We were living in that little white house by the side of the curve in that long stretch of road that takes you from Kerman to San Joaquin, just outside of Fresno. The same vineyards still surround the house to this day and that same strange silo that might be a water tower still looms just down that same side of the road. The sun, I’m sure, still sets to the rear of the house in a cloud of dust and crickets, but sometimes so many years ago I’d awaken to the sound of the roosters crowing at the sunrise just outside the bedroom window. The smell of the Noxzema on aunt Esther’s face, still breathing in that deep cadence of sleep on the pillow to my right, is always tied to my memories of that little house.
Usually, by the time I was up, Mama would have breakfast going and several cousins would be parked in front of the TV in the living room. Chespirito or Odisea Burbujas would be up too loud and someone in the other room would always shout for it to be turned down. (Who knows where mom was? Who ever knows, anyway?) I'd stumble barefoot into the kitchen and, Look who's up!
One strange morning, though, our usual routine fell on its ass. It still seems like a dream. Though I remember it clearly, it's all covered in a dense layer of fog and time. I wake up alone in aunt Esther’s bed and the house is quiet. Not just early morning quiet. Quieter. It was like the quiet where my older cousins swore you could hear the ghost rattling chains in the empty bedroom. But even that ghost, I think, would have been less of a shock than the empty house that morning. It was like that movie we once watched. That movie about the Rapture where everyone disappears except for the girl who's gone next door for butter? Turns out everyone's been raptured and whisked off to meet God but she's left behind because she was wicked for refusing to accept Christ as her personal lord and savior? It scared the shit out of me and my fears were manifesting themselves that morning as I ran around the house looking for Esther or Mama or even mom, at the very least. It was like the whole world had suddenly held its breath as I ran out the front door in my underoos, tears streaming down my face as I cried out for everyone to come back home, time frozen. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. It seemed the faster I got away from the empty house, the sooner they’d realize I didn’t belong there; I belonged with them, wherever they were. I ran along that road, hoping someone would drive by and acknowledge me, and I got to the silo before I stopped and realized what had happened. Everyone had left me. I didn’t know what I’d done or where they’d gone, but in my little head I pictured my family packing up suitcases and going somewhere I could never find them. (My own baggage, clearly, would be of the emotional variety.) I turned around and made my way back to the house and I don’t even remember the dogs being out front, but by the time my bare feet slowly reached the lawn, I’d resigned to my fate. A three year-old’s resignation. Isn’t that something?
A hundred years seemed to pass before Esther found me crying in the kitchen. She’d been out back hanging clothes up to dry. Everyone else was at church. She’d stayed home to let me sleep in.
Years later in LA, I'd wake up late one night and lock myself in the bathroom. Jannette would be asleep in the bunk beneath mine and her dad would be asleep on his chair in front of the TV and I'd be sitting on the toilet clutching mom's slippers, kissing them and praying for her to come back home, though she was just out with friends that night.
Another time, back at my grandparents' house after the divorce, I'd have a crying fit while sniffing the bottles of perfume on Mama's dresser. I'd convince myself she'd fallen off the face of the earth and I'd never see her again, though I knew for a fact she was just visiting Esther in Palm Springs.
I don't cry anymore, though.