Hard to imagine but twice I was Jesus Christ at different stages of his life.I wore swaddling clothes the first time I did it in the fourth grade. The new kid in school and the principal decided to cast me in his little musical as the gangly preteen counterpart of the Son of Man. The second time I was a senior and wore a modest robe with sequins because the way the spotlight fell on them cast a spell that was, to borrow his word, “heavenly”. Both performances were six years apart and they ran exactly the same way.
Begin scene.
The world was in turmoil.
Evil was surrounding the lives of people who, conveniently enough, were grouped all over the stage according to their vices. The drug dealers and addicts front stage left. Whores front and center. Wife beaters front stage right. Bad school children behind the addicts, presumably to take their place. Soldiers killing civilians right behind the whores, where they usually are during R&R. False idol worshippers and rich greedy bastards behind the wife beaters.
Curiously missing were the evil school teachers who gave algebra exams at 4 on Friday afternoons.
Lights would dim, a soft plinking sound as the music would start playing a song that literally translated to “Who is noble? Who is really crazy?” and on cue, an actress dressed as a crazy bum would arrive stage left and perform a pseudo-dance all around the characters as if in a trance. Whoever her grimy hand touched would begin to move, each one exemplifying their given vice.
The druggies would snort, puff, or transact. The whores would gyrate and hump anything that moved. Everybody else would live out their vices forever and ever, amen. The crazy bum, losing hope in humanity, would fall in a heap next to the whores, who would then proceed to rob her of her very little belongings.
The audience, comprised of very young, very impressionable school children, would be heart broken at this point if they ever stopped long enough from pointing at a whore's exposed butt crack. There would be parents in the audience who would be wiping away tears but nodding nonetheless as if to say, “life is shit, it happens exactly like this”.
While the crazy bum would be crying on stage, the lights would fade and a spotlight would focus on rear stage right exit.
Dressed in swaddling clothes or a modest sequined robe, “Jesus formerly known as me” would come out right under the light, just in time for the music to swell. I remember there's a correct way to hold up my right hand, like making a peace sign but not as rigid. My left hand was busy holding the world. Our principal's direction screaming in my head to walk very very slowly because the weight of mankind's sins was a burden to my meek shoulders.
I would walk in a sort of circuitous random way. Healing.
Just when you thought I was going to the rich greedy bastards first, I go to the bad school children and lay my non-world holding hand on them and they would follow. I'd make a left but I'd ignore, for now, the junkies clawing at my robe or bare leg and head straight for the killing soldiers. They'd drop their weapons and follow me as well.
“The pattern is random,” our principal would say during rehearsal. The audience would have goose bumps by now but nodding nonetheless as if to say, “life is random, it happens exactly like this.”
The only thing constant about the whole play is that the crazy bum would be the last life I would save, cradling her in my arms, while a retinue of believers would hold one another partly in consolation, mostly because their souls were promised everlasting salvation.
End scene.
“She is the noble one, spared by the innocence of craziness” would be our moral lesson. That and “Jesus Saves” which is also quite catchy.
The establishment is a private catholic school so I suppose you can say it's an honor to take on the role both times, which, as far as I know has never been replicated since. Once I got past the taunts that I still wore diapers in the fourth grade, the play did wonders for my social life. If we ever had a school mascot, I have a sinking feeling that I was it. Our principal could have chosen realism by adding gore but I can't imagine any school wanting a bloody mascot nailed to the cross.
All good things come to an end though, as we say. The novelty faded when in high school, a classmate was possessed by a demon and I was powerless to stop it.
AUDIO
Tip
Ask any guy what the scariest part is when asking a girl out and he'll tell you it's the opening line.
A lot of it is hit or miss. Magazines will enumerate the best and worst pickup lines as if there's a fool-proof method to dating. If your boy's been on the block, he would have run the entire gamut but one thing he'll tell you is that there's not one line that can deliver all the time. Not even the venerable”Hi” cuts it.
It's so much easier for guys when the girls make the effort to initiate the dating game. Personally, I appreciate it so much more, especially when I'm having lunch at my favorite restaurant, when the bill comes with a name and a phone number scribbled at the top because it doesn't happen often.
Call it a habit but after we bike the stretch from Santa Monica to Venice beach, we have a little breather in a quaint greek restaurant at the end of the trail. The rustic wooden boards creak when you enter, so do the saloon-type swinging doors next to the unisex bathroom. At the corner, completely unassuming, is a television set hoisted on an articulating arm, its rabbit ears tuned to a random soccer game. Tables are usually filled with customers, more so on the patio, right near the sidewalk of busy Washington Avenue. The wait staff, dressed in black even on a hot spring day, carry loaded trays of kebabs and wraps, side orders of salad or french fries.We scan the menu for a minute though we usually know what we want by the time we get them. We sound off our order to Mae, our usual server, and we start feasting on pita with a concoction of olive oil and what seems like black sand that tastes nothing like how it looks. In all our times eating there,I never thought that Mae was the least bit interested. Imagine my surprise when coming back from the bathroom, M casually mentions that Mae found me “cute”.
She's shuffling around with her kebabs and wraps, side orders of salad or french fries, and I take a moment to really look at her. She's moving with a sense of refinement and her lips are curved in a constant smile, genuine because no one can fake a smile for as long as she's doing it. Her tanned skin is contrasted against the straps of her black tank.
I would have asked her out even without the little note on our tab. G looks at the number and jokes, “I guess we tip really well.”
Cut to the night of the first date and I swear Dane Cook is looking right at me as he's performing his bit.
It's College humor night at the Hollywood Improv. Cook shows up unannounced and performs his skit, asking the crowd what the secret is to a successful relationship. No one raises a hand. I look at Mae sipping water from a bottle and I shrug my shoulders. We had this conversation at the dinner table earlier. We came to the conclusion that when it comes to relationships, no one really knows what to do.
She was laughing a lot at the comic that followed who used to work at the “Shitcake Factory”. It's probably an inside joke that all of us outside the service industry can't completely relate to.
Cut to the night of the second date and we're having dinner at a Korean BBQ joint on 6th.
All the signs are flashing “you have nothing in common”. This isn't just because she's Mongolian and I've been resisting the urge to ask if BBQ is their “official” food but because of all the cultural nuances that came with that, which I'm completely ignorant of. If she asked me right there to point out Mongolia on a map, I'd point my finger north of China.
Anywhere north of China.
When I'd open a topic about books and authors, I'd get a blank stare and a curt, “I should start reading books.” When I'd ask her what her favorite music is she'd say “Reggaeton” and I'm constantly reminded by nagging voices that she's only 22, the youngest I've dated at any one time. She even admitted that she's doing everything against what a girl should be doing on a date. When I asked her what that was, she said that she was eating way too much.
Nonetheless, I exerted a little effort and took her home to watch The Notebook on DVD but not before stopping by the local Vons to buy a pint of ice cream to make the night a little more memorable. Watching Noah and Allie relive their love story through the pages of a handwritten memoir, she cried at the right moments, she cried even at the wrong ones. She cried all throughout the film and after the credits started rolling, she said in a raspy voice, “that was so beautiful.” I just smiled and told her that I was glad she liked the film. Seeing her vulnerable only on our second date showed a kind of honesty I can't show myself.
We really have nothing in common but right now, it's not necessarily a bad thing.
AUDIO
The Accidental Date
I order a mojito from the bar and Gaby tells me she wants a screwdriver.
The bartender mixes her drink in a small glass and passes it over. He starts on the mojito, breaking out the shaker and pouring a batch of colorless alcohol while his partner passes him a glass of mint leaves. “Good thing you ordered this while we're still slow,” he says with a smile. I didn't think making a mojito is complicated but there he is, doing his machinations with the shaker, transplanting the colorless liquid from one glass to the other and the music is starting to pick up but not the crowd.
We sit down on a leather couch in front of frosted glass mini tables lit by fluorescent bulbs from the inside. I take a sip of the mojito and admire Gaby's flawless face illuminated from below. How this date came to be was a jumbled mess that began the night before when we dropped her and her sister Vicki back to their apartment after watching the latest Narnia movie. “Thank you,” she said. Vicki was coming round the trunk of the car and I casually remarked that we would pick them up the following night to take them sight-seeing. Gaby is visiting from Wisconsin, originally from Venezuela, and is only going to be in the city for a few days. The following day, G sent me a text message:
Vicki said her sis likes you too hahahhaha.. I heard you guys are going out tonight.
I immediately called G and asked her what the shit was going on. We came to the conclusion that it was all a misunderstanding but G said for me to go ahead and run with it. She found it hilarious that I got a date without actually asking for it and I didn't mind at all. The moment Vicki showed me pictures of her family, I found Gaby attractive.
Vicki sent Gaby a picture of me while she was still in Wisconsin via instant messaging and all of a sudden, we just heard Vicki say that Gaby was flying the following week. I would like to think that she did this when she saw my picture but I know she's flying to see how her sister is doing.
And probably how I'm doing too.
The whole scenario with the accidental date would have been perfect if not for one minor hiccup. Gaby has a boyfriend back in Wisconsin. And as I sit next to her on that couch and people start to file in, I pretend that he doesn't exist. We start to tune everything out and everyone else in the bar blurs.
That Madonna song about saving the world in a few short minutes starts to play and I gesture that we should dance. She hesitates, I catch her off-guard but she indulges after I flash my lopsided smile. Everyone at the bar is looking at her. Her smile could power a small city for weeks and I tell her that she should teach me how to dance the salsa.
“But it's not the right song,” she says.
“We can pretend,” I say and then guide her hands to my waist where she says I should move from.
“Even guys sway when they dance the salsa,” she says when she feels how I tensed under her touch.
Slowly, we move from side to side and I'm mindful to not step on her delicate toes. My hands on her hips, she guides my waist and we move to our own rhythm. I follow her lead and she takes my hands in hers. She teaches me how to twirl. Her hair brushes my face and I smell lilacs.
A guy sitting in front of us reaches out a hand to shake, tells me that it was a good twirl. I thank him and lead Gaby back to our couch. I close my tab and we leave the crowded bar, not noticing how it filled up.
I realize as I'm driving her back to my apartment where she and Vicki will be staying for the night that I'm setting myself up for disappointment again.
I don't care.
In the least, I learned how to dance a little bit of salsa to the beating of my hoping heart. It's good to feel it again after such a long time doubting if I still had one. Acting Human
“You're a great actor, my friend,” M said while we sped on the freeway, me behind the wheel.
Our lips were still slick from the party we were from, a random acquaintance none of us knew well enough to care but just enough to be invited. I asked her if I did alright that night and she knew what I meant. Her assessment came quick, she's been observing how I mingled. She dropped reminders before we left the house to curb my misantrophy. I was a specimen she often watched instead of the television because I was more entertaining according to her.What it is, I imagine, is her fascination that I can stop my indifference on a dime. A switch from apathetic to personable in microseconds. She considers this a rare skill. It probably is because not everyone had to go on pretending that their life is alright every time.
You can say that I had a lot of practice.
When I was a boy, I mirrored how older boys moved because I had no male influence to speak of. I got tired of the teasing when my mannerisms mimicked my mother's and I've been called names that meant nothing to me at age four. I found out they were bad when my mother asked me if I got upset when other kids teased.
I didn't know I was supposed to be, so I got upset just to make her feel like I cared.
Trial and error, there were times when I exaggerated mimicking to the point where I almost got into fights. I learned to pick the subtleties of how kids interacted and replayed lessons until I got accepted into groups. It didn't take long for me to be the one instigating fights between smaller kids. I'd be taunting them to flick each others earlobes until it escalated to full blown fist fights. I'd stand back to admire my handiwork and got respect from the older ones.
You'd think these stupid rules ended where the swing sets did but they don't. To fit in, you have to mimic conformity. Give the illusion that you're part of the whole scheme. The illusion that you know what you are doing because people around you, believe it or not, are just as lost as you are and they cling to confidence. You get confident when you know you can handle the person in front of you. You can handle the person in front of you when you have enough confidence.
At some point, you learn how to bluff and bluff well.
In the office, I'm the delegated greeter. Any important visitor that needed to be escorted from the airport, I was assigned. This meant long moments of awkward silences between two people who have none in common. I evolved a distinct defense mechanism to tense situations. No matter who you are, I'd try to make myself feel better by asking questions, maintaining eye contact, picking up cues, making remarks, mirroring your gestures until I'd feel comfortable enough to shut up and let you do the talking.
If there's one thing I learned, once coaxed, everybody wants to talk about themselves.
At the party, I moved from one person to the other. Some of the other guests I already met and others were just waiting for introductions. Bulleted lists flashed in my mind. Tips on reading body language. Cues to not appear threatening. Points on how to smile. How to make small talk. Open dialogue. Engage. In other words, all the social norms that would otherwise fly over my head because my natural instincts told me to just shut up and eat the shrimp.
M said I did well that night because I followed her advise. Before we left, she said, “Don't be yourself. Mingle.”
Funny how she had to remind me on how to be human. Condoms and Childhood Memories
Before I left home, my mother asked me to forgive her.
This was just after college and I was about to board a plane headed for Los Angeles. She will not see me for a few years. I didn't ask what she meant but I just said yes. I told her I forgave her.
My father wasn't there because he passed away at a young age and was never really anyone in my life except the man who worked hard enough to make sure his family had a check every month from the US government. He lived in pictures my mother collected and I knew him from snapshots taken by strangers, some of whom I'd meet to piece together the father I didn't have.
I'd see him when I look in mirrors. He lives on because we look so much alike.
“He can never deny that he is his son,” my mother often said, not that he could say anything contrary even if he wanted to. She had a defensive yet jovial sentiment when she pointed out this fact, not that anyone is questioning my legitimacy in the first place. But if you were raising a biracial child in a city known for its cheap whores, it never hurt to be sure that people knew what was what .
Every month or so, there would be a ship berthing at our little port in the tropics. Full of sailors on leave, the night would be filled with lights and laughter. It was common to see staggering Americans with their arms around their disposable dates managing the concrete steps on the hillside of our barrio. At two in the morning, friends and I would still be awake, trying to guess which one would fall down from being too drunk. Whoever won got to blow up the used condoms outside our neighbors' doors like balloons the next day.Whoever lost got to wash them first.
You'd probably wonder why we were still awake in the first place when all you need to realize is that our houses were close to one another and nothing can make whores howl with pleasure more than a fistful of dollars for hardly any work. They only had to lie down and there was food on the plate the next day. We'd hear her muffled screams through the concrete wall.
Loudly because she must be craving something expensive for breakfast.
For the record, my mother isn't a whore. She worked in a bank where she met my father while he was opening an account. He fell madly in love the moment he saw her. Flowers were sent every day much to her chagrin and it would have been quaint if not for the fact that interracial marriages were still considered taboo.
My mother wasn't really one for social norms and they got married soon after.
Three months into my life, he died from liver failure. Cirrhosis from alcoholism and post-traumatic stress disorder. A Vietnam vet, he nursed the bottle more than he did me. I held a grudge so I was caught by surprise when she was the one asking for forgiveness; not that my father could ask for it anyway even if he wanted to. It could be that she knew I wanted a better life. But all things considered, she did a damn fine job of keeping me alive.
Countless nights I woke up to my own piss and vomit and she'd nurse me to health. Countless days I'd get myself in accidents potentially lethal and she'd take me to the hospital for head stitches and smelling salts. Countless hours she made sure I brushed my teeth and that my homework was done. Countless gallons of blood, sweat, and tears all throughout everything. And she did this all on her own.
If her son was a reflection of who she is as a mother, on the outside she knew she succeeded.
My mother asked me to forgive her just as I was leaving her behind because despite everything that she has done, I was leaving home with painful and rough childhood memories. I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter because she taught me well enough to get by. If there was anyone who should have been asking forgiveness, it should have been me for setting her up to standards so high that no one can meet. I don't blame her for anything at all.
When I kissed her goodbye, I told her I love her. She never hears that as often as she deserves.