DEAR LANDLORD [PART THREE OF THREE]

[3] SEEING THE LIGHT
And so I had somehow managed to end up living with my grandma and working at an elementary school. Needless to say, I was sucked dry of all feelings. I couldn't even hate properly anymore, and that's the easiest thing to do. I just dangled for many months in milky irritation, becoming nauseous every time someone waved and said, "Hey! How's it goin'?" I ignored all efforts of people to socialize and I was, in the truest sense of the word, sick of life.
If I were a slave to my conscience like the rest of society, maybe then I would get along better. But as it happens, I don't even know where my conscience is. It shows up about once a month, points at me,and calls me an asshole.
And then I fell in love.
His name was Jeffrey. We never really knew each other well enough to get down to introductions, but it said so on his name tag. Jeffrey, oh, Jeffrey. I still think of him sometimes. I know he was the perfect man. He was sitting in a cheap coffee shop, wearing his coat and staring at a coffee and cake. Blonde, forlorn, exhausted. His tired eyes blinking out at the street and his face glazed with cold sweat over an irritated skin. There was a little steam building up on the right lens of his glasses. On the table in front of him, he had a cigarette packet, some chewing gum, a stack of postcards and a pen. He was thinking hard, but upon looking closer I found that his expression was too exhausted for him to be thinking. His face seemed to be beaten by the modern way of the world-- shocked, intimidated by the waiters and the arrogant crowd of French teenagers over by the window, who were really getting on my nerves. They were forcing their arrogant conversations on the whole place and making the use of a megaphone completely unnecessary. Waving cigarettes around and barking out incomprehensible opinions, happy that they were being heard by everyone and understood by no one.
It only went to show how noble Jeffrey was in comparison. There were tears glued into my eye-lashes when I blinked at him. My heart became sore and swollen when I looked at those helpless eyes under the pale eyebrows-- the round nose and wet lips, hanging ajar in naive anticipation. Suddenly I had a mission to spread happiness. I was in love! And love will make a saint out of anyone. I loved this delicate, plump man. I wanted to protect him and everyone else that was as pathetic as he was. I wanted to make the blind man see, the cripple walk, the heartbroken see the light once more-- cure leprosy and all that.
Jeffrey looked up and made a weak attempt to smile. I wish I could have made him feel at ease, but I use my smiles strictly for combat. Visual contact had been established. I slid out from my table and soon Moses was staring up at me. I'm not exactly friendly, but I've got guts.
"Hi," he said, confused at my sudden appearance.
We stared at each other for a while, our expressions becoming more disturbed the longer we stared.
"I was just wondering," I began hesitantly, "have you heard anything new about the recent issues in Iran?"
I was desperately hoping there were recent issues in Iran.
He adjusted his glasses with a slight cough and blinked warily at me. I guess there weren't any.
"Well," I said, "I'm going to borrow one of your cigarettes."
"Oh, sure," he said, holding the packet out to me.
I paused for a short second, wondering how best to formulate my urge to reach out to him, and eventually added, "And if one of the waiters is an asshole to you, just let me know. I'll make sure he regrets it to the end of his days."
I was certain I had done some very significant amount of good as I walked back to my table. Looking back at it now, I think I was just being weird on a whole new level. Oh well.
After a few more cups of coffee I looked up at him again. He had a wide milk mustache smeared over his lip. My insides came crawling up my throat. Should I walk over and tell him about the mustache? Would it damage his manliness? I was lost in noble thoughts, confusing myself considerably by feeling so holy and finding it too hard on the nerves trying to be considerate. I was paralyzed with my butt in the air, not knowing whether to sit down or get up.
Then I caught sight of the waiter making fun of Jeffrey's milk mustache to the girl behind the counter. I hate waiters anyway, and I hate girls behind counters, too. It really doesn't take much on their part to give me a mission. And so I was saved of a nervous breakdown at the last moment by an incident I still appreciate as one of my greatest achievements of the questionable.
"Hey, waiter!" I called, as I stumbled into his view.
Suddenly I could hate again-- it was a miracle! Within a matter of moments, I could love and hate! Ah, how wonderful it is to be in love.
"Yeah? What do you want?" the waiter asked, confused. (I should mention that he was one of those men who share a brain cell with about three other people, of which the other waiter and the girl behind the counter where probably two.)
I picked up the steaming coffee that stood in front of him on the counter and threw it into his face.
"What's the matter, daddy?" I asked as he frantically wiped the coffee from his face, gasping and swearing and waving his hands around the place.
The girl behind the counter screamed too and smashed a plate over my head. How marvelous. Time and motion seemed to be immersed with my awe and the immense meaning of the incident-- all this after a hard day of work in the elementary school. All because of a milk mustache. Did we ever really progress out of the Stone Age?
"Well!" I said, finding my humor.
When I smiled I could feel a stream of blood running into my mouth. My anger at such points becomes a work of art. Every gesture is filled with electricity; every smile obscene. I live for these moments. All I really live for is to point my finger at people. At anyone. In the end, does it really matter who they are? Hardly. Give me time and I will gladly point at you, at myself-- even at Jeffrey back there in the corner.
"What's your problem?" I said to the girl who had hit the plate over my head. "No one's interested in you."
I fixed my eyes back on the waiter, whom I somehow confused with being French. The people around us stared with big eyes and high hopes. I was on a roll.
"I can't believe they ever let you into the country," I said. "You're all just loud, obnoxious, arrogant assholes who think just because you've got the Eiffel Tower you're some sort of superior race. Well, I've got news for you: you're not. We've got the Statue of Liberty, so--"
"I'm not French. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Your sick sense of humor-- making fun of a poor man's milk mustache, that's what I'm talking about! I mean, how twisted; how perverted and cruel can one get?"
I agree completely with all you sensible people out there. It was more or less silly. But I always say if something gives you peace of mind, it was worth it. I knew I had done something for the man I loved. And even though the man I loved called the police and told them I was a drunk lunatic, one day he'll wake up and realize that no one else is ever going to do something like that for him.
Morning found me healthy and fresh with new views of the world and the sort of energy that not even coffee can give to you. The curtain moved softly in the breeze and I stood looking out at the streets below with lazy grace. It felt as though I could move again and think without a clamp on my mind. My thoughts were free to slide and leak into all corners of absurdity, all because love had bred in me a passion for defending the innocent! A passion that swerved into realms not all necessary, but a noble passion all the same.
And so, of course, since I was the new Messiah, I quit my job first thing. I realized that it was useless to continue as a kindergarten assistant when there was such deep potential running wild in my blood. The meaning of my life had been found. I was reborn. I was redeemed. The spirit was in me. I was ready to look Judgement Day in the eye.
[4] LAND HO!
A few days later though, I forgot what the meaning of my life was again, and I was stuck once more without money, without a job and without a good mood. The spirit had backpacked right out of my soul. Cheap, lousy spirit.
I rolled over on my bed with a hangover deep in my eyes and wondered what the best thing to do would be. Grandma was threatening to throw me out again. I told myself, "Whenever you're feeling good in the future, don't trust yourself. You're not really feeling great at all. It'll only be a matter of days before you're back where you belong."
And once I was finished giving myself good advice, I reached for the phone. I meant to call a distant cousin of mine, but when Jesus picked up at the other end, I realized that I hadn't dialed any cousin's number. I was startled and annoyed beyond the English language.
"Ah-- hi, Jesus. It's me," I said.
Now I'd have to small talk to an ex-boyfriend. I would have rather stuck my hand in a blender.
"Hi," he said with a cough.
"Hi. I just thought I'd call and-- well, just to say ‘hi’ really. I mean, why should we never talk again just because we lived together for a while, right?"
There was a short pause and then I heard the toilet flush.
"Sorry," he said, "There was a lizard in the toilet. What were you saying?"
"Nothing."
"So, when are you coming home, baby?" he asked.
"Well, I always thought it would be great, you know, if we could,.. you know, but I wasn't sure if you were--"
I was surprised I was saying anything at all, because I was supposed to be speechless.
"Sure I am," he said. "Sure. Why not? The way I see it, we were meant to-- wait a second, I need to move the sofa."
He put the phone down and I heard the big sofa screeching across the floor.
Then he was back. "Anyway, the way I see it we were meant to be together. I just don't feel complete without you."
"Yeah!" I exclaimed. "I always thought so."
I don't think either of us ever thought anything of the kind, but we knew the wide range of advantages we could take of each other, and just thinking about them made our mouths water. It wasn't going to work out the same with anyone else. Fact is, it's never about love. It's all about finding the right person to sit on.