Topics of Conversation

by Alberto Lopez

I was living in a little two bedroom apartment at the time, located near the city proper. Property values were outrageous and so the best that I could do was the second story of someone's auto garage. Gentrification had taken root throughout the neighborhood over the years and now the only people that remained were the young, wealthy landlords and the fledgling tenants. I'd been one of the fortunate ones, however. My landlord was a man in his early eighties who'd been living on that plot since his mid twenties. Rent was low; and mostly we spent our days sitting on his front porch steps, sipping on wine and munching down pork rinds.

His name was Leon Selinsky, a tall, sanguine gentleman who'd migrated from Poland as a young child, and who would later grow to become a well respected railroad engineer. Leon was a lifelong member of the union. He was a boisterous, hardened Democrat. And he was proud to be American.

I was a young Hispanic man in my early twenties trying to make my way in the world. I was lonely and terrified of everyone and everything for a reason which eluded even me. I scurried down walkways in anxious abandon and leered at the beautiful young ladies when I suspected they weren't aware. No one ever questioned my peculiar behavior, of course. I disguised it quite well.

It was on a Saturday afternoon that I emerged from my dwelling much like the mole might emerge from his hole. It was bright and the rays of the day felt painful to my eyes. Normally I would have slept all day and then pulled a bottle of scotch from my cupboard toward early evening and quietly wept the remainder of the night. (And this was on a good day.) But today was to be different, however. Today I actually felt like I stood some sort of chance.

Her name was Julia Mariano. And Julia had entered my life by way of unsuspecting next of kin. She knew absolutely nothing about me, which made the situation that much better. Apparently some obscure and naive soul-in-law with admirable intentions had envisioned us a happy couple. And all that I could tell myself was 'don't screw this up'.

I drove to the dry cleaner to retrieve the slacks that I intended to wear that evening. A young Asian man in his early twenties grabbed his cell phone and dialed his mom. He held my ticket firmly in his grasp. He paced back and forth in obvious unease. Somewhere in his conversation he switched to native tongue and continued just the same. He rubbed his temple aggressively. He gazed down at his feet as if they were disappearing before his very eyes. It was obvious that he contemplated the best possible manner in which to break the less than stellar news.

Thirty minutes after having left the dry cleaner without my clothes, I found myself at Dillard's department store. A young girl who looked to be about eighteen gazed on me with a seductive grin. She followed me around. I considered this unusual behavior and wondered if she thought me a shoplifter. I wore baggy, soiled jeans and a faded t-shirt with large holes underneath each arm. Everything was terribly expensive. And every time that I gazed at an item's price tag I imagined myself tumbling down a steep flight of stairs.

How many years had passed since I last set foot in a crowded mall, I wondered? As far as I was concerned, an entire lifetime could have transpired and still it would have been too soon. I selected a pair of trousers that were obviously ten-fold overpriced and continued on my way.

"Leon," I said to my landlord upon pulling into the driveway and stepping out, "do you have any idea how much a pair of trousers cost these days?"

The trousers Leon was wearing seemed to be of a seventies vintage, and so I surmised that he did not. Leon hadn't stepped in a mall—ever—I think. A man after my own true heart.

"Thirty dollars," Leon immediately responded, an obvious stab in the dark.

"Fifty-five!" I told him.

"Fifty-five!" Leon gasped. "Why these pants right here didn't cost me but five dollars!" he yelled.

.

Leon was always like this. Everything he owned he had a story for. "You see this here ladder," he'd tell me. "I got this ladder back before they discovered aluminum. This here ladder is over fifty years old," he'd say, right before he'd ask me to climb on top and check his roof for him.

"Fifty years, you say," I'd calmly reiterate, glancing up that rusted old death trap that seemed to rattle with the breeze.

"Yup," he'd proudly declare, "fifty."

Still other times Leon would be a bit more circuitous with his insights. Sitting on his front porch steps, it was not uncommon for Leon to strike up the Old Beauty ...

"How much do you think that there beauty cost me, Salvador?" he'd say. That there beauty referring to his transportation vehicle of choice: his one and only '85 Buick LeSabre.

"Before you overhauled the transmission and dropped a new engine?" I always wanted so badly to snidely remark. "Twenty-five thousand," I'd tell him.

"Eight thousand seven hundred!" he'd reply, unbridled glee beaming from his delighted gaze. "I bought that there beauty from a brother-in-law of my old barber back when he lived in Crawford. I knew it was worth nine thousand," he'd tell me, "but I lowered him down to eight thousand seven hundred anyway."

And so the leanest of my days passed before me in this fashion. And then the days turned into months and the months transformed into years. One young and single, socially awkward misfit yoked to one old and widowed, extroverted socialite. Drinking cheap wine on his front porch steps—munching down pork rinds like there remained no tomorrow to speak of.

"You going out with that same girl again?" Leon asked that day, as I unbolted my apartment door and prepared to step inside. For the past two weeks she had been the only conversation on my mind.

"I sure am, Leon," I responded. "I have a good feeling this is the one," I told him. And then I politely excused myself and trod inside.

.

The pastries were in the refrigerator. Several bottles of red and white wine were just screaming for the chill. The apartment was spotless. No dirty dishes, no clothes strewn about. I'd even mopped while listening to my favorite Basie tunes several days earlier. Not a crevice remained undisturbed.

There was a small, round coffee table in the living room. It was low to the floor and we would have to sit on sofa cushions, but it would do, I decided. I didn't have a choice. I didn't own anything more appropriate. I dropped a picnic blanket over its surface to cover the heat stains. I retrieved several long, slender candles from their cellophane package. I stepped into my bedroom, which was only several feet away, and selected what was to be the appropriate music for the evening. Tonight was going to be perfect, I told myself. This one was going to go by the book.

The time was 5:45 p.m. and I'd already prepared the sauce for the dish that I intended to serve that evening. I covered it with foil and then stepped into my living room and lay across my couch. I grabbed a notepad and a pen from a side table and began to jot my notes:

'Topics of Conversation with Julia', the note was titled...

1. Her day: activities, sleeping habits, rituals, etc.—10+ minutes
2. The progress of her cat's recent medical condition—2 minutes
3. Her family: i.e.: brothers/sisters, grandparents, hometown, etc.—5 minutes
4. Her favorite activities: outdoors, indoors, arts & crafts—5 minutes
5. Her work: past and present—10+ minutes
6. Movies: likes/dislikes, preferences—10+ minutes
7. Gifts of choice: perfume, flowers, chocolates, etc.—10+ minutes
8. Current political events

I paused to give the eighth item careful consideration and then scratched it off my list. I reassessed my position and realized that I was most certainly screwed. At this rate Julia was certain to slip into a boredom-induced coma before dessert was ever served. I decided the list was a bad idea but still ripped it out of my notepad and placed it in my shirt pocket. In an emergency I could always excuse myself for a brief moment and review the items in privacy.

5:45 quickly turned into 6:45 and I began to turn squeamish. Julia was scheduled to call any moment to inform me she was on her way. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I stepped into the bathroom and purged whatever trivial contents I could. Then I brushed my teeth with a fierceness that caused my gums to bleed.

In an effort to compose myself, I returned to my sofa and retrieved a thin novel that I happened to be reading at the time; it was to be one of the most prolific texts in my entire pathetic relationship with the written word. The act served to calm my nerves.

At 7:45 I concluded that something was amiss, and so I grabbed the receiver and made the obligatory call. Julia's answering machine immediately came on.

"Just wondering if we're still on for tonight," I recorded. "Haven't heard from you. Hope you're well. I'll be home the remainder of the evening," I said, "just give me a call and let me know you're alright." And then I ended the message.

Julia and I had spoken the previous day and agreed on a 6:30 dinner at my apartment. She'd seemed pleased with our arrangement but now that I had time to consider matters more thoroughly, I began to recognize all the telltale signs. In my mind miniscule incidents blossomed into colossal happenings. Phrases previously dismissed as whim suddenly received paramount interpretations of unquestionable lucidity. The girl hated my guts, I concluded.

I stepped into the kitchen at 8:30 and uncorked a bottle of zinfandel. I didn't bother with a drinking glass. I stepped into my bedroom and powered on my computer and began to write. The usual mindless, emotional garbage.

Julia and I had been on two official dates together. She was a young brunette with well defined curves. Her naturally kinky hair and her appealing smile made her a pleasure to gaze upon. She was a bubbly girl, and better looking than I could have ever hoped to encounter. And for this reason I'd quickly dismissed certain disparaging comments on her behalf that had been directed toward a specific ethnic group flourishing in the southern Texas geography. No one was perfect, I'd told myself. Everyone was entitled to his or her views. On our second outing Julia had revealed herself obtrusive. Comments regarding the wait staff where we dined had indicated an impertinent restlessness in the woman. And further stifled profanities and insights during our drive to the movie theatre had pretty much sealed our mutual fate. She was certainly not the one, I concluded that night, as I sat before my computer and tapped at the words. What I ever saw in that woman boggled the vastest stretch of my imagination.

Several minutes later—after having convinced myself of my hopeless incompatibility with Julia—the phone rang. I answered and Julia's voice came forward. Her voice seemed the most resplendent music my soul had ever witnessed. Describing the moment as a soulful rapture equivalent to the parting of the heavens would have simply been an understatement. Upon her initial apology the woman transformed into the loveliest of saints. I fell deeply in love with her once again.

How could I have ever doubted True Love? I reproached myself, as I frantically poured a cup of coffee in anticipation of Julia's arrival. True Love, I passionately continued, the rudimentary force upon which man's universe revolves. And then I set the coffeepot down on the kitchen stove and keeled right over, my back squarely slamming across the tiny kitchen floor, the side of my head brushing against a kitchen counter in the process, with scalding coffee pouring freely across my blazing chest.

In the past 90 minutes I had consumed one bottle of zinfandel, one bottle of merlot, and a generous portion of Pinch whiskey, simply for the satisfaction.

I regained consciousness when the doorbell rang. Julia had arrived. The first girl who'd willingly graced me with her presence in years and now I stammered incoherently to recall my circumstance.

"Come in," I requested as I opened the front door, still somewhat dazed. My left hand applying pressure across the base of my neck, my shirt and trousers drenched in coffee.

"What the hell happened to you?" Julia immediately blurted, taking one cautionary step back.

I didn't respond. I simply turned and began to climb the stairs. Several steps into my stride and my foot pitiably missed a landing, my face crashing down against the stairwell. I couldn't be certain, but I was confident that I had busted my lower lip.

"I'm okay," I said to Julia reassuringly. But when I turned and glanced behind I realized that Julia had remained standing at the base of the stairwell. She hadn't followed me like I'd requested. She appeared bemused, with obvious disgust displayed across her gaze. I knew what she was thinking. The door remained safely poised behind her, a crazy drunken idiot lay ahead. Her thoughts ran as if played on an old-style movie reel.

"Come on up," I stammered. "I'll have a cup of coffee and be okay."

Julia didn't respond, however. She simply turned and disappeared.

I didn't utter a word for the remainder of the evening. I may have very well remained standing on that staircase for the next several hours; I honestly do not recall. Eventually I walked down the remaining steps and shut and locked the door. Then I methodically maneuvered my tired, wrecked body up once more.

 I slept fully clothed that night.

.

The following afternoon I emerged from the apartment and found Leon sitting on his front porch—like Leon always sat on his front porch. He gazed on me with a curious stare as I quietly positioned myself at his side.

Leon passed me a bag of pork rinds, which I gladly accepted. I had my fill and then passed it back.

"How did everything go last night," Leon asked.

I leaned back on the rocker that I'd selected and painfully propped one leg across the porch rail, and then the other.

"I guess it could have gone better," I stated frankly.

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again," he asked.

"Well, Leon," I curiously pondered, "I've found that what I think and what I'd like very rarely make a difference. And so I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

And to satisfy your curiosity: I never spoke with Julia Mariano again.

Copyright © Alberto Lopez 2005