Thursday, October 27, 2011

Looking for Ms. Write Vol. 1 No. 2 By: Marvin Gonzalez

So, I, like, went on this date recently,
It was one of those things where
A friend or co-worker or what have you
Tells you that you, like, have to meet this girl,
You know, those unbearably humiliating moments
Where you have to take long deep breaths to keep from laughing,
And, you are slightly tilting your head toward the ground
So that she doesn’t notice you rolling your eyes
Every time she tells you how perfect the two of you are for each other,
Sometimes you literally have to bite down on your lips
Because you know that if you don’t
You won’t be able to hold your emotions in,  
And, you’ll just tell this person to quit the charade,
Because, frankly, both of you know that
Anyone who needs a lobbyist to explain
How fucking great they are
Probably isn’t all that great to begin with,
And, there is, like, a reason that they are single
And lonely and pathetic,
And, thus, like, necessitate a third party
To plead their case for them,
Because obviously their greatness doesn’t speak for itself,
But, it’s not only that you are being force by social protocol
To hold back your true feelings,
Like you can’t just tell this person
To just shut the fuck up and
Quit blatantly lying to your face,
But, it’s also that at some point when
You stare up past her unrestricted red mane
At the wall-mounted clock ticking away
And you notice that the minute-hand has
Traversed at least twenty-five percent of the clock’s surface
Since this painful conversation even began,
At that moment you have this, like, bizarre moment of clarity
Where you realize, “holy shit,
Not only is she lying to my face
About how fucking great here loser friend is,
But, she must also think that I am a fucking loser too,
Because why else would she be trying to get us together,
And, repeating over and over,
‘Oh my god, you guys are, like, so perfect for each other’?”
This is the most painful, pathetic part,
Not only because she has subliminally
Made a harsh assessment of your character,
But, because it dawns on you that
Her assessment also happens to be true,
You are a fucking loser,
I mean, here you are,
Hitting 30, balding, wrinkling up,
Developing a paunch around your waist
Where wash board abs once were,
Slowly noticing new crops of hip, irreverent youth
Fill up the spots that you like to frequent
Who cast aspersions on the adult world, your world,
And, partake in these romantic, uninformed diatribes
With the same skeptical and critical twist to their faces
That only a few short years ago you used to possess,
And, you realize that you are just as insignificant
In this hip cool youthful world
As you are in the strait-laced, credit-based adult world,
And, you start having these wild fantasies,
Which take place twenty years down the line,
Of you passed out on your torn up Lay-Z-Boy
That you have patched up with duct tape,
A plate littered with three pieces of pizza crust
Sits bouncing up and down
Atop your man-titties that lay sad and flat
Like two deflated basketballs,
While you snore and snort
Surrounded by a swelling mass of empty
Cans of Miesterbrau and Milwaukee’s Best,
You, alone in your trailer with your dog, Skip,
Who is licking the dried up marinara
That has collected in your exposed, hairy navel,
This, you reason, is the fate that you can expect
If you don’t start taking your life seriously,
So, in a chaotic moment of existential crisis
You make this totally irrational decision to, like,
Actually accept the blind date,
Which is how your find yourself anxiously
Eating the free bread sticks at Cucina Antichi Sapori
Looking at a wine list that you will never be able to afford,
And, like turning around every twenty seconds
To look for the nearest exit as you
Wipe your sweaty, furrowed brow,
And, you are feeling short of breath and having heart palpitations
As you ask the poor waitress for, like, the fifth time
If she can please turn on the air,
Which she politely reassures you for, like, the fifth time
That it most certainly already is,
And, you are so embarrassed by your uncouth or aberrant behavior
That you sort of gesticulate that you are sorry,
And, you feel even worse that she is being legitimately polite
When she smiles and tells you it is OK
In this totally normal, non-judgmental way,
As you watch her walk back toward the kitchen,
You think to yourself, “Now wouldn’t it be nice
To have a pleasant, descent girl like that for a girlfriend?”
And, then you start having these unrealistic fantasies
Of you and the waitress sipping on Pinot Gris in Napa Valley,
Shoving Kalamata olives in each other’s mouths
In this disgustingly cutesy, romantic sort of way,
All the while smiling big and round
As you kiss each other like these little Bourgeois chipmunks,
You start to get these real uncharacteristically Christian thoughts
Of taking her home to your mom for approval
And helping her pick out new curtains for the living room,
When suddenly here she comes,
This supposed tailor-made partner,
This girl who is so perfect for you,
Who recognizes you because you are wearing a Carnation on your lapel,
She introduces herself as Brenda,
And, she does strike you as an overweight Shannon Dougherty
As she pulls up the rustic, wooden chair
In this heavy-handed, Brando-esque sort of way,  
As she sits and grabs a breadstick,
Which looks like a toothpick in her enormous paw,
You compare your diminutive stature
To her hulking, NFL fullback frame,
And, wonder how your friend or co-worker or what have you
Could have ever reasonably considered
The two of you to be a, in her words, “perfect fit,”
As she makes short work of the generous basket of breadsticks,
You wonder what it might be like to sleep
With this whale of a woman,
Who, based on her appetite for breadsticks,
You reason would take the same hunger to the bedroom,
You have this terrifying image flash in your mind
Of her straddling you on your bed,
Causing it to fold over like a hard shell taco,
As her plow horse haunches pump and pinch,
And her gargantuan pelvis thrusts
Not only over your own,
But also over your stomach,
Which takes the wind out of you
Each time her equestrian ass cheeks flex and clamp,
You see yourself hyperventilating exasperatedly
As though you were trapped under a boulder
And you were simultaneously struggling to make sense
Of your impending death
And the excruciatingly tortuous pain
That you are forced to endure in your last precious moments on earth,
Over dinner Brenda slurps down glasses of Merlot
Like they were Hawaiian Punch,
And, she gobbles up her own plate of Pesto Gnochi
As well as your Pasta Primavera,
Which you have barely pecked at,
Having lost much of your appetite watching this grotesque
Blob who consumes matter the way
You imagine a black hole might,
Every time the waitress comes by your table
And asks how everything is,
You feel like you’ve been kidnapped
And you’re trying to communicate subliminally
That you are being held against your will
Even though you say that everything is going great,
The waitress shoots you this confused look
As you sort of wink and cock your head
Almost epileptically,
But, she just smiles and moves on to her next table,
Brenda can’t stop talking about the desert menu,
She can’t decide whether she wants gelato or crostoli pastries
But, you can’t stop staring at the waitress who is talking to one of her coworkers,
A strapping young man with muscled forearms and long black hair,
She is laughing at what he is saying
And she places her hand over his shoulder
As she sort of doubles over laughing,
Then you close your eyes and imagine that he is you:
That it’s your words which flow like musical notes,
That they are deliberately arranged like a musical composition
To produce the desired emotional effect at precisely the right moment,
That they trigger in her something akin to warmth and comfort,
That her bespeckled eyes be cast up toward yours in such a way
That for a moment the outside world falls back
Into obscurity and silence,
That you finally understand how one look
Can carry so much weight
That something like eternity might reside within it,
That you stare so hard at each other
A pathway is paved between your sets of pupils,
And, you smile because you feel each other enter the other,
And, at that moment you understand that the weight that you feel
Is simply the convergence of dream and reality,
That you can have both…
“Antonio, Antonio!”
You can have both…
“So, what’s it going to be?
The gelato or the crostoli pastries?”
And, then you look up at Brenda
Whose look of hunger you misinterpret as mysterious confusion,
And, you smile and say,
“You can have both.”
But, you know that you are lying.