Just in case because you never know

Dear Bradshaw,

While reading in the park, killing time before my next lesson, I noticed some guy circling the central expanse of grass. He had greasy blonde hair raked over his balding head, black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, and a dime-sized freckle on his cheek. Holding a small paper bag in one hand, he had his other hand buried inside, fingering beans or birdseed perhaps. I kept expecting him to pull his hand out and sprinkle whatever it was on the ground but he kept his hand in there, holding the bag about chest-high. Meanwhile, I saw his lips moving. He was mumbling to himself while staring straight ahead and fingering whatever was in that bag. I tried to read his lips but I can’t read lips, assuming he was speaking a legitimate language.

Dear Bradshaw,

            What? I haven’t told you about our first night in our apartment? That must have been back when you were immersed in all that hocus pocus, blowing around the room like a popped balloon. Well, here it is then.

            We moved in here two years ago, and that first evening we had dinner with another couple at a restaurant downstairs. I had taken my camera, and when we said goodbye to our friends around midnight, and then Francesca and I returned to our new apartment, I realized I’d left the camera at the restaurant.

            I was bushed, and wanted to go straight to bed. I’d been up since seven in the morning, sweating my way through a day of intensely humid heat. I’d transferred three loads of stuff from my old apartment to the new one — an exercise bar with fifty pounds of weights, a six foot tall lamp, a four foot high fan, a radio and a box of books — down five flights of stairs (there was no elevator at my old apartment) and then five minutes on foot to the new place. I had also worked that day, and had drunk copious amounts of wine before, during and after dinner.

            Francesca insisted the camera would be gone if we waited until the next day so she rushed down to fetch it, telling me she wasn’t taking her keys and to open the door when she knocked. I decided to lie down on the bed, just for a minute, while I waited for her to return. The next thing I knew, when I opened my eyes, four firemen were standing around the bed. My first thought appeared through a gap in the fog as I noticed they looked younger than me, and that one of them was female. Then Francesca walked into the room and, realizing where I was and what had happened, I sat up, waving my arms, and said in a slightly slurred voice, “I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

            Francesca says she’d been gone five minutes. No camera at the restaurant, and when she returned, knocked, and there was no answer, she worried something had happened to me. She banged on the door and yelled my name, and when there was no response she went downstairs and searched for me up and down the street. Returned to the apartment, she started beating on the door and screaming. By then all the neighbors on the sixth, seventh and eighth floors were awake.

            The lady next door let Francesca use her phone to call me but I didn’t respond. Since she remembered having left the bedroom window open, she tried shouting from their terrace to ours but without success. She wanted to scale the railing but — risking an eight-storey fall — the neighbor refused to let her. Fearing for my life, Francesca called an ambulance. The fire department arrived half an hour later and she had held her breath the whole time.

            At first, they tried to bust through the door, insisting they had the tools to do it. Not our door. It was an iron vault. So one of them scaled the terrace, opened the front door from the inside, and then they entered the bedroom and found me sound asleep, sprawled on the bed in my boxers. Francesca says the whole incident lasted two hours. For me it seemed like two minutes.

             After waking the following morning, she got up to make breakfast. Five seconds after she’d left the bedroom I heard her say, “I’m going to kill you.” She’d found the camera. It was lying on the kitchen counter.

Dear Bradshaw,

            I thought I’d already told you how Francesca and I met. You must have forgotten, or else I’m senile, or an idiot, or all three. Anyway, here’s the story, and I apologize if it’s long.

            Francesca used to work at Pfizer and, at the time, I was teaching her boss English once or twice a week. Francesca and I occasionally passed each other in the hallway when I came and left but a friendly smile or hello was the extent of our conversation.

            I worked and still work at a private school. We have two sites: the first is near the train station (where I work 99% of the time), and the second is about two miles from my apartment. One Saturday, I finished working at 2pm instead of the usual 3pm, a rare occasion, and also, being at the second school (a rarer occasion), I decided to walk home instead of taking the subway. While heading along the main avenue and crossing a small perpendicular street, I was suddenly face-to-face with Francesca. She’d been walking in the opposite direction, had stopped right in front of me, and then asked if I knew who she was.

            “Of course,” I said. “You work at Pfizer.”

            She asked me where I was going, and as the conversation continued right there in the middle of the street, I wondered, How long can this go on before one of us suggests moving to the curb? Two minutes later, a car came and honked at us, and Francesca asked if I’d like a coffee.

            As it turned out, on weekends she was taking (and still takes) courses in naturopathy, homeopathy, Chinese and Indian medicine, Shiatzu massage and other stuff. She’d been on her lunch break and had to return to class, so after the coffee I accompanied her. Before parting, I said I’d stop by her office sometime, and since she seemed enthusiastic, I did so the following week. We went for a coffee at a place near her office, and while there I asked for her phone number. She wrote it down on a scrap of paper, and the following Friday I sent her a text message asking if she was free the following evening. The reply was in Italian and, basically, said, “Up yours!”

            I was shocked and confused, and sent another message, saying it was Scott (I had forgotten to mention my name in the first message), the guy she’d bumped into on the street the week before. The second text went unanswered and I was unsure if she wasn’t interested or perhaps had decided I was a loser because I’d sent a text message instead of calling directly.

            I stopped by her office again the following week, and when she saw me she seemed glad. We talked for a few minutes and then I mentioned the fact that I’d sent her a message. She insisted I hadn’t and, to prove it, I showed her the saved message on my phone. Seeing the phone number at the end of the message, she pointed to one of the numbers, a two, and said, “That should be an eight.”

            The rest is history, and the wedding is next month.

Dear Bradshaw,

            In your last letter you asked how long I’ve been a vegetarian and why. That’s a question in a half so forgive me in advance if this letter is long.

            I’ve been a vegetarian since I was seventeen years old (over twenty years) but, as you know, I eat fish (doctor recommended because my ‘bad’ cholesterol is alarmingly high) so I’m not a genuine vegetarian. The main reason I don’t eat animal meat is because I don’t like the taste while I’ve always loved fruit and vegetables, and also bread, peanuts, pasta and rice. To me, the taste of watermelon, strawberries, apples, oranges, cantaloupe, avocados, coconuts, papaya, mango and almost any other fruit is divine. Meat, to me, is mud. Meanwhile, think about all the vegetables there are, which you can eat either raw or cooked, right? But you wouldn’t sink your teeth into a live cow or a chicken, would you? I hope not, and if you would, then we’ve got other issues to discuss.

            With the exception of sushi, most humans don’t eat raw meat. Meat contains harmful bacteria and microbes, which must be killed with heat, and also most civilized people prefer the taste of meat only when it’s cooked and seasoned with spices and sauces. So, in my opinion, regarding flavor, one tastes the spices and sauces more than the meat. Meat, in that case, is superfluous. If I eat a sandwich with tomatoes and lettuce, it’s the tomatoes, lettuce and bread I like, and want, to taste. For me, meat ruins the flavor. Also, I feel healthier and happier as a vegetarian. Some people argue that when you eat meat, especially in the United States, you’re eating fear, i.e. the fear-released adrenaline or hormones or enzymes an animal’s body produces when it knows it’s about to be slaughtered and, well, after all, you are what you eat.

            I’ve never liked meat. When I was young and my mom served meatloaf or hamburgers for dinner, I always covered it with ketchup to drown the taste. Once, at a restaurant with my parents when I was six or seven years old, I bit into a chicken leg and it started bleeding. Disgusted, I refused to take another bite. There was another leg on my plate, and my mom insisted it was okay, going so far as to slice it open with knife and fork to prove it, but I was adamant. Another experience that likely contributed to my being a vegetarian (fishetarian, if you will) happened when I was eight or nine years old. I was arguing with my sister and, in order to shock me, change the subject, and/or end the argument (though it had nothing to do with our fight), my sister said, “Oh yeah? Well, do you know what chopped liver is?” My mom happened to be passing by at the moment, and though she ran into the room, screaming, “Lisa, no!” my sister said, “It’s chopped LIVER!” Making the connection, I looked up at my mom and said, “I’m never eating chopped liver again.” And I never did.

            In my twenty years as a fishetarian, I’ve never once heard or read any evidence that favors eating meat while libraries of information promote the benefits of a vegetarian diet. Whenever I discuss the merits of vegetarianism with someone who disagrees, I always challenge them to provide me with facts from an up-to-date book or reputable source that supports eating meat. So far no one has ever shown me anything.

            When I decided to become a vegetarian, I went to the library and read up on vegetarian diets in order to placate my mom who was concerned about my health. Nothing I said eased her worries, until I told her that Gandhi had been a strict vegetarian and had died at the age of 78, not from malnutrition or a poor diet, but because he was shot.

            So that’s it, Bradshaw. Of course, I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Nevertheless, here are a few quotes in favor of vegetarianism, in case you’re unconvinced:

“Behold I have given you herb yielding seed. To you it shall be for meat.” -Genesis l:29

“Nothing will benefit human health and increase chances for survival of life on Earth as much as a vegetarian diet.” -Albert Einstein

“To become vegetarian is to step into the stream which leads to nirvana.” -Buddha

“The time will come when men such as I will look upon the murder of animals as they now look on the murder of men.” -Leonardo da Vinci

“A man can live and be healthy without killing animals for food; therefore, if he eats meat, he participates in taking animal life merely for the sake of his appetite.” -Leo Tolstoy

“I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals.” -Henry David Thoreau

“Animals are my friends, and I don’t eat my friends.” -George Bernard Shaw

Dear Bradshaw,

           Lately, I’ve been flabbergasted by something I read: that someone observing the Earth from a distance of (I don’t have any idea, let’s say) a hundred million light years would see events that transpired here on Earth 500, 10,000, even 100,000 or more years ago. That means someone watching at the right time and from the right distance might see Jesus on the cross, Moses parting the Red Sea, Buddha achieving enlightenment under the Bo Tree, the invention of the wheel, the discovery of fire, the first human being born, and all kinds of other stuff. The idea that such events are still seeable and that such a thing is possible scrambles my brain like an egg in a frying pan. What about cell phones and the fact that this room (I’m at home, on my couch, feet up, drinking wine) is filled with countless conversations, radio transmissions, and who knows what else, and I need only tune into the right frequency in order to eavesdrop?

            This brings a memory to mind: I was driving with Francesca and there was a tiny insect on my arm, literally the size of a pinprick. It was crawling across my elbow and through its transparent skin I saw a red dot of (perhaps) blood. It struck me as a phenomenon that such a miniscule creature could exist, and with a circulatory system, brain waves, and who knows, maybe even a sex drive. Meanwhile, what did it eat, where did it live, and sleep? Seeing something so small and alive made me consider microscopic levels of life and, at the same time, I suspected there must also be macroscopic dimensions of existence too big for human eyes to see, and that, my good friend Shaw, is another mind-scrambler. Who am I to think my life is more important or superior to an animal’s or insect’s life? Perhaps a bird marvels in its flight and its song as much as any batter who hits a homerun with three balls and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth inning of the championship game. Maybe that miniature bug was searching for food to feed its family and, perhaps, just maybe (and I’m only postulating here, buddy) in the insect world, that’s what it means to hit a homerun with three balls and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth of the championship game.

            Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Dear Bradshaw,

            What’s new? Nothing? Me neither = drinking wine and writing. Other than that, I thought you’d like to hear what’s new with Jimi. As you know, she’s in the habit of eating anything: paper, plastic, lint, ribbons, ants and other insects, and whatever we eat. Recently, trying to coax food from Francesca, she started showing off with acrobatics and incredible tricks of intelligence, and I mean far beyond what I’d expect from a cat. Just last week, she did a flying pirouette, landing on the arm of the couch with her mouth open, waiting to be awarded with a slice of banana. Yesterday, for a strand of spaghetti, she leaped arching through the air, flipped upside-down over the table, and practically floated to the ground while flapping her paws. I’m telling you, pal, if you’ve never seen a cat do that you’ve got to get your guts over here ASAP. Meanwhile, if I drink one more sip of this wine and then order a pizza, Jimi’ll play the guitar with her teeth, hoping for a bite. And we don’t even have a guitar.

            Of course, these are just the things she’s learned herself. We’ve been teaching her tricks too and now she responds to voice commands and hand signals and can take dictation in both long and short hand. Also, if I say, “Jimi, I want you to balance on your left paw, rise up to the tip of one claw, and then kick your way like a ballerina across the room while meowing the opening notes to The Girl From Ipanema,” she can do it, and does.

            By the way, remember in Thailand when we were playing soccer and I passed you the ball and you headed it into the goal, and then landed with your boot on my big toe, cracking my toenail in half? Just thought now would be a good time to say, “I forgive you.” Of course, I’d have been upset if you hadn’t scored (or had done it on purpose) but you did score, and I limped off the field with my bloody toe, bought a beer, and then drank it while watching the rest of the game.

            How’s that for humility, huh?

Yo Shaw,

            I’ve been thinking lately (nothing new about that, eh?) and would like to tell you what I’ve come up with. Here it is. Are you ready for it…? Nothing. Can you believe that? All this thinking, day in and day out, week after week for months and years, and my conclusion can be summed up with one word. Here it is again. Brace yourself… nothing. Perhaps you’d like to know what I’ve been thinking about, eh? Okay, I’ll tell you = 1) Why are we here?, 2) What happens after we die?, and 3) Is there a God? What I mean when I say ‘nothing’ is that I don’t think there are answers to those questions. (No permanent ones anyway.) In fact, I think even to suggest an answer is missing the point completely because the point is exactly that = the point. Not the line or the angle or the parallelogram. The point is the beginning, middle and end of it all, the summit of knowledge and experience, the awakening of wisdom. These things exist in realms beyond words and explanations.

            But you know me, Shaw. I like to make suggestions anyway and here’s what I propose: health, happiness, laughter and love. If there’s a reason for anything, it might just be that. Health is fundamental because when you feel fantastic, life’s fantastic. Happiness is essential because when you’re happy, you enjoy life and, in my opinion, enjoying life is maybe all there is. Laughter’s important because it often includes health and happiness and, even as Woody Allen said, only sex is more fun. And love is vital because it’s possibly the one thing that keeps people from making their quietus with a bare bodkin.

            So that’s it for today, buddy = nothing. No words of the mountains, no insights about the sky, just two atoms of hydrogen, one of oxygen, and voilà! So remember, wherever you are, whoever you are, why-ever you are, live, laugh, love, and, what the heck, be happy too.

Dear Bradshaw,

 

            It was great to see you and to be home in California. I was happy to see you surviving in there and, for whatever it’s worth, you looked okay.

            Meanwhile, as promised, here are some words about our trip to Yosemite. What a place, pal, just like the last time when we were there together with Rich and Erin and everyone else, remember, the giant sequoia groves, sheer-faced rocks towering above the valley, waterfalls galore, and the majestic glory and spirit of the place. What colors! Trees and grass green, red flowers, blue sky, white clouds, and the gray rock walls. There’s only one word for that place = wow!

            While glancing through the guide I came upon a section about mountain lions. It suggested what to do if you encounter one. First of all, it says, don’t run. Face the lion, standing upright, and try to appear larger by raising your arms or spreading your jacket over your head. Also, wave your arms and shout. Try to convince the lion you’re dangerous. And, if attacked, fight back! Did you get that, Shaw? FIGHT BACK!

            Have you ever seen a mountain lion? I haven’t. Not a real one. But while wandering through the visitor center one afternoon, I came upon a scene depicting life-like replicas of the animals in the valley. There was a gray owl, a western squirrel, a jaybird, a black bear, a mule deer, a spotted bat, a coyote, a golden eagle, and (with the exception of the bear) they looked like animals I might stand a chance against if I had to fight back. But the mountain lion… I tried to imagine coming across a live one in the wild, having to fight that thing and, holy hot potato, pal, I’d be breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Depends on the time of day and how hungry the lion is.

            Anyway, I’m back now, in Rome, writing you while struggling to stay awake, fighting (no, not a mountain lion but) jetlag. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Wish me luck!

Dear Bradshaw,

            Sad news. A friend of Francesca’s father passed away today. I was shaving when she told me the news and what I said was, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then I finished shaving, rinsed my face, and that was that.

            But it struck me as strange, as it always does, to hear that somebody had died and to feel nothing, no grief, no sense of loss. Like dropping a stone into a still pond, the further away you are, the less the ripples rock your boat. The fact is, even as I write these words, people are dying all over the world, in hospitals and out, tragically or not, with pain and without. And if everybody’s death, including those outside my circle of acquaintance, affected me personally, it would be impossible to drag myself out of bed each morning.

            Nevertheless, the news about her father’s friend sent ripples through my pond, causing me to consider (and not for the first time) my own mortality, and I’ve got to say, Shaw, in the end, that’s just it, isn’t it? After all, why should it matter when it happens to others if it didn’t inevitably happen to me too? Meanwhile, though it can’t be dissected by a laser beam or observed through a telescope, it’s there, as real as you reading this now.

            Okay, so, yes, there’s death, but there are babies being born too, all over world, new Earthlings arriving every instant, escorted in while others are ushered out. We are (all of us) coming and going, everything in motion, always, at least until breakdown and death. That’s the balance that makes the mystery endurable: The glory of life is the kiss of death.

            Gosh, Shaw, I’ve got to stop thinking such things. Better to focus on the fact that Jimi’s curled up, sleeping in a prism of light shining through the window, while I’m here with my legs up, resting against the cushions of our couch.

Dear Bradshaw,

 

Hey buddy, my apologies. It’s been about two weeks since my last letter. Some friends from California (David and Iane, you remember them) were here and I was busy visiting monuments, fountains, museums, eating in restaurants and walking around Rome.

Speaking of California, Francesca and I will be there in a couple weeks unless this Swine Flu situation takes a turn for the worse. The latest news reports suggest it isn’t such the pandemic they thought it was but still, you never know. In fact, while I was on my way to work one morning last week, I was waiting for the subway and when it finally arrived, I saw that all its cars were jam-packed. Luckily, as it was slowing down, four teenagers started toward the door and after the train stopped, the doors opened and the teenagers got off. I climbed onboard and headed toward the place they’d been standing, and then two other teenagers suddenly decided to get off, bumping into me on their way out. I watched them exit and, after the doors had shut, saw them join the other four. The train started forward and while we pulled away I noticed that one of the teenagers had her head buried in a trashcan on the platform. She was vomiting while two of her friends supported her by the arms, and it occurred to me then that she was either severely hung over or, however less likely, suffering symptoms of Swine Flu. Meanwhile, there I was trapped inside the train, breathing the air she’d possibly contaminated with a debilitating virus.

            I eyeballed the expressions of other people in the compartment. They were calm, relaxed, as if people puke their guts into public trashcans everyday. I considered getting off at the next stop and waiting for another train but figured it was too late. If she was infected then I was infected. I don’t know how long the quarantine is but ah well, whatever, right? Nothing to do about it now. What’s done is done. Cain killed Abel. The Romans crucified Christ. And that girl may have murdered me with Swine Flu. Whatever happens, I hope you’re healthy and hanging in there. See you soon… maybe.