My Lolita, Que Son [book suggestions .TXT] 📗

One

Wake up with a headache. The room spins. I close my eyes for a few minutes, and when i open them again, the lamp on the night table stands firm, and everything else stands firm. Too much alcohol last night. Alone. When was the last time i drank in company of others? Too long. Can't even remember how long. I struggle to get out of bed, and tumble into the bathroom. I have to go to work. No matter how sick i feel. I live in a basement studio where there is no sunlight. So i don't want to stay home during the day. Besides, i can sleep on the job and no one complains. I am a loner, a sick and old wolf disowned by the pack, and i live alone in the jungle called New York City. I have no friends or relatives in this city. But i have a brother in California whom i see once in a while. The last time i saw him was five years ago when he was vacationing, and he stopped by to see me on his way to Europe. I am not bothered by my aloneness. In fact, i enjoy it.

My partner left me ten years ago. She could not bear living with a loser, a non-achiever, one who has no ambitions. Like most women, she sees men as providers. She wanted this and that and she wanted me to do this and that--in her words, to make her proud, to make our life better. But i refused to get involved in her schemes. I knew she loved me, but after a few years trying to change me into a person she thought i should have been, and failed--she quit. I said to her that i am what i am and don't try to make me into somebody i am not. All i want is a roof over my head, a job to go to everyday, feeling content and secured --- nothing else. I look at the people with ambition and i feel sorry for them. What is the point of killing oneself for a few extra dollars? Power, prestige, fame, money, ect ... the things that make a man considered successful .... mean nothing to me. In fact, if i needed to die right now, i would be willing to. Ha ha ha, but it must be for a good reason though, like to save the life of a three year old boy.

Coming back to the apartment one day i found a note from her saying that she wanted out. I checked the apartment and sure, she was gone: all her personal stuffs were gone. Down to her toothbrush. I knew this day would come. So i was not surprised. I sat on the couch and thought what am i going to do now? Should i look for her and ask her to come back? No. Everyone is entitled to freedom and what they do is what they do because they are free to do what they do. So i dropped the idea of looking for her. But even if i had wanted to look, where should i start? She had relatives and friends in the city and in various states, but i did not have their telephone numbers. Oh come on, give it up. What a ridiculous idea: looking for a woman who rejects you and bringing her back against her will? That is super stupid. A man does not do that.

So i settled into the aloneness. For two months, i did not hear from her. I thought about abandoning the apartment and moving some place else. Not that the apartment reminded me of her, oh yes it did, but that was not the point. The point was i want some place cheaper. I could not afford the high rent of a complete apartment I should find a studio. Or maybe just a room in a boarding house.

One day she called and asked me how i was. Fine, i said. She said she was ok. Where are you? I asked, but she refused to say. I could not id where the number might have originated. She might be using a calling card. She might still be in New York, and not too far from me. Or she could be 10,000 miles away. I told her i am moving out and she said ok. Then we fell silent. Then we said goodbye. Just like that, a person disappeared from your life and you might never see that person again. Not even unto death. I was terrified at the thought.

Then i moved into a basement studio. It has two windows looking out to the sidewalks but all i see are walking feet. There is no sunlight down here. However, at the end of the hallway, i can go into the backyard where i can see the sky. I feel like the man from Dostoievski's Notes From Underground. There are an elderly couple in the room next to mine. And in the other room also next to me, there is a young woman. Down here, people rarely see each other even though the proximity is very close. An occasional hi and hello here and there and that is it. But we can sense each other's presence very clearly because the walls between us are thin: at midnight, the old man coughs, the old woman nags, and the young woman's whispering on the phone. And me? Complete silence.

I go to work everyday--been on the same job for ten years. Working for the city's welfare department. I have two thousand dollars in the bank. And the amount has stayed the same. Up then down, then up then down, hovering at two thousands. Enough to survive a short emergency. Each night, i drink a six-pack of beer or a 750 mil bottle of wine--and i pass out. No natural sleep. In the morning, i wake up with a slight headache, and go to work like any normal person. "Normal" in the sense that you have a job and a regular income and you never miss a day of work. Except when you are on the verge of death. I am a civil servant. On this job, which provides bullet-proof security, people don't quit to look for better opportunities, but they either retire or die on the job. What do i want? I prefer retirement but i am afraid that i may drop dead on the job. I have diabetes and high cholesterol plus a diseased liver--and i am an alcoholic. Some mornings i come out of the hole in the ground and think that i may drop dead on my way to the train. It is a real fear. Because i experience lightheadedness and shortness of breaths in the morning. So i avoid taking the deserted streets. Instead, i walk along the big avenue where there are people and traffic, because the chance of my being found and taken to the hospital is better than if i was on the empty streets.

Two

So i live in this basement. My daily routine never changes. Wake up at 7, out of the basement at 8 and walk to the train. Get to work at 9. Lunch at 1. Leave the office at 5. Home at 6. Wash the sweaty feet. Lie on the bed. Look at the TV. Drink a beer. Two beers. Three beers. At 8 i come out to look for food. While continue to drink. Walk into the lottery joint for a game or two. Check emails at the neighborhood internet cafe. Come back to the basement at about 10. Drink some more and take a sleeping pill. Pass out at around 11. Deep "sleep." More like a coma. Nightly coma. Very few dreams. Then at 7 the next morning, the alarm clock shakes. Another day.

Do i feel lonely? No. Do i need a companion? Not really. Am i horny and do i need fucks? Sure do. That is how i keep the local prostitutes in business. Besides the irritating desire for intercourse with a female once in a while--and i can either jerk off or take a whore to a hotel--i am fine. Yes, i feel fine most of the time. But i have not mentioned that i take 60 milligrams of Prozac everyday. That' s how i stay fine, perhaps. Or is it all make-believe? I am not sure, but taking anti-depressants has been a daily habit for years.

Three

One Friday evening after food and drinks i go into the neighborhood's internet cafe. Its interior is illuminated only by the light of the computer monitors. Silence. People bury their heads in the games or in whatever they are into on the computers. I pay three dollars and take a seat in a corner. This place is called the Easy Cafe. Next to me is a teenager playing a game. Next to him is a Jew guy with a skull cap. We are on the edge of the largest concentration of orthodox Jews in the country. I wonder about the Jew guy, what is he doing here at this hour of a Friday night? He should be home observing the Sabbath. I position myself comfortably in a high-back chair and open my last beer of the night, a 22 ounce Old English. I log into my account. I have two hours. I sit and sip my beer. Friday night. What do you do on a Friday night, a loner like you? You drink in a bar. You eat in a Chinese takeout. And now you sit in this dark corner in front of a blue monitor. And you feel like killing yourself. Suicide is never a bad idea. I can walk to the subway right now and throw myself in the track of an oncoming train. Big deal. That will end it. End what? The life. This life. This stinking life of mine. Sure, you say that you feel "fine." But what does fine mean? It depends on how you define fine. Like Bill Clinton says when he is interrogated about his tryst with "that woman." It all depends on the meaning of the word "is." Same with fine. People understand "fine" differently. Just like Bill Clinton has different definitions of is. He beats the rap by cleverly defining the word is to his idiotic prosecutors. When you ask someone how are you, and they say i am fine--how are you supposed to understand that? Fine? What do you mean fine? I don't know what you mean by fine. Fine may mean i am feeling like shit but why should i tell you? I want to spare you the indignity of having to sniff my shit. Besides, i know you don't care. Or fine may mean i am feeling nothing. I am a bag of meat and bones and fat and blood and other liquids and this mixed-bag has no feelings. I get up in the morning and go to work with an empty head and a cold heart. I do my work in the same state of mind. And the day drags on just like that. I am a robot. But of course, if someone suddenly punches me in the face i will feel pain and anger. But that does not mean i feel pain and anger, just this body. But things like that have never happened and i don't think they ever will because i am a "nice" guy. I stay out of people's ways, especially crazy people. So i am fine. The only times i feel not fine are when i am drunk like a skunk--in high spirit-- and do crazy things. Like trying to score drugs right under the noses of the cops. Which normally when sober i