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

would not do. Or when i trip on ecstasy which causes me to feel blissfully overwhelmed with love for mankind. But most of the time, i am just fine.

 

I sign in to my email accounts and all i find is junks. I delete them. The last time someone sent me any personal emails was ages ago when i was carrying out an online dialogue with a woman 10,000 miles away, in Sai Gon. We met on a networking website and hit it off great. Messages were exchanged continuously for almost two years, twice or three times a week. She confined in me the most intimate details of her life--including what day of the month she normally bleeds. I had no reason to doubt her sincerity and truthfulness. But i did not have much to tell her about me, except about my work and my loneliness. We sent each other pictures. She was looking for long-term relationship. I don't have that for her but in my emails, i gave her the impression that i might be able to do something for her on that mater. She was in her early thirties, and for a lonely woman of that age, time has run out. Then she found someone, not an abstraction in cyberspace like me, but a person in the flesh, real and tangible, and on location. She wrote about the man she found, and i assumed the role of a counselor, and i was a damn good one. Then she broke up with the guy. And soon after, she found another but this one ended in disappointment too. She kept going, and reported to me her affairs with this and that guy, and asked for my advices which i was always ready to give. Did i like what i do? No. I would rather have her in bed with me. But there were an ocean and a continent between us and i did not have the time or the money to overcome them.

 

One Christmas, we exchanged gifts. I mailed her a copy of "The Lover," one of my favorite books, and she sent me three books. For the first time, i saw her handwritings. It was gentle and soft. But in the end, i lost all hope of intimacy with this woman because by silent agreement, we had become friends---whatever that meant. Besides, for me, it was a game, i was not serious. And i was also indecisive. If i had wanted to get serious and gone all the way with her, i would have to spend upward to ten grands for traveling, wedding, and other marriage-related things. I don't have that kind of money. I thought that if i proposed to her, she would not reject. But perhaps she knew my ambivalence, so she kept me at bay as a friend and an advisor on matters of the heart. I became a lap for her to dump on, a shoulder for her to cry on. During the course of our correspondence, she was involved with three guys, and all broke her heart, then beat it.

 

Then one day, i flew to Sai Gon: i was on vacation. Once in town, I called her on her cell phone and she answered with a sleepy voice even though it was near noon. This was the first time we talked on the phone, and her voice sounded sweet. I introduced myself, but she did not seem excited or surprised at all. However, we agreed to meet at a cafe.

 

On the day of the meeting, i went to the cafe one hour ahead of time. The rendezvous was at 11 am. I arrived at 10 and started drinking. It was a sidewalk cafe. I had a vague idea of how she might look: a slim and tall woman, with long hairs, a bright smile and sad eyes. Because i had seen her pictures. And she might know what i look like also. I drank a strong local brew beer call 333. I read the newspapers, sip my beer and once in a while looked up and observed the people. It was already hot. Ten thirty: two beers. Ten forty-five: three beers. Eleven: four beers----and no sight of her. I had said to her that i wanted to see her just once, and after that we did not need to see each other again. Eleven fifteen: five beers and still no sight of her. I put the papers down and scanned the scene and the people parading on the on the sidewalk. It was a Sunday morning. She was late, or what? Eleven thirty: six beers and no one approached me with a smile. The waitress stood a few feet away, ready to replenish my beers. The way i ordered beer after beer, she knew i was a serious drinker. The temperature rose higher as the day wore on, and i started to sweat. A few tables away, a couple were putting their heads together and feeding each other ice cream. I signaled to the waitress for another beer. Eleven forty-five: seven beers. The buzz in my head was now getting louder and louder: i am feeling drunk. Noon: eight beers. Then i stood up, paid, and walked out. I took a taxi back to my hotel. I called her, but there was no answer. I said to myself, that's it.

 

Two months later, out of what i did not know, i wrote to her, but she never responded. Another person disappeared from the life.

 

 

 

 

 

Four

 

So that Friday night i sit with a head as empty as the inside of a barrel. It is crowded in the cafe tonight. The kids have no school tomorrow so they are here to play games. I tap on the keyboard, for no particular reason: www.myspace.com. I sign up for an account, using a false name. In the profile, i say that i am 100 years old and here to network, to look for friends, and things similar. I say that i am interested in women, aged between 20 and 35. I add that i am a heavy drinker and a chain smoker, and that i have no religion, no children and no favorite tv show. In the "about me" section, i describe one of my typical drinking binge. After completing the profile, i start to browse. Within an hour, i make at least 50 friend requests. Then my two hours at the PC are up, and i go home. I take a pill and pass out.

 

Sunday night i return to the cafe. It is only 10 o'clock. I log into my myspace account. Most of the people i request friendship with return with a yes. I read carefully some profiles of the people who are now my "friends."

 

One person attracts my attention. According to the profile, her name is D, 19 years old, living with family in Sai Gon, and an art student. Her "heroes" are her family, from her parents down to her little nieces and nephews. She posts sample of her artworks and they don't look bad at all. She paints and draws scenes of nature, houses, portraits, and some cartoons. Her profile picture shows a beautiful smiling face with long black hairs and pearly eyes. A very childlike young woman. So i run into an artist, a beautiful young artist. I like art. And i like artists. And here is a promising young artist, still growing, and still in school to hone her skills. There is something innocent about her that captivates me. She seems full of fun and curiosity. I cannot imagine what she might be curious about, but the curiosity is in her eyes. Her face is oval, almost round--the type that i like. She posts a picture that shows her standing by a window, flashing a V sign, the way kids do when taking pictures. I send her a message thanking her for accepting me as a friend; and i suggest that we communicate by private emails, not through myspace. I include in the message my email address. Two days later, she writes to me at my personal address. Another ghost.

 

 

 

 

 

Five

 

On the web, deception is the practice. I deceive too when i get on it. I have about ten email accounts with different names and all with false information. Sometimes it's hard to keep track of them--which account for what purpose and with whom. I use two passwords for all of my accounts, to eliminate forgetfulness. With this girl, i use an E account. But is it a girl or an 80 year old grandma? The author of this attractive myspace profile might be an 80 year old grandma, or whoever, out for some harmless fun. Just like me, a 47 year old man, hiding my real age by saying that i am 100 years old. Of course whoever read my profile know i am joking, but they don't mind because they are joking and lying too. No one requests my "friendship," though, because when they browse, they don't look for a 100 year old person, so my profile never pops up on anyone's search. The 56 friends that i have on my list are all the people i myself request "friendship" with.

 

After three emails, the girl asks me how old i really am. I don't think you are 100 years old, she writes. I tell her i am 32 years old. And she accepts that, saying i am only as old as her oldest brother. No big deal? On my profile, i post the face of a monkey as my profile picture. She asks why, and wants to see my real face. So i send her my picture, one that is taken in low light, and shows a young face. I do look younger than my age, much younger. Still, i send her a picture in which i look the youngest. We write to each other at least once a week. So the assumption on my part is: my name is Lam, 32 years old, male, working, living alone in NYC, looking for friendship and maybe romance. On her part, i accept that her name is D, 20 years old, living in Sai Gon with her family that includes her parents, brothers and sisters, and she is an art student, on myspace just for friendship. Normally, on myspace, people exchange messages on the public forum, but i and she writes to each other privately.

 

And as time goes by, the language in our emails becomes more intimate, but i am not sure if this is an accurate description. I just feel that we are getting closer and closer by letting each other into personal details of our own lives. And i start to feel something strange: affection for this person--D. Sometimes, she sounds very thoughtful and wise for a young woman of that age. I complement her on this. I ask for her opinions on things that bother me. I tell her about the environment i live in, about my work, my thoughts and feelings, what i do daily--and the more i write, the more truthful i become. But i still hang on to my assumed age of 32. Slowly, I become afraid of rejection, this far into the "relationship." If D turns out to be real, to be what she says she is, then i am very afraid of rejection. Because my affection for her only intensifies after each email. And if all is true about her, i am old enough to be her father. Goddamn it. But i want love. And of course, as any man would, i want a young woman. But the young woman may not want an older man. In this case, me, 27 years her senior. What a formidable wall to climb. Perhaps that would not be a problem if i had 20 million dollars, and she liked money and was willing to be mine whatever--wife, mistress ect...--while i allowed her to fool around with men her age. Men