“Are you saying we don't want to make sense?”
“They like science. They like the science of air-conditioners — of cars, of plastic baggies, of cell phones — they like the science that goes into making products. They like the procedures that reduce violence amongst humans. But they don't like viewing the world in such a way that when they make a peanut butter sandwich alone in their kitchen, it means nothing. That when their child dies, or they foreclose on their house, or when their car gets repossessed, or when life turns into shit that it means nothing. A Muslim having a bad day can walk next door and pray with his fellow Muslim. Then they tell stories to each other of past Muslims and their trials through life. An American stands in his kitchen and holds his toaster he bought with a credit card asking the object to give him his prestige back.”
“But these procedures have created a safe world.”
“No, I'm not saying that at all. There are many countries that have a lot of governmental procedures that created safety, and limit conflict to heated debate and not guns. But Europe, South America and Asia supply their citizens with a sense of history. Our nation doesn't supply that. There is no cross-cultural emotional link between the office worker in New York City, the factory worker in Ohio, the farmer in Nebraska and the camera man in California. When something bad happens there is nothing that binds us together.”
“But that is everywhere. It’s the reason for nationalism.”
“So God has died, and with it, all His beautiful literature of courage and hope. And instead of rebuilding literature to show us how to create our lives, we focus on creating the perfect procedures.”
Our food came and we chewed and swallowed. We stopped talking about government and talked of movies we had seen recently. He discussed Fassbinder, Goddard, and other long forgotten film makers that no one cares about anymore. He sent me some burned DVDs in the mail; I watched them and told him my impressions. I confessed that all I really watch are movies starring small Asians kicking people's asses.
We finished our food and walked out onto the street. It was around 12 and I needed to meet Petra. She was a woman I met through writing. She was a friend of a guy in Austin, Texas who published some of my writing two years before. She read the writing and emailed me. She wrote long emails about feelings and what she did during the day. Petra's emails were always wrought with emotion and sensitivity. When people emailed me, most of the time, they either told me they liked my writing or asked me to read something they wrote. I rarely ever read what people wrote. I would skim it to see if I liked it, but no matter what I wrote back that I liked it. I saw no reason to be mean to someone. Most people never decide to express themselves through writing, why deter people from doing it.
I liked Petra's emails. They were soothing. She showed me pictures of herself on Photobucket. She was an attractive half-Korean half-white woman. She had black hair, pretty lips, small Asian eyes, and a small Asian body. She also had an amazing butt.
We wrote emails to each other off and on. Sometimes we wouldn't write for months, but then we would write again.
She had a strange story: Her father was a soldier in the Navy. He was stationed in South Korea guarding the South Koreans from the North Koreans. He met Petra's mother at a bodega. A little stand selling coffee to soldiers. The two began having sex with each other even though they couldn't speak each other's language. Petra said her mother wanted to get to America no matter what. Her mother was obsessed with money and wanted to have security and wealth. So she intentionally chose to work at the bodega selling coffee to soldiers so she would meet one and get married.
Petra's parents started having sex and spending a lot of time with each other. Petra's mother eventually became pregnant with Petra. Petra's parents got married in South Korea and she was born. Her parents didn't care about her. Her mother viewed her as a way to get to America. Petra walked around South Korea in the slums talking to old men and throwing rocks through the windows of abandoned buildings. She spoke Korean and only heard English when her father would talk to her, which was rarely.
When Petra was three she came to America. Her father was from Tennessee, so that's where they went. Not to one of the fun states like California, Florida, or New York but to a godforsaken state like Tennessee.
When Petra and her parents arrived in America her father moved on. He hung around until she was eight but left because he didn't care. Petra didn't watch him leave. She came home from school and he wasn't there. Her mother cried and Petra cried. Little Petra was heartbroken. The first man that she loved (and supposedly loved her back) was gone.
Petra's mother brought her sister over to America and they opened a gas station together. Her mother opened and bought gas stations all over the Tennessee area. Her mother was a determined capitalist. She wanted money and figured out how to get it. Her mother understood that money came from owning businesses. That one needed to accumulate businesses and to pay the workers cheaply and offer good services. Her mother would work 12 to 14 hours a day to keep her businesses running. She wanted security and to own nice things. Her mother married an overweight lawyer when Petra was 12. The lawyer would sit and smoke cigarettes and not care about anything while watching television after work. He was polite to Petra though and showed her courtesy. He wasn't the type of man that sat with her and showed her how to play sports or brought her to museums. But he wasn't mean. When Petra was 17 he died of a heart attack. The second man that showed up, showed her love and she showed love to was gone. She was heartbroken again.
The summer before she went to New York City for a small vacation and fell in love with the place. She knew she had found a new place to live with new adventures. She saved up some money and found an apartment with a friend from Austin who had just moved there.
At that time she was running through her savings and still hadn't found a job. She was living on the lower-east side with a girl named Lyndi Wood. Lyndi Wood was a woman who grew up in Oregon. Her father was a big time lawyer and made a lot of money. He made so much money he sent Lyndi Wood to Stanford and Lyndi didn't have to take out any college loans. Her father was paying for her to live in New York City. He would put money in an account every week. The bill for the apartment was sent to him and not to her. She was supposed to be looking for a job as a journalist. She wasn't doing anything but drinking.
Eleven
I buzzed the door and waited. Tom was looking down the street at a sign. Tom was wishing he was buzzing the door of a woman in her 30s. But we both knew that one day I would be 50 and not buzzing any young women's doors anymore.
The door opened and I said, “Tom, I'll see you in two days.”
He came over and hugged me; he said, “See ya in two days.”
I walked into the apartment building. There were stairs leading up. I looked up to see if she came out. She was standing on the third floor wearing no shoes, looking down at me with a small smile. I smiled back trying to be as pleasant as possible and walked up.
We stood within three feet of each other and Petra said, “I wish my vagina was a cappuccino machine.”
I replied, “I wish someone would pay my car insurance for me.”
We went in her apartment. It was small. It had a kitchen and two bedrooms. There was no television just a radio hooked to an iPod. There was no kitchen table. Some magazines and a book shelf, that was all.