Tripping on Tears (8 page)

“Books,” she said. “You’re a writer. I expected to find book shelves in your living room, lined with books.”

“Follow me,” I said, getting up. “They’re all in my den, my work area.”

I led Safia to a room off to the side of the living room. I opened the door to a den full of book shelves lining the walls and a wooden desk sitting in the middle of it, messy with my notes and various scribbling. She smiled as she stepped into the room.

“This is what I was expecting,” she said, as she began scanning the book shelves, but not before looking closely at my desk. “You do realize your desk is an utter mess, not neat and tidy, like I assume you like things.”

“Go figure,” I said with a shrug.

I watched her carefully as she began scanning the spines of books on my shelves, occasionally reaching up and pulling one out for closer examination. She was taking her time, drinking it all in. I took a seat on the edge of my desk and waited.

“There’s hardly any fiction in here,” she finally said, “mostly non-fiction.”

“I used to read a lot of fiction, but at one point in time, I just gave it up. I found I wasn’t interested unless it was true. You know biographies or books on history.”

“There’s quite a variety of stuff here, covering a lot of ground.”

“I’m interested in a lot of eras; lots of things,” I said.

“Oh, look at this,” she said bending down and picking a book off the shelf. I knew exactly what had caught her attention. She stood back up a book in her hand.

“The Marquis de Sade,
120 Days of Sodom
. And it looks like there are a couple of others,
Juliette
and
Justine
?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“The Marquis de Sade?” she asked, as she flipped through the pages.

“Wouldn’t you be fascinated by the man who inspired the word sadism?”

“I don’t know what this means; I don’t know if I should be worried,” she said.

I smiled. “
120 Days of Sodom
is probably one of the vilest and most disgusting books ever written, or in its case, written but never completed. It’s a tomb full of debauchery. Just for that pedigree alone, doesn’t it deserve to be discovered and read?”

“You’re not secretly into S&M, are you?” she asked.

I laughed. “No, not at all. I’ve always been fascinated with evil, pure evil, which also accounts for the Hitler and Himmler biographies. The funny thing about de Sade is his worst crimes were drugging some prostitutes, engaging in sexual practices that are today considered normal, like sodomy, and having a poor attitude towards the Church and not being afraid to vent it, especially during his sexual escapades. He beat
The Exorcist
to the use of Crucifixes during sex, by a century or more.”

She looked intrigued.

“For the most part, he spent the majority of his life locked up in prison, his mother-in-law, who detested him, paying his room and board, and ensuring he stayed that way. It was the books he wrote and had smuggled out of those prisons, including the legendary Bastille, that account for his notoriety today. His imagination and pen were more evil than he ever was in real life.”

“And the Hitler biographies?” she asked.

“Always looking for answers as to how he and those around him could actually commit themselves to the task of trying to eradicate a whole race of people from the planet, and not during the Middle Ages or some primitive time, but during the 20
th
Century.”

She just looked at me.

“They provide no answers, although I keep reading the bios looking for something to try and make any sense out of it at all,” I said, speaking the truth.

“A fascination with evil, huh,” she said, putting the de Sade book back on the book shelf and continuing to peruse the others.

“Not everything is based on evil. There’s a whole collection of Lincoln biographies, books on Rome and Alexander the Great, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and much more. Which reminds me, I got you a present.”

Safia turned in my direction, a curious look on her face, as I moved to the drawer of my desk and opened it, pulling out a present I had wrapped for her just for this occasion. I handed it to her.

“It feels like a book,” she said, holding it and smiling, “possibly written by someone I know?”

She ripped apart the wrapping, and when I say ripped, I mean ripped. No dainty, let’s take this apart so we can save the wrapping and use it for something else later, just ripping with wild abandon. I liked that about her.

Once she had cast the wrapping paper aside, she looked at the book, her excited expression turning from one of excitement to one of puzzlement.

“
The Selected Essays of Gore Vidal
?” she said, holding up a mint copy of
The Selected Essays of Gore Vidal
, one of my favorite authors.

“Yeah, and it’s autographed,” I said.

She flipped open the front of the book and turned a couple of pages until she came to Gore Vidal’s signature. It read, “To Safia, from Gore Vidal.” She looked even more puzzled.

“Seeing how I’ve never seen Gore’s autograph, that signature probably won’t hold up to any scrutiny, if passed off as authentic,” I said.

“Gore Vidal?” she said. “What about your book?”

“He’s a much better writer than me,” I offered.

She just stared at me.

“Okay,” I said, reaching back into my desk and pulling out a copy of my book. “It’s yours.”

She took my book, a big smile on her face.

“It’s autographed,” I said.

She quickly opened the book and turned a couple of pages until she reached the autograph.

“To Safia, from Gore Vidal,” she said, reading the autograph. She looked up at me, puzzled.
“I find people are a lot more excited to get his autograph than mine,” I said, with a smile.

“You’re definitely a little unconventional,” she said, “and, thank you.”

Dinner was great. I wasn’t sure what she would or wouldn’t like, or for that matter, what she was or wasn’t allowed to eat, so I took a chance on making salmon, with some asparagus and rice. I also had a nice red and white wine on hand. I know one of them went with fish, but I didn’t know which one. As much as I like to pass myself off as cultured, I’m still a simple boy from the suburbs.

“This is lovely,” she said, as I poured her a glass of white wine.

“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t know what you’d like. I make a killer meatloaf, but I wasn’t sure you’d like meatloaf. I was also looking to impress you and meatloaf just doesn’t say cultured and refined, does it?”

“It would have been fine,” she said. “A man that can cook is a catch, you know?”

“So what excuse did you use to get out of the house tonight?”

“Maybe I told my parents about you,” she said.

“Did you?” I asked.

“Are you nuts? I’m supposed to be staying over at Kareena’s tonight. Her parents are out of town, but my parents don’t know that.”

“It must be a pain in the ass having to lie to them?”

“It’s just the way it is,” she said.

“What’s the worst that could happen if they knew where you were? Who you were with? Would it be the end of the world?” I asked.

“Probably not, but I’m not quite ready to go there yet. It’s just easier this way.”

“I guess. But I feel like a leper, or something.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just complicated,” she smiled. “But I promise you, one day you’ll have the opportunity to straighten up the magazines on my parent’s coffee table, they’re a mess.”

“How am I supposed to enjoy my meal, knowing that?”

“And, if I’m not mistaken, my sister is a non-peeler when she buys books.”

“It looks like I met you just in the nick of time,” I said, holding up my wine glass in a toast. “To the potential for happiness the future may hold.”

“To the future,” she said, as we both stared into one another’s eyes while sipping on our wine.

It’s a little quirk of mine, but the first movie I see with a girl I want to be special – something memorable. Some people have their first songs, I have our first movie, and normally that movie isn’t playing in a movie theatre nearby. Actually, it’s hard to find a good current movie that you’re willing to call
your
movie; you need an old standby, a classic, if you will.

“So, what are we watching,” Safia asked as she settled into a comfortable lounge chair in my movie room. Yes, I’ve dedicated an entire room in my place for the sole art of watching movies properly; a big screen, Blu-Ray, surround sound, track lighting and comfortable chairs. Collecting movies is a hobby, so I invested a little in my hobby so I could do it up right.

“A romantic comedy,” I replied. “But not just any romantic comedy, a classic, starring John Wayne.”

The look on her face said it all.

“John Wayne in a romantic comedy?” she asked.

“You see, you’re like everyone else. As far as you’re concerned he did nothing but Westerns and War movies.”

“Didn’t he?”

“He made about one hundred and fifty movies, you know. I’ll bet you didn’t know about
Trouble Along the Way
co-starring Donna Reed, a wonderful romantic comedy set in the world of college football, did you?”

She shook her head. “Is that what we’re watching?”

“We will, eventually,” I replied. “No tonight we’re watching
The Quiet Man
, a 1952 classic directed by the legendary John Ford and co-starring the divine Maureen O’Hara. Of course to make this film, Wayne and Ford had to give the studio another Western, but it was well worth it.”

I pulled my Blu-Ray copy of the film off the shelf and started setting it up.

“In the film, Wayne plays an American boxer who returns to his ancestral home in the Irish countryside. He is haunted by the fact that one of his opponents died during a boxing match, and has sworn off ever engaging in fisticuffs again. Yes, I did use the word fisticuffs.”

The movie was in. It was time to cue it up. “He falls in love with Maureen O’Hara and sets about courting her and then marrying her. The only problem is her brother, played by Victor McLaglen, a big bear of a man, won’t pay her dowry, and Wayne, now her husband, being American, doesn’t care; it’s an Irish custom, not his. This causes problems for their marriage; it’s a wonderfully funny film that leads up to the question, will Wayne finally break his vow and fight Maureen’s brother for her dowry.”

“Sounds like fun,” she offered.

“I should warn you, that as a young man watching
The Quiet Man
for the first time, I fell in love with Maureen O’Hara. The initial scene in the movie of her in the fields, her hair a blazing and beautiful red, caught my attention and I quickly formed a crush.”

“You’re not planning on dating her any time soon are you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then I think I can live with it.”

The Quiet Man
was a classic and one of my favorites; surprisingly, Safia was the first woman I actually shared this film with. I’d have normally picked something more current – yes, I am secretly a romantic comedy junkie – but this film had meaning; it just seemed right.

The film was starting, when Safia leaned over in her chair close to me. “Even though my parents think I’m staying at Kareena’s house tonight, that doesn’t mean I’ll be staying here with you. I will be staying at her place. There will be no fooling around, got it?”

“Damn,” I thought, briefly to myself. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said to her.

Maureen O’Hara was making her way through the beautiful Irish countryside, looking as lovely as ever. Safia, her beautiful long black hair and engaging brown eyes, was by my side, sharing this moment with me.

Life was good.

CHAPTER
Seven

THE
Night
of our second date, Safia got back to Kareena’s home late – very late. There was no hanky panky, as she had stipulated, although there was some passionate kissing in the car outside Kareena’s home.

It had been an amazing second date; the fact she had trusted me enough to come to my home, was encouraging, and the fact, that when she was confronted by my quirks and eccentricities, she hadn’t fled or referred to me as a wacko, was a victory in my book. It had been a wonderful evening, and I know in my telling of it, it appears that I did all the talking, and all the talking about me, but that wasn’t actually how it went down. During dinner, after dinner, and after the movie, which she loved, we talked about ourselves, opening up, letting our defenses down, which, now that I think of it, wasn’t something she probably easily did. Young Muslim girls aren’t exactly raised to be social with men; to open up with their thoughts and dreams. What I know now, women in many of those cultures, and women of varying religions in those cultures, not just Muslim, aren’t exactly treated as equals to the men. The sons in those cultures are treated as the
golden boys
, while the daughters are only
golden
so long as they towed the line and did what was expected of them. I think Safia discovered a freedom with me she’d never had before, in that she could speak up and tell me her hopes and dreams; challenge my ideas and not be criticized or reprimanded for doing so, but welcomed for it.

She told me about her love of graphic novels; the interplay between the words and images and how she so wanted to become an artist crafting those images. She told me how she discovered early on she had a natural talent for art, having copied and redrawn several movie posters she’d found in a magazine. She was good at it, and knew she could be that much better if given the chance to learn proper technique and be instructed by those who knew something about the art of drawing and illustration. Art school, however, would not be an option with her parents, who viewed it as frivolous and silly, especially for a daughter.

I also discovered that Safia had a dark sense of humor – something I loved. She was also fast on her feet; ready with a comeback or zingers if one left themselves open for just such a thing. She was no shrinking violet, at least not with me. She was someone special, and I could see that; somehow deep down I just knew. I left our second date knowing I was in trouble, because there was something about this woman that had a hold on me, and I was grabbing back and not planning to let go. I was falling in love.

It was shortly after that wonderful night that for the first time I really paid attention to a discussion on talk radio involving the Muslim religion. It seemed that the parents of some Muslim girls where complaining they had signed their young daughters up for swimming lessons in a class catering only to females; the class was comprised of eight and nine-year-olds. What they had a problem with was the fact that the fathers of some of the non-Muslim girls, were there at the pool, observing the classes, which they didn’t think was proper. I guess the thing was they didn’t want their young daughters to be seen by other men when they were only dressed in bathing suits. It was something that wouldn’t happen amongst those who shared their faith, and they felt uncomfortable having these fathers around. The counter argument, of course, was that these classes were for everyone, not just Muslim girls, and the fathers of young girls had every right to be there, keeping an eye on their own daughters, and encouraging them along.

I could see both sides of the argument, I guess, but at the same time, these lessons were taking place here, not in some predominantly Muslim country, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary or improper for those fathers to be there. At the same time, what did they think was happening? Did they think those fathers were actually checking out their eight and nine-year-old daughters - thinking of them in a sexual way? If that were the case, there was a bigger problem here than anyone realized. Everything was perfectly innocent I’m sure; as innocent as it gets, nevertheless, those Muslim parents, who were upset, wanted their feelings on the matter to be accommodated by everyone else.

And there it was that word –
accommodation
. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was going to become a word I was going to learn to loathe. At first I was on board; I firmly believed we should celebrate and honor other’s religious and cultural beliefs; learning about them and discovering another perspective on the world is often exciting; everyone benefits. I believed that, initially, but somewhere along the way I began to resent it, namely when others kept telling me I had to accommodate them and their beliefs and needs; those who I knew from listening to them argue their case, would not raise a finger of their own to accommodate or honor my needs and beliefs if the tables were turned. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Threatening to flip to the last page of the book and reveal who the killer is, so to speak. There was a lot more to my hatred than accommodation, and there was a lot more to the love I felt before the dark days set in and hatred took over.

“A Pakistani girl? Really? Isn’t that where the Kama Sutra was written, you lucky bastard.”

Monroe was one of my high school buddies; an outspoken ladies’ man, who while having made it his life’s work to try out all the positions in the Kama Sutra, along with a few he devised of his own, and hoped to add to the tomb one day, wasn’t exactly a scholar on the book.

“I believe that’s India,” I replied.

“Yeah, so, what’s the difference?”

“You know something, Monroe, you’re lucky you’re pretty,” I said.

“Fuck you,” he said laughing. “And the word’s handsome.”

“So where’d you meet this girl?” asked Duncan, another high school friend, and the first of us to have gotten married. He had a beautiful little four-year-old daughter and a one-and-a-half-year-old son. Fatherhood seemed to agree with him, and as far as I could tell, he and Laverne were happily married.

“Coffee shop. I popped in one day looking to kill some time and there she was. Next thing I know I’m going back there all the time. Didn’t expect to meet anyone and really wasn’t looking,” I explained.

“That’s usually the way it happens. Unexpected,” said Duncan.

“If you’re looking, you put off a desperate vibe; females can sense it,” added Monroe. “So, have you guys
done
it yet? Have you Kama Sutra’d her?”

“We’ve only been out on two dates,” I said.

“So what are you waiting for?”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Duncan, “he’s a bit of a pig.”

“You told me Laverne put out on the first date,” countered Monroe.

“What can I say, some of us have it and some of us don’t,” said Duncan.

“Played and hooked you good, if you ask me,” offered Monroe.

“Up yours Monroe,” said Duncan, “and by the way guys, the deal is Laverne and I waited a couple of months before we ended up in bed together. Got it?”

“She rewriting history?” asked Monroe.

“Yes, and I’m along for the ride. Say anything different and I’ll personally cut off your balls.”

“What? And hang them up on a rack where Laverne’s got yours?” laughed Monroe.

It tended to get this way whenever we got together. Both Duncan and Monroe were married; Monroe’s wife Cindy was pregnant, their first. Whenever the wives weren’t around and we were alone together, we reverted back to our stupid teenage selves, obsessed with talking about sex or finding ways to insult one another. It was comfortable and fun, and something I had missed; before Duncan and Monroe had married, we got together a lot more often, but after their marriages, it became harder and harder to throw together a boy’s night out. I, of course, the lone wolf of the group was always available, but not so for them, or many of our other married friends. I also noticed there were a lot more dinner parties and what not between them, in which I was excluded – you know couple’s stuff. I don’t know if it was because they thought I’d feel out of place being there alone, not part of a committed couple, or if it was because their wives were afraid I’d show up with my latest girlfriend, or, for that matter, a different girlfriend every dinner party. Maybe they didn’t want their husbands to remember what it was like to play the field and date and sleep with more than one woman all the time. Either way, it seemed I was often odd man out. Seeing how I often had loner tendencies anyway, I didn’t take it to heart or hold it against them. At the same time, it was great to get together and bullshit with one another.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been with a girl from Pakistan or India,” said Monroe. “I wonder what they’re like in bed.”

“Never mind him, he’s got sex on the brain,” said Duncan.

“I mean I’ve seen some of those Bollywood films, you know, flipping around the channels on the weekend. There are some pretty hot women in those movies, and some of those dance numbers, wow, get them a stripper pole and we’re in business. Have you guys noticed that the guys in those movies shake their asses as well? Dancing and prancing around. What’s with that?”

“Songs and dancing are a part of Indian cinema,” I explained.

“I know. It’s just that, could you imagine watching
Dirty Harry
or
Magnum Force
and in the middle of chasing down the bad guy, ole Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood stops and breaks into a song and dance number? I just don’t get it.”

“Then don’t watch the damn movies,” said Duncan.

“I’m just saying it ain’t natural. If you recall Clint tried to sing in that one Western, the one with Lee Marvin...”

“Paint Your Wagon,” I offered.

“Yeah, that’s the one. All I can say is he shouldn’t quit his day job.”

“What are you going on about Bollywood films for? Bollywood is India. This girl...” Duncan looked at me.

“Safia,” I said.

“Safia is from Pakistan. It’s not the same country. Actually the two countries have spent a lot of time at war with one another,” explained Duncan.

“So, have you met her parents yet?” asked Monroe, ignoring Duncan.

“No, and I probably won’t be anytime soon.”

The two of them just looked at me.

“It’s complicated,” I offered.

“What, they’re in jail?” asked Monroe, a sly smile on his face.

“Yes, they’re in jail,” I said. “No, it’s just that I don’t think they’d approve of Safia and me seeing one another.”

“How’s that?” asked Duncan.

“Because that’s what she told me. Her parents are Muslim and they wouldn’t approve of her dating me, a Westerner, a white guy.”

“Muslim. Jesus Christ, what are you getting yourself into?” asked Monroe.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Obviously, eventually she’s going to have to tell them, and we’re going to have to meet. It’s just not going to be like it is normally.”

“Well at least you don’t have to put up with some asshole father. That’s a bonus. I mean, ‘What are your intentions with my daughter?’ What the hell is that? The same damn intentions you had with your wife when you first started dating her. The same damn intentions every guy has ever had with any woman he’s taken out on a date, happy, naked, sticky time,” said Monroe.

Monroe paused and looked around.

“Where’s the waitress?” he asked.

“I think you offended her out the last time she came by the table,” offered Duncan.

“I need a refill. How ‘bout you guys?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I’ll have another,” said Duncan.

“I think I’ll hit the bar.”

Monroe made his way towards the bar.

“He really hasn’t changed since high school, has he?” said Duncan.

“No, same old Monroe. I don’t know how Cindy puts up with him.”

“At home, I’ll bet he’s whipped. Talks a good game when she’s not around, but I’ll bet he’s not like this when they’re alone together,” said Duncan.

“If he is, she deserves a medal.”

We took a moment to sip on our beers.

“I’m glad for you, buddy,” said Duncan, finally. “You know finding someone. You find the right woman, it’s a good thing.”

“I’m hoping.”

“This Muslim thing, though, and her obviously sneaking around to see you, I don’t know, it can’t be good for the relationship.”

“I really don’t like it, but what can I do?”

“Why doesn’t she just tell her parents that she’s met someone and that’s it?” asked Duncan.

“Apparently, she can’t.”

“Listen, Laverne’s parents, they didn’t like me all that much when the two of us started going out. I don’t even know if her Father likes me now, even after two grandkids. It didn’t matter what they thought as we met, fell in love and that’s all she wrote.”

“Exactly. It is what it is. And, I’m not so bad. She could do worst,” I offered.

“Yeah, she could be dating Monroe.”

I looked to the bar, but he wasn’t there. No doubt it was time for a bathroom break the way he’d been putting them back. It was all right though, I was his designated driver for the night and I was pacing myself, nursing my second beer in the hours we’d been there.