Veering Democratic

            My mind, much like most Republicans, is a swinging pendulum, undulating from right to wrong, yes to no, do to don’t, never failing to fail at making a solid argument. Before I get a chance to veer Democratic, going with the go-with-your-gut-but-don’t-say-I-didn’t-tell-you-so route, the professor starts her introductory diatribe, swiftly but surely pulling the reins in on my plan to meet The Mystery Man…I mean, Amar. Sitting there, next to him, I wonder what it is about this guy that so piques my curiosity. Usually, those with a y-chromosome are to my life what coffee is to five-hours’ sleep – a temporary remedy not ready for the challenge; hence, I’ve stopped bothering to bother at all. So, case in Punjabi point, for the first time in a very long time, why am I suddenly slightly – just slightly – concerned with the opposite sex? Is he my long-awaited mirage in Fantasy-Man-Land? Is he special? Maybe I’m just horny? Or maybe…

            He’s laughing. L-a-u-g-h-i-n-g. Somewhat infuriated, and also somewhat further intrigued – his laugh, albeit frustrating in context, is, shall I say, nice – I madly scribble him a note:

Why are you laughing at me?

            Apparently, he finds this to be even funnier still, his laugh evolving to a deep chortle as he passes my lined paper back to me:

You – what is your name again? – keep twirling

your hair and tilting your head from side to

side.

            Oh no – he’s witnessed my nonverbal communication! He’s seen my internal rambling in its most embarrassing form! Why oh why must my oddities raise their neurotic heads just when I’ve finally managed a normalcy-victory? Anxious to dissuade his misguided perceptions of me, I respond:

Oh, I only do that when I’m bored. Not

because I was thinking about anything

or anything because I totally wasn’t. I

was really just bored. Yeah. And my

name’s Monet.

Well, Miss Monet, what would you

say about walking with me to the

bookstore – I don’t know where it is.

            Why doesn’t he know where the bookstore is? Weird. Still, there is something about Amar. I don’t really know what exactly, but I know it’s something. Something different, something mysterious. Taking a leap – for me, more like a leap, followed by a dive, and capped off by a blind gymnastics course – I reply:

Absolutely, Amar.

            Understanding my response, he turns to look at me, smiling, and nods his head. And all I can think is Amar.

*****

            Walking around this peaches-and-herb campus is an adventure fraught with foreboding. Everyone knows everyone else – correction, everyone recognizes everyone else – thanks in part to the campus’ affinity for alcohol, penchant for pot, and fondness for frolicking, and thus that all-too-familiar look upon passers-by that only means “Were you that person I saw at that party?” For me, the glares come courtesy of only the frolicking – booze equals belly flab and drugs equal psych ward – but frolicking, well, that equals my short-term solace from years of fatherly ‘advice.’

            Therefore, my bookstore-bound stroll with Amar equals awkward.

            “You know a lot of people, don’t you, Miss Monet?” he presumes.

            “Well, you know, I wouldn’t say I know them know them. I might have, you know, seen them once or twice.”

            “But why don’t you talk to them? Don’t you want to say hello?”

            “It really isn’t necessary, trust me. Anyway, why don’t you know where the bookstore is?”

            “This is my first day here, Miss Monet. I am an exchange student. From India.”

            “Wow, that’s really…wow,” I stutter, suddenly simultaneously entranced with his exoticness and mortified by the moths flying around in my stomach.

            “So,” I say, desperate for any distraction from my flushed cheeks, “you came here all the way from India. That takes balls. Not that I’m thinking about your balls or anything like that – God no! – but you know, right? That’s really cool you came here. Why you chose here I really don’t know, though. This was my last choice school. I wanted to go to Berkeley, because they run on semester system, not an evil quarter system, but I didn’t get in, of course. Figures, right? I mean, of course, the only school I get into runs on the freaking quarter system, yet another example of my un-luck in life. That’s still cool you came here, though. I mean, good for you.”

            As we finally approach the bookstore, he says, smiling serenely, “What is it about quarters that you don’t like, Miss Monet?”

            Realizing that, yet again, I’ve sunk myself in a pool too deep, a pool too incomprehensibly crazy for others, I panic, eager for any way to utter a polite but pointed ‘It-was-nice-to-meet-you-but-I’ve-really-got-to-go.’

            Somewhat, somehow sensing my eagerness to escape, he, Amar, turns to face me, puts his brown hand on my white shoulder, and says, “I want to know you, Miss Monet. I really do. What about having dinner, with me, tomorrow night?”

            Swing, swing goes the pendulum again, unsure as to which way the best move lies.

            “Miss Monet,” he asks, “what are you so afraid of?”

            “Quarters,” I say, “I’m afraid of quarters. And dinner would be great.”

            And with that, I give my cell number to him, to Amar.

*          *          *          *          *

            Juan is the only person I’ve ever trusted to advise me. Since I’ve lived in this shack, or, in realtor terms, a “reasonably-priced beachside paradise,” Juan, the building’s custodian, has embraced my talkative nature, never once minding me waxing philosophical on my life’s occurrences as he waxes the floors. I bitch and complain, he calls me “chica loca,” and he talks about his wife, children, and grandchildren. Although nary a personal problem gets solved, Juan always makes me smile.

            Today, in particular, is a day requiring much-needed advice. Today, at approximately seven o’clock p.m., Amar is coming to my apartment, picking me up, and taking me out on a date. Obviously, Juan’s wise words are of great merit.

            “I mean, what am I supposed to do?” I ask, as Juan vacuums the carpet in the laundry room. “I haven’t been on an actual date since, what, about the ninth grade? I don’t date guys. I just, you know…”

            “Si, chica,” Juan replies. “You want to, though, no?”

            “Yeah, I do. That’s the weird thing, Juan. I haven’t been on a date for so long because I haven’t wanted to. All I’ve wanted to do is, you know…”

            “Si, chica.”

            “But, now, it’s like I want to, but I don’t. There’s something about him that makes me nervous.”

            “Porque, chica? Is he bad?”

            “No, no, no. It’s not that. He seems like a really good guy. That’s why he makes me nervous – I don’t know how to be with a good guy.”

            “Don’t be stupid, chica. Just go,” he advises, smiling and putting my mind at ease.

            And with that, I go back upstairs. I’ve got some primping to do.

*          *          *          *          *

            “I made food, for us. Have you ever had Indian food?” asks Amar, clutching a bag brimming with the succulent entity that must be Indian food.

            “No, I haven’t actually,” I reply, kind of unsure as to what I should say next. “But it sounds great,” I add, hoping that doing so negates my awkward silences.

            “I like your earrings,” he says, noticing the sparkling chandeliers that dangle underneath my hair.

            Feeling alarmingly unlike myself – why I can’t think of a gazillion things to ramble on about right now is really beyond me – I aim to do anything, something so as not to keep feeling so much like a chicken with its head cut off.

            “So, what can you tell me about life in India? I mean, what is it like there?” I ask.

            “India is just India. It’s not really important. I want to know more about you, Miss Monet.”

            Just as I’m about to assemble some semblance of an autobiography – polished and edited, of course – he asks: “Where is your bike, Miss Monet?”

            “Bike? I don’t have a bike,” I reply.

            “Oh, you don’t have a bike. Well, I thought we could ride our bikes to the beach for our dinner,” he explained. “It is not a big deal, though. You can just side on the handlebars, right? You’re small, Miss Monet,” he suggests, his perma-grin somewhat – but not entirely – contagious.

            “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know about that. I mean, riding on the handlebars, that’s a little dangerous, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know. Maybe we should just do this another time or something…”

            “Miss Monet, I know you are afraid of quarters, but you needn’t be afraid of me. It’s just riding a bike to have dinner. You might like it,” he suggests, his smile working its wonders totally and completely this time.

            “Just don’t brake without letting me know,” I say, releasing, for the first time in a long time, what might just possibly be a smile.

*          *          *          *          *

            I am riding on the handlebars of Amar’s bike back to my apartment. After an embarrassing bout of chutney-on-the-chin – which, by the way, was sigh-provokingly cured by him dusting it off with his thumb – our dinner – he never referred to it as a ‘date’ – went better than expected, but, of course, I never have good expectations for anything, ever.

It’s windy as we ride, but I don’t really care. I can sense him sitting behind me, breathing in and breathing out. We don’t talk on the way back, and we didn’t really talk all that much during our dinner, but, again, there was something about being around him that made the silence feel okay.

But, as he walks me to my door, the moths start doing their moth thing again, and my verbal leakage breaks the silence.

“Listen, Amar, I just wanted to thank you for tonight.  I mean, I had a really good time and everything tonight, with you, well, it was really great and nice and, I mean, you’re really nice, and, well, yeah.”

“Miss Monet,” he says, that uncanny laugh appearing yet again, “you are as your name suggests – a work of art.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“How can art be anything but good?”

“Amar, now, you know, I never do this or say this or whatever, but, well, I don’t know, I…I…I…I like you.”

“I like you as well, Miss Monet.”

Feeling like a gold medalist, I lean in, eagerly and anxiously awaiting a smoldering kiss.

“Good night, Miss Monet. It was a pleasure.”

And there I stand, knowing all too well that medalists aren’t winners until the ribbon’s around the neck.