my last day in the north west of the US

[martino]

my last day in the north west of the US

on the I-5 from vancouver, i asked myself the question: what is the point of all this driving?

i was reminded of what i read somewhere about driving in europe. over there, the point is not to get somewhere safely or quickly, the point is to demonstrate that you are in possession of the road.

so you drive fast and mean and you demonstrate ownership of the road by pretending not to see anybody. you experience a peculiar nastiness when you drive in europe. there is no eye contact -- it is all about peripheral vision and using it to get ahead of the other guy. which is cool!, if you can hack it.

personally for example, i really enjoy driving round the arc de triumphe, forcing my way through traffic without actually looking at anyone. if you look someone in the eye then you brand yourself a defensive loser. once you learn that lesson, you are cool and they respect you.

in contrast, it seems to me that the point of driving in north west america
is not about getting somewhere safely or quickly -- the point is to enjoy stuffing your face while on the road. where else in the world do people eat and drink such amounts while they drive? i couldn't believe it until i saw it. and: what are the cupholders really for? how do people manage to gulp down drinks that are larger than the average bladder?

and why do americans have these perfect teeth? i mean, what do they use them for, except for that persistent smiling you see all the time? you don't really need any teeth at all for the food -- you could go dentureless and just mash down the hamburgers, the fries, the milk shakes, the ice cream, the apple pies...

as mysterious as all this is to me, there is something fetching about the facestuffing. driving is so easy in the US; everybody is courteous, happy, friendly, civilized. i guess i'd be too if i could just stomach the damn food -- i'd be feeling like some kinda happy cow, i suppose.

instead, i get all worked up. i thought this was a free country? why then, is the police everywhere? what's the purpose of a four lane freeway if you can't drive fast? stop wasting my time, dammit!

so these were the silly little euro-centric inconsequential thoughts i was having while driving down to seattle, but soon they gave way to the pleasurable anticipation of a night on the town with rosie. i had heard so much of r.: she was supposed to be the life of any party, really witty and original, and quite gorgeous actually. so how did it work out?

i wish i knew. this is what happened, but here's a warning: the following description is pretty tedious. just like it was in real life!

tuesday: i take a phone call.
"shall we meet up on saturday?"
"sure, let's. i'll post my phone number on the BB."

saturday, 3 pm.
"hello?"
"hi, this is martino, could i speak with r.?"
clank!, hang up noise.

3:30 pm. beep!
"hi this is martino, i'm trying to get in touch with r. seems nobody is in right now but i will try it again later, and if that doesn't work out, i'll just drop by your company, i hope you don't mind."

i spend some time trying to shop. i see a couple on broadway: a gray-bearded guy in a wig and floral dress with another graybeard in motorcycle bondage. a nice demonstration of sexual liberty, but ugly as hell: what is it with all the facial hair?

a half hour later i spy a guy i had seen in my hotel lobby a few days before: fiftyish, nice and tanned, kind of a well-dressed tourist. but with something big and fleshy growing on his nose. and probably inside his head as well, because instead of talking, he communicates with honks and whistles. he has terribly sad and beautiful eyes and seems to be taking in the broadway scenery as well as could be expected, but his loneliness infects me.

6 pm, no coins left for the phone. i drop by r.'s epilation company.
"hi dear, what can i do for you?"
"hello, i wonder whether r. might be in?"
"no, she never works on weekends."
"i'm martino, did she leave a message for me?"
"nope."
"oh. do you know where i might reach her?"
"well, do you have her cellphone number?"
"no i don't. might you have it?"
"sorry, but i'll tell r. on monday that you dropped by."
"yeah thanks, here's my card, please give it to r."

i spend the next hour in a cafe on 15th, getting depressed because i am reading a southern-gothic novel i bought in a used book shop across the street ("reflections in a golden eye" by carson mccullers, actually an awesome book) and because they are playing sigur ros (normally annoying-but-enlightening weirdo-icelandic music but in this situation simply annoying).

7 pm, i call h.
"hi h., how are you doing? listen, i wonder if you could give me r.'s cellphone number? i do get the impression she has changed her mind and doesn't want to see me, but perhaps i should try?"
"sure you certainly should call her, she's expecting you. here's her number".

i hang up thinking that h. could make a helluva lot of money with that phone voice of hers.

i call r's cellphone and hear what sounds like a slightly drunken message:
"hello, please dial the following number after 8 o'clock, i will be in around then. 856..."
so i say: "hi r., i got this number from h., i hope you don't mind. um, i've been trying to reach you for the past four hours, i think i'm going to the movies now but i'll call you later in the evening."

so i check out "undisputed" by walter hill, not a really first class movie but still very watchable because of exceptional performances by ving rhames (a.k.a. marsellus wallace), peter falk and wesley snipes.

10 pm
i try the new phone number: nobody answers.
to r.'s cellphone: "hi this is martino once again, you know, the shmuck who keeps on calling because he thought we had a date. umm, i guess i'll try it one last time in a half hour".

10:30 pm
i try the new phone number: answering machine goes on, and i say
"hi, my name is martino, i'm from overseas and i've been trying to reach your friend r. all afternoon. well, i guess it just wasn't meant to be. so long, r., maybe better luck next time."

that is what i said. this is what i should have said:

"dammit girl, you may be smart, you may be gorgeous, but you gotta work on your social skills. as a matter of fact, i think you have an attitude problem. next time you feel like wasting somebody's time, why don't you call 1-800-dialasucka instead of trying to ruin my afternoon."

funny, isn't it, how it is always the unreliable-ass women who complain about having no friends and being lonely?

pissed, i leave seattle and head for tacoma. i find a cheap & cheesy motel off I-5 and head for the bar next door for a piece of tranquility, or at least some beer. the place is having a karaoke saturday night and it is loud and boisterous.

"i'll have a weizenbier, please" (i pronounce the word german: "vy-tsen-beer").
"what was that honey?"
"a weizenbier."
"sorry, what did you say?"
"a weizenbier."
"say it again?"
i try my best to pronounce it US-style, "wisen-beer", and she says:
"oh, why didn't you say so?"

in this bar the women are clearly in the majority and for some strange reason, they are all blond (except for the one black lady present). and overweight. some pleasingly plump but others quite monstrous.

i am reminded of my jamaican friend percival who in such a situation would nudge me in the ribs and say, with a poker face, "heavy style, mon." heavy style: his often-used expression to denote a honkey with a serious weight problem, or with ugly-ass clothes.

while gravity seemed to have a strong influence on the ladies' t's & a's, its effect on the men was different. they were much slimmer, but something was pulling the corners of their mouths down. they looked unhappy, tired, beat: working class life gave them little enjoyment, it seemed.

but the ladies didn't seem to mind; they were having a fun saturday night. one blond after another took to the stage and sang melody-rock standards that were new to me. they were good! on-key, with spunky delivery, full of enthusiasm. the other girls would dance to the music and, damn, they were good too. shimmy & shake, ass-wiggling and ass-bumping, and the heavy-rock headbanger: they had their moves down for sure. i was enjoying the show.

sometimes fat people make me wonder: what do they have to do to get an orgasm? no question here; these folks knew how to have fun.

and then the dj sang a song. he was a slightly fat but elegantly clad black guy and crooned a commercial-soul ditty. i couldn't believe the ladies' reactions: they went up to him and caressed him, and rubbed their bodies on him, in a horny-joke way. everybody else was laughing and shouting, encouraging the ladies, and it soon became obvious the guy had a hard on. what came next was over the top and totally hilarious: the superfat black lady went on the stage, knelt down on her knees and performed a simulated fellatio on the guy. i was having a great time and had a few more weizenbeers.

later, i was standing at the bar, pretty drunk, smoking one of my french cigarettes, and one of the girls snuggled up to me and said

"hi cowboy, enjoying yourself?"
"well, it's pretty easy to do that here, isn't it."
"you bet. but they're closing soon, what are you doing afterwards?"
"well, i'm gonna get a few hours of sleep and then take a plane home to my wife and daughter."
"oh."
"i mean, unless i can get laid, of course."

[frommy]

Very interesting -- but stupid!

[mccutcheon]

hey cheese head, you must not know Martino very well. this is the best piece I've read, that I haven't actually written (oh the vanity) in a long time. great stuff. i know it all too well.

[rabbit]

honestly, i just think hes bitching to be bitching.
but this on the other hand, "i hang up thinking that h. could make a helluva lot of money with that phone voice of hers."
he does have a point.

[h.]

My refusal to become a phone sex operator was cemented by my friend's 42 year old stripper dating father saying likewise when I was 19. Gave me the heebie jeebies everytime I saw him. Well, that and the fact that my friend and I found his amateur porn on accident while looking for family movies...
However, if Martino and Rabbit want to pay me money to talk shit... who am I to argue?

[martino]

mc: imagine how you would feel if you got this kind of praise from one of your favorite authors. pretty unbeatable, believe me. thanks.

h.: wow, what an offer. i'd be glad to oblige, but i am a reasonably happily and faithfully married guy, so i would have to pass the phone to rabbit, so to speak.

rabbit: you are right, i was bitching, especially about r.

but that was not all i was trying to say. in effect, my piece was about some of the love/hate feelings i have for the US. how some things are absolutely wonderful and fill my heart with joy and other things confuse me and yet other things appear to be foreign and ugly until i get to know them.

if it didn't come out right: give me a break, man!, i am not a writer, i do not even command the english language... just trying to express myself, that's all.

[rabbit]

i never said i didnt like it. very enjoyable really.