Mystic by Default

CHAPTER 1

THE DISEASE OF IGNORANCE

I was working late, doctoring the books, when the phone rang.

“How much?” I shouted. I could not believe she was still holding out.

”Look Charlie,” I said sucking in my rage like a fat man his gut in the presence of a babe. “This won’t do. That...” I was about to say ‘bitch’ proceeded by a string of unflattering adjectives but thought better of it for fear of offending him. Everything was going wrong and I needed more trouble like England needs more rain. Furthermore, I did not want him to know how deeply involved I was. Five years of damn hard work was about to go sloshing down the drain.

On the other hand, since I had no friends who would listen to me whine I did not want to miss the opportunity, so I let my wrath escape in constipated little dabs.

“She’s been jerking my chain for the last six months. I’ve had it up to here!” I said, gesticulating wildly, my voice rising again.

“Please be reasonable, James,” he answered.

I hated that calm lawyeresque voice. It reminded me of mother, the judge. And the shrink they sent me to when the university gave me the boot. What was his name? Paton, Payton, Penton, something like that. I will never forget him. After six months poking around in my childhood, like a proctologist checking the prostate, constantly asking how I felt about things...Puddy! Walt Puddy. That’s it! What a name; we made some typically sophomoric jokes about that one. In case you do not know, in those days the ‘pud’ was one of a thousand names for you know what. I am sure the language has moved on; I have no idea what they call it now.

Anyhow, I was tired of the long drives - Spokane was a hundred and ten miles. Come to think of it, it was not all that bad. Dad, God rest his soul, gave me a fifty-seven Lincoln he had picked up off a doctor’s widow, the kind with the gas cap inside the tail light; you pushed a little round red reflective button outlined in chrome and the tail light popped up! We did not worry about gas; it was the Fifties and he got it wholesale for twelve cents a gallon - he was a great finagler - even put a tank under the driveway so we could pump it ourselves.

Monstrous sharky fins shooting out the back and tons of chrome. Custom colored yellow and black. I bet his wife never forgave the good doctor those colors. What a machine! A work of art. Especially the big back seat. I would be hard pressed to remember the names of all the eager young ladies who felt compelled to do the old in-and-out in it. The cops never bothered it either. They must have thought it belonged to some rich stiff. It ruined me for what was to come: the soulless tight-assed computer-controlled environmentally sensitive Japanese rigs with plastic bumpers you see these days zipping all over the highways like water spiders.

The doctor had it special-ordered, paid ten grand dad said, a bundle in those days, and then went off and died. It had power seats, power steering, power antenna, power radio dialing, power everything. I could make it from Lewiston to Spokane in an hour and a half. That may not seem like much, but you have to know that the figure includes the Lewiston hill, a seven-percent grade with ten miles of hairpin switchbacks which in an ordinary rig took a good thirty, forty minutes. That sucker was heavy, hugged the road liked a baby monkey its mom and whipped around those tight curves at fifty like nobody’s business. When I hit the prairie I let it rip, tearing through the quaint little farm towns in the Palouse like a demon, raising a cloud of dust you could see for miles.

Actually the bi-weekly visits to the shrink actually were not so bad. After my fifty minutes I would saunter down to skid row, quaff a few brews, play pool and rub elbows with some pretty seedy characters.

Anyhow, I was getting fed up with the endless chit-chat. I felt one of my impulses coming on. The impulses landed me on that silly couch in the first place. The present one was about to get me off.

I was trying to be on my best behavior at least until they shipped me off to the next Waspy institution. I was in disgrace, getting kicked out of a very prestigious school for reasons we will not mention.

“You have all the gifts, James,” mom who had character and ambition used to say, making me guilty as hell, “with the right opportunities you’ll be somebody. And we’re here to see you have the opportunities.”

I asked him point blank what was wrong with me.

He did a double take, regained his composure, packed in a nice tidy little pinch of sweet tobacco, fired up his beloved Meerschaum, which he fondled obscenely when he was not smoking, and swiveled the armchair around to gaze profoundly out the window at Spokane’s skyline which was dominated by the Ridpath Hotel, a Thirties fantasy of Moorish opulence. I thought he was just being dramatic, carrying his donnish avuncular Ivy League persona to the max, but I was wrong; he was actually getting ready to be real after all those months. He sat lost in thought for eternal minutes, swiveled back, took a tasty little drag, looked me right in the eye and in a brand new voice, one which I have since come to recognize as truth, said, “Well, James, at worst you are slightly maladjusted.” Another long pause. Then, “But, considering the times, I would say it is a good sign.”

That blew me away.

All along I was thinking that maybe everybody, Mom and the attenuated cue of officialdom that seemed to have been sent to earth primarily to torment me since day one were right; maybe there was something seriously wrong with me. But the good doctor did not seem to think so. I heartily concurred. He probably did not realize it, but he had just given me license to continue my long slide into the pit.

Seriously though, something was wrong; he just did not know what it was. Or if he knew he could not say. He was a well-meaning liberal intellectual like mom who thought the world of Dr. Spock and could not very well say I was a nasty little devil and lay on a few well-deserved whacks; it would not have been scientific and may have permanently damaged my tender psyche. You would think a guy getting fifty bucks an hour, a lot of money in those days, would have been able to figure out that my morals were shot because I did not know who I was. But even if he had, how would he have gone about clueing me in?

I had to keep falling.

Sorry, I am getting off track, wandering around in antiquity. It is like that when you look back; the thoughts branch uncontrollably as the mind hunts the kernel, the event meant to burst radiantly out the gloom of the past and illumine the present.

Where was I? Oh yes, grousing about the way so-called professionals speak. I did not need a lawyer because I was in hot water, at least not yet, but because I could not talk to Magdalena about money. We did OK with the small talk: sales, designs, inventory, all the nuts and bolts stuff; but when it came to the subject of money, and especially how much I was worth, the conversation invariably turned nasty.

Anyway, I stuffed my anger because I needed him and because he was not a bad guy. He took his bi-weekly trouncing on the courts like a champ and I often thought that if I was not who I was, maybe in a more perfect world we might even be buddies, slop some suds, chase a little tail, something like that. Not that I am into that sort of stuff these days.

I apologized and took my side of the conversation to the level of a righteous whine, “But Christ Charlie! It’s worth twice that. I busted ass to build it up to this level.”

“That may be true, but it’s only worth what she’s willing to pay. She’s got you by the short hairs. We’ve been through this before. She controls the Board. This is as good as you’re going to get.”

That pissed me off and I decided to play my ace.

“Wrong, Charlie. The price is two hundred fifty thou.”

“Christ, James, are you nuts? Here’s a solid offer. She thinks she’s being taken to the cleaners as it is and you want another fifty grand. You should take it. You know how long it would take me to get together that kind of money?”

“You’re a lawyer, I own forty nine percent of a successful corporation. But that’s another issue. She’ll go for it.”

“You sound pretty cocky, James. Is there something I don’t know?”

“That’s right, Charlie. Tell her this isn’t going to court.”

We’ve been through that too. If you don’t go for this offer it will end up in court. What you got?”

“I haven’t been completely straight with you, Charlie.”

“Wait a minute, James. Think twice about this. If it’s seriously illegal you’re putting me in a bind. I can’t represent you if you’re into something heavy.”

“How’d you like an expenses paid two week vacation for you and Pam in, say, Tahiti? Golf, scuba diving, breakfast in bed, the works.”

“Is this a bribe, James?”

“Let’s say you’re a stand-up guy, a great lawyer, and a buddy. I’d just like to show my appreciation.”

“This must be bad. I’m not sure I want to hear it,” he replied without conviction.

“You want to hear it, Charlie. If you don’t like it, tell me to take a hike. I’ll dig up someone else.”

“Jesus, James, take it easy. OK, why will she go for a quarter of a million when she’s screaming bloody murder about two hundred thou?”

“Because I’ve got the second set of books.”

“You mean...”

“That’s right. After you guys get through with us and the IRS shows up and I have a word with a few key people there won’t be much of a corporation to run. The books are worth an extra fifty grand. That’s the deal.”

“God, James, not only are you bribing me, you’re blackmailing her, not to mention cheating the government. I don’t like it. It’s wrong.”

But I could tell by his tone that he was intrigued, which confirmed my hypothesis that most people are bored to death and are constantly hoping for a titillating off-color little something to come along and brighten up their shallow virtuous lives.

“Wrong or not, it’s what’s happening. She broke her promise and this the only way to fix it.”

“We’ve got a fighting chance of getting the court to see it our way. I told you that.”

“A fighting chance with five years of my life! That’s not good enough. I’ve got insurance and it’s time to file the claim.”

I could sense him getting upset so I tried to appeal to his higher side.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to handle it honorably, Charlie, sit down on the patio and discuss it politely over tea. I come from a good family. I’m no crook. But this is the only way. I don’t have it in writing and there’s just too much water under the bridge.”

“In fact blackmail is eminently reasonable,” I thought to myself. “I should just push her off a North Shore cliff after one of our famous champagne picnics. Just a little closer, sweetheart. Beautiful, isn’t it? Can you see the bottom down where the surf’s crashing into the shore, squirting up out of that rock like a big whale’s spout? Yes, it is a long drop. Here, take my hand. Go ahead, lean out, I’ve got you.”

That would have been a ‘civilized,’ as mom used to say, response to her perfidy.

“She’ll go for it,” I continued. Face is important to Asians. We’ve a great reputation and if the word gets out we’re scamming Uncle Sam a lot of those big accounts would head south. Plus the business is on fire. You’ve seen the figures. She’ll have it all back in no time.”

“You’ve sure got chutzpah,” he said.

“I didn’t get where I am being faint of heart, but if it makes you feel better I don’t enjoy this any more than you.”

I think that did it. I meant it. I was sick and tired of the whole mess. It was eating up every minute of my time and I was not sleeping well. My gut was hanging over my belt; I was smoking a couple packs of non-filter Camels a day and socking away a lot of booze. Success was not working.

“OK, James, I’ll tell her,” he said,

I felt like kissing him.

Remember, first class. You coming to the club Saturday? I got a new racquet. I’ll cream you.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie. “Depends on how I feel then. I don’t feel like socializing that much. We’re down to the short strokes on this one and I’m almost out of a job.”

I sounded confident but hung up wondering if I had done the right thing, involving him. If things headed south he might spill the beans.

Until this point nobody knew what was going on, the corporation just one big happy family. I wanted to tell her myself. We were still on speaking terms, but as I said, everything went wrong when the money issue came up in her presence - which it did almost as frequently as my Willie.

I nearly ran down a pedestrian on the way out of the parking garage when my mind flipped into fantasy mode and I saw her shapely nude brown body, which I had loved to distraction for the last five years, splayed out on the Sahara, a rough wooden stake driven violently through the heart, a small erotic rivulet of blood tricking from the wound, gumming up the sand – an unpleasant image, no doubt, but it did make me feel better.

Driving up the strip I felt like crying. I know, men do not cry. At least in those days they didn’t. Now, I am told, it is all the rage; shows you are sensitive, have feelings. Women are meant to love it. I hate self pity. But I had made a royal mess of things, and life seemed ever-so much more important then than it does now, so I found myself choking back a string of aching dry sobs trying to work to the surface like rotten farts oozing through a plugged and putrefying colon. Though I tried, not thinking about her was impossible, like the fellow who went to the guru for a secret mantra. After the instructions had been given, the guru said, “Oh, by the way, the mantra won’t work if you think of pink elephants before you chant.” She was stuck in my mind and the only way to obliterate her was to get high.

I parked near Diamond Head, shut off the engine, and reached for a joint. I did not include dope on the list of poisons above because at the time I thought it was the heaven-sent remedy for my problems. Before long I would figure out I did not have problems.

I was the problem.

I remember feeling grateful as I rolled the joint, wondering how I had survived without it so long.

The first time flashed.

I had just come back to Manila from Zamboanga after a buying trip, island-hopping in dilapidated DC-10's left over from the war, landing on potholed runways so skimpy the wings narrowly missed coconut palms lining the sides, occasionally swerving to avoid the hulking black shapes of water buffaloes wandering lethargically across the pocked tarmac.

What a fop I was, sporting a Panama Hat, Barong Tagalog, and silk slacks, swaggering through fetid tropical towns spreading greenbacks around local markets like a whore the clap at a convention of traveling salesmen, twirling an inlaid baton purchased from an antique shop in Rangoon, probably scavenged from a British officer who made the supreme sacrifice in the Burmese campaign. Ridiculous as I was I do not regret one day spent sitting on those screened verandahs in the heat of the day, drinking San Miguel and nibbling balut, hard-boiled embryonic duck with tiny bones and fledgling feathers, making deals with Chinese traders.

I unpacked, went for a swim, and was lounging by the pool drinking gin and tonic and reading Conrad when Emy appeared, setting the old hormones vibrating. She was so deliciously Filipina, a marvelous combination of compliant Malay inscrutability and Spanish passion. She made me ache all over, but putting the moves on her was verboten because she was the daughter of Ninoy, our number one supplier. Sex was sex and business was business, although I certainly had not followed that rule with Magdalena.

“Hi James!" she said, enthusiastically dragging a chaise lounge across the tiles, indifferently depositing her luscious form. "Where you been? I haven't seen you for a couple of weeks."

“Buying trip. Mindanao. I didn't know you were keeping track,” I replied, wondering what she wanted.

"Of course I keep track. Dad talks about you all the time. He thinks you're great."

I was too vain not to be flattered. And I was not sure how much of my bullshit Ninoy had swallowed.

"What about you? What do you think?"

"Oh, you're OK. You think you're pretty hot, but you're not a bad guy. You must be smart to have so much money at twenty five."

In spite of her statement I got the impression she did not think much of money. Still, I liked her sassy style, her command of English.

"Just luck," I said. "What's in the bag?"

She leaned over and reached for a large raffia bag, decorated with straw flowers, her generous breasts nearly falling from a rumpled partially unbuttoned blouse. She had the right stuff but her hair was a mess and her bikini mismatched, which takes some doing. What did she have against bras and tight skirts, lipstick, perfume and parloured hair? Magdalena would have never left so much unprotected in public.

Emy made me feel like a veritable dinosaur at twenty-six. I was imprisoned in the Fifties and here it was sixty-seven. How much like dad I had become, hopelessly straight and out of it.

She must have picked up her style at Berkeley where she went to school. Things had changed since I dropped out in sixty-two and ran off with Magdalena. I was so crazy in love and ready for adventure that when she gave me the ticket and a huge wad of hundred dollar bills six months before graduation I went straight to my apartment, picked up a couple of novels and a change of clothes and walked out without closing the door. I was never coming back. People were crazy in those days and I was one of them. I wasn’t psychedelic crazy, at least not yet, but I was crazy. Something was in the air.

Ironically, I recall wondering if Emy believed in free love, was part of the developing drug subculture that was giving the readers of Time such a start.

She took a record from the bag and handed it to me.

"The who?" I said, unable to make out the weird wavy lettering on the cover.

"Not the Who," she said, "The Beatles, a group from England.”

I wondered why these popular groups took such strange names. I hated popular music. Yes, I had been a big fan when I was a teenager growing up in Idaho, kept up with the Top Forty, danced to Fats Domino and Elvis at the YAC, but lost interest and got into classical music as I got more intellectual.

“They're very psychedelic," Emy continued.

"Very psychedelic? What do you mean?"

"Turned on man. Out there. You get high and everything’s different." she replied smiling enigmatically.

Undoubtedly amused I was so out of it, she was anticipating turning me on, wondering how it would turn out. Perhaps she was thinking I would have a bummer and freak out, or worse, not feel a thing. I must have seemed pretty dead. On the other hand she might have been visualizing me morphing into a wild-eyed hippie, tearing off my clothes, streaking around the pool, fucking her silly.

“What’s it like?” I said.

She did not answer but got up and walked through the sliding glass door to the apartment.

"How do you turn this on?" she called.

I got up and went in, miffed she had presumed to enter uninvited. I was used to manners, being able to predict what was happening.

Nonetheless, I stuffed my feelings as usual and helped her with the stereo. The sparks flew when our bodies brushed as I fiddled with the knobs a second before the treacly strains of Strawberry Fields, a far cry from my beloved Mozart, suddenly oozed from the large black speakers.

She flopped down on the couch, one shapely leg thrown casually over the armrest, the other on the coffee table. I could see the peach fuzz on her inner thigh.

"You have to be high," she said, picking up where we’d left off outside.

I did not get it.

"Psychedelic, man! High! When you're high you'll know what out there is,” she replied, taking a small bottle of dark brown liquid and a couple of strange little cigarettes from her bag.

I did not like being put on hold and called ‘man,’ but sat down next to her anyway. I was capable of serious repression and mind-boggling hypocrisy when it seemed I was about to get laid.

"What's that?"

"Codeine," she replied.

“And those?"

"Dope, man, marijuana, the nasty killer weed. You want to get high?" she said, snuggling up against me.

A wave of tingly energy swept over me, the thrill of the forbidden.

“What about Ninoy?” I said.

“What about Ninoy?”

“If he finds us sitting here like this it will mess up the whole business thing.”

“Sitting here like what?”

She must have known what I meant. There we were lounging around on the couch half naked in the most compromising position about to do you know what and she is pretending everything is very normal.

“Like, well, ... I mean... like... here we are sitting around in our swimsuits on the couch about to do something illegal. What if Ninoy came looking for you?”

“This will be good for you. Think of it as medicine.”

“Medicine? Are you nuts! What’s medicine have to do with it?”

“You’re uptight. This will cure you.”

My desire to punch her did not seem appropriate. There she was: totally unconcerned, sexy as hell, her pert nipples quivering with excitement. I felt I could act out any fantasy.

“What do you mean, “uptight?” It was the first time I’d heard the word.

“Worried, man. Worried. Angry. You’re like an old man, like Ninoy. What’s to worry about? You’ve got it made, hanging around over here, taking it easy, making scads of money, messing around with the local girls.”

“I’m not messing around,” I lied. “I have a girlfriend in Hawaii.”

“You mean, Magdalena?” she said laughing dismissively.

I felt a strange mixture of incredulity and rage. How did she know Magdalena? Still, I kept my cool. I could almost taste her full pouty lips, feel the warmth of her body.

“You know, Magdalena?”

“Of course. They’re one of the richest families here. Everyone knows everything: her mad brother, Manuel, Imelda the ice queen, Juan Ponce who made all the money off the Americans. They’re famous. I even heard about your accident, sneaking out of the hospital.”

I felt totally embarrassed. How did anyone know about the accident? There were so many thoughts buzzing in my mind I did not know where to start so I decided to concentrate on Ninoy.

“Does Ninoy know you take that stuff?”

"You think I'm stupid? You know how they are here. I don't tell them anything.

“Aren’t you worried they’ll find out?”

“What are they going to do, put me in jail? Come on, James, take it easy. It’s only dope. ”

“You must think I’m pretty screwed up.”

“Let’s not get into it, James. What do you say? You want to get high?"

"What's it like?"

“That’s not the right answer, man.”

“I just want to know what to expect, that’s all.”

"Take it easy,” she said, caressing my neck with her delicate fingers. It's no big deal. You want to go to the movies?"

"I just want to know what to expect, that's all."

"You think it's life-threatening?" she asked, a mischievous grin appearing on her pretty face. "It's fun. You’ll love it. I'll be there too."

I was about to ask where “there” was but realized I would have to take the plunge.

“You’ll dig it, believe me. You’re ready. ”

She handed me the joint and I took a couple of deep drags. They burned hotter than my Camels.

Then the bottle of codeine.

“That’s cough syrup.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t have a cold.”

“I know you don’t have a cold, James.”

“So what’s it for?”

“It’s a narcotic, works great with the dope and cools the throat. It’s your medicine, what the doctor ordered. Take a big swig. It will make you better.”

“You’re having a very nice time teasing me, aren’t you. Am I really that bad?”

“You’re fine, James. Absolutely fine. But there’s something important you don’t know, something you can’t buy.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the neck. I wanted to respond but the thought of Magdalena stuck in my mind. I seemed paralyzed from the waist down.

“What’s the matter, James? Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“It’s Magdalena, Emy. I can’t stop thinking of her.”

"Do you love her?"

“I thought I did, but if it's love why does it hurt so much?"

I could not believe I said that. It just flowed out on its own. I always made things out to be copasetic, even when they stunk.

She snuggled closer and handed me the joint. I took a couple serious drags and handed it back. I cannot be sure because my mind was starting to change but think I heard her say, “It’s only love if you know its love. I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I just like you. Don’t worry about Ninoy. It’s OK.” Something like that.

It seemed as if she were speaking in an underwater dream but it did not matter because I could hear the sweetness in her voice oozing through time and space, ringing crystal clear in my mind. It seemed terribly real, more important than anything I had heard for a long time.

Somewhere along the line I seemed to have forgotten about love.

The thought of Magdalena disappeared and Manila, which was starting to grate after all those months, seemed like home. I could not remember why I had come and it did not matter. Everything in the room: the table and chairs, the carpet, and my books were glowing and changing, radiating an unearthly light, her words, ‘far out,’ came floating back, making perfect sense. The music, which I had not liked straight, seemed terribly appropriate stoned, the lyric, "Sergeant Pepper's lonely hearts club band," irresistibly funny, ironic. I felt giddy, silly, and oddly happy.

We kissed, her tongue delicately, eagerly exploring my mouth sending waves of pleasure southward, relaxing the paralysis in my lower extremities.

“Well, what’s this?” she said, lightly groping my crotch.

“That’s the Willie,” I replied, hungrily kissing her breasts.

“It seems pretty uptight. Perhaps it needs to smoke some dope, drink some codeine, learn to take it easy.”

“I don’t think it’s ready. Maybe later. Let’s just let it be.”

From that point on I cannot remember what we said because we were well out of the world of words. I do recall sliding, tumbling, freefalling down a long dark comforting tunnel, Alice on her way to Wonderland, all my unforgiving thoughts and feelings slipping away, the years of pain, my life with Magdalena, disappearing into nothingness. Floating in an endless sea of warm intoxicating bliss, vaguely conscious of two bodies rubbing lovingly above in an outside world, the explosion came as a complete surprise literally blowing me away, a cloud dissolving in a clear sky.

***

“So tell me about the broken leg,” said Emy, after we came down a bit and were tired of making love.

“I thought you’d heard it all on the grapevine. Besides, I don’t come out looking very good.”

“I don’t care how you look. I’m only interested in who you are.”

“Who I am? I’m me, James.”

“I know that James, but who’s that?”

“I don’t get it. It’s me.”

“Let’s not get into it now, OK? Tell me about the accident.”

“But what are you saying, who I really am?

“It’s not important, James.”

“But I want to know.”

“OK, James. The truth. I want to know the truth.

“The truth?” I replied.

It seemed a novel concept.

“How it really is with you. How you see it.”

“See what?”

“See what happened. See yourself. See the world, other people.”

“I don’t get it? What are you saying?”

“Tell you what, James,” she said, kissing my neck. Let’s have another smoke and make love and forget this conversation, the whole broken leg story. You turn me on.”

“An offer I can’t refuse,” I replied, still wondering what she meant about who I was. So we toked up and went at it again. And as we lay there spooning, sweaty and exhausted, the story just spilled out.

“It was a big money day at the shops and I was feeling fantastic. I collected the receipts which filled a couple of shopping bags, mostly tens and twenties, and showed up at her place about eight with a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates. Charles was working late as usual and the kids were tucked in for the night. She was lounging around sexy lingerie reading.”

“So how did you feel screwing a married woman?” Emy asked.

“How did I feel? OK, I guess. Well, not good, actually. I had to skulk around a bit. But you have to see it from her point of view. She gets the kids to school and has the whole day off till after four. And she is not into cleaning, decorating, and fussing with the yard. In fact, she could use a few housekeeping lessons. Anyway, he comes home for dinner at six and is back at the lab by seven, seven thirty, every day, like a robot. What kind of a life is that?

To top it off she claimed he was not a qualified operator. His idea was once a week between eight and nine on Saturday morning. At exactly nine he’d get up, or a little before if the plumbing worked sooner, put on his running shoes, and go out for a long jog. That was it. No foreplay, no afterplay, nothing but the in and out and then off to the races. The first day we met we made love nine times.

So Charles was supposed to come home about eleven, eleven thirty. We had been carrying on like that for three years and he evidently did not suspect a thing, or did not want to, even though there were a few close calls, like the night I spent two hours lying on top of twenty pairs of high heel shoes in the closet until he quit reading and fell asleep. Anyhow, we were in bed having a very nice time when I heard the tires of his Porsche squeal into the drive. That gave me less than two minutes to grab my clothes and jump out the window.

I was really bombed. Without thinking, I hopped on one of the kid’s bikes and pedaled madly into the street and into the path of an oncoming car. Before I knew it I was flying through the air upside down, watching the taillights recede into the night. Another car squealed to a stop within inches and in a matter of minutes a crowd of neighbors gathered. Someone went off to call the ambulance. I could not see anyone’s face, must have been shock, but I heard Charles’ voice clear as a bell above the hushed mumbling of the onlookers.

“Serves the fucker right!”

“So you couldn’t stay any more and came over here.”

“It’s not forever. It will all go back to normal before long.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Magdalena’s arranging for me to marry her aunt who wants a Green Card. In a couple of months we’ll tie the knot and go back to Honolulu. The aunt gets a job and Charles forgives me and everything will be just fine.”

“You’re incredible,” she said.

“Why?”

“You didn’t learn anything out of all this.”

“What’s to learn? It was just a bit of bad luck. Things will go back to normal in no time.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s normal? You think Magdalena loves you?”

“Sure, she’s fixing up this thing with Corazon so we can be together.”

“God, James, you are thick. The way for her to fix things up is to either dump you or Charles. A phony marriage is no fix. It’s just more lies. She doesn’t care about you. She cares about having her cake and eating it too. You think you know people, but you don’t. She’ll dump you when she’s finished with you. ”

“No way. She needs me.”

“Needs are not love, James.

“What do you mean?”

“Needs are needs, love’s love. If she loved you, you wouldn’t be holing up here.”

I was starting to get her drift.

I do not remember how that conversation came out. The point is that Emy introduced me to dope and got me thinking in another direction. When it was time to go back to our lives I made a fool of myself. I asked her to marry me.

“God, James, you’re serious, aren’t you!”

“Of course, I love you, Emy.”

“I love you too, but that doesn’t mean we have to get married. I don’t want to get married, to you or anyone else.”

“But Emy, we’d be great together. When you love someone it makes sense to get married.”

“Not any more, James. That’s the straight world. There’s a whole new thing going on. Love is free. You’ve been stuck in that relationship with Magdalena, doing business for the last five years. There’s a revolution going on. People are trying to figure things out. I’m going back and finish my Masters and you’re going back to Hawaii. Falling in love and getting married isn’t where it’s at.”

And that was that.

Magdalena said the deal with the aunt was straightforward: I would marry her, there would be a generous deposit in my account, we would get another slave to work in the factory or the shops and Charles would relax. So we went through the ceremony with all the relatives gathered around followed by an extravagant dinner in a fancy hotel. Imelda, her mom, who was now my sister in law, seemed to think we needed a honeymoon just for show and sent us off in a chauffeured Mercedes to Baguio, a beautiful mountain resort in Northern Luzon. I figured they were showing gratitude for sneaking another Filipino into the US. They put us up in a first-class hotel and on the wedding night the bride, who was in her mid-thirties and very well endowed appeared in a sheer negligee expecting me to consummate the marriage.

“But I can’t,” I said. “We don’t love each other.”

“I love you,” she said.

“How can you love me? We don’t even know each other.”