Tripping on Tears (7 page)

My Dad was an avid reader of newspapers, and although he’d never gone to college and may not have even graduated high school (we were always kind of foggy on that), he was well read on current affairs. I tried to be the same. I wanted to be one of those guys who seemed to know what was going on in the world and had an intelligent opinion regarding it. But I found over the years that current affairs just weren’t my thing. Sure, at some point I’d stopped listening to rock ‘n’ roll music in the car and had become addicted to talk radio, but that was the extent of it. I was more comfortable with the past – history. I enjoyed getting lost in those past worlds that fascinated me, whether it was the American Civil War – a very literary war, in which a lot of soldiers wrote and preserved their thoughts on paper – Rome and Egypt, Alexander the Great, the British-Zulu wars, or even the evil that arose during World War II. I often thought I’d be more than comfortable if I had become a history professor, not only teaching, but holed up in my office, surrounded by the worlds I was interested in, not only reading, but writing about. As such, while I was aware of the world around me, I still spent most of my time paying attention to worlds of the past, especially in my reading, so I wasn’t as up on current affairs as I probably should have been.

I was aware of the changing face of my country; immigration had been going on for quite some time, and we celebrated the fact we were a multi-cultural society; I knew there were more and more different types of faces passing me by on the streets, but it really didn’t matter to me. People are people, take them or leave them. As my Father had taught me, it isn’t the culture or racial background that makes someone unlikable or a jerk, it is a personal thing. Every culture has great people and those you really wouldn’t want to socialize with – it’s never just one way or the other. I knew there were, for lack of a better description, more and more brown people around – a group I mistakenly lumped into one, South Asian. It’s like Asians, there are many different types, from Chinese to Japanese, to Korean and so on, but, in our ignorance, we often lump them all under one convenient definition – Asian. It was the same with those of Indian descent, where they could be either Pakistani, South Asians from India, maybe Sri Lanka or Bangladesh, or even from the West Indies and South America; they weren’t all the same, but diverse, as were their religious leanings that ran from Muslim and Hindu to even Christian and Catholics. I was conscious of the changing face of my country, but really hadn’t paid attention, but, now, with Safia, I was more aware.

I was very conscious of the word,
Muslim
. Now when I heard it on the news I took notice. To me it had always just been another religion, nothing to get too excited about; even after 9/11. I figured the men behind that attack were radicals – the exception, not the rule. But now the word meant something to me, because whether I liked it or not, I was crazy about a Muslim girl – I had the potential to fall in love with a Muslim girl.

What does that mean?

Before, whenever I met a woman I never had to think about that – religion. It was always just a matter of determining if we had any common hobbies or outlooks on life. This was different. For instance, I know Safia had to sneak out of her house on false pretenses to go on that date with me. She was a grown woman, but she lived at home with strict parents, who held strict beliefs. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. On the one hand, if we continued dating, I guess, I’d be spared the always trying experience of having to meet the woman’s father. This often went well for me, but was always a crap shoot – some of them saw through my charm. On the other hand, if all went well, I guess there’d be no Norman Rockwell type Sunday dinners at her parent’s house. I mean, if all went well, how long could she continue sneaking around and seeing me, and if caught, what would be the repercussions? Would her parents force her to break up with me? Would they have that kind of power and control? If we fell in love, could they ever come to understand and accept that?

I realized, as I over thought the matter, which was a trait of mine, that I wouldn’t be liked.
And, why not?
I was a good guy. I knew how to treat a woman. I was raised right, with morals and values. If love blossomed between their daughter and me, she would be in good – no, make that, great – hands. They’d be lucky to have someone like me dating and loving their daughter. What the hell was wrong with them? My Mom always said I was a catch, and I knew for a fact she was often right in her assessments.

Dating Safia would open up a whole bunch of new and interesting doors in a relationship, and how they are perceived and handled. It would be a challenge. Also, and I hate to say it, but let’s face it, it is an important component of any relationship, what about intimacy – sex? Yes, whether or not I wanted to admit it - because I didn’t want to objectify her - I did fantasize about what it would be like to be making love to Safia. Don’t get me wrong, that wasn’t a driving force in my wanting to see her, but I’m a man, she’s a woman, I’m attracted to her, and part of that attraction is wanting to share something intimate and special with her. What could I expect in regards to an intimate relationship with her?

The way I figured it, if she was brought up in a strict household, chances are she wasn’t the type to embrace one-night stands. You see it on TV and in movies all the time; the third date is supposed to equal sex. I don’t know who came up with that rule, but I’m sure it wasn’t set in stone; actually, based on past relationships, I can guarantee you it wasn’t set in stone. Considering Safia’s background, I figured it would take a long time for her to become comfortable with me and be willing to share that part of her in a relationship – probably months. And I was okay with that. I really wanted to get to know her; yes, I know some guys right now are rolling their eyes and wondering if I was gay, but that’s the truth. Sex is only one component of a relationship; unless you and the woman you’re with plan to spend every waking hour together in bed, sharing bodily fluids, let’s face it, other aspects of the relationship had to be developed and nurtured, made strong, like the ability to just enjoy each other’s company, whether it’s going for a walk, or sitting down and watching a movie. I wanted to know who Safia really was and for her to know who I really was, before we explored anything carnal. So, I guess in that way, if I’d guessed right, I could live with waiting for that intimacy with her. You see, her parents would hate me, but I really cared for their daughter and had the best of intentions.

All this really didn’t matter, I guess if I blew the second date. I’d made a good first impression, but we were still getting to know one another, so the potential to blow it was still very real – and I really didn’t trust myself to not blow it.

The second date is as important as the first date – possibly even more important. On the first date you’ve both been on your best behavior, and if things went well, the two of you covered a lot of ground. If you’ve covered that ground and you’ve made it to a second date, well, that’s a good thing.

In the past, traditionally, a second date would involve another restaurant and a movie, but with Safia I decided to try something different; luckily, she was up for it. Instead of going out to dinner and a movie, I invited her to my place for a homemade meal and a movie. I was hoping that if I cooked for her, she’d find that engaging and loveable.

“I have to say, I was a bit reluctant inviting you over. I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I said to Safia as she made herself comfortable on my living room couch.

“A second date at the man’s house, that is a bit dodgy; I mean it’s only a second date, for all I know you could be a serial killer,” she said.

“True, but it could be worst.”

“How’s that?” she asked.

“I could be a serial killer in training,” I said.

She just looked at me.

“I mean, if you’re going to fall prey to a serial killer you want to fall prey to an experienced serial killer, not some trainee. A trainee would be sloppy, still learning his trade. He’d be messy and probably muck things up, whereas an experienced serial killer would be efficient and get the job done right.”

“I see you’ve given this some thought,” she said.

“My Dad always taught me you should take pride in your work.”

“Do I have to worry?” she asked, smiling.

“No, it seems like too much work. And being a serial killer, it’s a messy job; the dry cleaning bill alone just wouldn’t make sense,” I paused for a second. “You know, this is an equal opportunity world. Should I be worried? There have been more documented cases of female serial killers.”

“I like to surprise my dates,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“So,” I said, my arms outstretched indicating my home, “What do you think.”

Safia took a couple of seconds to look around. “It’s very tidy. You are into women, aren’t you?”

“Last I checked.”

“Let’s see,” she said as she picked up a pile of magazines on my coffee table. “
Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, The Economist
, I’m impressed.”

“That one’s more decorative,” I said pointing to
The Economist
, “makes me look smart.”

“And a bunch of history magazines, nothing to worry about there,” she said as she put them back down on the coffee table.

“Oh dear,” I said, looking at the coffee table. She looked at me puzzled.

“The magazines,” I said.

She looked down at them, then back at me.

“They’re, for lack of a better word, askew.”

“Askew?”

“Messed up,” I continued. I got up off my chair and straightened out the magazines on the coffee table as she watched. “You see, now they’re neat and tidy, the way I like them.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” she said.

“I’m sorry; it’s just a pet peeve of mine. I can’t stand it if I go someplace and there’s a stack of magazines or books and they’re all askew. It just doesn’t look right.”

“So you straighten them out.”

“I do,” I said.

I don’t know if a second date is the time for revealing one’s unique idiosyncrasies, but I figured, what the hell, I might as well put it out there.

“It’s a pet peeve of mine,” I continued.

“So,” she said, “If I were to just mess them up a little, you couldn’t stand it. You’d have to straighten them up again?”

“Definitely.”

“What if I said, let’s skip dinner and go into the bedroom and make passionate love to one another, all night, just as long as you let me mess them up, make them askew, as it were? Could you do that, knowing what was happening down here on the coffee table?”

I took a moment to think about that.

“I’m afraid, if passionate sex was what you were looking for, I couldn’t give you that, knowing that down here the magazines on my coffee table were all messed up. I’m afraid I’d have to say no to that.”

Safia laughed.

“Interesting,” she said. “Any other pet peeves I should be aware of?”

“Let’s see,” I replied. “Well there is one thing. You know when you go to the book store and you buy a remaindered hardcover, it usually has a big round sticker on the front of it?”

She nodded her head, “Yes.”

“I can’t stand it when people don’t peel that sticker off the book; they just leave it on. That drives me crazy.”

“Because you don’t like stickers?” she asked, somewhat mockingly.

“There could be that,” I conceded, “but it just doesn’t look right and it’s not fair to the book.”

This prompted a curious look.

“Think about it,” I continued. “At one point in time that hardcover book was worth thirty, forty or fifty bucks. It sat majestically on the book store shelf waiting to be read, to be chosen and it wasn’t. Now it’s been relegated to a table with a bunch of other misfit books that failed to sale, and it now features prominently on its countenance a vile sticker advertising it for five or six ninety-nine, a mere fraction of its once glorious price. That sticker is the equivalent of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
The Scarlet Letter
. You know the book in which a woman is forced to prominently wear a large letter ‘A’ on her dress to indicate to one and all she is an adulterer?”

Safia nodded, “Yes.”

“Well that sticker is the scarlet sticker, mocking that book and its past glory; its failure to find a reader in its glory days. The sticker is offensive and just has to go, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you’re just not trying to hide the fact that you’re cheap? That you bought the book at a discount?” she asked, smiling.

“No, I’ll tell people I bought it on remainder; I just don’t think it has to be publicly branded for one and all to see. I’ll peel off the sticker and if I’m at someone’s house and I see a book like that, I’ll peel off the sticker there as well. It’s just the right thing to do; the humane thing to do for the book.”

“Interesting,” she said, as she leaned back on the couch, nodding her head.

“Now that I’ve come clean, what are your pet peeves?” I asked.

She sat back up. “Pet peeves? I’m afraid I don’t have any. I forgot to feed them and they died.”

I smiled. She was quick. I liked that.

Safia was looking around again.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.