Hannah Dukkha Nirvana: First Book of Trinity, Set 1, #2
The lonely man’s tale …
So, there is this, a lonely man, and though an old man, I rather like him, as being lonely is our bond. Actually, he is kind of weird, but I guess loneliness makes one so. I guess you’d call him middle-aged, but to me that is old if I look like what makes him safe.
I find him attractive. He makes me tingly because he falls asleep looking at this girl on his wall. He wakes up with such a girl coming into focus for him at the breath of light. She looks like she has no pants [giggles], and you can see the light of God modestly peeking between her crotch and thighs. It’s kind of hot, I would say, if I was an inappropriate man. He thinks of her, you know?
It’s tingly because, well, he loves a momentary representation of me. He wants her but cannot have her. I think religious people want God but cannot have God because, like, they have not separated God from the institution god. They must accept a picture, you know, that they, like, had no hand in creating. So, like, how to relate? He accepts a picture, too, but his vision is that of a girl-god, and that is cool for a weird old man. God is not vanilla, you know. If you want candy, go for the good stuff.
This guy likes the little angel-devil girl, so taboo, yucky to think what a man thinks of a pretty young girl. But you know, when death gets closer to an approach, one runs away toward youth, to his childhood of tears. Because, uhm, you know, even the pain of youthful events has, like, the hope of turning better.
But death now, I’ve witnessed, like, billions of times, like OMG to me, and you have to allow yourself to yield and get sucked up into a black hole. Yield totally and trustfully into what makes and remakes. Surrender to your terror if you want to see the face of God … or is that the devil … speaking?
Can you believe that that is his relationship? A girl on a wall. She’s, like, unique, you know, kinda dressed in the colors of Ukrainian liberation. A lot of bare skin, thighs with lacy socks that tease a lonely guy’s imagination. Wow, I should write this down if I could only figure out which of the, like, 7,117 languages to put it in. Not a woman, but a girl. She is not staring at him, like the other girl is. She is looking down at this large-long, what are the words, like, uhm, huge, uhm. Okay, like, it’s a secret but part of the trinity if you are at least, like, a recovering Catholic. No, OMG, my bad, as if I am a white girl acting Black because such is cool. Not part of the trinity, but let’s say there would be no trinity without such a tempting thing.
He has another girl on the other side, but she has her feet up on a table defiant-so, biting an apple. Her soles, her bare feet are a bit dirty, but she challenges even before her teen years; she tests those she is looking at that are looking at her. Like, “What are you looking at anyway?” If, like, you look carefully, you can count the lines on her soles, like with hands and fingerprints.
I know. He’s embarrassed for people to see her them me? So cute, it’s a trinity. Why look at a girl’s feet? Or the light of heaven between a virgin’s legs, where crotch, rear, and thighs meet?
To escape pain.
I thought this was so yucky at first, like, OMG, give me a vomit bag, like, those, like, like on the plane when you think you are going to, uhm, crash, but in seeing him I also see the beauty of it. It’s not lewd … it’s beautiful. For a picture is static but a moment in time, and unlike you, she is always there for him, uhm, grasping that thing. The devilish girl. Adults, you know, messy little humans, are boring and predictable except when you are messed up, which is usual for you. Sometimes, I want to step on you [peering at you like a child sees a spider]; my mistake?
The other girl, with her feet stuck in front of her is always observing him with nose-wrinkling curiosity: she may find him gross, but she is intrigued that he likes those parts of her and finds her pretty. She has red hair, and he likes Irish girls, too, because, like, well, we will get to that later. She wonders, why do you like my feet? With all the disgust, there is a bit of budding turn on that she does not totally, you know, like, uhm comprehend, that someone, someone experienced and accomplished, he is accomplished, could like, as she says, her “yucky feet.” So, she keeps watching him and both always will until no more walls hang them and divide us.
He cannot be with a woman, you know, because of that girl on the bus, when he was in junior high, and she, in whatever a seven-year-old is in. Like the girls on the wall, she was always there, uhm, like, on the ride home, but she pinched, bit and kicked, teasingly. He was pleasantly annoyed because she liked him, and he, her. It was innocent. Her with the missing front teeth and pigtails, and he the awkward and quiet boy, a bit older, you know, but she noticed him. No one else did but the man-boy that wanted to molest him. Now, he notices them on his wall.
She was killed sometime later. Come closer now, and you can hear her story.
I, I mean, I … was on my way home [starting to cry]
Just leaving school …
I, I, I remember I … [sniffling]
The school bus … heading toward me … [trembling]
Just a yellowish blur …
but the lights came on too suddenly I could not stop I slid on ice there was a tractor trailer behind the bus it jackknifed [breathing heavily]
the car [shaking head rapidly, trembling]
across my path …
Terror [calming down, tears streaming]
They say I was decapitated, almost.
Yet, I burned to death. They could not get me out in time.
To be cooked while still breathing … [numb and reflective]
I now know what a chicken feels like before the slaughter, just before the blade falls.
home(mha). [starts crying]
[She smiles through tears, looking directly at you, extended and uncomfortable silence]
So, he looks at me on a wall because his love for girls froze on that icy road 26 years ago.
So, I get, like, tingly because I know he, like, loves me, uhm, even though he never got to be with, like, me.
But I will tell you a secret. [gains composure, smiles at you, beginning to look playful]
I came on to him one night, the night he asked Jesus for help in grieving me. Like, it was so hot; he’d sleep naked, an attractive young man in his 20s, and he’d keep, like, a big book against his door because, you know, the pussy cat would get in or he feared the old woman would, like, would nose around his, like, nakedness.
The cat may scratch that dangling thing that often does not. [Shoving her face toward you, shaking her head “no’ with outstretched finger, dangling motion]
Tempting snakes are big, often large suckers, do you know. [looking devilish]
It was hot, and he slept, like, with an old fan on. I am not much into miracles, you know, but I shut the fan off with the kiss of my lips. I wanted him to be hot and to notice me. [Pauses with noted excitement]
Since his dad gave him PTSD, he would wake, I know. He did, but when the fan was off, like, he looked but saw the door was shoved shut by, uhm, like, nothing other than the Good Book. No one, not pussy or the old [I will be nice] could get in.
He got it was me, not Jesus.
Which me do you, like, think honey?
What girl do you want me to be? What’s, as the British say, your pleasure?
His grief broke but his love of girls and girlishness did not.
So, the lonely old man likes girls, and girl parts, pigtails, feet, pretty eyes and a smile, sometimes missing teeth, because, well, because, sometimes imagining someone is all someone can do if they want to make good choices.
Sometimes, the only person to love and hug is yourself, or that pillow you wished your dream slept upon. Dreams, fantasies, often prove nightmares if real [twisting her hair with her fingers].
I think, like, uhm, I love him, because he is sad and kind. [embarrassed]
He wants to touch me but cannot, and that is better, like, than, uhm, someone that does not want to touch me but does.
[Stares at you for a few moments]
Maybe, like, you, too, should watch girls watch you watch them?
That would be tingly, huh.
Adieu [brushing you off with a mischievous smile as if you are a left-over crumb].
Editor’s Note: Please read the previous chapters here.
Earl Yarington is a social worker and bus driver. He taught literature and writing for nearly 20 years and spent 3 years working in forensic social work.