Stories From Nowhere Town

8/8/2019 Stories From Nowhere Town

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STORIES FROM NOWHERETOWN


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STORIES FROM NOWHERETOWN

MOISES F. SALINAS

WRITTEN IN ENGLISH, NORTH OF THE RIVER,

SOUTH OF REALITY


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Moiss F. Salinas

All Rights reserved. Can be freely distributed in whole

or in part with attribution to the author.


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INDICE DE CUENTOS

THE PIECE OF CLOTH .....................................7

A BUS RIDE ON A SUNNY DAY ....................19

MAXIMUM SECURITY ....................................27

THE DELAY .......................................................31


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THE PIECE OF CLOTH

2006

It was an early afternoon on a typical Friday

at the house of the Goldbaums. They lived in the

hird floor of a turn of the century building in a

nice area of the Bronx. A Jewish neighborhood

where, even though the majority of the families

were secular, the incoming Sabbath could be felt in

he air, with many Jewish households abuzz with

he preparations for the festive dinner. Michl, the

grandfather of the family was sitting in an old sofa,

next to the small terrace were the sun lit warmer at

hat time of the afternoon. His grandson, Joseph, oras he now preferred to be called, Joey, had just

returned from school. Joey was in seventh grade in

public school, and he was approaching the age

were he had to do his Bar-mitzvah. But to Michls

dismay, Joey did not really know much about

davening, the ritual prayers of Judaism. He did notspeak but a dozen of words of Yiddish and much

less Hebrew. He attended a fine public school were


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many of his friends were Jewish, but other than

Sunday religious school for the last year to prepare

him for his haftorah, a portion of the bible that you

read when you do you Bar-mitzvah, he never got

much of a Jewish education. Michl was greatly

roubled about this, but several years ago, after

arguing about it with his son Morris (Moishe by

birth) he decided there was nothing much he could

do about it. After all, as Morris had said, thisReform new ways were more modern, more

pluralistic and in tune with the melting pot that was

America, and very different from the orthodoxy

Michl grew up with far in the village, the shtetl o

his native Poland.

But today Michl was going to do somethingabout it. He decided that as Joey approached his

Bar-mitzvah, it was perhaps time to tell him a

story, and to pass on a memento from his own

grandfather. Joey, tatele, he called when Joey

was passing by the living room. Can you come for

a moment? I would like to tell you a story he saidin the very heavily Yiddish accented English that

he had learnt to speak years earlier, coming as a

refugee from the Holocaust in Europe.

Joey loved his grandfather very much, but

sometimes he found him annoying in the way most

older people tend to be for pre-adolescent children.In spite of that, he did not have anything really


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better to do before Shabbat, so he decided to

acquiesce with Michls request, and sat next to him

on a chair.

Joey, tatele. Many many years ago, my

Grandfather, your great great grandfather Mendel,

use to live in a very small village in an area close

o the border between Poland and Russia. I wish I

could tell you which country was it, but I really

cant because the area changed so much along theyears but the truth is that for us, the Jews, it

didnt really matter since we lived as our own

people, with our own language and customs, and it

did not make any difference if the ones who hated

us were the Poles, the Russians, the Ukrainians or

he Slovaks. For us it was all the same. Anyway,Joseph oh sorry, Joey, one day in the early

evening, my grandfather Mendel was getting ready

for Maariv. Oh, sorry, yes, Maariv, the evening

prayer Yes, I promise I will keep the foreign

words to a minimum, yes. Well, in any case, he

was getting ready for prayer time, when suddenlyhe heard great noise and commotion outside in the

street of the village. Before he could react,

somebody kicked down the door of their little shul,

he synagogue, and a big, dark Cossack soldier

dragged him outside with the rest of the men of the

village. There were probably a couple dozen ohem, and they smelled strongly to alcohol what?


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Reeked? Yes, reeked. They put all the men on the

center of the street, and their leader, a man named

Svoboda or something like it, pulled out his sword,

and a big, gold cross. I came to save your souls,

you Jewish sinners. He spoke with a drool and

was obviously very, very drunk. You should

resign your sinful ways and swear allegiance to our

only savior, Jesus the lord. And I shall let you

live. He said. Mendel was obviously very, veryafraid. He knew that these men were not joking, the

value of life back then was very, very low, and

Jewish life was even cheaper than that. They

looked at their rabbi for guidance, as these

Svoboda guy put the cross right in front of him.

The rabbi was silent for a moment, but then he began: Shemah Israel, Adonay Eloheinu, Adonai

Echad Oh, you learned that one in Sunday

school? Yes, yes, Hear thee, oh Israel, the lord is

our God, our Lord in one. Your great grandfather

Mendel remembered then the story of Rabbi

Chananya ben Teradyon who sacrificed himseland ended up burning wrapped in a Torah scroll

rather than renouncing his faith. And Kiddush

Hashem, the holiness of the name of God as the

only God of the people of Israel, and how over

generations we, the Jewish People, have died to

sanctify his name and maintain the legacy of Israel.And that gave him strength. So he started too:


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Shemah Israel, Adonay Eloheinu, Adonai Echad

Soon, all the men started to pray, together, and the

Rabbi, who was on his knees in front of Svoboda,

stood up. All the other men started to do the same,

but then Svoboda screamed and stabbed the Rabbi

in the chest. The other Cossacks fell upon the men

and started stabbing them right and left. Mendel

oo got stabbed and fell on the dirt. The Cossacks

burned the shul, and they left. Many of the mendied that night, but not your great grandfather. He

was injured, and very ill. They took him to his

house to rest, but he was not well. The next day,

Mendel called his son, Yitzhok, my grandfather.

Mendel had his Tallis with him, his prayer shawl,

which had been stained by his blood because hewas wearing it when the Cossacks dragged him out

into the street. He told my grandfather Yitzhok to

ake it. This is to remind you of your legacy.

Never forget who you are. Keep it and pass it on

for generations, and hopefully one day this Tallis

will make it to Jerusalem when the Moschiachcomes. Mendel died the next day, and even

hough Yitzhok was too young to say Kadish for

him at the funeral, he donned the blood stained

Tallis on and repeated the ancient words of the

bereavement prayer: Veyitkadal, Veytkadash,

sheme rabba


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Michl was very tired, and they had to stop the

story anyway to get ready to light the candles and

start the Shabbat. But that night, Joey stayed

awake very very late thinking about his great grand

father, the blood stained Tallis, and his legacy.

The next morning Joey could not wait to hear

he rest of the story, so he asked his grandfather

Michl to please continue where he left the night

before. Well, Yitzhok never washed the stains, and

he continued to use that Tallis for many years. I

remember as a young child thinking about it and

saying, why doesnt he wash that old dirty

Tallis? But one day he told me the story of the

Tallis, and I understood. When he died, a few yearslater, I kept the Tallis. I did not wear it all the time

as my grandfather Yitzhok did. But I kept it in a

very special place, and took it out on special

occasions when I needed to remind myself of the

hardship our people had to endure to survive for

he past 2000 years. That is, until several yearslater a guy by the name of Hitler came to power in

Germany. Oh, you learned about him too? In

school? Yes, he was a very mean person. He

wanted to kill all of the Jewish people. Well, he

was in Germany back then, and I was in Poland,

and we didnt think much about it at the beginning.But then the big war began and in a couple o


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weeks German soldiers were parading all over

Poland. And it wasnt long before SS soldiers came

into our little village and took all of us. I was a

very young man then, but I was married and had

one little son. No, Joey, Im sorry, both of them

died in the war. We got separated, and I was sent to

a concentration camp first. But when the German

soldiers came marching into the village, the first

hing I thought about was the Tallis, so I ran to myhouse and put it under my clothes. After a while I

got sent to another camp, and I could not keep the

Tallis anymore, but I did not want to loose the

legacy, so I cut off a corner, the tzitzit, and carried

it with me even as our condition was getting worst

and worst every day. Well, Ill tell you the story ohow I survived some other day, Joey, but for now

all I need to say is that I survived and the only

piece left I had from my life back at the shtetl was

hat little piece of a Tallis, with a small stain o

blood and a tzitzit that was more gray than white.

And yet, at that moment, the day the Americansoldiers marched into the camp and rescued us,

here was nothing more important to me than that

little piece of Tallis that in my mind represented

our legacy and the whole 2000 years of history o

he Jewish people outside of our land, the land o

Israel. No, I married your grandmother when I gothere, to America, and your father was born soon


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hereafter. Well, yes, as I matter of fact I do, I still

have it. And guess what? I have it right here with

me.

Michl pulled out a carefully folded

handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and

revealed a small triangular piece of cloth that was

so grimy and discolored that it could really be

anything. At the center of the triangle there was a

hole, and from the hole, some strings, the tzitzit,hung in a tight knot. There was indeed a small

brownish stain, which Joey guessed was the blood

of this very ancient ancestor of his.

Joey, tatele, I want you to have the Tallis

now. Your Bar Mitzvah is approaching, and you

will become part of the people of Israel. When youdo, I want you to remember the legacy. I want you

o remember how hard it has been for our People to

make it this far.

Joey took the piece of Tallis that day, and the

day of his Bar Mitzvah he had it on his pocket, in

he handkerchief and inside a plastic bag. That dayhe felt very proud to be part of the legacy. The day

after, he put it in a closet. And there it remained for

many many years, undisturbed, and while not

completely forgotten, it became just a part of a

memory that Joey would only bring every once in a

while. He only took it out twice in the next 30years. The day his grandfather Michl died, as he


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held on tight on the small piece of Tallis as he

recited the ancient words of the Kadish, and the

day his own son, Michael, who had been named

after his great grandfather, became a Bar Mitzvah

on his own and thus part of the ancient people o

Israel.

II

It was an early afternoon on a typical Friday

at the house of the Goldbaums. They lived in thefourth floor of modern building in an upscale area

of Seattle, a trendy neighborhood, where young

successful professionals made the bulk of the

enants. The incoming weekend could be felt in the

air with many of the young professionals were

abuzz with the preparations for the weekend, thedances and the dinner parties of the Friday night.

Yuan, a beautiful young woman whose

grandparents had emigrated from China, but who

now preferred to be called Jean and had very little

connection with her family, was getting ready for a

dinner party at her house. She had been married toMichael Goldbaum for about a year now. They

were very happy and they looked like the perfect

couple, perpetually happy, even though Michael

had a bad month or two after his father Joseph

passed away early that year from cancer. Jean was

looking for some tablecloths and dinnerware in acloset when she stumbled upon an unopened box


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hey had received after Michaels father passed

away, with some of Michaels childhood

belongings. She had plenty of time before the

dinner, and the box was kind of unsightly (Jean

loved cleanliness and organization, and everything

in her house had to be as close to perfection as

possible). She decided it was time to open the box,

and sort its contents out. She took some old

baseball cards, an old high school diploma, pictures, a small little league trophy. Some old

record albums (they dont even make those

urntables anymore, she thought). And inside a

small plastic bag, a white handkerchief. She

opened it, unfolded the handkerchief, and then was

disgusted with what she found. It was a small piece of old cloth, filthy and smelly, stained by

what looked like chocolate, and clearly had been

attached to something by an unraveling piece o

string that looked like it had been dragged through

mud. It was positively disgusting. She put is aside

and as soon as Michael got home she confrontedhim about it.

Jean, it is some sort of family heirloom. A

souvenir or something from and old ancestor. I

really dont remember the story that well. Yes, I

know is disgusting. Well, it kind of connects me to

my past. Yes, I know, we have to look towards thefuture, and I know that you gave up all of your old


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Chinese culture and break up with your family to

become part of the modern world, as you say it.

No, no, I know you wouldnt be married to me

otherwise. Fine, fine with me. Get rid of it. I know

how much that bothers you, and yes, I love you, so

if you thing is a focus of infection, just put it in the

garbage.

The next Monday, the city dump truck drove

hrough the pick up area of the complex. A largemetal container was dumped and then compacted

into the truck. The little piece of cloth, now mixed

with some rotten raspberries, some used paper

napkins, and a disposable diaper, laid inside.

The middle aged driver pushed the lever to

compact the trash further, but some of the leftoverfood splashed and stained his uniform. He cleaned

up the pieces of food from the nametag in his chest

hat clearly showed his family name, Svoboda.


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A BUS RIDE ON A SUNY DAY

2009

The 23 bus line takes you from the top of Mount

Scopus, down to the Old City of Jerusalem, via the

Arab neighborhood of Wadi Joz. It was the

preferred bus line for the students of the School for

Overseas Students at the Hebrew University oJerusalem, wanting to go down to the Old City: to

he Arab Shuk, or market, to the Western Wall,

or to the hundreds of small shops and restaurants

hat surround the ancient walls. It was a cold,

sunny, and dusty afternoon, just like many an

afternoon in a Jerusalem winter. I was riding the 23

bus line with my friend Mike, just as we had done

dozens of times before. It was an unremarkable,

white and red bus from the Egged bus cooperative,

except for the acrylic panels outside the windows.

Most buses in the world dont have acrylic panels.I mean, they didnt look pretty; they looked like

hey were hastily screwed to the body of the bus,


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giving it an unsightly appearance. Acrylic panels

also get scratched easily, and after a few months,

hey blur the view. When riding the 23 bus line, it

felt like you were watching the city go by from

some sort of fog. Which was very fitting, since

riding a bus in Jerusalem is like traveling on a time

machine: From the very modern and architecturally

impressive Hebrew University, that dominates the

summit of Mount Scopus with a commanding viewof the city, you enter some of the older

neighborhoods of Jerusalem where you suddenly

find yourself in 16th century eastern Europe. Men

fully clad on black robes or rain cotes, old

fashioned hats, and long beards. Women donning

long skirts and head scarves or even wigs. Narrow paved streets that look more like they belong in

Cracow or Warsaw than in the Middle East. And

hen the bus turns left. And your are in the land o

Sherezade, the 1001 nights and Aladdin. Arab men

shouting, with white and red Kefiyes over their

heads. Donkeys and sometimes horses pulling cartsfull of produce, or spices. That is Jerusalem, the

city of gold. The city of Miracles. The city o

stones. Since the beginning of the 20th century,

every building in the city has to be built, by code,

with the white limestone that is common in the

hills surrounding Jerusalem. At dusk, the sundowngives the city a yellow glow that poets over the


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eons have compared to gold. But at noon, with the

sun up high, it just looks like stone. But stones

were everywhere in Jerusalem of the late 1980s.

They were on the walls, on the paved streets, on

he ancient ruins, and in the air. Yes, in the air,

because besides being the city of stones, Jerusalem

is the city of conflict. The city has been fought over

and conquered dozens of times, by the Israelites,

he Mesopotamians, the Babilonians, the Greeks,he Romans, the Mamelucs, the Muslims, the

Christians, the Ottomans, the French, the British,

he Jews, hey, some people say even the Aliens.

No, not illegal Aliens, Extraterrestrial Aliens. Are

hey are not joking either. The Internet is full o

stories, from the Second Temple to Elijah the prophet, claiming a connection to Aliens. In any

event, the point is that Jerusalem is the city o

stones, and the city of war, and at that point, in the

winter of 1987, the stones and the war came

ogether. See, in 1967, depending on which side o

he stone you where, Israel either liberated orconquered the east side of Jerusalem. And for the

next 20 years, the Palestinians from Jerusalem,

which where for the most part considered second-

class citizens de facto even if legally they were

supposed to have all the rights of their Jewish

counterparts, actually did their best at integratingeconomically to the new Israeli reality. But by


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1987, a new generation of Palestinians, who had

only known Israeli occupation, and had never lived

under Jordanian occupation, or British occupation,

or Ottoman occupation, got tired of this particular

occupation and were willing to fight for their self-

determination. And that is when the stones and the

conflict came together in beautiful synergy.

Palestinias, first in the Jebalia refugee camp, then

in the rest of the West Bank, Gaza, and Jerusalem,decided to fight the powerful Israeli Army with

stones. The same stones that gave Jerusalem its

aurous name became the weapon of choice for

hese perennially occupied people. The Israelis

were mystified. How does the mythical Army o

he six-day-war and the Entebbe rescue fight anarmy of stone-wielding Palestinian Davids? The

reactions were varied. Rubber coated bullets,

water cannons, tear gas. Break their legs said the

legendary Yitzhak Rabin. And of course, acrylic.

Tons and tons of acrylic sheeting to cover the

windows of military vehicles, of civilian vehiclesof West Bank Israeli settlers, and of course, of that

non-descriptive white and red Israeli line 23 bus

hat me and my friend Mike were riding that

ordinary afternoon in Wadi Joz.

Take Cover screamed the driver. The bus was

pretty full and there was no room in the center aisleo drop to the floor. I was sitting next to the acrylic


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covered window anyway, so all I could do was

crouch. I remembered those little safety cards from

he airplanes that said that in case of emergency,

you should put your head between your legs. I

dont think the safety engineers on airplanes ever

hought about flying stones as one of those

emergencies, but that was all I could think of on

hat second. I was expecting baseball sized, sharp

rocks to start hitting the window any second now.Probably because what we, and the rest of the

world had seen on TV, I imagined Palestinian teens

on the other side of the street, like young Arab

versions of Roger Clemens or Fernando

Valenzuela, throwing with all their might to try and

break the acrylic sheeting protecting the bus (me!)from their fury. So what happened next came as a

otal surprise. A heavy, loud thump!! From the

ceiling. I instinctively lifted my head in surprise,

ust to hear a second thump!! And actually saw the

roof of the bus cave in a little and begin to crush

ust like an empty beer can against the forehead oJohn Belushi. This were no stones. They were

massive boulders, several dozen if not hundreds o

pounds heavy, that had been lined up carefully on

he edge of the roof of adjacent buildings. I was

paralyzed. Would the roof of the bus cave in,

letting one of this massive rocks in, crushing thebodies of the people inside? I was not confident the


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aluminum body of a bus could take the impacts,

not to say anything about the useless acrylic that

he Egged cooperative spent millions installing in

many of its buses. It was a small example of a

basic rule of warfare: improve your defenses, and

he enemy will eventually find a way to improve its

weapons. Military solutions are never final, always

cyclical.

And then, a miracle happened. No, the Israeli armydid not show up to save our souls. No, the bus did

not sped away, it had to slowly roll out because o

he traffic. Neither God nor the Jerusalem Aliens

lifted the bus into safety. No. The miracle was at a

more human level. As I sat there, with my torso

down and my head up, paralyzed in disbelief, myfriend Mike took the hood of my coat, and put it

over my head. Just like that. Suddenly I had the

certainty that the thin cloth hood would protect me.

Suddenly my thoughts moved away from the fear

of being stoned to death, to that simple, useless act

of kindness, of caring.Slowly, through the rain of rocks that weirdly

reminded me of the sound of heavy hail, the bus

struggled to roll out of Wadi Joz. The roof was

seriously dented. Suddenly, a massive rock hit the

windshield. The driver steered left, and the bus

went off the road and started speeding down the


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hill, faster and faster, towards the valley down

below


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MAXIMUM SECURITY

2002

The van arrived to the building early in the

morning. It was a large, mostly concrete and

unassuming building surrounded by security

guards. I have never been in the big building

before. Sure, I have been in places like this one,

but mostly small time. Local, maybe state, but

never in one of the big ones. Federal guards

escorted you pretty much from the beginning. A

long time ago, you were allowed to bring some o

your possessions with you, maybe even a small

bag. Not any more. At some point the feds got fedup with people trying to smuggle dangerous stuf

and they simply prohibited us from bringing any

items inside at all.

I knew the drill. Even though this was the first time

with the feds, I knew what I was supposed to do.

They lined all the people from the van in a longline. We were being watched all the time by

guards with automatic weapons, and you were


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always afraid that something would happen i

anybody misbehaved. Finally, after a long wait

hat seemed like hours, I arrived to a counter. I

submitted my documents, was placed against a

screened wall, and a camera took pictures that were

compared to a computer database to make sure I

did not have any priors. A fingerprint scanner also

confirmed my identity, and after I was issued a

number ( A-G17-14D) I was escorted by a guardfor the security check.

I had to remove all my clothing. The security

guard placed all small items (my watch, my wallet)

in a paper bag, and then the paper bag with all the

clothes in a marked, sealed plastic bag. Then the

humiliation began. They stripped searched me,made me kneel, made sure I was not smuggling

any dangerous items in my anus. Then pulled from

a shelf a plain gray jump suit, and fabric slippers

with plastic soles. They gave them to me with a

plain paper pass with my name and assigned

number. Nothing was allowed inside anymore.Anything, pens, belts, even shoelaces, could be

used as weapons so they had to make sure nothing

made it inside.

The gray jumpsuits were marked with big white

letters on the back, Property of AA. I was placed

on another line, and even though I have beenstripped searched already, I still had to walk


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hrough a metal detector. Finally, a group of us

was escorted to A-G17 by another security guard.

At the end of a metal hallway, we could see the

heavy, hermetic steel door where a young woman

reviewed my pass and plainly told me: 14 D.

Straight to the right. Thank you for flying

Amazing Airlines.


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THE DELAY

(Translated from Spanish)

1992

I had my sight glued into the white device, which

remained stubbornly silent, waiting for it to react as

if my life depended on it. In the beginning, I did

not doubt even for a second that it would be amatter of hours, or maybe a day, for him to call. It

was like, so obvious. After all, he was the one that

ook the first step (that's the way it always is and

he way it should be) even though, of course, I had

done everything necessary to be noticed by him: A

smile, a slight touch, a fleeting glance. He was talland dark and with very masculine traits. He was

sitting in a table with two friends, no girls. I was

sitting in mine, with a group of girlfriends from

school, and had set my sights on him from the

moment we arrived. Our eyes crossed paths, and he

smiled. I did not smile back, but I kept staring at

him for a fraction of a second longer than


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necessary. I knew that would keep him interested.

For a while I just talked to my friends about trivial

stuff attempting not to look towards him. Then I

urned. Indeed, he was looking at me. He tried

again, he smiled. This time I smiled back, but then

quickly turned my head around. I turned back to

see him, and I laughed loudly as a friend was

elling a joke. Finally, he stood up and walked to

my table. He approached me with a generic type oexcuse, something like "Don't I know you from

somewhere?" or "Aren't you so and so's sister?" I

don't really remember.

One moment, the phone

My hart beats with violence, I'm mad and at the

same time I feel helpless. When the phone rang Ihought it was him. I thought about everything he

would say:

"Hello"

"Heather?" I recognize his voice.

"Yes. Who is this?" I pretend not to know."Robert"

"Robert?"

"Yeah, from the bar, the other night"

"Oh, yes. Robert" I say with an uninterested

intonation.

"How are you?"

"OK"


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"Listen, I wanted to ask you out on Friday"

"Oh, I can't Friday" I lie.

"How about Saturday?"

"Where to?"

"To this place"

"Maybe, I don't know. Why don't you call me

Friday to confirm?"

"OK, but it's a date"

"Maybe. Call me""OK, bye, but I'll see you Saturday"

"See you"

A few more words, a few less words. I approached

he device while my heart accelerated to the

rhythm of the bell sound:RingRingRingRing..RingRingRing.

"Hello"

A fraction of a second, no more, are necessary to

arise hope, and then, a voice.

A woman's voice.She asks for my mother, and I feel a frozen liquid

flow through my veins, and I tremble while I call

my mother. The fluid gets to my eyes, where it

attempts to escape in the form of a tear

But no. Who does he think he is, to deserve a tear.

They are all the same, men only want to play withyou. That's what he is doing, playing. Well, I will

not stand for it this time, not anymore.


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Ever.

If he calls I will not answer. If his intentions had

been honest, if he had felt attracted to me, he

would've called right away. To wait for three days

means that he only wants me "to have fun." Well,

his time he is dead wrong. I will not fall on his

rap.

I can figure out his strategy: He waits for three or

four days, since he knows I'm attracted to him.Otherwise, why would I have accepted to dance

with him from the get go? That was my mistake. I

gave him "wings." I Know he KNOWS I'm

attracted to him, and he begins to play his game.

By the third day, he knows I'm thinking about him,

hoping for his call, desiring him Finally, he calls,asks me out. Of course, he is sure I'll accept. He

akes me to an elegant place, maybe a restaurant,

ells some tasteful jokes, we drink some wine, and

hen

"You are a very beautiful woman, Heather." I

blush. He is preparing the terrain."Thanks for the compliment, but you know it's not

rue" I lie. I've always been told that modesty is

a good quality in a lady.

"Oh, no. It's true. I never lie." Another lie. But

here is nothing I could say.

"You know," he goes on "since the moment I sawyou I was attracted to you." A pause. The pause is


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important since it generates expectation. On one

hand, he lowers my defenses with a compliment,

hen he makes me wait, to long for him to say

something, I do not know what, but something.

And finally, when he says it, one falls into the trap.

Whatever he says, it was what I was longing to

hear. I smile, and he goes on:

"It is like so incredible that we have such a good

ime togetherand, you know, is that I wouldlike to be closer to you"

Closer to you. That is the first pitch, a curve,

sneaky. It is vague enough to be misinterpreted,

but direct enough to initiate his move. I give it a

pass, not my king of pitch.

"What do you mean, Robert?""Oh, nothing." That's zero strikes one ball. "It's just

hat I would like to have something between us

beyond just friendship. I would like to get to know

you better, I want there to be something special

between us."

Makes me wonder. Maybe I was wrong? Maybehis intentions are honest? But that is what he

wants. To make me doubt. NO, this is also part o

his game. If I had swung for it, Zoooom! Strike.

The pitch was inside, or perhaps it is the "bat" he

wants to get inside. But if he doesn't, then the old

story. Just a 'friendly' pitch.


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He changes the topic, again, courteous and

friendly, but this time he takes my hand. His hand

is strong yet delicate. It's warm, it feels good. I let

him be and he keeps talking without interruption.

He smiles. His smile is charming, and his eyes.

But it is all part of the plan.

The telephone rings again. It's him, I thought.

Ill let my mother pick up. In a second, she'll yell

"Heather, pick up the phone."

"Who is it, Mom?"

"Robert"

"Tell him I'm out." That's it. A taste of his own

medicine. And let him listen 'Tell him I'm out.'

I wait for my mother's call, but it doesn't come.

Silence. What's going on? Why doesn't she yell? I

approach the phone and pick up for a second.

"Julie, don't forget the committee meeting"

It's not him.

I hang up very rapidly, and I feel desperate.

Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he

couldn't call, he is on a trip, or he thinks is

courteous to wait a few days before calling.

Everything was so magical the other day, I can't believe he would do something like this on

purpose.


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We were talking in the bar for a while. He was at

he same time funny and interesting. His eyes

looked so beautiful in the tenuous orange light, and

he sound of my favorite song suddenly filled the

air. That soft ballad, full of love.

I looked him in the eye and he read that I wanted to

dance. I took my hand, and without saying a word

he took me to the floor. He placed his hand in my

waist, and I garbed his shoulder. It was a strongand safe shoulder, that attracted my head just like a

soft pillow in which you want to dream a fairy

dream. Our hands, strongly clutched, and our

bodies rocking to the rhythm of the soft music. I

felt in paradise. I did not resist when he pulled me

oward him, softly, sweetly. I rested my head onhis shoulder, like a fulfilled dream, and I felt his

chest touching mine. I let the music take over. I

closed my eyes and I felt we were flying. He

gently pressed his body against mine, and I felt his

legs moving in rhythm next to mine, one, two

one, two. The music played and drugged me witha wonderful love potion. I felt his breath on my

neck, and a soft, warm sensation filled my

rembling body. The sensation of his body over

my chest excited me, and I was sure he felt mine

on his, through my clothes and his. I yearned to

feel his skinThe phone again.


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I answered almost automatically.

"Hello" And then I realized my mistake.

"Heather?" A male's voice. I got nervous. What

was the sound of His voice? I don't remember.

"Yes?"

"Is your Mom home. This is your uncle Charlie"

Disappointment and Relief.

It is amazing how two emotions so contradictory

can live inside you. We women are ambivalent beings. We can love and hate at the same time.

That is our weakness.

And that is why we must be tough. We must

follow 'the rules' and not become easy prey.

Because the balance is broken and they take

advantage of it because of our love. Men are notambivalent. They only look for sex. Sex or

submission. Or in easier terms, while the soul o

he woman is hungry for romance, the body of the

man is hungry for sex. They are parallel feelings.

Just like safety and submission, we look for safety,

hey for submission.We kept dancing for a little while. Well, to me it

felt like a little while, but my girlfriends

approached me and hinted that it was late and it

was time to go home. I could hear in their voices a

number of different feelings. Disapproval for

allowing to be seduced by a man I barely knew,

ealousy for finding a 'stud' while they were leaving


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empty-handed (or should I say empty-legged?), and

also some worry , since when I finally looked at

my watch I realized it was getting late.

"Heather, let's go because we all came in Monica's

car"

"If you want, I can give you a ride home" Robert

said "where do you live?"

"Oh, no, please, don't worry. I live at the other end

of town" and I explained in some detail where 'theother end of town' was in an attempt for him to

read in my words 'Yes, I want you to take me.'

"Oh, please, is no bother. I live around that area"

when in fact he lived quite in the opposite

direction.

The Phone!I ran towards the device, and just as if it had been

at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit, I jerked my hand

away from it just as I touched it. No, I will not

answer.

It rang once, twice, five times

"Heather, can you get the phone" yelled mymother.

Six. I pick up.

"He" Click. They hung up.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed by doubt. What if it

was him? Would he call again? I feel pain in mystomach, and a drop of cold sweat runs down my

back. What a fool I am. Besides, who told me to


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start imagining things. Maybe he has a perfectly

good reason not to call until now, maybe he is

really busy, he has finals, I don't know, something.

It was so beautiful the other night. So magical, so

special.

I called my Mom and told her we were going to be

out for another while longer. "Don't get home too

late" she said. "don't worry, Mom, Monica willake me home." More lies. But what matters a little

lie when you feel love knocking on your door? We

kept chatting. Small talk. Then, that cool song by

he popular artist started to play. I looked at him

with a begging expression. He understands. Shall

we dance? He whispers something to one of hisfriends and we hit the dance floor. When we are

done dancing, his friends are gone. We sat and

kept talking about us, our likes and dislikes, our

lives, everything. We are so similar, and yet so

different in the small details. I like that. I have no

doubt I'm attracted to him and he is to me. Or isn'the?

The imagination flies and time does too,

unnoticeably. We are in another dimension,

chatting, laughing together, holding hands. It seems

like only a second has elapsed when I finally look

at my watch.


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"My Mom is going to kill me!!!" I jump out of my

seat.

"Don't worry. We'll be at your home in a minute"

He said which with such confidence that a strange

feeling of calm invades me.

We get on his car, and begin a long road to an

unwanted farewell. Almost without noticing, his

fingers drip down and weave in with mine. We

stay that way, in silence, until we get home.Silence and love. I was drunk with happiness and

at that instant I couldn't ask for anything else in the

world.

"Well, we're here"

"Yeah. We are here." I look at him with sadness.

I would like for that evening to go on forever.Only one thing was missing.

"Why don't you give me your phone and I'll call

you" the phrase interrupted by the speed in

which I get a pen from my purse and I write down

my number in a piece of paper. I sign it: Heather,

and draw a happy face right next to it.Just like the happy face, he looks at the paper, and

smiles. He steps out of the car and opens the door

for me. I stand up, look at him, and almost like

making a wish he holds me with tenderness and

ime seems to stand still. He moves his face closer

o mine and only one thing was missing: a kiss. Ifeel his lips, warm and moist, on mine. My heart


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beats furiously and I get scared of myself. I freeze.

A few seconds go by and I feel confused, and

finally he moves away. I feel like an idiot, and

begin to wonder what is he thinking about me. I'm

ashamed of having desired that kiss so much only

o ruin it by getting petrified when he finally does.

I would like to hug him and kiss him again just to

show him, but

"Bye" is all I can say."Good bye. I'll call you" but it sounded like I

don't know. Maybe I'm just imagining things.

Maybe it was sadness what I heard in his voice, or

maybe not. Maybe hope, I don't know. He looked

at me intensely for a few seconds as I was opening

he door, trying not to turn around. Finally he goton his car and drove away. Away from me.

That night I could barely sleep. I was thinking

about him, his hugs, his kiss. About me. The next

day I was expecting all day, waiting

The Phone!!!I run to pick up and grab the handset: "Hello"


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Stories From Nowhere Town

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