SO MUCH IN COMMON: THE STORY OF THE MODERN ROMANTIC STALKER (APRIL 6)

It was as if he had known her all his life

“We share so much in common.”

Those words.

They can lead into two paths with the opposite sex.

One could become another great friend.

Another person that you become stuck in the ubiquitous friend-zone, a zone equally as entrapping as deep quicksand.

Or that person could become the one you have been waiting for all your life.

The one who shows up with you at the altar a few months or years...or hell....weeks...down the road.

But there it was.

They did share so much in common.

The things she liked to eat.

Well, it was pretty much everything.

But the fact that she liked to eat.

You know...try new things

Ok ok ok.

She calls herself a foodie. He calls himself a foodie.

Then again, anyone who has taken a photo of a french fry calls themselves that....

But still...

The fact that she likes bands and musicians no one has heard of....but he has

Electronic musicians

Cray bands with obscure instruments

Bands that replaces a drum kit with a keypad full of buttons that light up

Oh and yet she still appreciates a jazz trio.

He does too....at least when someone is looking

Oh, and her style.

The way she wears just the right amount of material to tease the male eye, without dressing like a slut. Sometimes she dresses like a Japanese Anime character ready to kick someones ass, other times she dresses like a girl from a mid budget romantic indie film.

Because not all indie films are low budget.

Oh and she likes those mid budget indie films.

Then again, so does everyone these days.

But he still counts that.

Because unlike everyone else, he can name the director AND the cinematographer

And so can she

She quotes the same movies and TV shows as he does

She gets the same references to the same subcultures that he does

She gets sucked into the same TV and Movie shows like he does

Yet still claim a semblance of athleticism when they both post a pictures of a hike or a bike or a ball being thrown

Even if just for a few feet

A picture can lie...

Jesus, they were meant for each other.

They were meant to be one.

That...

Or really good friends, frustrated like the friendzones in many a film or TV show

Where in the series finale they hook up.

Or break up.

Thats them

Thats the magic they have....

But there's only one problem...

It may seem slight...

Well not really...

See, she was actually a friend of a friend.

Of a friend.

Thus, their eyes had met, maybe once

or twice

And though they shared a polite handshake at a bar, or club

Neither of them could probably remember...

Because that's not where he fell in love

Because within the 4 degrees of frienships that seperate them..

is a computer screen

Yes they share so much in common...

Because he can see everytime you post...

Everytime he logs into Twitter, Facebook, Instagram.

No...he is not crazy....

He is just doing what millions do every day

They fall in love

Because of what they see

In the flashes of information in which a fraction of a person suddenly represents the whole.

“We share so much in common.”

Yeah.

Thats what he keeps saying to himself, in his head.

Every time he logs on.

Everyone Has a Story

EVERYONE HAS A STORY (APRIL 4, 2013)

8 a.m.

The alarm has been going off for about 30 minutes.

She refuses to get out of bed to go to work.

She knows when she gets there, her boss will ask her about the money.

The 50 bucks that went missing from the register.

The 50 bucks she “borrowed” to pay the gas and electric bill.

The 50 bucks she cleverly snuck out between customers nonchalantly buying clothes worth hundreds of dollars, manufactured for a lot less.

Or maybe....

Maybe her boss would not notice.

Maybe no one will double check the cash register balance sheet she forged.

Maybe no one will really care.

I mean, its 50 bucks.

Thats a lot to her. But to a company that makes that much money in a minutes time...

Shouldn't be a big deal, right?

No.

They'd still fire her.

But at least she'd have some electricity and heat for the rest of the month

Time to get up. To shower. To change. To eat. To get in the car.

She didn't have the kids this week.  Normally her teenage son and daughter would be loaded into the back like zombies heading to the school they dreaded going to.

They were at their dad's, getting dropped off by that girl of his.

The one thats partly responsible for the mess that she has suddenly been thrust into.

She pulls out of the driveway of the appartment complex, no seatbelt on, with only one reverse tail light working, and heads down the road to a stop sign. As she approaches the stop sign in her 1988 Toyota Camry, on its last leg since 1998, another car stops across the intersection. At the exact same time.

A brand new BMW M6.

Fresh. Clean.

Inside, a middle aged man, dressed to the nines. He waits to see if the Camry is going to go first. He is a patient man. An honest man.

Polite.

A throwback to when gentleman roamed the earth.

He drove the speed limit to get to that intersection. He always makes sure to have a seatbelt on, a working turn signal on when needed, and polished rims when necessary.

You would think, today was a typical day for him. Nothing really different about how he approached the stop sign, how he drove that day, or how he pulled out of his garage.

He smiled and waved to the neighbor as he left the house. He fed and played with his dogs before getting into the car.

He woke up on time with his alarm, bright and early. 6:30 a.m.

He did his usual morning routine. He showered. Changed into his work clothes. Stopped by the local coffee spot for a coffee and a breakfast bagel sandwhich.

He said hi to the barista. He chatted it up with the friendly elderly man who was always with a newspaper sitting in front of the coffee shop.

An unchanged routine for years

His morning, nothing different than any other morning.

At least that what he hoped everyone would believe.

He hoped his employees wouldn't ask.

He was glad his morning acquaintances didn't ask.

He knew his close friends knew.

He knew some of his coworkers knew.

He took a few days off.

But he was driving back to work today for the first time since then.

And he did not want questions. He just wanted things to go back to normal.

He wanted to get into his office chair, catch up on the work his secretary has been saving for him, and get on with life.

He did not want to forget. But he did not want to dwell.

He just wanted a version of normalcy that one could possible muster after this.

After a death.

After the death of his youngest son.

The Transvestite on the Phone at a Coffee Shop

THE TRANSVESTITE ON THE PHONE AT A COFFEE SHOP (APRIL 3, 2013)

“Yeah, I did! Don't tell me I didn't!”

Silence. 3....2....1...

“No, you tell her that I did what she wanted me to do, and I ain't doing it again.”

Silence.

Here I am in this coffee shop, trying hard to work, to release the creativity from the part of the brain my creativity is constantly hiding in, and, on of all the days I forget to bring my headphones...

“No, I had chicken and microwave cheese”

What?

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't.

I turned around.

There were only 4 people this morning in this relatively quiet coffee shop:

Me, a man quietly working on his laptop, the Barsita, and her.

Or him.

I couldn't tell.

In this neighborhood, every other her is a him, and some of the hims are her.

This one, though, decided that the coffee shop is the perfect place to use a cell phone

And talk into it like its a CB radio, holding it half a foot in front of her....his...mouth.

And not to be racist, but....

Well, anything that starts like that automatically sounds racist.

So never mind.

I could move.

But Im comfortable here already.

The table is the perfect size for the laptop, the coffee, the muffin, and the bag of carrotts I brought from home.

Yes, I brought carrots to a coffee shop.

“I gave him those blankets. I didn't need them. I got my own.”

Not sure what the conversation is about, and I really do not want to know.

I just look forward to the 3-8 seconds of silence in between each utterance.

Its like waiting for a geyser to erupt....but you are not sure if its going to erupt in 3 seconds or 8. And then it erupts. And then you wait again.

“You not payin'!”

I guess if I really wanted to, I could fill in the blanks and start my own conversation with her just to amuse myself.

And if I really wanted to I could politely ask her (by the way, I am just assuming its a her, but I still cannot tell), to tone it down a bit.

I mean I COULD....

“Alright I'll talk to you later.”

Silence. 3.....2....1.....

Silence

Silence

Silence

Finally.

Finally I can get on with my work. Finally I can write that great American novel.

But I'm Mexican.

The great Mexican-American Novel.

Or screenplay.

Or blog entry.

Or Facebook post.

Whatever. I can just write. In peace. In quiet. In...

“Hey, It's me. Im calling you back.”

Crap.

Short Story of the Day: April 2

EMPTY GLASS OF BLENDED COFFEE (APRIL 2, 2013)

On the table there you lie. And empty glass of blended coffee.

You satisfied me. If only briefly.

Somehow, I always drink you too fast. And I don't enjoy you.

I was too busy typing to appreciate the sweetness of the whipped cream that you wore as your hat.

I was too preoccupied with Facebook to realize that your caffeine was keeping my eyes focused on the screens in front of me. Clicking away. Stalking this person. And that.

All that's left is the residue.

A mixture of sugars, melting ice, ground filtered espresso.

And the straw.

The straw leans towards me, as if beckoning for one last sip.

That last sip which leaves on extremely dissatisfied, as it is more melted ice and less coffee.

I'm sorry.

I should have enjoyed you.

Your life was too short. Too quick.

I guess one minute in human years is, maybe, 5 years in coffee years.

You were one moment short of turning 100.

I remember when I first bought you.

I was craving you. I needed you. I couldn't work without you.

And then I had you.

And then I forgot. And now that you are gone, I know I will crave you again.

But you are gone. And I will have to find another cup, at another place, at another time.

I will probably forget about you, as I just did as I was drinking you.

But I shouldn't. You gave me the calories I needed for the moment. You were a part of my history.

If I had a historian follow me, you would be included in the chapter about the coffee shops I've been to.

Funny.

About a year and a half ago, my grandpa died. My abuelito.

He lived to be over 90 years old. Many years. Many memories.

Yet it happened so quick.

I was so occupied with work. With friends. With my daily routine.

I was occupied with the lusts of the world.

All the while, he was there, slowly fading, but there.

There was a time when a visit was as fresh as the coffee moments after its birth from the steel machine.

But then I forgot to enjoy the time I had.

The impact he made in my life goes beyond the impact that a blended coffee had on my moment at the coffee shop.

Yet sometimes, I treat the memory of the impact the same way.  Tossed in the background of the daily grind.  Placed at the end of a table, and only approached when convenient.

Funny.

How an empty cup of blended coffee could convict me of my sin of omission. How it could show me the errors of my ways. The errors of my days.

Time to slow down. Enjoy those around me. Enjoy those who love me. And never forget those who, while no longer here, made great impacts of who I am today.

And I'll start by enjoying another glass of blended coffee.