Be Gentle... or Not

Did Helen of Troy get old and drippy-eyed? Did she have that wonderful taste of death like Marilyn? I cannot say.

I can tell you that one of the unique earthly beauties lives in San Jose. She makes men weak at the knees and women want to push her down the stairs or pet her long flowering hair. She was once at italian model in her younger days and then went to school and got a finance degree. Someone must have killed her husband while he slept because there are two teenage sons on her profile.

She is very interesting.

Except for the sons who are very ugly.

I show her profile to my dating mentor, Mar, who is very intelligent and has been married many times. I say, “Those boys are going to be a problem.”

Mar scowls because I am not ready. She is a gorgeous heiress of old Europe with a refrigerator full of aged salamis. Mar paints her poinchetta fingernail at the screen and says, “Non.” which means that I am not ready.

I point to our framed poster of Lou Ferrigno in his prime. Two hundred and thirty eight pounds of muscle. I have been eating starches and whey powder and I am half way there. I also show her the fine poetry of Charles Bukowski and believe that I can woo most anyone with words alone.

“Thomas my love… darling – this one is not for you.”

She puts down the screen. She softly places the laptop to a folded position and pretends that it is a piece of lace. Her fingers hover over the plastic of the outer case. Since Mar is a neat-freak she will apply Enddust to the case and park the laptop on a fine silken doiley. She has to leave for the opera but asks me to promise not to pursue the fair Marcie.

I’m not ready.

It’s a Friday night and Mar won’t let me get out and date until I can release a brassier that clasps behind the back with a quick hug and a shake. She says it is the same art as the “Pocket picker”, that one should disrobe their lover with only a stare. I am still American and try to argue that you should pursue a woman with a bouquet, good job and an engagement ring.

Non!

Mar said I must quit my job at Lincoln and Fitch. A very progressive authority on the harvesting of humans who want their ashes to become diamonds. It was part mortician, part jeweler, but mostly about love and legacy. Mar said I was wasting my time with an artless career. And this hurt. Lincoln and Fitch had already selected a nice platinum setting to attach my final remains. But I had no one to leave this ring in an form of estate planning. In fact, I had no estate after I found my European Love Counselor because she said it was best that I should be unburdened with possessions. For this reason, we share a small house in the highlands of Monterey overlooking an ocean.

There are thousands of people to look at on the catalogues of singles. (Also known as Dating Websites). I try to group them by teeth rigidity and difficult professions. Since I have waited so long to become lovable and worthy, I find that most of my potential partners are booked up with dates until the next season.

After Mar has left for ten minutes I open up the laptop and dream of Marcie.

Rule #1 Les Mysteries

Frantz Kafka sold insurance. Very german sexy. Giacoma Casanova was a traveling salesman who pretended to be a spy. Johnny Depp wears the eyeline because sometimes the cataracts in his pupils give him the wrong attention. We must be constantly attractive and study the greats.

I have decided to let Marcie believe that I am Satoshi Nakamoto the creator of Bitcoin. I will sign all the love letters with “N-Moto" and hope she doesn’t ask my why I am not very Japanesee.

Rule #2: Les Importante

One must become a necessity. I don’t just mean that you can offer to walk her dogs or sons… I mean you should get a job as a fire fighter and go commit some arson in the night. This is the reason that fire fighters are very sexy and important. It is not because a few have huge muscles and they look charming with oxygen masks and such. Non! The real value of the fire-fighter is that he can save you from a burning house. He will protect some of your property. It doesn’t matter if he has to live in a small house with a bunch of other firefighters all his life. Romance will combust.

Marcie has a brick home and does not light on fire easily. Using accelerants like Astrolite might actually burn the entire bush. (A biblical reference). One must light their fire with small sparklers or streamers kept after the 4th of July because most really romantic fireworks are no longer available in California. Above all, One must not kill Marcie just to love her.

Surgeon? Everlasting harm.

Dentist? Are you serious. No one ever falls in love with their dentist. Not even the sadist. Dentist is importante but fails all the basic qualifications of romantica. I cannot be a dentist.

I dream of becoming important to Marcie, who is a Senior Financial Managers at one of the larger “unicorn” companies in the San Jose. She is possibly a millionairess over and again with stock options and self driving vacuums and such. I can not woo her with common currency. Not can I contrive to buy her debt from a mafia loan shark.

I must become important to her life like an antihistamine. She must become allergic to all others...

Rule the third: Security.

It has been written that security is the opposite of Mystery. Like evidence does not beget faith. For this reason I open Mar’s drinking cabinet and try to understand the interpolation of mystery verses security, the love making prerequisites of the Marcie, a wealthy widow with two ugly sons. They have hair that was dipped in chicken blood. Their mediterranean complexion is ruined by freckles of sin. I bet they do horrible pranks on their mother, a woman born from a thousand generations of selective breeding. She would have less shame (from these two ugly sons) if I just killed them.

Non!

The fair Marcie will feel some guilt with her two dead ugly sons. (Of course they look like the father. Of course they do).

It is better to kidnap the two little vermin and sell them off to a place with no extradition and a healthy view of live-organ-donation. Perhaps Guyana. There are many good vendors in the Southern China Sea for organ sales who will feed the boys for a time. Kinda like Hansel and Grettel except the witch doesn’t just want sugary skin and a nice Gwentoffeil wine pairing. I suppose these boys will cause their mother some mourning. And since I don’t want to be a rebound relationship after the appropriate time of grieving …

I decide to apply for a security guard position at the American Patrol Service company. They do not currently require any kind of certification to cary a pen. I am told to walk around the perimeter of this building or that and make a signature every 1200 paces or so on a small clipboard attached to a tree or a fence.

Yes. This is also Marcie’s company. Even though we are third party providers of security, I do not care if she has a higher standing in the company. I do not care if she could order me out of her presence. I must stay focused on Mystery / Importance / Security. Also, women are said to fall in love with uniforms.

I leave my mentor a note as I head up north to the “post.” This is what the professionals of security call their place of business. I shave my head with some Wahl clippers. They broke. So I used the pubic hair styling set. It took forever but I look very paramilitary.

The drive to San Jose takes hours and I realize that love is a long road. The radio plays audio books of Machiavelli’s “Mandrake Root” (a beautiful love story) followed by Stalking for Dummies, revised edition 2012. One must stay with current versions of legal provisions for research while Machiavelli has last for 500 years and is still performed in New York, as a play.

Sergeant Moss is my supervisor and says to call the post a _campus_. Marcie is not a student! I am her devoted pupil. Sergeant Moss explains that many large companies and hospitals pretend to be schools to get rid of smokers and tax burdens.

“Does this make us Narcs?”

All of the security at schools are called Narcs in California. This is not a very sexy job (like being a dentist). I do not feel that Marcie will love me very long after kidnapping her ugly sons, saving them from Chinese organ sellers and becoming indispensable as a lover. Mar says I need another few years to become a usable lover.

I look at the Sergeant with sadness. He doesn’t respond to my last question because his heart has been broken as well. What love could this man have made before he was clothed in polyester non-flammable slacks? He might have been a fine artist, perhaps even a piano tuner. These sort of people who keep civilization from falling but are rarely sung in the blaring chorus of rock songs.

“Moss? Brother… did you have a dream?”

He ushers in the early executives by their badge number. Moss pretends that they are all worthy of his attention, remembering their names. Asking if they are ready for a great day. I do not believe that Sergeant Moss has become a security sergeant to chase his dreams. He wears a smile of someone who is sad inside.

I consider the possibility of having Sergeant Moss steal the sons of Marcie so that he can enjoy his last years in the South China Sea. Of course, I need the brats to avoid the mourning. Even beautiful women do not like to be romanced that much when they are in the mourning.

It is very difficult to take notes as Sergeant Moss points out members of the computer research department. One lady is having her birthday on Friday. Another is leaving work early for a conference in Belgium. This is obviously a family man who wants to die at his post. It is not a traditional form of sexy.

I consider what might make the Sergeant tick. He sucks on pickles between welcoming employees. On the side he admits that the surgeons had to take out most of his intestines and he has a bag on his stomach. This is why he doesn’t sit.

He won’t take chewing gum. His mouth is dry from welcoming people to work. A fine day in San Jose and his lips need vaseline. He is parched.

I think Marcie would keep me moist forever, or vice versa, even if we lost our organs, sold them to China, got the Krohn’s disease, avoided alcohol due to the colostomy bag. I don’t have to sweat in her arms but…

Sergeant Moss pops his pickle bag. The whole thing smashes in his hand and falls to the floor. It is pungent and I should complain for being in a booth with such a terrible smell… but the man in truly invigorated. He is running to open the door with that terrible portion of his digestion tract swinging from his chest.

He reaches the jam of the door. Mighty doors made to show institutional consistency, the doors of the gates of babylon, great library doors they are and he swings these open with his only the back of his left hand. His right hand takes off the guard cap. A few hairs remain and stand at attention. It is magnificent. His parched skin has a glow… maybe coconut oil. His grey whisker stumps have sheen. His nose is poised to take in all the air his body needs and breath like a linebacker before the sack.

“Good morning Miss Dahlhouse.”

My magnificent Marcie, the most beautiful woman in the world, stops to arrange Sergeant Moss’ clip-on tie. She holds up all the traffic of Norther California as great Disneyland lines form behind her. She will not walk on until the sarge tells her how he is doing.

The door slams on a pressurised hinge as soon as she enters. The other tech people can work together to open the door and perhaps someone will pause to tie the door to open configuration but probably not. People are always competing.

“Well, I tell you… I saw the sun break the horizon and I threw away my coffee. You remember? I am trying that Yogi tea you told me about.”

Marcie the Beautiful reaches into her executive case and takes out a yellow tea bag. Just one.

She places this into the gray pocket of my boss. The place where pens and mace should be stored. The place where civilization tells us to put our tools. No one wears pens on the hip though they leak. It is also a pocket designed by the tailors to be near the heart.

She pats him at the heart. Marcie smiles and the LED lights in the chandelier get sucked of power like an EMP. She is fabulous. The slight aroma of her opulence has been floated to my booth by the late employees coming in from the doors. I don’t even check their tags. No one cares about security when there is beauty.

She pats him so lovingly that I am beyond jealousy and nostalgia. I’m not even giddy to see her behave like a person who is much less than a queen. She is timeless kindness, humanity with fine sculpted legs, the way those ugly boys did not explode her hips. They were probably prematurely born because the antibodies in her uterus would have killed them as invaders. She makes me cry to see.

Like I could ever get a Marcie.

Mar is wrong. There can be no

training.

No plan.

Love has to be an accident.

.

.

I decided to quit my new job that day and get into insurance.

It is amazing how many widows and amputees will love you...

Pain is the greatest aphrodisiac.

If you are lonely get a newspaper subscription.