Three Hits

I rang the bell, the door opened, and the sun was right behind it.

I was fifteen then, and my older brother had asked me to bring a package to his friend's place. So I came, rang the bell, and was struck speechless. There she was, all smiling and radiant while I stood utterly dazzled. I mumbled some words and she took the package from my hand, her smile warm and earnest. But I was too young and too timid, so I just kept the wonder to myself and let it gradually slide into memories.

The second hit came while I was riding a bicycle under the fierce sun of a sweltering day. A motorbike zoomed past, and she was sitting at the back. I barely caught a glimpse of her profile, but my heart rate raced up a notch or two while she was vanishing from my sight and reach, like a shooting star that passed so quickly I didn't even have the time to make my wish.

Years later I was in Southwestern Virginia at mid-fall, that delightful time when entire mountains were covered in golden resplendency. I had just finished lunch at a Cracker Barrel and got into my car to head back to the highway. Another car was slowly pulling into the parking lot, and for a split second my eyes met those of the other driver. It was quite a jolt, my spine was tingling, my heart was beating funny.

My mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. I was wondering how anyone could look that good while telling myself it was wrong to feel that way when someone else was waiting at the far end of my trip. With a trembling hand I pulled the visor of my baseball cap lower on my face and drove away.

In the song The Three Bells Jimmy Brown got three bells in his entire life - one at birth, another at marriage, and the third one at his death. Sometimes in my loneliest moments I idly wonder if I would ever get a fourth hit.

Mr Monk Takes and Gives

I enjoy watching the Monk show on TV. Mr Monk is a fictional private detective and former police officer who suffers from the obsessive compulsory disorder, whatever that means, but basically he's a nutcase with impossible antics, and a cheapskate to boot. He's afraid of milk, can't stand anything asymmetrical or counting to an odd number, fastidious to a criminal extent, requires a wipe after touching no matter what but doesn't want to pay for it.

But Mr Monk is also surpassingly brilliant. He picks up clues and interprets them in a way no one else can, thus able to solve the most bizarre mysteries. The police count on him whenever they run into a wall, which they have a tendency to do.

Sometimes I feel so aggravated by Mr Monk's crazy oddball behavior that I wonder how his friends and colleagues can possibly put up with him and not relegate him to an asylum. But right there and then he always gives me an answer: he solves the mystery. Mr Monk does take a lot from his friends, driving them all nuts, but he also gives back a lot by catching the criminals.

So it all boils down to an accounting of taking and giving. The more you take, the more you have to give. After all, c'est la vie.

September 11

That morning I was in my office when a colleague burst in with the news. "Yeah, right!" was my skeptical response.

Then came the realization that it was all real. We all dropped what we were doing and tried to access news websites, which were all blocked due to heavy traffic. Finally an old-fashioned lady turned her radio on, and we huddled around in disbelief.

At lunch break I went home to find my Mom in front of our TV, which was showing the Twin Towers in smoke. My Mom didn't understand English and thought she was watching an action movie.

From that day on our hearts grew heavier, first for the victims, then for ourselves. Each of us became more aware of the precariousness of our own world, and our psyches shifted accordingly.

Vicarious Thrills

My high school years were sad and dull, mostly. It was a gloomy time, people were impoverished and scared, and we teenagers didn't fare any better. The only form of entertainment we had was cheap tickets to see movies from the Eastern Bloc shown in drab state-owned theaters.

One day while walking home from a downtown theater I told my friend that after watching the movie I couldn't help feeling my life was so boring. He said he felt the same way too, the difference was that he felt it not just after the show but also during it. We both fell silent all the way home.

We continued to get our thrills the only way we knew, sitting in the dark, vicariously living the life of fictional characters from faraway lands, all the time acutely aware that something was seriously missing from our lives.

It was the same feeling that much later on made me stop reading fictions. One day after finishing the last page of a novel by A.J. Cronin, I was suddenly overwhelmed by anger and shame, a sentiment I knew had been unconsciously built up since that little conversation I had had with my friend on our way home from a movie a couple of years ago. I knew then that I had to get my own thrills and reject the cheap vicarious excitement I had been so used to. It was my own life I was living, and I had my own pride to keep.

I've been staying true to that vow ever since, but it took me a long time to get back to pleasure reading without feeling guilty, now that I have my own stories to tell to whoever wants some vicarious thrill.

Train Whistles

Whenever I hear a train blowing its whistle, I think of Marcel Proust's Du côté de chez Swann, where a train whistle in the night evoked in the boy's imagination an empty stretch of countryside, the excitement of new places, conversations with strangers, even the sweet anticipation of a return trip.

I certainly can relate to Mr Proust's run of imagination. Where I grew up there was no train, but I used to watch buses carrying passengers to faraway places and yearn to be on one of them, the desire being so strong it would shoot a pang through my young heart. I would fantasize about leaving my lethargic small town for good, treading unfamiliar roads, taking in novel sights and sounds, encountering interesting people and hearing about their experiences.

Recently I moved to a new house with a railroad in the proximity. At night I can hear train whistles blowing. To my dismay, these whistles do not arouse any romantic longing in me, but make me feel annoyed instead. I don't want my sleep disturbed, you see.

How did I ever become so jaded?