laila park and the multidimensional
star gaze at the
so i'm at barnes-and-fricking-nobles and i meet a girl and we just start talking and don't stop for nine hours straight. our energies just collide in some overtly-accidental-possibly-coincidental-but-nevertheless-fantastic way. this is saturday night. 8:00 post meridian. her name is laila. spelled with an 'i' and not a 'y'. and i have a hard time not singing the stupid song out loud because i know it's tacky and she's heard it a million times. and laila has these gorgeous, full lips and petite, soft hands with perfect nails and cuticles that i run into accidentally, or not-so-accidentally as we're walking around the bookstore with our coffee and talking about herbs and yoga, and my horrible diet and how many infirmities i have and how people suck and how i like to suck on cigarettes. and i'm hoping this will move into other talk about sucking on other things. but it doesn't. she just smiles this colossal smile and her sanguine cheeks fill-up with all these niceties and girl fluids and such. she has these great clothes that are draped over her tiny little body. and i try to make-out the size of her breasts under her jacket and determine that she really does have a cute ass and that she really is cute. possibly beautiful. and she has this amazing voice that i want to eat like candy. and i wonder why the hell she's even talking to me because i'm standing there the whole time, with my mouth agape - eating her words like tiny bubbles floating around capriciously in the air. and i'm catching them like a nickel-dimed retard at chucky cheese's. and i even have to swallow occasionally, because we're talking so much; and so fast. but she doesn't seem to notice this. she just bats her eyes at me and speaks sweet. and we just walk and talk, completely effortlessly. and so, after about an hour of walking and talking, she finally says, "i have to go now." she says that she was supposed to stay with friends, but now isn't going to, and so, has to go. i say, what do you mean. and i say that i don't want the night to end. she has all these amazing etiquettes and makes a person feel so welcomed and wanted, in the most perfect way. i say again that i don't want to leave and that i want to go with her, somehow, somewhere, wherever. and she grins cloyingly sweet. and that means "sure" where she's from. and we both decide that we are experiencing a more-than-exceptional situation and we decide that we like each other. and i ask her, where does she have to go to. and she says that she lives sixty miles away, in the springs. and that's where she has to go. and she says that she has a little kid and needs to get back down to pick-up the drunk midget. and so i say, "i'll follow you down there. if that's what it takes."
so i get into my car and she gets into hers. and we pull out and get on the highway, and i get to thinking about how it's an hour drive from denver to the springs and so i get on the phone to call, and i say, "we're serious about this, right? 'cos i'm on the highway, following you down to colorado-fucking-springs..." and she says, "yes, i think we are serious, because you're following me down to colorado-fucking-springs. so now, come-go with me... and you shouldn't say 'fuck' - it gets me all turned-on. and i don't want to get turned-on this late in the night, with a total stranger..." i laugh a nervous laugh, and correct her by saying, "a perfect stranger," and i think about my chivalry and whether or not i was being couth and i think, "fuck, fuck, fuck..." to make-up for all the things i haven't said i would do with her. to her. because of her.
so, we get all the way down to the springs and she gets a friend to watch her kid so she can play with me. the friend giggles at our circumstance and rolls her eyes and calls several times after that. and laila just keeps picking up the phone and saying simply, "hello… yes, i'm still alive." then she hangs up.
so we leave together after dropping off her drunk midget, in the same car, and she says, "oh yeah, i'm so excited!" i say, "yeah, me too." and then she says, "yeah, i'm moving to oregon in three weeks."
and the blood coagulating in my midsection leaps up into my throat. and i say, "fuck, that sucks. three weeks. i can't believe i drove all the way down here... how tragic..."
but still, it's something fantastic. so, we go to dinner and have adult-beverages at an elephant bar. then we drive up to manitou springs after midnight and she remarks about how perfect and gorgeous the full lips of the moon are. and she's right. so we get lost in manitou and get high on a mountain overlooking a gargantuan well-lit power generator and we open the moonroof and stare up and out at the galaxy and all the stars millions of miles off and talk about the enormity of everything. and i keep staring at her, and with the small light i have to examine - i keep wondering, high-out-of-my-mind - but comfortable - "is this girl really sitting here?" and, "is this girl really cute?" and i answer, yes and yes again. and then we leave and drive back down to get chai tea at some hand-built-open-24-hours-a-day-world-christian-community-log-cabin-looking-mate-(pronounced maa-tay)-tea-no-caffeine-natural-way-of-living-god-fucked-shit-place-that's-quite-nice-actually-on-the-inside-where-they-built-everything-by-hand-even-though-she's-not-christian-and-i'm-not-either, but we both love the idea of space and time and everything in-between.
so we have several more hours of intense, effortless conversation where topics just keep coming and she tells me about her extraordinary life and how her father lied to everybody, and to her, about who he was. she tells me how her father stole somebody's identity before she was born. and how she only knew him as david park until she was fourteen. when the fbi came to their door, and said, no, his real name is mohmammed ahman. and then he was deported by the fbi, back to saudi arabia, and she hasn't seen him since. and we make several hand-holding attempts at love and kisses on the neck. and we smile at each other, cloyingly sweet, and it seems like we've known each other forever and i don't want to leave. but we both are getting tired. and me, even more so, because my doctor got me loaded the night before on irish whiskey and beer.
and i want to just crawl into bed with her. but don't. because i can be very shy. and because this might be about love and not lust.
and so i leave and drive all the way back up to denver at 5 in the morning. and i race the sun in - cursing it, cursing it - and cursing me, for not pushing the situation with her. but mostly i'm cursing to music, just to stay awake because i hate falling asleep when the sun's coming up and mostly just because i fear becoming shredded coon skin on the side of the road, and more importantly, i'm cursing because i can't sing. and i think, the whole drive home about how cute this ethereal angel really is. her name is laila park - she still keeps her father's stolen-identity-name. she's egyptian and swedish and petite as a complete girl can be. and when i hug her, she is going to break. but doesn't. and she really does like me and comes out and says it. and she clings to my relatively large man-body when we hug, like she doesn't want to let go. and i don't want to let go and we have a hard time un-sticking our body glue. and she has this high-egyptian forehead and soft, thin hair. and she says that she's intrigued by me. and she says to her friend, "he can play the guitar. isn't that sexy?" and we could fall in love. because it's certainly not lust. but is three weeks enough time. and is there any way to avoid total tragedy, because we both think that love may be involved. and i curse myself. and say, not again, dumbshit. and i think to myself, and aloud, to her - that this is the precise exercise that proves the idea that when one loves something, or simply just gets-involved-with-something-or-somebody, there is no way around tragedy. inexorably, love equals tragedy. even linguistically, tragedy is tied to the finicky meaning of our current lovable, and hackneyed word "romantic".
anyway, i get home and am too tired to go number three. i tried and tried, and thought about her little butt - but i couldn't go number three, because it was more like love and not lust. and then she calls the next afternoon and wakes me up. and she says how she loves the story i showed her. and she says how she's coming to spend part of the weekend, next weekend with me. and i keep calling her and she keeps calling me and i say, "did that really happen? are you real?" and she says, "yes and yes again. my friend thinks you're cute too. and i would have to agree," she says. and i say, "uh-oh, that means trouble." and she says, "well, not all trouble is bad." and i agree. but, i say, half-singing like nickel-dimed retard at chucky cheese's, "you know that trouble starts with a 't' and that rhymes with 'p' and that means pool..." and she says, "thank you so much for calling. it's sooo great to hear your voice." cloyingly sweet. she says that she wants me to play the guitar, so i can melt her. and i say, get your cute little ass up to denver and i'll wet you like candle-wax on the nipples.
so laila park is coming up to denver next weekend. and i'm taking friday off. because three weeks isn't enough time.