News Chapter 1
She went to see her lover in San Francisco to deliver the news no lover wants to hear, that she was pregnant....
I went to see him in San Francisco. I don't even remember why he was there. But I had been longing to go back and this was as good an excuse as any. He wouldn't be happy. Guys are never happy when you deliver this kind of news, but it helps to do it in person. I'm sure an email or phone call would have been a lot cheaper, a lot quicker, and spared me the sight of a grown man crying, but I wanted to be there. I wanted him to know it was real, and this wasn't some dumb, childish joke I was playing in an attempt to bring him crawling back home.
Wherever that was. Our "homes" were two separate small towns that even people thirty miles away hadn't heard of. One was named after a body of water that was nothing more than a swamp with a few oyster shells in it. The other was named after some sort of flower, or some sort of something. They were just names on interstate signs to most people, even the people who lived there. It seemed no one questioned the nothingness with which a small town surrounded them; they just accepted it and squatted over their five acres of pecan trees. As the plane took to the air, I thanked God for the experience.
MSY to SFO, touching down at 11:35 a.m. Pacific time. I had time to jump on MUNI and head over to the touristy area before calling him. Actually, I could have done anything I wanted before I called him. He didn't know I was here. I found the place with the little Viet lady. She looked a little older now, and her son was a teenager, not a chubby little boy like last time. I said "pho tai" in my terrible Vietnamese, and sat down while she cooked my rare beef stew. I had deliberately sat facing outside. The restaurant was part of an open air mall of sorts. Next door they sold cheap outerwear that looked like leather and velvet. Across the street looked like the old French Market in my new hometown. I say this because there was a wire screen standing on the ground, covered in "Louis Vuitton" handbags. My pho arrived, and I doused it in hot sauce. I ate like I was starving.
I rode the F-line for old times' sake. The jolt of the car starting up didn't help my stomach which was reeling from all the hot sauce and chilis I had put in my lunch. I walked to my hotel, tossed my duffel bag on my bed, and off I went to the bathroom. It made the second time that day, the third if you counted the nausea on the plane.
I curled up on my bed and pulled a digital photograph out of my bag. There he was, the only love of my life. His hands, his face, all perfect. I longed to hold him in my arms, to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him, and how everyone else loves him, even though he can't comprehend love just yet.
Of course, every mother thinks this about her firstborn. It doesn't matter if he hasn't been born yet, or doesn't like spicy Vietnamese noodle soup.
The black and white picture seemed to perk up the situation. There were two boxes drawn on him, one showing his head and the other bearing the caption "It's a boy!" off to the side. I thought about him, and realized his father, the bastard, shared a lot of the same features as his unborn son, especially the not comprehending love part. I don't think there was ever anything I could do up to this point to soften his heart, and believe me I had tried. I fell asleep on my side, my mouth still slightly fuzzy from the vomit (despite rinsing my mouth three times). I was still clutching the picture of my unborn son when I woke up two hours later.
I picked up my phone and found his number. I called him, and found myself wishing for the voicemail to pick up. But it didn't. I squeaked out a hello, and he sounded happy to hear my voice for the first time in over a year. "Wow, it's been months. How have you been?"
"I've been well. Sick as of late, but overall in good health."
He asked a few more bullshit questions and then I cut to the chase. I told him I had dropped off a package at the hotel he was staying in, and it should be down in the lobby. What he didn't know was the package was me. I told him I would call him back in a few minutes to let him know if the package had made it there or not. I got in the elevator and situated myself on the couch nearest to them. I called him back. "It's there. Go pick it up now; I want to be on the phone with you so I know you got it." He agreed, and I felt my heart race for the first time in four months.
The look on his face when he got off the elevator was a mixture of happiness, anger, and bewilderment.
Wherever that was. Our "homes" were two separate small towns that even people thirty miles away hadn't heard of. One was named after a body of water that was nothing more than a swamp with a few oyster shells in it. The other was named after some sort of flower, or some sort of something. They were just names on interstate signs to most people, even the people who lived there. It seemed no one questioned the nothingness with which a small town surrounded them; they just accepted it and squatted over their five acres of pecan trees. As the plane took to the air, I thanked God for the experience.
MSY to SFO, touching down at 11:35 a.m. Pacific time. I had time to jump on MUNI and head over to the touristy area before calling him. Actually, I could have done anything I wanted before I called him. He didn't know I was here. I found the place with the little Viet lady. She looked a little older now, and her son was a teenager, not a chubby little boy like last time. I said "pho tai" in my terrible Vietnamese, and sat down while she cooked my rare beef stew. I had deliberately sat facing outside. The restaurant was part of an open air mall of sorts. Next door they sold cheap outerwear that looked like leather and velvet. Across the street looked like the old French Market in my new hometown. I say this because there was a wire screen standing on the ground, covered in "Louis Vuitton" handbags. My pho arrived, and I doused it in hot sauce. I ate like I was starving.
I rode the F-line for old times' sake. The jolt of the car starting up didn't help my stomach which was reeling from all the hot sauce and chilis I had put in my lunch. I walked to my hotel, tossed my duffel bag on my bed, and off I went to the bathroom. It made the second time that day, the third if you counted the nausea on the plane.
I curled up on my bed and pulled a digital photograph out of my bag. There he was, the only love of my life. His hands, his face, all perfect. I longed to hold him in my arms, to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him, and how everyone else loves him, even though he can't comprehend love just yet.
Of course, every mother thinks this about her firstborn. It doesn't matter if he hasn't been born yet, or doesn't like spicy Vietnamese noodle soup.
The black and white picture seemed to perk up the situation. There were two boxes drawn on him, one showing his head and the other bearing the caption "It's a boy!" off to the side. I thought about him, and realized his father, the bastard, shared a lot of the same features as his unborn son, especially the not comprehending love part. I don't think there was ever anything I could do up to this point to soften his heart, and believe me I had tried. I fell asleep on my side, my mouth still slightly fuzzy from the vomit (despite rinsing my mouth three times). I was still clutching the picture of my unborn son when I woke up two hours later.
I picked up my phone and found his number. I called him, and found myself wishing for the voicemail to pick up. But it didn't. I squeaked out a hello, and he sounded happy to hear my voice for the first time in over a year. "Wow, it's been months. How have you been?"
"I've been well. Sick as of late, but overall in good health."
He asked a few more bullshit questions and then I cut to the chase. I told him I had dropped off a package at the hotel he was staying in, and it should be down in the lobby. What he didn't know was the package was me. I told him I would call him back in a few minutes to let him know if the package had made it there or not. I got in the elevator and situated myself on the couch nearest to them. I called him back. "It's there. Go pick it up now; I want to be on the phone with you so I know you got it." He agreed, and I felt my heart race for the first time in four months.
The look on his face when he got off the elevator was a mixture of happiness, anger, and bewilderment.
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