by Erik Hagen
But if I didn't date that girl – let's call her Olga – I mean, that seems like a German name, right? Well if I never dated an Olga, I would be more willing to kill Germans.
I used to feel that wisdom was one of the virtuous goals in life – Socrates said happiness was our ultimate aim, the undercurrent motive for all our choices. You know how much I talk about philosophy. My motive was actually wisdom – I wanted to be wise so I could be happy. I guess it's easy to argue that wisdom was a means to an end, but sometimes I wanted to be happy so I could be wise. They are interchangeable for me.
But suddenly, when Sophia was close to me, kisses were wiser. I gave wisdom some thought...Sophia told me that kisses are a better fate than wisdom. I wonder if Socrates or Solomon kissed many people. That isn't really a serious question, so don't worry. I had so much alcohol in me that night, I think it was probably a combination of the hot weather, Sophia and whatever drinks Olaf made for us, but I couldn't think straight. Sophia and I moved so fast. We forgot the syntax of things. Since neither of us were with someone...intimately...for such a long time, we never imagined we could move as fast as we did. I don't think we had sex there because Olaf didn't have any condoms. I guess that going six years without sex makes you surprisingly rigid with demands – trying to get things perfect. It isn't like things could get worse; what's one more night in the scheme of things? Maybe our virginities grew back and we were shy and frightened teenagers again. For your future travels, remember that Death Valley casinos don't sell condoms. I guess it's a little strange because I would imagine lots of people have had sex in Death Valley. It is really hot so clothes come off and there are lots of spots off the highway where nobody goes. Lots of peace and quiet.
We left Death Valley behind and stopped somewhere in Arizona, off the highway, and Sophia confided her relationship secrets to me. She was really scared about dating again, about getting hurt. I swore by all flowers for her to stop crying. I remember that some book had a character swearing by all flowers and the girl loved the line. I told her that I was scared too. I said that if we got too scared, we would kill Olaf and Mika and then run until we were caught. That way, it wouldn't be us breaking us apart, but instead the authorities. She laughed, causing me to smile. I guess it was sort of funny. I told her that they were both asleep and we joked for a little longer about how we would kill them. I fell asleep next to Sophia, mostly thinking that her upper lip looked like a rainbow. Well, I think I told Olaf it looked like a rainbow. Given the context, I was thinking of a sickle. It looked just like the Soviet flag's sickle.
Sophia was a beautiful woman, but I think most of that beauty gets defined by me. She didn't really think many men were interested in her because nobody asked her on a date for six years. She was beautiful though. I had to compliment her somehow. I didn't want to be fake, but I remember giving my compliment a lot of thought. I finally told her, while holding her hands and rubbing her rough fingernails, that the greatest gesture of my brain was less than her eyelids' flutter. I took it from a book or something – maybe a TV show. Her eyelids said things. I could tell, by the ferocity of her blinking, what she really was thinking. They gave her away. Her eyelids said that we were for each other. That wasn't a look I received much, making it odd that I reached the conclusion I did given the circumstances. I couldn't tell you if that's some sort of natural inborn instinct. Perhaps God put it in us to help us repopulate...like a sex drive. I can read blinks, let me tell you. Even now, I can explain all your inner thoughts. Well, I don't really mean everything. I can read all your thoughts about sex. If you move to something a little more complicated, I would probably be lost, so don't worry. Then again, it seems you think about sex a lot so maybe I actually can read everything you think.
When we arrived in Vegas, all of us drank to our heart's content. Vegas has these great adult sippy cups that hang around your neck, something like a gallon of liquid can be held inside with a straw straight to your mouth. Let me tell you, that straw never left its home on the tip of my tongue. We finished a couple margaritas, or whatever drink it was, until our souls were unfurnished, as drunk Cummings used to say. I remember this one moment distinctly because Sophia was almost hit by a car as she tried to run into the street. I pulled her back into my arms, laughing. What I didn't tell her was that I was afraid of reading her life paragraph in the papers. Sophia told me later that she was worried her death would be trapped in parenthesis. People write things like that on the internet. At least, that's where I first saw it.
The next few days were spent coming back home. They were fairly uneventful other than we had sex a couple times. I don't want to go into it too much, but whenever I mention sex, you blink a little faster.
What I did learn was that Sophia lived life as if life were a movie. I would watch her think sometimes and I could just know how she thought. She would note her setting and try to prepare for the action that would occur. She would always be thinking, "why did the director choose to show this view?" If the situation seemed mundane, she made it interesting by trying to act out the scenes. She once asked me, "do you know why the sky is blue?"
"The light reflecting," I started to respond, but she interrupted me.
"No. It is blue because I want it to be. Just like fire is hot, I want it to be hot, so it is hot. And you, do you know why you exist?"
She was my Ji-hyun Jeon. I knew it then.
I couldn't think like Sophia. I don't really know how I see the world. I think it's like my feelings, just unknown and inside such a small box that the bigger box and outer box thinkers ignore. I met a counselor once who gave me advice, but her words dripped out of my eyes during our "breakthrough." She said I was progressing...but I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be progressing to. Sophia waited for me outside and when I saw her, my eyes looking drunk, she said "we need something for this moment...Pachabel in the background. Then it would be perfect." She made me feel better – she lived in a furnished soul.
Regine's soul was unfurnished, as drunken Cummings used to say. Actually, I think her soul was empty. Not blank or anything, definitely not a white soul, but littered with chaotic paint. I can't complain excessively because she will always be my sweet old Regine. We almost got married. You remember when I was obsessed with buying a Ring Pop? That was going to be how I proposed to her. I liked that idea because if she didn't want to get married, I could laugh it off. If she said yes, I would take a job and show how I could be a responsible husband. I even tried adopting a kid to show her I was responsible. I was in my youth, during those years, and foolishly optimistic about relationships, life, etcetera. For a long time, I wanted to get Regine's name tattooed on my arm, like the marines in war, except make it look Italian. I liked saying Regine with an Italian accent. It suddenly created a new mystique and sensuality.
Regine created wars. She fought, yelled, scratched and cried. I fought in my own way – utilizing my years of passive aggressive talents that I mastered through public school. I think I am more of an attrition-oriented soldier. From our fighting, she would occasionally be able to capture some high ground. From the ridge, she lazily lobbed mortar shells down to me. I started fighting back, escalating the conflict to include tanks, rifles and airplanes. I, or at least the main part of myself that I call me, just waited in a ditch while fighting continued. It just didn't seem like I was fighting. My voice was rising and other things like that, typically associated with fighting. I even remember Olaf giving me advice. But I wasn't fighting. I tried to think of her smile. I wanted to remember happier times. I thought of her beautiful head, vividly imagining everything as I painted my picture down. I can still see the grooves of her body: there was her beautiful hair...eyes...nose...smile...lips...
Her neck, shoulders...
...etcetera...
"Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori," the old lie. Wilfred Owen said that, right? I think Latin should be more f
ashionable to use in daily speech. Sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you with that. It means "it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." Nonetheless, I always enjoyed lying more than telling the truth because when you lied, you created something new. For example, Regine once asked me if I was drinking when she called. At the time it was already knowledge and information that I was drinking. Olaf and other people with me already knew what I was doing. If I said yes, I was only spreading information. I was a temporary weatherman. But if I said no, I actually created something. Before I lied, there was no knowledge in the world that I was not drinking at that time, but by lying to Regine, I created a whole hypothetical timeline. And then, when I told her that I wasn't with Olaf, but instead playing Scrabble with someone else, she gained information that was inaccessible to anyone else in the world except me and her. It was an elite club of creators. It was only Regine and me in the world.
I know how uncomfortable you are with Sophia. You are one of those syntax people and I can tell by your blinking that it just doesn't sit right with you. I don't have that
