Contents
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Esprit Spring 2005 Home
Cover Photo
Awards
Contributors
Acknowledgements
Submission Information
Mazurka
Self-Portrait
Relig na mban
Eureka
Twelve Days into January
Under-Pass
Like a Virgin; or, On Madonnas
Suisio, July
My Backyard
On
Beethoven's Sonata, Op.81a
Fade to Black
Passing Fascination
Shifting View of Window
Soiled Yogi
Thinking of Toledo
Protrusion
Storytelling in Grotte di Castellana
DeGrazia's Doors
The Sorrowful Mysteries
Dawn of Dante
Little Hope
Triptych
Self-Portrait 2
Zow Gow
Anthroarachnonet
A Breasted
Experience
A Hat in Bath
Front Cover:
Side Door, Holy Trinity
Episcopal Church,
Philadelphia
Inside Front Cover:
Together
Inside Back Cover:
Femke
Back Cover:
Monkey Toes
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| | Passing Fascination
Chris Longo
My waitress is attractive in an offbeat way. The shape
of her head, framed by wisps of long blond hair, reminds me
of an insect of some sort—large forehead, shiny black eyes—
and when she bends over to retrieve my menu
I stare at her
breasts, small and firm and orange-tan. She walks away and I
admire the sway of her hips and the way her bronzed skin
glistens underneath Arizona's afternoon sunlight.
I swig my second Corona and watch the wind rustle
lightly the leaves of the
palm trees lining Mill Avenue. It's one-
thirty, and the patio of Pedro's is packed with people—mostly
college students, most of them already drunk. Around me it
smells strongly of spicy food and cigarettes and sounds like
everybody else is having fun; lots of laughter. I cannot
remember what exactly I ordered, yet I feel
ravenous by the
time my sandwich arrives.
Later I ask the waitress for my check. I glance at her
chest again but also observe an engagement ring on the
appropriate finger of her left hand as she clears away my plate.
Guilt swims in my stomach and taps
impatiently at my temples
which are throbbing from the beer and the buzz of
surrounding conversation. I sigh and—I think about being
nine years old. I wanted a basketball of my own in the worst
way so I could practice alone and finally beat Tim, the boy
from across the street. That Christmas I got one and waited all
winter to take it outside. When I brought the ball to Tim's he
convinced me to bet it against his new sneakers or something
equally stupid. I lost, and my father refused to buy me another
ball, as the sport fell atop a heaping pile of aspirations he
discarded as fleeting and foolish. (I escaped his ambitious
designs on my
adulthood; a career in the Navy and a
Georgetown education never seemed particularly appealing. I
often imagine, however, meeting the young man my father
wanted me to become:
He walks across the patio, posture perfect, with the
confidence of an oversexed
sailor, sans vulgarity; rather,
prideful grace bred from within: arms thicker, hair shorter, face
filled with an optimism I've never known. And his eyes focus
disapprovingly on me, hunched over and tired and drinking.
Against the bright blue desert sky his stride almost evokes a
sense of stoicism. We shake hands when he
reaches my table.
"Nice to finally meet you," I say with too much zest.
"Likewise."
"Have a seat, man." Silence strikes while he
seats
himself and looks around. Then: "You're not so impressed
with me, are you?" I ask.
"I am not, no. I'll be honest."
"Figures."
"You could apply yourself much more than you do."
"I guess." Shrug. "Are you getting anything? I mean're
you hungry?"
"No. Thank you."
"The buffalo chicken's good here."
"I'll pass."
"Hunh. D'you think we still have the same taste in
stuff?"
"They are likely
along the same lines."
"Even chicks?"
"Beg your pardon?"
"I wonder if we've got the same taste in women. Our
waitress is hot."
"I do not have time for dating."
"Really?"
"Certainly not. Matriculating at Georgetown entails a
very demanding course load. And I am in ROTC."
"I noticed. How's that working out for you?"
"Very well. Father is pleased."
"Think you'll go to Iraq?"
"I will go where I am
needed."
"Right on." I raise my bottle.
"You should not imbibe alcohol on a weekday
afternoon."
"Perhaps." I burp. "So you're
not getting anything?"
"No." He scans the terrace again, shakes his head like
my father did when I told him about the basketball. "These
people don't realize how fortunate they are."
"Nope. They
sure don't."
"And neither do you." He points accusingly.
"Huh?"
"Clean up your act. That's all I came here to tell you."
He stands and grimaces and marches off, down Mill.)
Worse than my dad's disappointment, though, was the loss of
that gift, the fact that it could mean so much to me and
present nothing more than a greedy, passing fascination to my
neighbor—read the bill: close to thirteen dollars.
I leave a twenty on the table before finishing my beer
and heading out onto the street, hoping to avid my more
successful self.
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