3. The Lowlife: I have left the lowlife until last because that is where he must be placed on any measure of human personality, capability, or intelligence. His only skill is the ability to transform oxygen into carbon-dioxide. Because of his limitations, it is impossible for him to raise his status in society. Therefore, as he sees it, he has no choice. Wallowing in despicability, his only goal in life is to attach himself to a woman and, by the sheer weight of his own wretchedness, drag her to a level such that there will be at least one person in the world with less social rank than he.
The lowlife has many aliases. He may be a son of a bitch, a bastard, a heel, a rat-bag, a sleaze-bucket, or a no-goodnik. It is impossible for him to have an inferiority complex as he really is inferior. The lowlife can be identified in two ways: First, by his location. He is always either in or near a bar. Second, unlike the deadbeat or the philanderer, he does not charm or flatter. In one sense he is more honest than they, in that he does not pretend to be someone other than who he is, a no-class worm. He also does not pretend that he will change. Actually, he expects the woman to change. To this end he employs all sorts of tricks and is not above subterfuge … or below it, for that matter.
One example should suffice — the sad tale of Maria M. and a lowlife named Geraldo. Maria was a naive girl, the illegitimate daughter of an itinerant hairdresser — a woman with no permanent clientele — and a one-time Baptist preacher turned shoemaker, a man who had gone from saving souls to replacing them. Maria had never learned that there’s a difference between hugging and being held so you can’t get away. One fateful day, she stopped for a drink on her way home from her job as an assistant message taker at a beef jerky factory. Geraldo, who sported greasy hair and crooked teeth was, as usual, patrolling the bar in search of prey. He approached Maria and said, “Haven’t I seen you someplace before … and would you like to come back to my place?”
It was at this point that Maria made her mistake. Had she recognized Geraldo for the lowlife that he was and had she countered with an appropriate response, much of what followed might have been avoided. An appropriate response in the foregoing situation would have been, “Yes we have met. I’m the receptionist at the VD clinic.” Or, “Back to your place, you say. Can two people fit under a rock?”
Instead, Maria, who was not wise to the ways of the lowlife, responded. “Maybe we’ve met … do you eat beef jerky?”
Her reply was too mild and Geraldo interpreted it as an invitation, not that he needed one. She didn’t stand a chance. He was all over her like goose crap on a beach. They returned to his place and within a week he had diluted her self-esteem to the point where she believed that she owed him everything and had to complete her life with him in order to repay. After all, it was her fault that he had crooked teeth — if he hadn’t bought her drinks on the night they met, he would have been able to afford a trip to the orthodontist.
Scum like Geraldo can always be identified by his opening lines when he encounters a potential victim. In order to provide armour for unsuspecting females, I reproduce here, a few of the more common introductions employed by this brand of sub-human, and the proper response to ensure that play in this game is suspended in the first inning:
Lowlife: “I want to give myself to you.”
Woman’s Proper Response: “Sorry, but I already have a pet snake.”
Lowlife: “I’ve wanted to go out with you ever since I read all that stuff on the bathroom wall.”
Woman’s Proper Response: “Love to, but tonight I’m attending the opening of my garage door.”
Lowlife: “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.”
Woman’s Proper Response: “If I could rearrange it, I’d put F and U together.”
Lowlife: “So, what do you do for a living?”
Woman’s Proper Response: “I’m a female impersonator.”
Lowlife: “If you were a book, I’d crawl between your covers.”
Woman’s Proper Response: “A book! You probably think Peter Pan is something to put under the bed and that Moby Dick is a venereal disease.”
Lowlife: “Here I am. What are your other two wishes?”
Woman’s Proper Response: “First, that you slither back into your bottle and second, that you put a cork in it.”
We were on my patio and Adriana, who had thus far managed to restrain herself, finally lost her battle. “There are many kinds of men you haven’t mentioned,” she said. “What about stumblebums, dumbos, horses arses, con men, bozos, knuckleheads, letches, blowhards, gasbags and good-time Charleys?”
“Your list is long, my loquacious lumpkin, but the terms on it are all synonyms for, or subcategories of, the types I have already dealt with.”
‘I see,” she said. “Then there are no others?”
“No, my list covers them all.”
“Into which category do you fit?” she asked. “No, let me guess. My first thought is that you are a deadbeat because you don’t work and the fact that you are lazy lends weight. But then, though you lack skill in the bedroom and though you have never visited Saskatchewan, you also fit the profile of a philanderer. That left me perplexed as you practically live in a bar and you have ensnared women in that environment although, to my knowledge, all came to their senses and quickly left. So I conclude, my mistyped tyro, that you are all of the above.” Over the rim of her glass, she gave me a look, similar to the smirk a cat exhibits when the door is left open on a birdcage.
I returned her grin. “You have me there.”
“I thought so,” she purred. “Your categories are useless. There is some of each in all men.”
“You’re right … except for one thing … my middle name is Lyle.”
She grinned and saluted me with her glass. “Slippery,” she said, “very slippery. But weren’t you about to detail the different types of women in the world?”
My glass was empty and I was weary. “Another time … categorizing women is not an easy task. Even someone as experienced as I will occasionally make a mistake.”
A Morning Walk
A RISING SUN CHASED THE SCENT OF oleander through my open window and together they nudged me into awareness that this was no ordinary morning. A glance outside confirmed it. The understated beauty of daybreak cast reflections of the surrounding mountains onto Lake Albatross and a misty horizon softened the worn peaks so that they looked like the flattened breasts of a reclining woman. I called through the window to Adriana who was harassing the flowers in her garden and we agreed to walk to Don Emilio’s so that she could buy me breakfast.
As we started down the hill, the sun topped the horizon and turned the approaching pavement to silver. The carretera had been noticeably washed clean by the rainy season and was lined with bouquets of orange-red flowers lifted into the sky by gigantic tulip trees. We decided to multiply the distance by three to prolong our enjoyment.
“It’s a gorgeous morning,” Adriana said. “Are you going to spoil it by trying to categorize women as you did men — by confining us in your prefabricated boxes?”
“It is not my intention to confine women,” I replied. “I simply wish to point out certain types and provide guidelines for men who enter into relationships with those types. Again, it will be necessary to paint with a wide brush. But I do not wish to walk and talk at the same time.”
“That is your choice,” she said. “Unlike whether or not you simultaneously breathe and think.”
Before I go on, dear reader, I must explain that the Principality of Adriana alternates between two states: natural bland and tippled fishwife. Prior to breakfast her demeanour leans away from natural bland.
We walked randomly for over an hour, passing the doors of any number of strange buildings, each of which displayed a darkened interior and CLOSED signs in their windows. Eventually the delicious smells of early morning cooking led us to Don Emilio’s. Remembering the season, we chose to sit under a tiled roof and look out to the open courtyard. At this hour we we
re the only customers — huevos rancheros and steaming coffee arrived almost immediately.
I tugged a paper napkin from a ceramic tomato and Adriana spooned sugar from a bowl that came from the same batch. “Go ahead,” she said. “Let me hear it.”
“Very well … there are two basic types of women — those who have it and those who don’t. Those who have it make sure it’s visible and show it off at every occasion. Those who don’t have it envy the ones who do, so they often try to fake it or hide the fact by talking about how useless it is or why it’s not needed. They also get angry at a date if he pays attention to someone who has it.”
Adriana sipped her coffee. “That’s nothing new. Of course, some have ideal bodies and some lack such perfection. If you relied solely on the testimony of women then you have heard that there has never been a female in all of history with a faultless physique. Men are less discriminating. They continually brag of bedding women with consummate physicality.” She stood. “I have to go to the bathroom but when I come back I want you to answer a question.”
I waved her away and leaned back. A dozen white plastic tables were scattered at random across the courtyard, each surrounded by four chairs tipped forward to shed rain and to expose red and yellow Luna Beer advertisements. Across the courtyard, a stout cook reached through the steam rising from a large pot to turn up the volume on an old radio and mariachi music began to compete with the broadcast of a soccer game coming through the open window from the house across the street.
Adriana returned and sat down. “Now, answer a question, my vacuous voyeur. Explain why males and females look at the same anatomy, yet perceive it differently.”
“In a minute, my little suet sack. First I must explain fully the difference between the two types. Those who have it, think men only look at them because of it. Those who don’t have it, think that men look at those who do have it for the same reason.”
“Yes, yes. Now answer my question. Why do men and women see the same body differently?”
“Very well, but I’m not finished. There are many reasons why perceptions vary between the genders, but I’ll proffer just one. We all know that women’s bodies change through time, but we don’t always recognize just how short that time span can be. For example, during the interval that it takes to down several drinks, it is not uncommon for a woman’s body to approach absolute flawlessness in the eyes of the man who has consumed the drinks. This same phenomenon has been known to occur to sailors stepping ashore after months at sea.
“Now I’ll finish. Those who have it are afraid of losing it while those who don’t have it often try to acquire it artificially. Most of the time, they wish that those who have it would shrivel up or go away. Those who have it, sometimes don’t know they have it, and those who don’t have it never forget.”
We finished our coffee and Adriana paid the cheque. Outside, our city had come alive. A moustached man held a ladder vertical on the street corner and gazed at the sky as if contemplating a climb with no destination. A young mother sputtered by on a motor scooter laughing along with her infant daughter whose chubby legs straddled the gas tank. An old lady sat at a table topped by a green and red umbrella. She was selling all manner of delicious looking things that we had no interest in now that we had eaten. A boy in a yellow t-shirt threw potato chips at his sister while they waited for a bus. A young woman sauntered by, all belly and buttocks, in low-slung jeans. A man with scars on his arms smoked a cigarette and tinkered under the hood of his ancient truck as he furtively watched the undulations in the woman’s pants. He caught me staring and we both grinned. Adriana, oblivious to the unspoken lecherous conspiracy, resumed our conversation. “But surely, your so-called phenomenon is explained by the fact that alcohol clouds a man’s vision and obviously sea spray does the same thing.”
“No, my mangy mariner, I will not enter that debate,” I said. “Rather let me finish my exposition of those who have it and those who don’t by saying that unfortunately, most men don’t have it … or at least, not that much of it.”
She stared at me. “What are you talking about? I thought we were discussing women’s bodies.”
“You were discussing bodies. I was discussing brains. Conversing about a woman’s anatomy is for adolescent boys or men with arrested development. Both are like hobbled billy goats sniffing the air for sexual sweat. Sometimes there’s a whiff but it goes nowhere. As you say, most women understand that it’s impossible to define a perfect body … and, may I say it, so do a few sober, land-locked males.”
Adriana wrinkled her nose. “Before you go on, my perambulating pontificator, perhaps you can enlighten me as to why many women try to hide their bodies while a man will walk down the street with a bald head, a three-ton stomach, and bowed legs, and still consider himself sexy?”
“That is an enigma. Perhaps mirror images cause eye malfunctions in the human male.”
On cue, a rotund man in a white hat aimed himself toward the faded white statue of Bartolomé Albatross on the corner of Paseo del Lago. Filled with purpose, he used plenty of space as he walked swiftly trying to undo, in a few minutes on a sidewalk, the years of indulgence at a table. Flowers bloomed in boxes fronting El Castillo de los Tontos, and early morning cooking smells were replaced by the enticing aroma of pies, tarts, cakes, and other dietary unmentionables as we walked past Maria’s Bakery.
The aroma captured Adriana and she excused herself to run inside. She emerged in a few minutes carrying pan dulces for two. We nibbled on the sweetness as we walked. “I have already detailed the types of men that threaten or destroy a relationship. I will now turn to women. A woman is more complex than a man because, in tandem with the two types, she may fall into dozens of other categories. She may be an aunt or an apron … a babe, bimbo, broad, ball-breaker, battle-axe, chick, coquette, daughter, dish, or doll. She might also be a fox, girl, hen, matron, moll, nun, or nympho. If none of the foregoing, she could be a pussy, queen, slattern, sister, slut, shrew, tart, widow, or a wife. The list is not exhaustive and, of course, not all are dangerous. Some that are considered menacing, such as prostitutes, hookers, and trollops are really not hazardous. They are simply one half of a transaction — part physical and part financial — that has little consequence in terms of the male-female bond. The real risk to a relationship comes from within. The women that pose the most threat to men are the prospectors, the architects, and the wardens.”
A breeze emerged from a side street and I noticed the sky had darkened. At the same time I felt the first drops of the last gasp of the wet season on my face. I shivered and Adriana grinned. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked.
“Not at all, my jiggling jellyfish,” she said. “I like the cold.”
“You should,” I replied. “You invented it.”
We picked up our pace but in moments the rain clouds melted away to reveal a blue sky.
Let me begin with the prospector. She is an explorer, a searcher, a woman with a quest. Single-mindedly, she pursues her goal — to discover and then mine her own personal male El Dorado.
During the time of human history, since there have been two genders, some women have seen their main function as providing encouragement so that men may quit living lives of unmitigated ease. They deem it an imperative to provide just the right amount of avaricious propellant to nudge any male in their conjugal catchment area into the exalted state of penury. The best known of this classification have been designated trophies, mistresses, and concubines. However, they are nursery rhyme villains compared to the real master of the art — the common housewife.
The housewife operates on many levels. The most obvious and famous are the ones who have married movie or sports stars. Inevitably, citing incompatibility, mental cruelty or some inconsequential peccadillo, they sue for divorce and the gigantic settlement that goes with it. The scenario follows a well known plot, familiar to all. What is not so well known are the activities that never reach the headlines but flourish in the daily lives of ordinary
couples, where sex becomes the commodity that is used to bargain for everything from a Caribbean vacation to a new toaster.”
As a favour to my male readers I will outline the sad case of Midas Nestfeather who moved here to take his ease beneath our warm sun after acquiring modest wealth in his own country. Midas was a small breezy cog in a research group that had developed a revolutionary process to aid in conservation. After years of experimentation they had succeeded in harnessing the energy potential in human flatulence. The breakthrough had caused an immediate worldwide reduction in electrical consumption and had sent batteries, nuclear power plants, and coal-fired generators into the land of buggy whips and button overshoes. The market reacted wildly. Midas had gotten behind the project early and was there at the tail end. At the peak of the frenzy he sold the few shares he had accumulated, ate his last plate of beans, and retired.
His downfall began shortly after his arrival. He attended a black tie soirée hosted by EBA, the local group established to Elevate Beyond Ability. Membership in this group was restricted to those individuals who demonstrated a rare skill — a skill that, when employed, allowed every member to climb socially over every other member at the same time. Midas’s attendance was accidental. He thought EBA stood for Eat Beans Anonymous. When he arrived, the large man employed at the door to keep out riff-raff was distracted by the simultaneous arrival of a pair of large breasts closely followed by a curvaceous lady in a gold lamé dress. Midas entered and found himself alone in a crowd of people all intent on relieving the incredible dreariness, abundant in any echelon that resides at an elevation where lack of oxygen causes synapses to wither. Scattered among these individuals were beautiful women, each raptly feigning attention to every man they systematically sidled past. These women were not members of EBA. They were prospectors, each single-mindedly intent on acquiring mineral rights to any ore-bearing male into whom they could drive a stake. A bystander could have been forgiven for assuming he or she was at a gathering of 49’ers or Klondike sourdoughs. Most of these prospectors were uninvited but had gained entrance by distracting the doorman, usually some days before the soiree.
The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 17