Monica and I instantly hit it off at being good close friends. The only
thing that she made me feel guilty about was that she thought I
was a sincere Christian. But I played the role all right, even saying grace
with her in public before eating at Denny’s or at McDonald’s near UCLA
although we knew we were surrounded by atheists who probably wanted
to cut off our heads and post them up on public square. I thought it would
be worth it as long as I could find a way to get inside that tight package
of hers although I knew it was a long shot. So I was like martyring myself.
What I wouldn’t have given to get in between those creamy, supple, vanilla
athletic thighs! She could squeeze the breath out of me and I wouldn’t
Several weeks after the nightclub incident we went to see a movie––Austin
Powers: International Man of Mystery. Boy that was a hilarious
movie. We just couldn’t contain ourselves laughing our butts off especially
during that steamroller scene where this geeky cop gets run over by Austin
Powers and sexy Elizabeth Hurley. It was such a delight to see Monica
giggle and have such a good time with me. And she had a very goofy and
funny way of laughing. She made me feel warm and tingly all over inside,
right down from the heart. I know I tend to fall in love too quickly, but
that time, I was really happy because I felt like I was achieving something.
One thing both she and I really had in common was that we were both
kind of broke. Well, it was more like I was cheap, and she was frugal. So
instead of buying snacks and refreshments at the theater, we snuck in our
own. I brought bottles of water and Coke (she liked Diet) plus Doritos,
and Monica brought microwave Pop Secret (already popped), Gummie
Bears, and M&M’s. She said that she and her brother made a killing out
of those M&Ms when they were little. Again, I told her that I was sorry
about her brother. She said it was okay and that I could mention him any
time. I hoped I could get her to rest her head on my shoulder, or put her
hand on my thigh again, but she wouldn’t do it. Although she was a year
younger than me, I felt like she was the older one sometimes because she
was bigger and more mature. Anyway, in front of our neighbors in the
theater, who were again, Cholos, sitting right behind us, I tried to pretend
and act like Monica was my “FWB.” I tried whispering in her ear and
she didn’t cringe. Thank God. I even spoke to her in Spanish, trying to
get those vatos behind me impressed that an Asian chump was happily
going out with a hot, biracial-looking Latina. I felt so good not hearing
any disses that time. They were probably mesmerized and even envious. I
“I think Mike Myers is so funny,” she said, during the rolling credits.
She looked so attractive as the room slowly started getting brighter again.
I must’ve wondered how she’d look in a miniskirt instead of tethered
ripped beige jeans and corduroys all the time.
“Yeah, those Canadians are a real laugh riot,” I said, not able to keep my
eyes off her glistening pink lips that were partly open so close to me. I had
wished they sold alcohol in the theaters.
“What do you mean?” She asked, kept smiling and winking.
Smiling at her back, I said, “I mean, some of the funniest comedians in
show business happen to come from the country they call, ‘Mexico-North’.”
“Mexico-North? Really? Like who?” she asked, astonished.
“Well, everybody. Starting with Dan Aykroyd, Martin Short, Phil
Hartman, Mike Myers, Howie Mandel, Leslie Nielsen, the late John
Candy, Jim Carrey––”
“Jim Carrey is Canadian? I didn’t know that!” She nearly jumped from
“Yeah, well, you’ll be surprised… Even that guy that created Saturday
Night Live twenty-something years ago is Canadian. You heard of Lorne
Michaels, haven’t you?”
“No.” She said.
“Well, I bet you didn’t know Keanu Reeves is Canadian.”
“Of course––I know that! Who doesn’t know that? He’s my favorite
actor! Well, actually the second…But he wasn’t born in Canada––he was
born in Lebanon!”
“Oh. I see…” I tried to not act surprised that time because she really
caught me off guard with that one. It was close. Anyway, I just continued
on rambling, “Uh––how about wrestlers? Do you have any favorite wrestlers?
You know, some of the dominant wrestling talents in the world also
happen to come from Canada. Maybe you heard of The Hart Foundation?
My favorite of them all is, ‘The best there is, the best there was, and the
best there ever will be’––Bret Hart!”
“No. I don’t like wrestling––American, Japanese, Mexican, or Canadian
alike. I hate it so much. It’s so racy, fake, and dumb. Honestly, I think it’s
for losers and empty-minded buffoons!”
Right there, my heart sank and my jaw just dropped dead. I was gonna
roll up my sleeve and think about giving Monica a Diva slap. I didn’t think
she would talk trash about wrestling like that––one that I held so dearly
to my heart. I almost didn’t want her in my bed anymore. Nobody called
pro wrestling dumb. I nearly fainted. Good old professional wrestling
happened to be my favorite “sport” and if Monica was a guy and said the
same thing, then I would’ve slapped the Crossface Chickenwing on him
until he tapped out. I’ve been a wrestling zealot since I was nine, around
the time my family came to the U.S. and I’ve been an aficionado ever since.
My first ever favorite superstar was Tito Santana. I dwelled watching
WWF Superstars on every Saturday mornings at 11 o’clock on KTTV. I’ve
had nearly every single pirated copy of WrestleMania and Royal Rumble
matches on VHS. If I wasn’t 5’3” and 165 pounds or so, I would’ve been
the longest-reigning pro wrestling champ in the world. I would beat the
crap out of Ric Flair with my head-butt. My killer finishing maneuver
would’ve been called The Pitfall—a deadly move five times more devastating
than the piledriver. It was executed by hoisting a guy up by his legs
upside down before climbing up the top turn buckle and dropping him
on his head. I got that move off from watching Arnold Schwarzenegger
in Commando, where he killed this one baddie by throwing him off a cliff
in one of the coolest kill scenes ever. In it, Arnold says to the guy named
Sully, the one that was getting away, telling him that although he was
promised to be killed last, he was lied to. If you’ve seen it, then you would
remember the part where Arnold grabs the short guy upside down by his
feet with one hand and then drops him down a dark ravine in the night
near the Hollywood mountains right after the guy flips his yellow Porsche.
Arnie was riding shotgun in a seat-torn out red convertible driven by hot
Rae Dawn Chong. That movie is so cool. I wish they made movies like
that all the time. I had the super hots for Alyssa Milano way back then.
She used to be in my wet dreams often––along with Kerri Green, the
girl who played “Andy” from The Goonies. I dreamt that I was rescuing
them both from a tiny, raggedy wooden shed submerged in mud during
a massive flash flood way on top of the mountains and after I freed them,
they dubbed me their hero and kissed me over and over again.
Anyway, without getting further sidetracked, I tried my best to remain
calm. But I was still so in shock I couldn’t help myself from stuttering. So
when I said, “You-you mean, y-you do-don’t like the NWO? You don’t
like S-STING?” I was very nervous.
“A what? What are those? Oh yeah, I love Sting! He was so fine in Dune!”
She didn’t give a spec of an eye crust how bothered I was and resented her.
It was all for nothing. What’s more, she called Sting––the old, wrinkled,
Tantra-loving, ex-Police member, “fine,” which made me feel sick to my
stomach and also jealous as hell because I was the one sitting right next
to her and she mentioned that another guy was hot, and I was getting the
feeling that she would never use that word to describe me someday. And
worst of all, she mistook that no-good British singer for my favorite face
wrestler in WCW. That was no good.
“By the way,” she said, “I think we should go see Men in Black next!
I want to see Will Smith on screen again. He’s so cute! He’s my favorite
actor! I think he’s definitely hot! He’s so tall, funny, and handsome! I
would totally go out with him…” That totally killed me. I got so pissed off
I almost really didn’t talk to her nearly the rest of the way home.
But the good news is that Monica was an open-minded gal and was
eager to try anything once. I had hoped she’d try something with me once,
but she didn’t. So anyway, after a long time of bugging her about it, I took
her to see the WCW Monday Nitro event when it came to the Great
Western Forum in Inglewood, CA in ’97. You could imagine how excited
I was. I actually cared more about seeing The Outsiders and Hollywood
Hulk Hogan from the distance rather than taking notice of the new
leather purse that Monica got or who gave it to her. Naturally, I bought
cheap ticket seats way in the back, so what I did was, I taped my laser
pointer with electrical tape directly to my binoculars and shot laser beam
down the wrestlers’ faces and Nitro Girls’ cleavages for fun. That was cool.
The ushers kept coming around to catch who was doing it, but I hid from
them pretty well. I also found out I wasn’t the only moron doing that crap.
I remember Chris Jericho defeated Syxx-Pac for the Cruiserweight Title
that night and it was totally awesome. I was freaking jumping up and
down like crazy along with other tens of thousands of fans that were all
cheering there. I was screaming so much I almost lost my voice.
Monica and I started our English-Spanish learning sessions in the summer.
I was learning a lot, but she wasn’t because I didn’t know how and what
to teach her. It was ridiculous to tell the truth. First of all, she successfully
transferred to UCLA long after I dropped out of a community college,
where the highest-level English course I ever took was English 28––a
prerequisite to English 101. And I even dropped that class. It’s amazing
how I learned to speak English at all. Anyway, I gave Monica few guitar
lessons instead and sang her silly corny songs I wrote for her once a week.
“You aren’t too bad of a singer, Dave. Wow,” she said, and laughed like a
foxy hyena. She just thought I was a goofy funny guy and she didn’t care if
I wasn’t handsome or wasn’t college-educated or not. I loved her for that.
One day she asked me if I could help her move to an apartment in
Century City where it was closer to her new school and over all, had
bigger space. She said her mom was coming to visit from Buenos Aires to
stay with her for a while. She was an only child like me, sort of. She was
going to start school soon and said she may not be able to see me so often
again. So I said, “Well, at least I get to see you every Sunday at church,
right?” but she said she wasn’t sure about that either. Then her face looked
suddenly sullen and said that she may not come to church very much at
all. I was terribly shocked to hear that. For some reason, I felt there was
something else going on behind her sad, once-so-bright-and-filled-to-the-
brim-with-sunshine-every-day kind of face. She pretty much looked
that way since then. I felt her smile was pretty much gone for good. I
totally missed seeing her around being so happy and perky with me even
though we didn’t have a lot of money. She seemed to develop anxiety and
it was so visible on her white, creamy, but kinda flat face; perhaps she was
suffering from stress and pressure with schoolwork while still struggling
to be a moral, virtuous innocent chick that everyone around her wanted to
tarnish and snatch a piece of. Whatever that means… I thought preachers’
daughters were always struggling with identity crisis and sexual impulses,
especially if they were steamy hot. I wondered if she was a repressed lipstick
bisexual lesbian peeking at the world from inside her locked closet.
I understand it must’ve been hard fighting the urges to not be as nasty as
she wanna be sometimes.
I really flipped out one Sunday afternoon in November when Monica
showed up at church wearing dark sunglasses and kept them on the whole
time during service as if she was trying to hide her puffy, swollen eyes
after howling all night. I was thrilled to see her first of all, because I hadn’t
seen her like in three months. I had been paging her so many times but
she didn’t return any. Only one time she picked up her phone and told me,
“Not now, David. I’m afraid I can’t see you. It’s really a bad busy week for
me.” She sat next to me during service weeping and praying continuously
the whole time. She wore mostly black as if she was attending her own
funeral. When the sermon was over, I asked her if she was all right for the
ninth time and again, she implied that she was. I also asked if her mother
was well and she said she was fine and thanked me for asking. Monica
then told me that she really missed me a lot too and wanted to go watch
movies and laugh together all over again. And I told her that we could,
whenever she liked, and things would go back to normal just as it was
before––although, I did have to tell her that she worried me a lot because
she reacted so differently and stopped acting like the happy, feisty, giggling,
fun-loving Monica that I always knew. She then sobbed and pulled out a
Kleenex to wipe her tears. I didn’t know what was going on. She sounded
like she was about to tell me something, but couldn’t grab the courage to
do it. She then told me surprisingly how she valued our friendship and
how much I meant a lot to her. Then she sobbed some more and handed
me a small folded note with some writing on it. I was getting worried sick
as hell. Something definitely was not right. I felt horrible that she was so
miserable and unhappy. She was my best friend whether I was lustfully
attracted to her or not, and I wanted to be there for her, always. I told her
I missed hanging out with her while singing her corny songs more than
she would ever know. She then cried and choked up in tears.
Most people stay put for free lunch after the Sunday service but
Monica seemed to be in a hurry so she left right away. I followed her
outside although she told me not to. Then I was in for another shock of
my life. For me, jealousy was the true devil that I could never defeat. I saw
her quickly almost rushing to get into a dark green Jeep Cherokee with
some huge dark-haired brawny guy with big fists behind the wheel. He
looked like Lou Ferrigno from The Incredible Hulk TV show. She didn’t
even look at the guy but the guy leaned over and gave her a kiss on her
cheek. I could read the hesitance on her body but she powerlessly gave
in and kissed him back, resembling how Miss Elizabeth always had to
reluctantly kiss “Macho Man” Randy Savage on the cheek every time
he won a match. From the distance, the guy turned to me and looked
at me straight in the eyes with a nasty sneer like he was saying to me,
after grabbing Monica’s crotch, “This is where babies come from and this
one is mine! This belongs to me!” like he was goddamn O.J. Simpson.
Once again, I felt I lost and fell to the bottom of the emotional pit of
doom. I felt I had to start all over again. I was so crushed and disturbed
because for some reason, I was picturing that asshole bonking Monica.
He was probably always treating her like shit and even physically abusing
her, turning her into a live punching bag like she was Robin Givens or
something. I imagined Monica getting her ass beat by this huge guy in a
wife-beater shirt every night because he would drink and physically whip
her with his belt and since she was such a nice girl that didn’t know how
to block or know how to deal with the bruises on her face and body, she
would sneak out and buy with her own money some dark glasses to wear
them to wherever she went, like at the supermarket, but then feel totally
alone because she would feel that no one cared about her. I imagined her
all alone and thinking about committing suicide in the bathtub with a
razor in her hand because there was nobody to understand her pain, especially
when her mother was thousands of miles away and I had moved
on with my own life because I was so pissed off at her for dissing me and
there was nobody left to tell her that she ought to leave this guy. So she
handed me the note that said S.O.S. on it but I lost it because I couldn’t
remember where I put it. Then I would further continue to picture the guy
in his underwear suddenly kicking in the door with a crowbar in hand
and she starts trembling in fear so much she breaks out a kitchen knife
and puts it against her neck and closes her eyes. But she wouldn’t do it,
because she knows that suicide is a morbid sin and she didn’t want to go
to hell. So then she gets her ass beat all over again. Except this time, the
guy would also bring a drill and some rope into the room and hang her
upside down while torturing the crap out of her until she passes out. I felt
so sorry for her. ‘How could anyone live like that?’ I asked myself. I still
remember the panic and apprehension in Monica’s eyes when I saw her
take her shades off for a brief moment, which looked dark and puffy, with
smudged mascara all over her eyes, just as I had imagined. The guy I saw
in the vehicle was Latino, in case you wanted to know.
“What the…? I thought you and Monica were going out!”
I turned around to see who said such a dumb thing. It was old Bonnie
that came out of the fellowship room to ask me for a favor but instead
witnessed the Jeep Cherokee hastily taking off. I knew she was going
to ask me for some left over newspapers from Saturday which annoyed
me, but then I just said, “Nah, we’re just friends… Not much after that.”
Honestly, I felt my heart break into a thousand pieces and I was bleeding
inside. It was one of my many significant heartquakes.
But then all of a sudden, when I got home, I got mad. I said, “The hell
with her! After all I’d done for her and spent all that money on candies
and diet soda she dare goes out and gets a different guy and lets him
knock her up and still beat her ass while he keeps using her like a used
piece of tissue paper and then throw her out the door. Well, let it be! She
is a freaking slut and she deserves to be treated like a slut!”
And then my alter ego kicked in and said, “There you go! That’s what I’m
talking about! Hate her! Hate everybody! They all deserve to be hated! They don’t care
about you or me! They don’t care about anybody but themselves! Nobody has the right to
treat us this way, fool! You can’t let them mess with you like that! They’ll all get what’s
coming for them! They betta recognize! But you gotta know this: this shit wouldn’t have
happened if you made a lot of money already, you dumb piece of shit! Now go make
money, you stupid bitch! Go sell drugs or rob a bank or something!”
The craziest thing is, when I was talking to myself, I didn’t know if I
was talking to myself out loudly, or just talking to myself inside my head.
I thought I needed psychiatric help, but I couldn’t afford $100 an hour
sessions so I knew I was screwed. I didn’t know if my part-time janitorial
salary offered medical insurance and even if it did, it probably wouldn’t
have covered me getting an MRI or something. I would’ve liked to see a
shrink. Sometimes, I thought about just donating my body to science so
scientists could analyze my brain and compare it right next to Einstein’s
brain. It would be like comparing earth to space debris. So I came to a
conclusion that I had to live the life I couldn’t stand and tough it out until
my next object of steamy desire, a different single attractive Asian female
showed up, although there was none around at that moment. My life was