THE JASIKA THAT READ LIKE A MEAL

THE JASIKA THAT READ LIKE A MEAL

It was the peak of winter. There was no mistaking it. The air had become like my overbearing doctor-brother who had overstayed his welcome. On Myrtle Avenue ice clung to the sidewalks, not how a newborn would to a mother, but rather how a virus insufferably clamped to its unrelenting host. My roommate had gone off to Puerto Rico for work. One day I will be a jet-setting photographer with month-long assignments to far-flung exotic places. Instead I huddled indoors, shying away from and spewing even more expletives at that meteorological term wind-chill. The brownstone stood empty and cold, colder with its shiny hardwood floors. “What the fuck, I wish I had my work’s shitty carpeting right about now.” My voice trailed off as I realized that I was talking to myself. Oh but how I wished I had a pack of cigarettes, maybe even just one…maybe even just a drag. I should go to the corner store to buy a pack and some food to appease my growling stomach. I threw on my boots and coat and headed out to be greeted by the impending frozen tundra. As if faced with the specter of a schoolyard bully, I had a change of heart (nicotine craving be damned). I retreated back to my couch. My cable had been shut off after two months of non-payment and I stared at the blank screen and imagined the Travel channel…dementia, this must be how it starts.

The hours dragged uncomfortably. There was solace in Ramen noodles. I ate and experimented with the many eclectic ways I could serve it up. Like which addition would be the more ideal-tasting meat—ham or salami? I inspected if it’s better to crack an egg unfettered or if by scrambling it; it would make it more aesthetically pleasing. I toyed with the proper mixture of soy sauce and sesame oil that would intangibly give it that distinct noodle-shop quality. I decided more sesame and less on the soy sauce.

Divine intervention came in the form of an unsecured wireless signal that radiated from my Irish neighbor’s house, Pere. For what else was out there that could so relieve this listless ADHD funk other than the endless black hole that was the internet? I should go next door and give him a hug. He was my guardian angel, a soul-saving superhero that deserved my gratitude. Outside it was pitch black and the wind bellowed with indomitable ferocity. I looked out the window towards the rows of brownstones and muttered. “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife…but aha, God never mentioned anything about coveting thy neighbor’s wireless signal.”

In front of my laptop, I tasted another one of my Ramen concoctions. This time I added specks of curry and basil. Eureka! It was sublime. I saw a vision, a bestselling Ramen recipe book. Pretentious top-flight chefs were secretly referencing to spice up their four-star menus. I was the Ramen king! I was going to revolutionize the Ramen industry! I stared at my bowl of lukewarm noodles and sobered at the sight—it really was only Ramen. Could it be that delusions of grandeur were in relation to hunger and boredom? I scribbled it down: DG=H+B, a future thesis project maybe, or perhaps the impetus to a future Nobel Prize winning text on the human condition.

I refocused to my laptop (which for non-work related purposes was just a euphemism for surfing the internet). I opened five tabs on Firefox and jumped from one to the next. They were as followed: Facebook, Myspace, Espn, SportsIllustrated, and Craigslist.org. I grew less antsy as I passed onto a monotonous internet surfing haze, it didn’t matter that two of each of those websites were essentially the same.

The Myspace tab rotated back to attention when the most welcomed of images appeared—new messages. I filled up with elation; I wanted to do cartwheels on the living room floor. I mean God forbid, I haven’t even had a Myspace message in almost an hour. I clicked with giddy excitement. It was from an artist page where I left a glib compliment. I had exhorted her oh-so wonderful drawings, writing, and art to the point of what I had thought was callousness. Not that I didn’t pay any attention to her work (in which featured prominently selected blogs about dry-humping and an ode to peanut butter), rather I was more in tuned to the pleasant visuals of her. She looked like a wholesome Denise Huxtable or how I imagined Denise without the addiction problems. She, however, bought into my overblown commentary.

She wrote:

“…I have written and rewritten this message to you about 5 times, but it won’t come out right. I keep starting over. I’m trying to make a reply to impress *you* too...a reply with some scathing wit, some dry humor, some sentences coupled with both grammatical panache and hip, coined phrases...but it’s not working out. I’m not sure why. It’s probably because you are the cute.
I’m not that familiar with cute guys randomly writing to me, and if they are cute, then they are dumb, or creepy. I pretty much resigned myself to the fact that any guy who wrote me and complimented me on my writing or my artwork, however genuine and sweet he was, was going to have gold teeth, or eyeball piercings, or large breasts, or Rockport shoes on, or blurry camera phone images of his schlong, or blogs about his dry humping episodes....(Oh wait, that was me).
What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad you like chucks, I’m glad you like my writing, and I’m glad you don’t seem creepy.
So tell me, what do you do?
What is your favorite color?
Do you eat cheese?
Do you remember the Snorks?

*j*”

The *j* stood for Jasika (pronounced “Jah-cee-kuh” as she so elaborately stressed in a subsequent message). She worked as a way-off Broadway actress, as far off as Philadelphia. She moonlighted as a waitress at that Times Square tourist magnet, Spanky’s Barbeque. Inasmuch as she rewrote it, I reread the message several times. I marveled at how they seemed to capture the very essence of the bubbly visage splattered across the page. Moreover, I marveled at that particular line where she so unabashedly wrote: “…I think you are the cute.” Who writes like that? She was well-versed in these hip coined phrases, one of which was “you’re dope on a stick”…because as she explained, everything was better on a stick. I unequivocally incorporated it to my repertoire of urban slang. I grew another vision, of me in a Cosby Show episode making out with Denise Huxtable. But oh shit! I happened to own a pair of Rockport topsiders and I had no inkling of what the Snorks were. And there was absolutely no way I was giving up my topsiders.

I meticulously crafted a reply filled with the compulsory “hip coined phrases” if not the deemed preemptive grammatical panache, scathing wit, and dry humor. I answered the preliminary questions; that I worked in a specialty pharmacy in Chelsea aka “the gayborhood” (with me being the token straight guy), that green is my favorite color, and that I couldn’t imagine a world without cheese. I confided that sometimes I secretly went out with my coworkers to gay bars just so I can cop free drinks, for apparently the skinny, emaciated, malnourished look was the gay-world equivalent of a curvy blonde. With the help of Google, I feigned surprise at the coincidence of our shared affinity for the Snorks; I assured her it was one of my favorite childhood cartoons right up there with GI Joes and Transformers. I had a vague recollection of the Snorks. I remembered thinking that this underwater cartoon, with straws coming out of their balloon-head characters, was inconceivable. How could snorkels work if they’re deep underwater? Now gigantic transforming robots from outer space, that’s more believable. For good measure I downloaded and watched an episode and even memorized the opening lines of the irritating jingle, “…Come- along with-the-Snorks, and swim-along with-the-Snorks…”

She wrote back:

“…Vince Paolo, have you ever thought that maybe you are secretly gay? Why else have you worked in Chelsea for a couple of years yet you hide it from your friends. Yet you frequent gay bars. Is it really for the free drinks? You love the Snorks yet you temper it with macho cartoons like GI Joes? Please don’t take offense if I am correct. I highly commend the skills involved in being secretly gay in an openly gay neighborhood…I feel almost envious, honored actually. I mean me being a professionally trained actress and all. It’s okay Vince Paolo; if it makes you feel better I’ll tell you why I write blogs about my dry-humping episodes. Would you believe that I am a virgin? Yes it’s true. I’m a 24 year old virgin who writes blogs about my dry-humping episodes. I think I’m scared of the penis. They’re kind of hideous, what girl in her right mind would want that inside of her? I think I just might be lesbian, don’t be scared, I still think you are the cute.

Ps—I will let you use ‘dope on a stick’ but I will require royalties which could come in the form of peanut butter and wine.”

That was a revelation; the inspiration behind her thought-provoking soliloquies on dry-humping. And admittedly her obsessive compulsion towards peanut butter was beyond reproach. But it was her insightful reference to my sexual preference that needed immediate clarification. Did she respond to me because I looked like a really butch lesbian? Maybe I unknowingly transmitted some sort of gay-vibe electrical synapse through my keyboard. I re-evaluated what she could’ve meant when she wrote “…you are the cute.” Hmm, maybe she’s onto something, maybe I am gay…me, gay? She kind of looked like a boy, albeit a lovely feminine looking one. Nah… I responded with resolution:

“My dear Jasika…I have to say you have a good eye for details, a keen eye for the human psyche. Now I’m open to the possibility of being gay, much the same way that I’m open to the possibility of a rock hurtling through the universe for billions of years can randomly fall from the sky and take me out. But if it’s true that I am secretly gay, it’s a tragedy that my male sexual organ (that of which you find so hideous)…doesn’t know about it.

Ps--You’re freaking weird but I mean that with the utmost admiration.”

Thus fashioned a streaming correspondence with this internet oddity, she lamented that she was cliché; just one of your quintessential New York starving artist. I pictured her huddled in thermals and sweats while connected online from some burrowed wireless signal. I envisioned her cursing the cold and devouring a jar of peanut butter while simultaneously making recipes for it. “Don’t you fret Juuuuh-ceeee-kuuuh.” I responded, “I am too in a way a starving artist, sans the artist part.” Like clockwork, she would reply with something clever. We divulged into a competitive tit for tat with trivial if not useless jargon exchanged.

On a favorite Muppet character in which I claimed Gonzo:

“I would be Oscar, yes OSCAR. I’m an asshole, I told you that before I’m sure but Oscar is a funny asshole and I told you I’m not dirty like him...that’s where our similarities stop, the humorous asshole part. I can work with Gonzo. I like Gonzo because he reminds me of a Snork.”

On me calling out the ridiculous straws protruding out of the Snorks’ heads:

“They’re called vestigial organs, much the same way the human penis will be within a hundred years...”

On my idea of vitaminated cigarettes:

“Is vitaminated even a word…but why vitamins? I say put caffeine in it, coffee and cigarettes go together. It saves you the trip to Starbucks. It would be like a two for one happy hour…”

On cheese and Scrabble:

“…I’m glad you are good at Scrabble, and I’m glad you like cheese, ‘cause I’m not good at Scrabble nor do I eat cheese, and this provides a more adequate view of my regretfully autonomous personality. I wish I liked cheese. It would be more American. I wish I was good at games, but I refuse to learn. To me learning something new, like a board game that no one bothered to teach me when I was little, is me at my most vulnerable. Does that make sense?
That sucks though, ‘cause I know some good words like ‘indigenous’ and ‘assface’. By the way, I don’t totally dislike cheese. I like Doritos…”

On my name:

“…okay, I’m glad you told me to say Paolo like ‘Pow-lo’. If I said it in person it would have come out more like ‘Poooooowlooooow....?’(as I tried to read your face and gauge how brutally I was pronouncing the name). Vince Paolo, is Vince short for anything, like ‘Vincentianamo’ because that would be dope on a stick…”

I lost all pretension. ..“Jasika, if I am dope on a stick, then you are a codeine-laced Veniero’s cheesecake on a stick.” It dawned on me that the scathing wit and dry humor permeated more on her side. I strained to keep up to her deluge of quick one-liners and to her colorful references of life as a struggling actress from Alabama. I could have countered with the many splendid ways I could whip up a Ramen, but it paled in comparison to her religious adherence to peanut butter. I could’ve told her that I probably hold the impressive record of most gay bars frequented by a straight guy. But she wasn’t even entirely convinced I was straight. When she recounted an implied on-set affair with Bronson Pinchot (of Perfect Strangers fame), I ceased to care if whether I appeared interesting, it only mattered that she was.

Snowflakes danced about outside my frosted window and a hint of approaching sunrise was evident from the glow of freshly accumulated snow. My bowl of curry/basil Ramen had solidified into a cold yellowish sludge. I poked it with my fork and it had the consistency of Jell-O. It was seven a.m. Sunday morning and my stomach growled alerting me that ten hours had elapsed since my last calorie intake. It growled a second time as if pleading, “Hey buddy, time for breakfast.” I clicked back to the MySpace tab and once again the most welcomed of images appeared—new messages. Sorry buddy, overruled. On the subject heading it said: “Your Prize”, on the body of the email in enlarged bold fonts were displayed “917-598-9832 Congratulations!!”It was the shortest message from Jasika…the Jasika that read like a meal.

THE END