The Sanskrit word, Tantra,  derives from the root word tan, which translates as "to extend, expand, spread, continue, spin out, weave; to put forth, show, or manifest; thus a weaving together.

Chapter 1

It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears
is said to be seen in San Francisco.
It must be a delightful city and possess
all the attractions of the next world"
     ~Oscar Wilde

Staring out the window of the N-Judah, I thought for the millionth time about living in San Francisco.  I loved the city, loved to walk its streets, enjoyed sipping the fine cappuccino in North Beach; loved the literary landmarks, especially City Lights Bookstore. 

Sometimes i wished that I had been here in the '50s, sitting in the Inferno drinking beer with Kerouac and Ferlinghetti, watching Alan Ginsberg write Howl out of the corner of my eye.  Too romantic, I thought.  Probably would have been a boozy, argumentative free-for-all wherever they gathered.

The city still excited me.  I was probably romantic enough that it always would thrill me to live here.  The place names were like music:  South of Market, Ocean Beach, the Golden Gate, the Tenderloin, Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, North Beach, Embarcadero, Twin Peaks, Marina.

I loved to ride the street cars all over the place, and took every opportunity I could to jump on the Cable Cars. I had ridden the various lines of the suburban rail system,  BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit), all over the Bay area, from Embarcadero over to the South Bay and East into Oakland and Berkeley.  It was a treat just to ride and see the sights. 

Patricia and I had walked all over the city from the Bay to Ocean Beach during the Bay to Breakers event and all over North Beach and Columbus, and one night had climbed all the way up winding Lombard street one night.  It had been exhilarating looking down on the lights of the city spread out below us. How he loved San Francisco.

The streetcar was just passing the stop at Golden Gate Park, and some badly dressed men who looked as though they were about to hit the passengers up for spare change boarded.  The Park was the last stop before Ocean Beach where I often walked when I needed to do some serious thinking.  Today I wanted to be mesmerized by the waves and wind as I thought about my career, his writing, but mostly about Patricia, my wife of almost ten years and where they were going in their relationship

I am lucky just to live here, I thought, much less have a job in the highly competitive labor market that was the Bay Area that paid enough to enjoy life with a little style.  Yet, you put up with a lot to live in the city, he mused for the millionth time.   Aggressive panhandling really turned him off; he was tired of street people following him for half a block when left BART at Market St.  He marveled at the muttering he sometimes heard from street people as he walked the streets; half-mumbled arias from Puccini, a bit of Shakespeare or Baudelaire or a list of designer drugs or just a pitiful jigsaw of jumbled thoughts from people who had for some reason given up—often through no fault of their own--on the socio-economic system completely.

I got off at Ocean Beach and crossed the Great Highway to the beach side and paused on the stone promenade to gaze at the seashore.  It was early Saturday morning and there were not many joggers and walkers about.  The tide was out so I walked about 100 yards toward the ocean so that he was just out of reach of the incoming waves.

I walked North on a route that would eventually take me by the Cliff House.  Not for the first time I thought about Patricia.  We, Stephen and Patricia Donner, had come to San Francisco so full of hope for their future life together, young and romantic in arguably the most romantic of American cities.  She had gone back to work on her masters in English Literature while I made good living as a technical writer and worked on my novels and poetry in the evening--whenever I managed to get around to it.

We had a rent control apartment above Masonic Avenue, just south of the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park.  Only two blocks away the summer of love had taken place around Haight and Asbury streets in 1968.  We had even thought about taking the famous tour of that fabled area that was offered by a guy who advertised on flyers stapled to kiosks and bulletin boards that he was honest to God bearded hippie complete with love beads and smoking papers.

It had all started a few months ago.  She had come home and told him that she did not feel fulfilled as a woman with him.  They were too much alike, she said, both English majors.  She wished they had dated other people at the southern college where they had met.

At first I had been hurt, even a little humiliated.  

"Don't go," I had pleaded, "We can work this out.  What have I done to cause this?"

"You haven't done anything, Stephen," she said.  I just need some time to find myself, to see if I feel we can really make it in the long run."

I missed our walks together.  We had walked hand in hand all over the city.  I wanted to stroke her wondrous raven hair again, feel the brush of her lips.  I loved the lines of her finely chiseled face, the way she took my arm and gave me a saucy look sometimes while we were walking.  She was lovely with her Anglo-Irish looks, what the English called the "dark Irish."  She looked a little like Elizabeth Taylor in her younger days, say in National Velvet.

They had much together; could talk about books, Democratic politics, friends and their romances and relationships, their careers and maybe children in the distance though they were already in their late thirties.

"Our relationship is too mental," she responded, when I pushed her for what was the matter.

"Have you met someone else?" I asked her after summoning up all my courage.

"Well, no. . .ok . . .yes."

"Who," I asked, "Do I know him."  Then I thought for a second.  "Or her?"

"No," It's someone else, another student, an older medical student who was in the military for a while," she said.

"Oh," I said reddening, "Ok.  I don't want to know any more."

So she had moved out and moved in with David.  I hadn't heard much from her for a few weeks.  I don't think she could face me.

As I walked I kept looking for sea shells like I did as a child back in North Carolina.  I never found many shells on Ocean beach.  I guess I felt that finding sand dollar would change my luck.

I was fast approaching the Cliff House.  This was actually the third Cliff House in San Francisco's history.  The others had been destroyed somehow, one burned I believe.  Now the whole complex was a restaurant and a museum of early mechanical complexes, such as entire towns that moved and old pin ball machines.  Most of them worked.

I thought about how much time I was spending on the Internet after coming home from work, since I was finding it impossible to concentrate on my writing with the sudden changes that had happened.  I had started spending time in chat rooms, something I had scorned for years.  Now they were appealing, even romantic with a hope of something erotic happening.

One place I always visited in the Cliff House area was the Camera Obscura.  This remarkable device, a fixture of Victorian science and mentioned occasionally in 19^th century literature, is patterned after the pinhole camera. 

I paid a couple of dollars for admission and entered a circular room.  A small aperture with a lens rotated at the top of cone-shaped interior.  Scenes of the exterior played on a white, round plate surrounded by an observation platform.

I and a few other people stood transfixed watching the flow of the scene from breaking ocean waves to pictures of the Cliff House and its grounds.  I enjoyed the scenes shows using the simpler, older technology.  There was a charm, a sense of community and sharing with the other viewers.  No wonder such viewing parlors had been so popular with the Victorians.

As I watched the panorama of the changing scenery, it seemed as if my life was passing before me:  Childhood, school, college, career, marriage, moving to the West Coast—all in a flash.

Something in me shifted at that point.  I knew that I had to get Patricia back.  I vowed to call her when I got back to the apartment.  I would plead, even beg for her to return.  We had a life together; damn it, we loved each other and had loved from the moment we met. 

Chapter 2

 When daisies pied and violets blue,
  And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
  Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men.

      `Loves Labours Lost, Shakespeare

 Disaster.  I must have left 25 calls on her answering machine before she answered.  If I could have got hold of the accursed machine I would have pounded it to bits, nevermore to here that "just leave a message after the beep."

After reminding her of the marriage vows that we spoke at our wedding, the commitment we had swore to each other and swearing my undying love for here, her only reply was a damned bit of so called wisdom from David.  The bastard had told her and I quote:

"English majors probably should never marry; too much poetry and romance and not enough passion and reality about relationships."

I supposed he would know—since he had been married twice—at least that's all I knew about.  Patricia had hinted around that he had a lot of experience with women. 

I suppose I couldn't stand that he had the same lusty thoughts about my wife that I did.

Finally, that eveing after we hung up, I had become reconciled to the fact that we probably were not going to get back together again.

****

So, I finally reconciled myself to the single life.  After all, I had not been single really since sophomore year in college, as Patricia and I had started living together within a couple of months of meeting each other.

I tried to look forward to the girls I might meet, the romantic relationships I might have.  What would it be like the thrill of the chase, waking up in strange beds with strange though possible beautiful and passionate women.

Then, I remembered.  I am shy and usually tongue-tied around women I like, known for going silent in the company of an attractive woman.  It was a wonder that Patricia and I would have met at all if we had not been introduced by a mutual friend.

As took the MUNI bus to work the next day, I looked out at the streets of the city.  They seemed to mirror my glum mood.  Passing down Divisdadero St. on my way downtown, I felt so lonely in the city that the locals affectionately called Baghdad by the Bay.  Then I scowled at what every San Franciscan does sooner or later and usually sooner.   Someone really should clean up the streets I thought not for the first time.  The sidewalks were in danger of becoming a running sewer from all the dog shit scattered all over.  We do love our pets  I thought.

After I had sat down at my desk, got a cup of coffee and was peering at the Windows help file that I was writing using a program called RoboHelp, Marni came over to see me.

Marni was a petite, brilliant woman with honey blonde hair.  Like so many of us who live in San Fran, she had an accent, the trace of a flat Midwestern twang.  She was from Iowa, but had lived in Bay area much longer than I had.  She had recently had a disastrous affair with a guy that she had met online.  Rumor had it that the guy had stalked her for weeks after she broke off with him, and that she finally had to call the police.

Sometimes I fancied that she was attracted to me, but I could never bring myself to ask her out. 

"Hi," she said, "How goes it this morning?"

"Ok," I guess," I replied without much enthusiasm.

"Just ok," she asked. 

I get tired of people saying that when I say I am ok.  I mean what do they want?

"Ok for me means that I am just fine this morning," I said, perhaps a little too sharply.  I suppose I should have been honest and said I really felt like jumping off Golden Gate the way a poor car salesman had recently.   Only I would be sure and tie a computer to my foot to make sure I sunk.

"You don't have to take my head off," she responded, " I was just asking, you know."

"Sorry," I said, "I guess I am really not doing that well this morning."

"Look, I am going to a party at the house of a girlfriend, wan to come along."

"No," I can't make it this weekend.  I may have to go downtown and visit a guy I knew in college," I lied.  "He is  only in town for a seminar this weekend.  If I do not see him now, there is no telling when I will have the opportunity again."

She shrugged an ok and went back to her cubicle.  Why don't I ask her out, I mused again.  I knew why; I was still stuck on Patricia, hoping we could work it out.

I concentrated on my work.  I was writing a help file for the engineers using a new type of oscilloscope.  Sometimes, technical writing is boring, but I welcomed the concentration that it gave me.  I felt more grounded as the day progressed.

I got back to my apartment about 6:00.  I though about going to my health club but decide to fool around with my computer.  Just what I need, I thought.  I spend the days with computers, then I follow it up with another four or five hours.

I grabbed a bottle of Anchor Steam out of the refrigerator and made myself an intricate cheese sandwich.  I always put onions, peppers, mushrooms and all kinds of veggies on my sandwiches.  I try to stay away from meat whenever possible though I do not consider myself a vegetarian.

I knew I needed to get my mind off Patricia.  I had to face up to the fact that I was getting lonely.  I even thought about renting that Steve Martin movie, "The Lonely Guy."  Maybe I should buy some cardboard cutouts I thought, just like the lonely guys in the movie did.  I actually mused for a few seconds on where one could find such objects. 

As Windows came up, I found myself clicking the icon of my service provider.  When I saw that I was connected to the Net, I brought up my Netscape browser.  I had worked as a contractor for Netscape for a while in Mountain View and resented what Microsoft had done to them.   In a just world or even with just a little oversight, Gates monopolist practices should have been stopped.   I still steadfastly refused to use Explorer.  Stew on that, Bill, I thought. 

There were many chat programs available on the Net, but lately I had started using Excite's portal.  Their chat software worked smoothly, let you create cool avatars for yourself, and most importantly, had great emoticons.  I loved those small graphics and loved to send smiling faces when I liked someone.

Not that I had chatted much in the past.  I was actually one of those sincere souls that had looked for interesting chats in rooms that featured politics or literature.  Rarely had I entered any of the romance or x-rated rooms, though I had monitored conversations while I lurked incommunicado in the background.  Most of the time no one ever seemed to say anything meaningful. 

Nevertheless, I sat before my computer that night after work sipping my excellent microbrew and taking big bites out of my sandwich and watching conversations disjointed by the slight time lag go by on the screen while I lurked in the Pillow Talk room:

BiggusDickus23:  Hey, TwoLips, you lonely tonight.

PartyGirl34:  Anybody seen Meat?

TwoLips45:  I don't talk to anybody calling themselves BigguesDickus. LOL

HornyStud108:  I'm here!  Are you read for the one and only?

BiggusDickus:  Fuck you, TwoLips.  Hope you take it you know where tonight.

WetPanties5:  LOL.  Hey, HornyStud.  You sound like a sensitive guy.  What would you do for me

tonight?

Things were getting too silly here, so I decided to go the 30-somethings room. 

I perused the various handles and decided to enter.  I used the handle Riverrunning3, which I had adapted from the Tolkien trilogy.  Riverrunning is a river bordering the Shire, the land of the Hobbits.

My avatar was just the standard Excite coffee cup, as I had not prepared an avatar.  Avatars are small graphics, usually photos of the chatter, but quite often idealized sexual photos taken off the Net and adapted for use as an Avatar.

Anyway, I wasn't looking for anyone, just wanting to chat a little.  Usually this was a lost cause.  The Net had—among other things—become a massive pickup joint, a meat market for the lonely, oversexed or woebegone souls, like myself I guess.  I had read that quite a few people were role playing the sex opposite from their own. 

I was about to go check out some of my literary sites when I received an IM from a person called Dawn333.  I noted that she had a beautiful avatar, an auburn-haired beauty in shorts with a rather revealing emerald green top.

The IM (Instant Message) just said, Hi, cool handle!.

I typed in a reply at the end of the IM screen.

"Thanks," I wrote, "Nice avatar!" And sent the reply back to her.

She sent me another IM.  "You got that name from Tolkien, didn't you?"

"Yes," I shot back.  "You know the trilogy?"

"Yes," she replied, "I have even visited New Zealand where the movie was filmed.  Do you want to go to a private room?"

"Ok," I replied, "but just for a little while."

We both clicked that we wanted a private chat and entered a virtual chat room of our own. 

"Hi!" she said.

I typed "Hi" back to acknowledge that I was in the room.

"How do you look," she asked. 

I usually embellish my height and musculature at this point, but I was tired of relationship games at this point in my life and instead replied with the truth that I was about 5' 11" and broad shouldered with reasonably well-developed frame.  Told her I had brownish-black hair also.

"How about you?" I typed.

"Honey blonde hair on the short side—almost a page boy—about 5' 6."

"Sounds nice," I said. "How old?"

"35. . .and you?"

"38," I typed. "Do you work?

"Right now, I am just a receptionist, but I am going to university part time."

"Are you married or single?"

"Married," she said.

"Any children?"

"Two—a girl and a boy."

Well, that was about all for me.  She did not sound like my type at all.  I did not want to chat with a married woman without much of an education.  She seemed nice, but it seemed like a waste of time.

Then, she asked me if I was married.  I thought about saying that the info was private, but in the end I told a little white lie and said that I was married.  I mean technically I still was.  True we were separated, but I did not feel like getting into that with this Dawn.

"BTW, " I typed, "is Dawn your real name?"

"No, it's Deborah.  I just like Dawn.  I started to call myself Madrugada, after one of my Latino friends mentioned that they had so many names for morning.  Madrugada is early morning which I like. "

"You're up late for a morning person.  By the way, where are you?" I asked.

"Southern California."

Oh, hell, I thought.  Just what I need a southern California flake-a-rama.

"What about you?" I saw flash on my screen.

"<grin> what else, Northern California, actually Bay area."

"Ok, I am in San Diego.  What do you do?"

I was already tired of the usual chat stuff.  Where you are from, what do you do, marital (and often) sexual status, especially since I lived in the Bay Area.  Usually it was just a bore; you never came across anyone exciting but intelligent also.  Just a bunch of losers trying to get laid even if virtually.

Still, I did not want to seem short.  "Actually, I am a writer," I replied.

"Ooh, that sounds exciting.  What do you write?

"Actually, I am a technical writer, though I am also working on a novel.  (I decided not to indulge my cynicism and add, Isn't everyone these days?")

Do you work with computers then?" she asked

"Yes, I am one of the people responsible for those software manuals or Windows help files that you probably use sometimes."

"Is that you?" she asked.

Now that caught me off guard.   I did not know how to respond.   Finally, I told her the truth. 

"No, not really, but you have to make a living somehow and it does pay pretty well and also keeps me writing while I hone my creative writing skills.  Besides, it takes a lot of marketing and luck to make big money as a writer."

"That does not seem at all like you from what you are saying.  You seem too much the right-brained romantic to be this much involved with computers and software."

"Well, you are right, but I do have to make a living."

"Do you want to know my measurements?"

Well, I thought there it was.  A woman of easy virtual virtue.  I could be in virtual bed with her in a few minutes.

"Oh yes, I said.  What are they"

"36-28-35 with a C cup."

"Sounds quite nice," I said smiling to myself.

To tell the truth this felt too much like cheating on Patricia.  I just was not ready for any type of relationship, especially a shallow virtual relationship with the first woman who came along.

"Hey look, I typed, I am going to have to go, as I must get up early tomorrow.   Perhaps, I will see you here again sometime."

"Ok, bye," she replied.

"Bye."

Chapter 3

 Nothing quite so free as, nothing quite so easy as, Old Tiresias.

     ~Lawrence Durrell

 You cannot live long in 21^st century San Francisco without making a few gay friends.  During the past decade at Lambda where I work, Fred Hanes and I had become close.  I suppose he was the closest thing to a male friend that I had (though he might debate that with you, the male part I mean.) 

I met him for lunch on Monday and we walked a few blocks to a small pizza joint just off Powell St.  One thing about San Francisco:  Even the most humble hold-in-the wall has the most exquisite cuisine.  Food is a joy in the city by the bay.

We bought a couple of pieces each from the take-out window.  I sprinkled mine liberally with Italian seasoning and parmesan; Fred preferred his plain.   We found a bench in ______ park off of Powell and found a bench and even managed to avoid the ubiquitous dog pooh.

"Well," Fred said, "Does it look as if you and Patricia are going to get back together?"  I hope you guys are doing ok.

"Looks bad," I said. "She's shacked up with this hunky instructor at San Jose.  I don't think she is coming back, man.  I am so ambivalent; I want her back something fierce.  Then, other times I say good riddance and am ready to move forward with my life.

"I know I'm lucky," he said, "Reed and I have been together for a couple of  years now.  That's a long time at our age.  I think maybe we may stay together though we will probably see people on the side sometimes.  That happens with gay couples sometimes though some couples I know are strictly monogamous and both love it.

"By the way, you know this is not a good time for Leos.  You have got Jupiter in Aquarius opposing your sun for the next six months, so most relationships are a bit tricky though good for gaining self perspective."

"Uh oh, I forgot you were into astrology.  Does this mean we are going to spend our lunch hour talking about trines and squares and Saturn in the Seventh House and the culmination of Neptune." 

The guy was expert on the subject; I gave him that.  But then Fred had always had such powerful interest in his love life that it was no wonder that he had taken up the study.  I had studied the subject a little, but I was unsure how much credence I put in it.  I thought it was fundamentally a good idea and fit in with much of the findings of modern science.  I mean it really fit in with the concept of the holographic universe, the idea that each part reflects the whole.  I have found that one can go on and on examining the philosophic and scientific bases of astrology.

"No, we are not going to get into astrology," he said exasperatedly,  his mop of straw-colored hair flopping around as he shook his head.  He was a pleasant guy to be around for me.  He had studied not only astrology but metaphysics and Eastern Religions also.  It was rumored that he was a Tantra adept.

"Not if you don't want to.  I just thought you could use a little of the sagacity of the stars.  You know you are in quite a vulnerable space at the moment.  Be sure someone does not take advantage of you."

"Oh, I don't think that is possible, Fred.  I am too much a realist beneath this idealistic shell.  I'm really not looking for a relationship right now anyway."

"Why don't you go out with Marni sometime.  You do know she would do it on the office floor with you if you took any notice."

"You really think so," I replied shaking my head.  I don't know. She's more of a coworker and friend.  Besides I keep thinking about Patricia.  I want her back, man."

"You know, she may not be coming back.  She may feel that you too are not right for each other in the end."

"Don't say that!  She's got to come back.  We've both got too much vested in our relationship."

"Yea, but sometimes you've just got to pick up the pieces and start over again.

I looked at my watch; it was getting late.  "We better get back," I told Fred.

As we headed back on up Powell lost in the sea of people, mostly in business attire but with a sprinkling of casually dressed tourists and the occasional street person.  There always seems to be someone on any given street in SF playing an instrument for spare change.  A few are excellent but most are pretty mediocre.  Today the air was filled with the braying sounds of bag pipes.

I loved the pipes until I went to a highland games with Patricia.  After hearing "roo, roo, roo" all day, I began to question whether tunes were actually played on the pipes.  Honestly, they all seemed the same after a while.

We got to our building and as we stood in the elevator watching the floors go by, Fred offered me one final piece of advice.

"Just take it slow and light," he said.  You know what the wise man says?"

"No, Fred, what does the wise man say?"

"He says that even this shall pass."

"Wow.  Did a street person tell him that?

He gave me a look as if I were the most witless and naïve person on the planet and as the doors opened, he waved me ahead of him and with out a word disappeared down the hallway to his cubicle.

The afternoon passed slowly as created headings from my outline of the help file and wrote instructions to use the software on the oscilloscope.  Maybe Dawn33, I mean  Debby, was right.  Maybe I was in the wrong profession.  Anyway I could not change at the moment.

* * * * *

When I got back to the apartment on Masonic that evening, I had just settled in to the couch and had turned on the evening news, when I heard the door buzz.  Wondering who in the world it was this time of the evening as I was not expecting any friends, I walked down the three flights and called through the door, " Who is it?"

"Just need to see you, sir," a deep voice called.

"What's it about?"

"Your wife."

I decided to see who it was.  As soon as I opened the door, this huge, black guy dressed in tee shirt and jeans handed me an official looking document.

"Congratulations," he said with a big smile.  "You have just been served."

He walked off abruptly.  I closed the door and headed back up the stairs, my hands trembling around the envelope.

Back in the apartment, I ripped the envelope open and there it was: Official separation papers from my dear Patricia.  I read the legalese and soon realized that Patricia was really serious.  We had already been separated for five months, and the separation agreement was backdated to that time.

God, we only had about a month before she would take me to court.  An enclosed note from her cautioned me that if I contested the divorce, we would have to fight it out in court, and that it would be very costly to do that.  She said that she hoped that I would not impede this process.

After the shock wore off, I was angry at first.  She could have least have had the decency call me and tell me this was coming—not just send it to me out of thin air, making me feel like a criminal.

I walked over to the window.  I kept it closed all the time, as the noise of the traffic was excruciating.  Damn it all, I loved her.  Surely, she knew that.  I wanted her bitterly; saw the two of us entwined making love for hours the way we had when we were back in college.

Suddenly, I did not know what to do with myself. Thought about getting drunk; seemed like a good idea but I was subject to terrible hangovers, and I had given up grass years ago.  Besides it was too expensive now even if I did  want some.

I thought about trying to work on my novel, but who could work on what was rapidly becoming an artistic travesty.  I was probably going to have to start over on another theme, with different characters and somehow find some kind of plot.  I mean something has to happen in a novel, does it not?

I went over the bookcase to find something to read.  I was immediately flooded with memories of Tricia; we had picked that bookcase out at a used store because of its lovely pecan finish.  We were both book lovers so naturally we put a lot of money into the repositories for our books.

But I was just too ujpset.  I certainly could not read anything serious.  I reached for the latest Clive Cussler.  I had become quite a fan of Dirk Pitt; he was probably my alter ego.  Cussler was a pleasure to read usually and I always looked forward to his new novels, but this time I couldn't even get into Atlantis, which was one of his most interesting forays into ancient mysteries discovered by Pitt and his sidekick, Jordy.

I thought about going out to one of the local pubs, but that would probably just depress me even more.  My eyes rested on the computer.   I went over to the desk and turned it on, watching its unearthly flickering of the screen as Windows came up.

Idly, brought up the Solitaire game and mindlessly covered and uncovered cards for the next half hour or so.  Boring. . .boring. ..boring.

Finally, I got on the Internet and checked CNN and some of my favorite sites like Jeff Rense and Art Bell.  I did follow the paranormal writings and radio shows, and saw conspiracy theories as a deeper insight into the nature of business and politics.  After all, were not most of the significant events of history if looked at closely nothing less than the result of various plots and conspiracies.

Conspiracies such as the one that Tricia and her paramour had hatched against me perhaps.

I wound up on Excite again and entered the chat program.  I decided that I would lurk in the '30s room again and monitor the chat.  The whole thing was quite addictive though somewhat tediously boring also.  Did not anyone have anything truly interesting or even personally revealing to write about himself or herself?

I suppose I was just looking to see if Dawn would appear in the list of chatters.  I guess I wanted her to; but I was unsure.  At least we had been able to hold a decent conversation for a while. 

I did not see that she was online.  I went to a general chat area on Excite and found a room where there was an active discussion of old, classic Hollywood movies.

LionBoy21:  Some of the Silents have held up amazingly well.  Look at Greed; it is still one of the best studies of the avarice in any medium, even after the studio cut and mangled Von Stroheim's final version.

GhostofthePrairie:  I should see it sometime.  I loved Von Stroheim as the butler in Sunset Boulevard.  It was really great when we found out that he is also one of her husbands. 

ConvolutedCompanion:  Von Stroheim was so talented as both an actor and a director.  Who could forget him in All Quiet of the Western Front.

LionBoy21:  No, No he wasn't in All Quiet.  You are thinking about  that movie about WWI  where he played the commandant of a prison camp.

Well, this was all well and good.  Among all my other interests, I also am a movie buff.  This was not taking my mind off Tricia.

I went back to the '30s room and looked again at the list of chatters.  I still did not see Dawn.  I thought about entering the room, but then backed away from it.  I really was not in the mood to try to meet anyone new at t he moment.

I turned on the television and flipped a few channels, then just as suddenly turned it off.  Give me a break, I thought to myself; this just makes me lonelier.

Meditation was out; I was not strong enough to get out of my mood.  So, finally I just went to bed thinking that I would probably toss and turn all night. 

No restlessness though.  I was quickly dead to the world—quite literally.

Chapter 4

Lay your sleeping head, my love,

Human on my faithless arm. . .

    ~Auden

I got up about 8:00 on Saturday morning thankful that I did not have to go to work; I do not think I could have faced another help file even though it would probably have helped me forget about my situation.  Usually, I cannot just substitute just any experience to take my mind off my troubles.  I am kind of a romantic realist, I guess.  I have to work my way through such situations.  There seems no other way for me.

One thing about Saturdays is that I get to indulge my coffee karma.  That's what Tricia calls it anyway.  She tried ever since we were living together in Chapel Hill to get me to switch to tea.  I had half-heartedly tried to give up coffee and drink some of the great teas around.  I did like some of the oolongs and Choice's specialty tea called "Moroccan Mint," a flavorful green tea.

I read somewhere or the other that coffee is the drink of choice for thinkers, and I suppose that description fits me.  Most of the coffee connoisseurs that I know are also thinkers; probably too much so for their own good.

Anyway, I sat down on the small table under a window that looked down into one of those small, but masterful gardens enclosed by a fence such that it was not visible from street level.  San Francisco is full of these small, well-kept gardens, but you have to have lived in this city to know about them, as they are all tucked away and private.  This one actually had a rather tall banana tree with wide swaths of leaves.  I could see hyacinth and Calla Lily also. 

Absurdly, I thought of Katherine Hepburn's speaking in her high-toned Boston twang in Woman of the Year that odd but memorable line, "The Calla Lilies are in bloom."  Sometimes Tricia reminded me a little of Hepburn, I suppose with her angular facial lines, girlish curves and gentle swell of breasts.

I had just started buttering a tasty but somewhat stale croissant that I had bought several days ago from one of the city's  many great bakeries, Adeline's, and a cup of excellent French Roast made from freshly ground beans (of course) and prepared using the gourmet cone drip method when the phone rang. 

Really wanting to sip of that coffee, I nevertheless answered the phone.  It was Patricia. 

"Thanks," I scolded, "for sicing the cops on me.  Wish you had let me know that was coming."

She agreed that she probably should have told me.  Why didn't she, I wondered?  She asked how I was doing.  Not that well, I told her, and started pleading with her to come back.  She stopped me and said that we need to talk.  She suggested that we meet at a small coffee shop near Powell as it was close by the BART stop.

I agreed to meet her there about noon.  She hung up with a quick goodbye just like that, leaving me holding a silent phone.

I went back to my breakfast though my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Tricia, what I would say, what I would do, how I could convince her to come back. 

I stacked the dishes and decided I would get to the area early so that I could look at some books and maybe linger over a latte at Little Joe's.

****

Mark Twain said that the coldest he had ever been was during the summer in San Francisco.  The Bay Area is known for its microclimates and fast changing weather.  Sometimes you could just turn the corner and the temperature would drop ten degrees.  That understood, even though it was spring and not summer, I had dressed warmly in my jeans and sweater with a light jacket that I could remove if it suddenly warmed up.

Salton's was a small bookstore near the Embarcadero, an area of the city where in its heyday as a harbor before all the shipping had been taken over by Oakland, ships had docked and "embarked" to ports abroad.  It brought back memories of the clipper ships, The Flying Cloud, and the China Trade.

I was looking for a good dictionary of usage, something that would tell me about the odd phrases and idioms of the language.  For example, if I wanted to find out how "all ducky" came to be a part of the English language, I would look it up in this book.  Call it an English major's indulgence perhaps.

I could not seem to find the proper one, or at least one that was worth the money.  Finally, I bought a book on the new evolution called "Everything You Know is Wrong" by Lloyd Pye, a character who felt that both the evolutionary and the creationism schools were ignoring many facts. 

I could not help wondering if that title was the story of my life or a least where it was now; maybe that's why I bought it, but who knows.  Life is more than just a mystery; sometimes it seems like a search for all the pearls that you lost when the string broke.  The connections are there; one just has to find them.

I wandered a couple of doors down to the coffee shop, went in and ordered a venti latte with three shots of espresso rather than the standard two with which it came.  I took my paper cup over to a table and sat down to wait for Tricia.

I did not have to wait long.  I saw her enter the shop.  As usual she was dressed simply but elegantly.  She had the type of body on which clothes just naturally looked good.  She could look beautiful in rags.  Today though her willowy frame was dressed in charcoal slacks and a maroon sweater.  She was wearing a gray, wool coat cinched tight at the waist by a belt.  She  wore a tam which only partly covered her lovely raven hair.

"Hello," she said as she came up to me and sat down.  She did not look very happy; I was ready for the worst—if it could really get any worse that it already was.

"Do you want anything to drink?" I asked awkwardly.

"No, I really can't stay very long, Stephen.  I just wanted to talk to you a little.  I should have let you know that those papers were coming.  Sorry about the shock.  Somehow I just wanted to get it over."

"Is it really over, Tricia?  I can't help but be in denial.  You know I love you very much.  Can I give you a hug?"  We stood a little and I reached across the table and pulled her to me a little.  God, it felt good to touch her!"

We sat back down, and then she dropped the bomb. 

"Roger and I are going to get married—as soon as you and I are divorced.  He asked me last night, and I said yes."

I just looked at her.  I didn't know what to say.  There it was really over; no use denying it any more.  In a way I felt a sense of relief.

"I don't know what to say, Tricia,.  You know I am crushed, but, I guess, if that's the way it is, that's the way it is." 

"I know this is hard on you," she said "and I don't mean to be cruel.  You are a great guy, Stephen, and I treasure the time that we have spent together the past few years.  Still, I am not the same woman that you married.  I do love you, Stephen; it's just that I feel I need something more for the long haul."

"How did I fail you, Tricia?"

"Oh, you haven't failed me, Stephen; it's just who you are.  You are so complicated. Like me.  We're both complicated types.  I get tired of living life as if it's a Hemingway novel.  Those characters aren't real.  We are real people.  I need someone who is more straightforward. . .someone who, who. . .

"Knows what he wants, maybe," I finished for her.

"Something like that.  Yes, I suppose you have summed it up quite nicely.  You really do have a way with words, Stephen."

She said that just a little too cheerfully; it made me want to hit something; not her, maybe myself, yeah, slap myself around a little bit.  Real tragedy sometimes has elements of the absurd in it, I found whether we admit or not, I find.

"Well," I said, "I'm glad I am good at something; it certainly isn't as the last of the red hot lovers."

"Oh, Stephen, come now, you know it's for the best.  Once you calm down you'll see it."

"All I know is that I still love you very much, Patricia, Roger or no Roger."  I wanted to ask her if the bastard made love to her better than me or even was better endowed.  You know how males are, even the best of us.  I had visions of their making violent, passionate love, her legs wrapped around him, beside herself with passion.

I couldn't stand this much longer.

"Well, Tricia, is that all you had to say?  Just throw ten years of marriage away just like that?" I said maybe a little too loudly for a public place, the color rising in my face I am sure.  

"Stephen, please don't make a scene."  I am sorry.  I know you are hurt.  I would be if I were in your place.

"Thanks," I said, "For nothing.  Look, Tricia, I can't take this.  I have to go.  I guess we'll wbe calling each other from time to time.  I wish you and Roger happiness (I lied) if that's the way it's going to be."

I had to try one final time. "Is there nothing I can do or say?"

She looked down and nodded her head.

"Well, I guess, I'll see you around.  I guess I do have one question.  I thought we had to be separated six months before you file for divorce, and the papers are only dated a few days ago."

"In California, you can legally backdate the papers to the actual date of separation," she replied.

To be continued. . .

Editor's Note: This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to characters living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.