Prudence 1

A Fall Weekend Afternoon.
The Room. Fall 1986


Another Fall weekend afternoon...

I have been staring out the empty street for the past hour; the 2000-page Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine lies opened idly under my arms. At least these pages have not been wrinkled from the dried saliva (...from my dozing off using the book as a pillow) like so many of my other textbooks for the past God-knows-how-many years.

Something about a quiet Fall weekend afternoon always makes my mind wander while I’m trying to read. First of all, I have to read – I already took my break. I had a good-sized brunch, but still was able to go for my usual jog around one p.m. I am supposed to be nice and relaxed and ready to learn more about Congestive Heart Failure.

But I am relaxed. I just can’t concentrate on reading.

So, what else is new?

Gosh! How I wish she were here.

Maybe there... in my old green Salvation Army armchair. She would probably have her legs curled up, since the chair would be too large for her to be comfortable otherwise. She would most probably have a good book in her hands. She loved to read, and I know that she would want to keep me company. And if she were here, I would need a small mirror on my desk to occasionally glance at her. Because my desk is such that my back is toward the armchair, which is in the middle of the room...

...and I wouldn’t want to stop looking at her for too long.

What am I thinking? If she were here, I would care less about sitting at this desk, or about Harrison’s. I would be there, sharing the armchair with her, holding her tight, suffocating her, and suffocating in her scent, never again letting her go.

A neighbor’s car pulling up on the driveway blanks out the little movie screen in my mind. I’m back to the matters at hand, the last thought lingering, "If she were here..."

It’s now four thirty. Dinner will probably be in an hour-and-a-half. There is no way I can read between now and then, despite all my good intentions.

I need another break, badly.

If she were here, we could be taking a walk outside right now…

I throw myself onto the bed. I notice that I feel more heavy now than usual.

Could all these thoughts weigh that much? I guess they must, because I felt like a hummingbird coming into the last mile of my six-mile run just a little while ago. (It’s actually only five and three-quarters miles, as I had measured it by driving my car just the other day along the path that I jog; but I like to claim that it’s six miles – a nice round number, and higher.) I have to confess: sometimes, I start my run just so I can get "runner’s high." It doesn’t always happen though.

Despite all the seemingly endless thoughts, I must have dozed off, because my sister’s voice startles, or rather, wakens me.

"Time for dinner!"

I yell "Thanks" really loud, sort of out of guilt, as if to prove to her that I haven’t been sleeping.

* * *


I share this house with my sister and my cousin, both in college, and a classmate from the medical school; and since it's only a three-bedroom house, I help myself to the huge living room. For my sleeping quarter, literally, I corner off the large room with a screen, sort of like a hanging room divider, that I had made out of a queen-sized bedsheet – I couldn't find a piece of canvas large enough. I have been enamored of the logo of a tiger's face found on the back of the "Flying Tigers" Air Freight trucks. The logo, a close-up stylized black&white drawing of a regal snarling tiger, is startling in its raw strength and beauty -- both, and especially the combination, appealing to me. Some years ago, I found the same logo in a magazine's ad and managed to enlarge the tiger's face and painted it onto the sheet which now serves as the screen. I like the drawing; and because of the size, it looks quite impressive. I'm proud of it even though I am not the original artist.

Behind the tiger's face is my bed; it's actually a mattress laid on the floor. It is now a real mattress since my mother confiscated and gave away the large piece of foam that I had used for the past five or six years since college. The desk I bought at a garage sale is thoughtfully placed at the foot of the bed. I don't have to move too far from the desk before I can crash onto the bed, which is often the case.

At the center is the only piece of social furniture in the room, an old green armchair from a Salvation Army shopping spree. Facing that, of course, my mood-altering device – a compact disc player, conspicuously placed in front of the large French window, and audaciously elevated to eye level when one sits in the armchair. Since the compact disc came out a couple of years ago, I decided that nothing else should be included in my audio system except an amp/pre-amp, a CD player, and a pair of speakers – a good pair of speakers. A good friend graciously donated his integrated amp to me, for which I only had to do some minor repair, and I found a bargain on a pair of speakers of my audio taste. As for the software, I started collecting CD's even before I bought the compact disc player. My first CDs? Yes' "90125" and London Records' Dvorak Symphony No. 9 by Kirill Krondrashin.

Atop the CD player is probably my favorite decorative item in the room. It's a leafless branch of manzanita which I was fortunate to have collected during the month of my externship in Family Medicine in Yosemite Valley. One evening that month, I was about to watch a movie video at one of the clinic docs' house. We needed firewood, and though reluctant, he was contemplating using the beautifully naturally-sculpted branch for fire. I asked, almost out of hysteria, and was glad to have saved it.

The ashgrey-to-black branch is accented with its natural swirls of a mildly deep red, flowing smoothly around knots of varying sizes, like a gentle stream navigating its rocky bed, splitting and coalescing. The main trunk, about an inch in diameter, rises easily somewhat vertically and then turns horizontally, giving rise to three smaller side branches, also streaming horizontally from both sides of the main trunk. These then give rise to several smaller vertically-risen branches, as well as other still horizontal branches. A side branch travels a short distance with the main horizontal branch, then flows toward the observer, taking a slight dip; it then gently rises shortly vertically, and finally arches horizontally backward in the opposite direction of the main branch. The many small twigs are epitome of rustic and simplistic beauty in and of themselves. All in a perfectly aesthetically balanced, but yet precarious, arrangement.

The end opposite my bed and desk is the weight bench, which I find useful and therapeutic when I get restless. For a while last year, I was quite conscientious about pumping iron; or, in my case, pumping aluminum maybe more apt. The wall next to the bench houses a poster of the other of my two favorite animals. This one is also a copy that I made from the mascot of a nephew's old school. The shadow of a mustang was enlarged and painted onto yet another bedsheet. I used white paint on a deep-blue background on this one; whereas the tiger's face was painted with a simple black-white contrast.

The rest of the walls are decorated with a few posters that I have collected throughout the years. One of them is the photograph by Steve Steigman from that classic Lars Anderson's Maxell cassette tape commercial. It featured a tousled-haired, leather-jacketed man being wind-blown in his armchair by the music from the speakers in front of him. (I believe it was Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries".) I find myself in this position and playing that scenario quite often; I guess that's why I like it so much. The other poster I had bought way back when I was a freshman in college. It's a black-and-white charcoal drawing of a nude woman barely covering herself in a semi-kneeling position, ducking from a cross wind, her wind-blown hair and her shoulder partially covering her pretty face. I'm almost certain that she is pretty.

The rest of room is littered with textbooks, notes, handouts, unread medical literature ("junk mail"), and, last but not least, various clothing items that should really belong in a laundry basket. I try to keep my room tidy, I guess it gives me a sense of control over myself, but the cleaning schedule is far from ideal. My room would look "nice" only once every four or six weeks. Despite that, I am proud of it. I introduce my room to close friends as if I want them to meet my character, or at least part of it. Somehow, I see in the room a lot of myself. People can probably read a thing or two about me if they just simply observe the room.

* * *

Time to get up and eat.

I'm not that hungry, but I know that I'll regain my voracious appetite (so it seems to my sister) as soon as I savor the first few bites. Sometimes, the oral phase will take over if the cephalic phase has been overwhelmed by other thoughts, like now.

Dinner is simple but good, as usual.

My sister and my cousin do the cooking, and I do the dishes. Sometimes I would cook; I am not that bad, but I seem to take twice as long, and invariably end up with at least about three times as big a mess. Since they would rather eat the stuff that they cook themselves, and since they definitely don't want to clean up my mess, the usual arrangement seems to work best.

I spend a good hour-and-a-half at the dinner table. The dishes are essentially clean by now; maybe all they need is a good lick and they should be ready to be restacked into the cupboards. My sister gives me a most dramatic look of disgust at that comment. I take care of the dishes quickly. Yes, hot water, detergent, then warm water for rinsing – no licking. I'm quite good at this job, and usually don't mind it.

Finishing the last dish, I reward myself with a glass of cranberry juice, with plenty of ice, and manage to ignore the TV. If I succumb to the temptation of turning on that idiot-box now, I would end up wasting the whole evening, and would feel quite foolish later on. I really haven't done much reading today, if any.

Back in my room, with the glass of the burgundy juice in hand, I sink into the armchair after loading Dvorak's Symphony No. 9 CD, which thus far has remained my favorite. Before pushing the "Play" button, I remember the house rule and dash to my sister's and cousin's rooms. Sticking my head through the crack of their doors, I request, "Hey guys! How about five minute of sound?" "Go for it!" says my sister. My cousin doesn't seem to mind either; same with my classmate, who actually has more insulation from the loud music which I'm about to play.

Here we go! I give the CD tray a gentle push after loading; the CD player quickly inhales the shiny disc with a short and pleasant hissing sound. I like the sight of that pure mechanical efficiency, appreciating the electronic wizardry behind the scene. I guess I want to enjoy every minute of this extended experience.

I have dimmed all the lights. It's dark outside by now, and with the curtains drawn, the only lights I want on are those from the integrated amp and the CD player itself.

Volume knob to level five. I lean back, feet up, totally relaxed.

I push selection number four on the remote control, skipping the first three movements, and...PLAY.

The string section opening the powerful chord of the fourth movement instantly places me in zero gravity and immerses me in an ocean of sounds. The effect seems to have been heightened thanks to the anticipation through which I deliberately subject myself.

With the volume knob at five, the music is loud. The windows can rattle at this volume if I were to play Tchaikovsky's 1812 on the Telarc disc, which recorded real cannon sound for the spectacular last four minutes of the overture, and which is faithfully reproduced by the each of the 12-inch woofers of my speakers. Bathing in the music, I let my mind soar with the powerful rhythm of the string and the horn sections.

I feel incredibly light. It would be nice if I can continue the rest of the movement, but before I really have an out-of-body experience, I turn the volume down to keep my words.

With the CD player off, my room is unusually quiet, and dark.

The red juice tart in my mouth. The glass icy cold in my hand.

March 26, 1981...

That date is again on my mind.


* * *


The Dorm. The Cafeteria. The Library.

After the first year at Sproul Hall, one of the four undergraduate dorms at UCLA, I moved out to an apartment with friends of the family. Actually, brothers of my brother's fiancee, to be exact. My future sister-in-law also shared the apartment with us; she was in professional school at our rivalry institution across town. Although my future sister-in-Iaw frequently treated all of us to her exquisite home-cooking on the weekends, I didn't want to deal with the cooking hassle during the weekdays, so I bought meal plans to eat at one of the dorms. Even though I like Sproul better, I chose Dykstra Hall because it was a shorter walk – an uphill walk – from the bus stop at the campus’ perimeter.

Fall 1980 was a somewhat busy quarter. Single-minded and conscientious, I chopped away at the seemingly long ten-weeker, studying hard and making good grades. But I was never too busy to let my mind wander as my eyes roamed, my age-old habit.

There were plenty of pretty girls at UCLA, and at least a good many dozens in Dykstra. About ninety percent of them were out of my reach, belonging to the fantasy realm. That left only a few that I truly was interested in, with a desire to meet them, if I ever learned how to, or managed to get enough courage. And as long as, yes, as long as, they didn't already have boyfriends. My love life had consistently been one of boy meets girl; when boy finally musters up enough courage to ask girl out, girl says girl already has boyfriend; boy feels like a fool.

She was one of those few. But she also had a boyfriend.

* * *

Can, Phil, and I liked to sit near the food line. As we ate, chatted, made jokes, we also played judges to a candid-camera styled beauty contest.

"Ooh! An eight!" Can said.

That's the lowest he had given to any girl thus far as the people exited the food line with their trays. Of course there were twos and threes, but it's almost understood that we didn't have to mention them.

"NOW… SHE’s a ten!" said one of us as she came out.

Was it I? Couldn't have been. I always thought that she was too skinny. But a ten by one of us made the other two heads swiveled up as if operated by springs and the respective lenses zoomed toward the door.

Now I really noticed. She is pretty.

"She's got a boyfriend, you know?" Can reported. How did he know so much? "I've seen her with an American guy.”

Funny how we still referred to the Americans as if they were foreigners. Vietnamese can be quite biased people. And I am a perfect example of one with that comment.

Oh well. There goes another bird. Caged. We joked, and laughed, probably at ourselves.

From that day on, I seemed to run into her more often in the cafeteria. Of course, she never knew that I existed. I found myself glancing at her table frequently. She usually sat alone.

A loner – like me. Good. I would be easily intimidated otherwise.

But what was I thinking or dreaming about? She's got a boyfriend.

One day, late into the Fall quarter, not that it was a glorious day, or even a spectacularly memorable one, but at least it was when we were formally introduced to each other.

Through a few common acquaintances at the same lunch table, I learned her name, Jenny. Pretty name. For a pretty face. She was only a freshman – I was a big sophomore then.

Seeing that she had just finished leafing through the schedule of classes for Winter quarter, I tried to start a conversation, asking with an air of arrogance of an upper-class man, "May I borrow your schedule of classes?"

With half a smile, and without a word, she handed me the booklet. I leafed through and stopped at a spot where I knew exactly what I would find: the ID numbers, times, and locations of the courses I had just finished enrolling; thanks to my Regents scholarship, I had the benefit of enrolling before the general campus population. I knew all that and of course didn't need the booklet.

Without faking any further, I handed back the schedule of classes and managed my best smile (I didn't have one) to say thanks – there were a few too many people there. She finished her meals and excused herself to leave.

The next day, I missed her at breakfast; she was a bit late. I managed to cross her path on the way out of the cafeteria to say hello. Then at lunch time, there she was, reading the school newspaper, the Daily Bruin.

"May I?" I asked politely as I approached with my food tray.

"Sure, please..." She responded pleasantly.

We started an easy conversation, which was rare for me. A pretty girl like her usually didn’t make conversation too easy for me; I was too self-conscious. I guess my knowledge of her already having a boyfriend made things easier – I didn’t have to impress her, or so I tried to convince myself.

I am not sure what we talked about, but I'm certain it was pleasant.

We met again at dinner. And then, the following days, and weeks of Winter quarter, we met invariably at least once a day. Meals became more enjoyable, the food remaining the same quality, or non-quality.


* * *


I liked her.

There was no doubt. But there certainly was a lot of denying.

I found myself looking for her in the cafeteria every time. This wasn't hard despite the relatively large size of Dykstra's cafeteria because "our spot" was in the far corner. And if I got there first, she would find me there, initially formally opening our conversation with a polite, "May I?" before she sat, as I did the first time we sat alone together.

One time, I commented on her politeness after her usual "May I?", and she admitted that she was surprised (impressed?) that I used the word "may" that first time. "Most people would say 'Can I' instead." She commented. I returned the compliment, noting that she would appropriately say "Not I," instead of "Not me."

Day after day, I became used to her company. If I could not see her at a meal, something was amiss. I cannot say the same for her, but I think now that she also started to like me, at least to some infinitesimal degree, even then.

We also began to walk to campus together after meals to our respective classes. It was just a matter of good timing, and lots of luck. Her classes were of about the same time schedule as mine.

During this whole time, however, I was being painfully conscious of the fact that somewhere sometime between meal times, and even during some of the meals for which she bagged her lunch, she was with her boyfriend.

I found myself riding the clouds in her presence for one moment, and then reflecting the situation the next. There were times when I saw her with her boyfriend on campus; I would manage to avoid them, or, when I could not, to say a quick "hi" and then went on a separate way.


* * *


I wasn't the only guy who liked her among the group of acquaintances at Dykstra. There was a Chinese-Vietnamese guy, whose name escaped my mind, who was madly in love with her, so much that it essentially externalized all over his eyes and face, and streamed out of his flustered words and actions whenever he was around her. And there was Paul, a Chinese guy, who probably was equally in love, but who was more subtle. I was glad that she would talk openly to me about these guys. At least this means that she found me someone in whom she could confide.

And then, of course, there was Alvin. Alvin was a neutral kind of guy – the everybody's friend type. I had met Alvin since the previous year when I was a freshman. He was Filipino, same ethnic background as she, and I remember introducing him to her as her "countryman." Alvin was a quiet, pleasant friend to whom I could, and often did, freely open myself. He later became a catalyst for making things happen between her and me – without my knowing it until still much later.

It was to Alvin that I vented the feelings I have for her. After we all had met, we were the usual threesome at meal times, even though I knew Alvin frequently considerately avoided us.

One day, as she was leaving early after a lunch, I stayed and talked with Alvin, who was in his usual non-judgmental way.

"She is pretty," I said after she had left. “But too bad, she already has a boyfriend," I wistfully added.

Alvin didn't say anything, but there was a gleam in his eyes; he seemed to understand something, or be thinking about something.

I added, half-jokingly, "I think I would like to live in the Philippines. The women are pretty, and they speak English."

"Nah. I think you'd be better off here," said he.

"Yeah? Then how come I always run into women who already have boyfriends?"

It was true. Ever since I could remember from my first crush in high school, all the girls with whom I secretly or not so secretly fell in love had had boyfriends.

There was that gleam in his eyes again.

From that day on, she and I seemed to be somewhat closer. She seemed to want to walk to campus more often with me, even if she didn't have classes that day, or that afternoon. "I need to see my T.A." She explained.

Whatever...


* * *


The tendency to impress the person one likes encountered no immunity in myself. Consciously, I tried not to show off to her, something of which I had unfortunately witnessed some sad examples whenever we sat at the same table with Paul or especially the other guy who was in love with her.

My subconscience, however, was like anybody else's subconscience, and my superego had yet to adequately keep a lid on it. I had to play hero a few times.

One time at lunch, she mentioned that she had to walk back to campus to ask for help on one of her calculus homework. We were sitting among the acquaintances that day. The table was full, and people were commenting on how hard those homework could get.

I seized the moment and offered, "If you would let me, I could go through the homework with you."

She seemed hesitant, but then agreed to it, probably out of politeness.

So, after that lunch, I followed her upstairs to her dormroom. Unlocking her door, she seemed awkward.

I sensed her delicate subtlety, and suggested, "I'll meet you in the floor's common lounge."

She seemed relieved, and moments later, joined me with her books and notepads in hands.

I quickly went through the appropriate section in the chapter to refresh my memory, and then started to attack the homework. Thank God, it wasn't too difficult. I was pretty good in math anyway. I went through the analysis step-by-step and explained the solution.

I thought I did a good job. So did she.

She was impressed, and I swelled with pride.

Closing the book, I remarked, pretending a disdainful look, "It's kid's stuff."

We laughed.

She looked so pretty.

I felt good. Very good.


* * *


I started thinking about her in her absence and at night. My conscience was weighing on me heavily. I would try unsuccessfully to distance my closeness to her.

At the same time, she also seemed to become closer to me. We spent more time talking than eating at meal time, and we found ourselves settling for an empty table instead of looking for other acquaintances.

She rarely studied at the library, but that was about to change also.

As for myself, I pretty much camped out in the library. I was not necessarily proud of that. I just was not as smart as some of my classmates, who were doing ten things at the same time, spent a fraction of the time reading comparing to me, made good grades, and still had some extra spending money from their twenty-hour-a-week "part-time" job.

Joe, a good friend of mine, was one of those. One quarter, he had eighteen units, all of which science classes, including eight hours of organic chemistry lab and four hours of biology lab, was working, and he "couldn't understand why" he ended up with "just" a B in Physics. I told him that I myself could not understand that either. He was one of those people who had been endowed with more than enough brain cells – and synapses that worked. I had the utmost respect for people like him.

There was a spot in the library that I used to prefer. This was of no secret, but if one did not know where a person sat in the many reading rooms of the Powell Library building, one would have a hard time finding that person.

One day, Paul, the Chinese guy, asked me where he could find me to borrow a class note.

"First floor. No, not the basement. Toward the right-hand side as one walked into the main entrance, yes up the short stairs, and toward the end-corner. Yes, the non-smoking section."

This was over meal time, and she was there also. My eyes caught hers, but she looked away, as if she wasn't paying attention. Up to this point, we had not studied together, except for that one time I played the math professor.

That coming Saturday afternoon, I was semi-conscious in my usual spot, trying to read Biochemistry. There was a tap on my shoulder. I woke up but managed not to act startled. Learning to fall asleep and wake up in public, while studying, was an act that I was mastering. I did not fully turn around when her pretty face came into full view, and in close-up. The most beautiful dream couldn't have been better.

Did I mention that she was pretty?

She had a small faint nevus just over the top of her upper lip toward the right side. Her smile beaming, her eyes sparkling. Her teeth were even as a perfect row of corn on the cob, adorning the ready-to-smile lips. Her hair was silky black just short of shoulder length, framing her delicate facial features.

That day, she had her hair up in a pony-tail. I especially liked her that way. Somehow, her oblong face was enhanced in a simple but elegant way by her hair being swept back close to her scalp. And the pony-tail was in itself a simplistic loveliness that was she.

"May I bug you?" She asked.

"Sure… How?" I was still regaining my consciousness, despite acting like I was awake all along.

"How??" She laughed gently, then added, keeping her voice low, "May I borrow your Hi-liter?"

"Yes, please, help yourself." I handed it to her.

"Yellow! No. Do you have pink?"

"Pink!! No way. I don't use pink!"

"Well... That's okay." She smiled again and went back to her seat, which was not too far away from mine. (How long had she been there?? Was she observing me while I was sleeping in my chair??)

I went back to my reading... So I tried.

Thoughts came flying through my mind, "A PINK Hi-liter! I didn't even know such a thing exists."

After half an hour of reading the same sentence, and toying with my YELLOW Hi-liter, I got up and went for a stroll.

It was nice outside. Sunny. And the air was brisk. February in LA, where people could tan themselves in their backyards. Without thinking much about it, I headed toward Ackerman Students' Union.

And it occurred to me. Why not?

I went into the Students' Store and bought a pink Hi-liter, then headed back to the library.

Approaching her desk, I held the Hi-liter behind my back as if it were a bouquet of flowers. She either ignored me or was deep in her reading. By the time she looked up, I was by her side, almost kneeling.

"Here you go... A pink Hi-liter." I handed it to her.

She looked startled, then a bright smile beamed across her face, "Thank you."

That was truly a unique audiovisual experience for me. Looking at her smiling face, especially those grateful eyes, and hearing her voice thanking me... The most beautiful dream couldn't top this one either.

"You're welcome." I replied, then went back to my seat.

I felt absolutely wonderful, but really did not know what else to do, or say, so I just... went back to my seat. I must not have read very much, because her face, her smile, and her voice must have been waltzing in my mind.

Was she also thinking of me?

We walked back to the dorm together that evening for dinner. The incredible closeness was uneasy. We parted after dinner; she had had enough reading for one day. I had not. How could I have?


* * *


By then she knew where I studied. She eventually also frequented my other favorite place, the Periodical Room inside Powell Library itself, next to the Audiovisual Room.

Oh yes, the Periodical Room. Where short breaks easily engulfed one to two hours of reading "Car & Driver," or "Road & Track," or "MotorTrend." Got to fantasize about being inside a Lamborghini Countach, or a Lotus Esprit, and doing a zero-to-sixty, without having to shift into third, once in a while.

So now the library, the corner on that first floor, as well as the Periodical Room, all of the sudden became her favorite places to study, too.

One Saturday evening, she accompanied me back to the library after dinner. There must have been some sort of event, or perhaps it was a holiday weekend, because the whole library building was closed and locked by the time we got back from the dorm. I had not known this, and had left my backpack inside the building. Needless to say, I found myself in an awkwardly funny situation.

I noticed that a window of one of the reading rooms in the ground floor was still opened.

"Wanna see an acrobatic act?" I winked to show her that window.

"What are you going to do?" She probably thought that I was about to do something stupid.

"Well. I have to get to my backpack somehow."

Swinging through the opened window, I got inside without any problem. I found my backpack intact (i.e., books not stolen) in the first floor reading room. On the way back to the ground floor window, I met a guy, somewhat disheveled, and definitely panicked; he seemed to just have been running up and down the stairs.

"How do I get out of here? I mean, how did you get in here?" He asked in a rapid-fire fashion, almost astonished to see me.

I tried not to laugh, or appear amused. The guy probably fell asleep and was locked in when the building was closed. And from his look and panic, I would guess that he had been looking for a way out for quite a while. I showed him the way out through the window. Jenny met us outside, obviously relieved when she saw me. She became hysterical when I later explained to her the poor guy's plight.

So then we had nowhere to study. We could go back to the dorm's cafeteria, which was opened at night for studying; she suggested, and I agreed. We took our time strolling back on Bruin Walk. It was a clear night, and the stars were out by this time. It would have been a perfect evening under different circumstances.

"This would be a nice evening to sit on top of Janss steps. I used to do that." I remarked matter-of-factly.

"Why don't we do that?" She asked, equally matter-of-factly.

Yeah! Why didn't it occur to me? I mentioned it, but I didn't mean to suggest that we would do it – at least not consciously.

I knew very well why.

I had been consciously trying to avoid any situation which could bring us closer than we already were becoming. Or, more precisely, any romantic setting.

Sitting on top of Janss steps on a starry night like this with someone like her had always been my dream.

Someone like her, but not her.

She already has a boyfriend.

But I didn't fight it.

And it was as I had always imagined: MAGICAL.

The moon wasn't out, but I could still see her face with the few lamps nearby. She was enjoying it as well, I could tell.

We just sat there, watching the star-studded sky, and the lights from the three visible dorms – Hedrick Hall was hidden by the pine trees on a hill.

"There is the Big Dipper!" She pointed.

"The what?" I was truly ignorant.

"The Big Dipper. See, that's the handle, and there is the cup." She outstretched her arm to show me.

Yeah, sure. I wouldn't know where to begin analyzing the stars in the sky; looking is about as far as I went, and they all looked the same to me. And if I really wanted to see it, I would have to align my sight along the direction of her arm. And that would bring my head dangerously close to hers. And I hate to imagine what could have happened. I was already half-way drunk from her scent.

I eased myself out of that situation, "Yes, professor."

It was I who reminded us to get back to the dorm, she seemed to still want to stay.

Back in the cafeteria, I made myself comfortable at a large rectangular table in the middle of the room. I did not expect, nor did I assume, that she would share the same table with me; but of course, she did, after some subtle hesitation. She probably was equally self-conscious and equally observant of the fact that most of the students in that room had a table for himself or herself – except for the two tables, each with a couple, one of them in a rather intimate position, obviously not studying. Books anyway.

No big deal. We were there to study, right?

And study I did, amazingly blocking out the images from Janss steps.

And then the evening took a turn.

After an hour or so of reading, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw her looking up, but she did not look back down again.

I turned around, and there... was her boyfriend approaching our table from the entrance, behind him was her roommate. He must have come to her room, and the roommate must have shown him down here. (Thanks a lot!)

No big deal. I came here to study, right?

He helped himself to the seat next to her, just obliquely across from me. I gave him a quick nod acknowledging his presence and saying hello, then continued to intensify my concentration. They whispered something, and both began to read.

Five minutes of that arrangement seemed like an eternity.

This ain't gonna work...

And I ain't gonna sit here pretending like nothing has happened and pretending like I am making such great progress reading, or rather spelling, the same three or four words or so. Thank you very much for your invitation to stay, but I really gotta go; I only have my life to straighten out here.

Again, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw that she was visibly uneasy, and finally, slowly rested her head onto her arms in front of her on the table. The goodnight-I-am-going-to-sleep-I-cannot-believe-what-is-happening position.

Without making a big fuss, and the slightest of noise, I gathered my stuff and slowly got up to leave.

He glanced up just about the same time as she lifted her head. I gave one nod and whispered, "Goodnight."

Not wanting to make it look like I was in any hurry to leave, I wandered over to another table to say hello to someone I had just recognized. I barely knew that guy, but I shook his hand like nobody's business, like two long-lost friends, and chatted for a bit before making my big-relief exit.

I tried not to think about the eventful evening on the bus ride home. I must have felt asleep that night out of exhaustion. The emotional extremes of that one short evening must have weighed down my head and my heart like a ton of bricks.

Prudence 2

* * *

As we became closer, I became increasingly more bothered by the fact that she already had a boyfriend. Part of the annoyance was no doubt against myself, as I desperately and confusedly tried to wrangle with conflicting thoughts and personal internal guidelines that I had ingrained in my mind at the time.

There was no denying that I liked her – everything about her.

Well, except for the fact that she had a boyfriend.

And even a fool could see that she liked me also.

How could I have been so rigid? Why wouldn't I allow "it" to happen?

So what about her boyfriend? Yeah. So what?

At that point in my life, idealism was made out of steel and concrete, and it was carefully poured into the little opening in my personality that actually opened to real life. This had solidified into a non-yielding robot that was I. And thus far, this robot had convinced itself that getting together with her or going out with her was something sinfully and morally unacceptable.

Now that I think about this, didn't this robot have a middle name called Hypocrisy? Or perhaps I should not be so cruel; perhaps it simply lacked emotional maturity. It simply did not know how to sort out or to handle the different conflicting emotions that seemed so foreign and complicated, with so many gray areas, while its mind would want only to deal with an oversimplified world painted in black and white.

* * *


The Escort Service


UCLA had its share of campus crimes, just like any other campuses, I guess. The escort service was useful for women studying late at night. A fellow student in uniform, usually a male, but not necessarily burly (but somehow the women usually were), with a walkie-talkie, can walk one to a bus stop, the dorms, or even nearby apartment complexes. All it took was a phone call ahead of time.

Did I ever volunteer for this job?

No.

Then why did she always want me to walk her back to the dorm at night? Didn't she know that I had to study? And usually later than she?

But I loved walking her to the dorm, or to the library, or anywhere...

No you don't...

"Yes I do..." "No I don't..." "Yes you do..." "Oh shut up! She's got a boyfriend... Don't you get it? Leave her alone... But why doesn't she leave me alone? Why, do you want her to leave you alone?"

No. I don't. No. I. Do. Not.



* * *



Up to that point, I still could not allow the possibility of, and take responsibility for, her break-up to happen.

My rules were strict, my principles rigid. Idealism as I had known it was unrealistically mechanical. And my emotional dealings and experience were woefully inadequate and immature.

My denial of my liking her, and my difficulty in dealing with the boyfriend factor wrestled with the simple fact that I was falling in love with her. Something had to yield, and soon, before this seemingly simple yet schizophrenia-inducing emotional struggle destabilized me any further.

"Why do you always follow me?" I blurted out bluntly one time.

One time among the many when I had been poorly coping with the many conflicting emotions regarding her; and my own emotional insecurity externalized as a poorly adapted escape mechanism.

She was hurt. Her face told me so.

She never answered. Why would she? She should have slapped me. I could have slapped myself, now that I think about it.

That evening at dinner, I apologized.

"Why?" She asked, "Why did you say that?"

"Because..."

"That's not an answer."

I knew that. Who did she think she was anyway?

She kept pressing for an answer, because she already knew the answer.

It was because I like her – Alvin had told her so.

She knew it, and she also knew that I was doing every opposite to try to tell her that I did not like her. And the more confusion I showed by my pretension of not liking her, the more the indirect proof she found of my fondness of her.

One time, "Strawberry Fields Forever" was playing from the overhead speakers in the cafeteria.

"...Living is easy with eyes closed..."
She appeared pensive, and said, "It's a beautiful song."

I said without a pause, "It's a stupid song."

"Stupid? You don't mean that. I know that you love the Beatles. You only said it because I like it."

Bingo! I could not offer anything in defense of myself, except a wry smile.

"See! And I'm right, too! Aren't I?" She pressed. "Aren't I?"

Okay! So, she was right. Stop basking in the glory!

And stop looking at me like that!

Gosh! How pretty she was.

I like her.

That's what she wanted me to say, to confess, to admit, to confront, to accept. If only she could get through to me that one point... She couldn't do anything otherwise, not until I was ready to accept her.

But I didn't. I just apologized, not offering the reason why I said it.

…

She already has a boyfriend.



* * *



One evening several days later, I was meditating DNA replication in my favorite cubicle in the Periodical Room, the one facing the window. I really must have been studying hard (no, I was not asleep – I swear. I shouldn't swear – she never liked it), because when I looked up, she was several feet in front of me, reading a magazine from one of the shelves.

Her back was toward me, of course.

And I never saw her, even when I did see her, of course.

And she just happened to turn around and saw me, of course.

And I was surprised to see her, of course.

And oh-by-the-way, could I walk her home tonight?

"No." I said without even thinking about it, "Why don't you call the escort service?"

Her face was unchanged; she must have tried very hard.

But she forgot to keep trying at the last minute, just before she said goodbye, because I noticed her whole face darkened, eclipsed. Or did it shrink? It was hard to tell.

I never walked her to the dorm that night.

Did I feel good?

I don't even feel good right now as I rethink about it.



* * *



Having found out that she could not always rely on me to walk her back from the library at night, she stopped accompanying me to the library in the evening. She still would stay for the afternoon, walk back with me for dinner, and then stay at the dorm for the evening. Occasionally, when she really wanted to study in the library in the evening, she would ask me well ahead of time whether I would be willing to walk her back.

One time at dinner, she let me know that she needed to study for an upcoming midterm exam. The dorm was not exactly an ideal place to cram for an exam… Could she have the assurance of my escorting her back that night? She asked me with all earnestness.

Suddenly, I had flashbacks of those incredibly uneasy feelings from that evening of studying with her in the cafeteria when her boyfriend showed up. The emotional extremes that I couldn’t bear. I felt bitter and selfishly placed the blame on her.

"Why don't you ask your boyfriend to walk you back?"

"Because he lives in an off-campus apartment, and he doesn't like to study in the library."

I shrugged my shoulders to that perfectly legitimate answer, knowing that she did not make it up. I guess what was in her mind, and what she should have told me, or more accurately, what I wanted to hear, was that she would prefer me to walk her back than she would her boyfriend – or was I being too presumptuous?

But what was I to do if she did tell me that anyway? The truth was already so painfully obvious – I just could not handle it. Here I was, not wanting to admit that I liked her, and expecting her to tell me that she liked me? And what would I do with that knowledge? With that truth?

She was still looking at me expectantly from across the dinner table, waiting for an answer. I avoided her eyes and continued my cold silence, stubbornly refusing to change my stand on the issue.

It did not take her long to correctly interpret my silence.

She glanced away from me, her face sunken. Too many eclipses on the beautiful moon this past short week.

Bitterness was in the air I inhaled – and exhaled.

Why couldn't I make up my mind?

Why couldn't she??



* * *



Despite all the schizophrenic and conflicting emotional dilemma, mostly and most notably of mine, but probably of hers as well, we somehow found a steady state where our interaction was most pleasant and enjoyable. Meal time was the most treasured of all; and our interaction at meals more than made up for the outbursts of my frustration and confusion, as well as my occasionally deliberate rudeness and unfriendliness which were part of my pretension of my not liking her.

I always looked forward to seeing her or being with her at meal times, and she seemed genuinely pleased to either see me or be with me likewise. If "our spot" in the corner of Dykstra Hall cafeteria was taken, and one of us had to sit at some other table before the other one came, then the later-comer would always walk toward that corner with the periscope up and scouting around, looking for the other periscope which would also be up and scouting. Then she would beam a shy smile of relief when our eyes met, and I would feel my heart melt inside my chest.

Meal times were our best times that quarter. It was when we spent the most time together, most often alone, and face to face, and talking, and laughing, and forgetting that she ever had a boyfriend.

And in between the talking, and the laughing, we would catch ourselves eyeing each other secretly. And we found ourselves shying coyly away the first few times we caught each other; but then slowly, the eyeing became a form of communication, especially when other people or acquaintances were there at the same table.

We eyed each other not only because we missed seeing each other's face, but also because we wanted to see each other's reaction to a particular situation or comment made at the table.

Even, and especially, when we were alone at a table, when a conversation halted, and the laughter temporarily stopped, gazing at each other was practiced to the level of an art.

We started it subtly by first becoming thirsty, and we reached for our respective glasses of whatever drinks – I was usually the starter. We took sips from our glasses, our eyes intently piercing each other's pupils – with the glasses covering the rest of our faces – trying to see beyond each other's retina, to see each other's thoughts, to enter each other’s soul.

I to read her mind and admire her beauty, she to read my mind and force me to confront my feelings.

Silence was a requirement. The secret and magical communication was direct through our line of sight. We seemed not only to see, but to listen, to hear, to speak, to shout, to whisper, to touch, all through that line of sight, which always seemed to draw us physically closer together; everything and everybody else around us seemed to have receded and dissipated into walls of unimportance.

One time, an old thought came across my mind while I was gazing into her eyes, and it brought a spontaneous smile to my face as I was lowering my glass. She saw this, and would not let it pass.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing!" I was a bad liar. Coyly. Feeling myself blushing.

"Come on! You were smiling about something. Now, please tell me."

She really would not let it go now, now that she saw my blushing, and my coyness.

"Nothing. Really. Nothing important."

"But I'd like to know anyway. Come on, please tell me." She pleaded.

I hesitated; I really honestly did not want to tell her. I was still painfully conscious about not openly displaying any of my affection for her to her. But this was meal time, and I was happy, and she was happy; and we were – I was – just becoming drunk from indulging on each other's sight.

And this was a happy thought that had crossed my mind.

It couldn't hurt anyone.

My subconscience took its turn on the podium then.

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

"Yes! Of course! Oh! Come on!"

"No, really. You really really want me to tell you?" I was beginning to play the part a little by this time; my subconscience was really taking over by now.

"Yes!" She said with a firm resolution.

"Are you sure?" (Oh, come on, myself!) "Ready?"

She nodded both times.

I delivered the first four words slowly, deliberately, while savoring the latter half of the statement.

" I. Was. Thinking. About...how pretty you are."

Blank. Stunned. Blushed. More blush.

And smiled. Even more blush now, and coyly looking away.

That was the first time I complimented on her beauty.

She was beautiful.

She had a pony-tail that day.

My smile in return was audible from the satisfaction of having expressed my thought, and of being able to give light, and color, and radiance to her pretty face.

Of undoing the eclipses.


* * *


The Confrontation


In a way, I did not miss walking her back at night, because every time we shared Bruin Walk back to the dorm in the past, I always had mixed feelings, which gnawed on me for hours afterwards until bedtime. We still walked to the campus or to the library together after breakfasts and lunches whenever our schedules permitted, which was most of the time.

One afternoon, in the same tradition of not wanting to walk her back at night, I even tried to avoid having to walk with her onto campus after lunch, thereby breaking our routine of always leaving together after meals.

That day, I knew that she had a one o'clock class, and she knew that I usually walked back to the library around that time, as we always did in past weeks. But after lunch, I decided to hang around and chat with some friends who were sharing our table.

It was getting late, and she was still sitting there; and I knew that she was getting more anxious to leave – with me. Any minute now she would be late to class, and she was the on-time type.

I guess asking me to leave with her would have been too much stress for her, especially with my unpredictability, and especially with all the acquaintances there, who knew that she had a boyfriend – and he wasn’t I.

Finally, she got up and left with some hastiness, which somehow I thought was not purely out of the time factor, but out of some mild anger as well.

The evil plan of my distorted mind seemed to work, but as she left, I felt empty, not relieved. My conversation with the acquaintances fell into a vacuum.

She was no longer there to listen to us. To me.

I briefly stayed for a few more minutes and then left to chase after her, literally.

From the hill top on the west end of Bruin Walk, just across Circle Drive West from Dykstra Hall, I could see her at the foothill.

I yelled out, "Hey! You!"

A couple of huge jocks just ahead of me turned around looking irritated and intimidating. I smartly avoided their angry eyes. She kept on walking, seemingly faster. I quickened my pace and was just about to catch up with her near Ackerman Union.

"Hey you!" I yelled again.

This time she turned around, somewhat upset, but somehow trying to conceal it, "Did you call me 'Hey you' back there?"

"Back where?"

She lost her cool, "How dare you calling me 'hey you'!"

I tried to save the situation, "Hey! I just want you to know that you dropped something back there."

Her answer was quick, somewhat snappy, "Hey! I didn't DROP it – I deliberately LEFT it there!"

I totally lost my straight face at that point, and broke up laughing loudly, instantly replaying her gesture, her facial expression, and her angry voice in my mind.

That must have hit a sweet spot in her, and she too gave up her angry facies and broke up laughing. We both startled some people around us.

We walked off together to her class, laughing out loud.

It felt good.



* * *



Later that afternoon, I ran into her again in between classes in the hallway of Powell Library. She was on her way to another class, and I was just back from one. We saw each other from each end of the long hallway, and both continued to walk straight down in the middle of it.

We blocked each other's path somewhere in the middle.

"Excuse me, but you are in my way." I said, feigning politeness.

Some guy who just then walked past me turned to see the rudeness he just overheard; he must have noticed that she was pretty. I ignored him, continuing to look intently at her.

"Hey! You're in my way!" She frowned.

"No. No. You're in my way." I continued to play my part, knowing that I had the advantage of her having to go to a class.

"Oh, come on! I've got to go to class!" She pleaded, more so than what I had expected.

I really wanted to give in then, but somehow managed to continue my line, saying nonchalantly, "No problem. Just step aside, and you're on your way."

She gave in. She probably thought it was hopeless, but maybe she did not want to stoop so low as to argue with me.

She started to step aside, but I had anticipated this and bolted out of her way before she even started to move. I then gave her a bow befitting a salute to a queen and drew a wide arc with one of my outstretched hand to show the way, the other hand clinching tightly onto my backpack so that it would not flip over my head because I was bowing so deeply.

She nodded satisfactorily with half a smile in acknowledgment and indignantly walked past me.

She must have been thinking about that little incident, and the "Hey You" earlier, all the way to her class, and maybe even during class.

We were back to normal that evening at dinner, whatever that meant.



* * *


The next day, she visited me in the Periodical Room. We chatted casually, and pleasantly for a change, and at one point, after we both paused and briefly kept to ourselves, she sadly said, lowering her eyes,

"It's sad to belong to someone else."

I immediately retorted, "You don't belong to anybody."

How I wish now that I knew exactly what she was talking about, and the exact meaning of my own statement.

She drew a heavy sigh, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

I knew I was right, or as much as my microcosm allowed me to know at that point.



* * *


And then one day... Yes, here comes that phrase, andthenonedaysomethinghappened...

Something did happen.

She had another midterm coming, and she would like to study late at the library. Would I be kind enough to walk her back?

She asked me this over lunch in the cafeteria. I took advantage of the situation to kid her, seemingly having learned from my past lessons not to say no automatically.

"Fifty bucks," I said, "but for you, twenty five."

She was amused at first, but then grew impatient. I guess she really needed to study late at the library.

I did not promise her anything, nor did I say yes, and I don't recall her asking me again at dinner time. Nevertheless, we walked to the library together afterwards.

She seemed happy. It had been a while since we walked together in the evening. And as for me, I was in my usual schizophrenic self, half feeling happy, and half knowing that this wouldn’t last.

We came to that corner in the first floor reading room in Powell. She found a seat somewhere behind me.

Studied. Snoozed. Studied. Snoozed. Studied. And finally, tap-tap on my shoulder. A smile and an earnest look on that pretty face greeted me.

"Would you walk me back to the dorm, please?" The earnestness persisted, along with all concern and sincerity.

This time, I was not so quick to say no.

I really thought about it. And then I said, "No. Why don't you call the escort service?"

It was a Saturday, and there was no escort service.

This time, she didn't even try to maintain her composure. The twinkling in those dark eyes burned out instantly. The serene smile framed by those soft, unadorned lips was buried alive when the lips closed in on themselves.

The sun just set in my eyes, and there was darkness, which exerted its thousand-ton weight on my chest.

She got up from a slightly bending position from my sitting height and walked away without a word. Packing up silently, and somewhat hastily, she walked out of the library. Darkness followed her; and Heaviness lingered on me, somewhere on my chest, making it hard for me to breathe, although, I don’t think I was even breathing since I uttered those nasty words.

I sat there and stared at the damned textbook, whose lines on that page read, "Protein synthesis....you brute dumbshit asshole jerk why don't you walk her back to the dorm what if somebody follows her what if she gets hurt on the way back you dumbshit asshole jerk goddamn you..."

And the words became alive and transformed themselves into the Little Red Riding Hood walking hastily through the woods while being followed by a drooling monstrous wolf. And there was my Little Pony Tail walking hastily on Bruin Walk with her head down, being followed by shadows in the bushes and in empty buildings along the way.

I got up, or rather, I ejected up from the seat, grabbed my jacket, and flew down the stairs. Each of my feet probably landed only once during each of those ten-step stairs. The side door on the ground floor of Powell Library leading to Bruin Walk probably flew opened before my outstretched hand touched it due to the force of the compressed air in between.

I dashed down the hill trying not to make much noise, and caught up with her as she approached the east end of Pauley Pavillion, which was about four-tenths of the way back from the library to the dorm. There was no wolf and no monster and no shadow, except mine and hers.

I continued to keep silence and followed along side with her, but sneaking along the Pavillion's somewhat dark walkway. She never knew that I was following her.

At the west end of the Pavillion, I ran out of structures to hide myself. Bruin Walk started uphill again toward Circle Drive West, beyond which were the dorms.

I revealed myself, and that startled her. I couldn't really tell whether she was glad to see me or whether she was still angry.

"What are you doing here?" She snapped.

I could not find the right answer. "I... just want to make sure that... you're OK." My voice dropped off toward the end.

"How long have you been following me?"

"From over there." I pointed back to the other end of Pauley Pavillion.

"How come I didn't see you?" Her tone softened.

"Well... I was.. on the.. side." I stammered, pointing again toward Pauley.

"You didn't want me to know?"

I kept silent. What was I to say?

"How sly of you!" An ease came to her face. Her eyes sparkled again.

It was a cold night. And I felt as if the moon that night had reflected all of its brightness straight down to the spot where we stood… The water vapor from our breaths was condensing and was glistening in this column of light.

We started walking again slowly uphill toward Dykstra. We kept silent, and I could hear her breathing. She was mildly hyperventilating, and so was I. It was a fairly steep hill, or was it the only reason?

I left her at the dorm's well lit front entrance, which was in full view of the night student-clerk and of a few people in the lobby.

We parted after a sincerely grateful "Thanks" by her, and an equally sincere "You're welcome" by me.

Walking back down the hill in my faster than usual pace I felt inexplicably hot. It was not from the fast pace. It couldn't have been, because it really wasn't all that fast, and it was downhill anyway, and furthermore, it was quite cold that night. I yanked off my jacket and held it in my hand.

Reaching half-way through the length of Pauley Pavillion, I thought I heard my name called faintly from afar. A few more hasty steps, and there it was again, "Mike!"

I stopped and turned around. She was at the bottom of the hill, near the west end of Pauley. She picked up her pace to a trot just as I was turning around.

We found each other hyperventilating again, face to face, with clouds of water vapor coming from our breaths. That column of moonlight left everything else in darkness to encase just us one more time. Nothing else really mattered, or existed.

There was a lot more twinkling in her eyes this time.

And I noticed why.

Those pretty eyes were welled up with tears, but not enough for them to roll down her cheeks, which were echoing the trembling motion of her lips. She looked so pale, but so beautiful.

"My Gosh! Jenny!" I screamed silently in my mind.

And I wanted so much to reach out and embrace her, to lock her in my arm, to let the tears roll from her eyes so they could dissipate. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so close to her, but I continued to keep myself an ocean of attitude away.

"Are you hot?" She managed to smile with her trembling lips, glancing at the jacket in my hand.

"Yes." I sensed something significant was about to happen.

"You didn't hear me calling you?"

"No, not really. Until just now." I answered mechanically but truthfully.

"I started from way up there." She pointed back at the hill top.

A slight pause. The smile disappeared, and her voice lowered, "Can we talk?"

Another pause. I really didn't expect this, and I was far from being ready for it. "Alright. You'll talk, and I'll listen."

Her smile did not come back. "It doesn't work that way." she said with a soft sigh.

"Can we go somewhere?" She added.

Silently and together, as if pre-planned, we headed toward the northwest corner of Pauley Pavillion, where there was a staircase leading down to the ground floor, the main foyer, of Pauley.

A few yellow night lights nearby casted a dim light upon us, just enough for me to continue seeing her teary eyes as we were walking.

We sat on the top step, looking down into the darkened stairwell below.

Silence...

… uncomfortably amplified by the darkened stairwell and the cold night

… and by the unknown thoughts and emotions awaiting

We seemed to have kept our thoughts to ourselves.

I waited. She probably waited, too. Finally, she sighed, softly but audibly.

"I'm about to do something that I never believed in before." She finally said, then paused, and sighed again.

"Do you like me?" She asked, slowly; each word deliberately.

My mind yelled an immediate "YES!", but my mouth was shut; my lip muscles were never allowed to move by yet another part of my brain. In its struggle against the tide of multitude of other thoughts which were competing to suppress it, my “yes” answer was muffled, beaten back, and finally drowned. It never made it out of my lips into her ears.

One big bully thought that said, "She's got a boyfriend. Leave her alone." succeeded in taking over my vocal cords. And I finally said, after what seemed like an eternal silence, "Let's just leave things the way they are."

I did not look at her – was I ashamed of myself? of that statement? of my uncertainty? and confusion? and hypocrisy?

I could not see her face, but I felt an incredible heaviness from her presence on my right side. I felt the condensation of frustration and disappointment into a tangible, living human sitting right next to me.

The coldness of the night suddenly revealed itself somewhere inside of me, and I shivered.

I wanted so much to reach out and touch her, now that I managed to glance in her direction, and now that a part of me knew that she was the warmth that I needed and wished for for so long.

But I did not move. My mind froze. It had reached its boundary; it was not capable of comprehending and thinking beyond any of this.

She sat there with her head slightly down, staring into the darkness below. She stared into the darkness to search for my answer, which was as incomprehensible as darkness itself. And I could no longer see her eyes; the lights were at our backs. Maybe it was a good thing that it was too dark to see her face and her eyes, because surely there were bitter tears on her cheeks that she did not want me to see.

I am not certain how long we stayed there, and neither am I sure who finally proposed to go back.

Maybe I did. Maybe the robot did.



* * *


I missed my bus stop on the way home that night. And I left it to my feet to find their way back to the apartment, because there was no more space, no more electrical power, no more synaptic connection in my mind for direction. And my head felt much heavier than my book-filled backpack.

Finally in my bed, I lay staring at the dark ceiling, not needing to blink for long intervals.

"You did the right thing." I heard myself trying to convince myself.

I kept chanting that thought silently, trying to quench the numerous other thoughts racing through my head that night.

I probably felt asleep from mental and emotional exhaustion before my eyelids gave out.

Prudence 3

The Sculpture Garden


I did not see her the next day, and I was not myself the next day. I went to my classes, but why did I even bother? The lectures could have been delivered in Greek and I wouldn’t even have noticed.

How was I going to leave things the way they were?

My action and decision were no more than a little kid’s hands trying to cover his eyes and ears, and hoping that scary things or things that he didn’t quite know to handle would just go away. I was trying to make believe that the way things had been had indeed been okay, and that they indeed would remain as they were if we did not venture on any further. But I also realized that what had been developing into this strange relationship of ours was not the norm, despite all my attempt to downplay, to suppress, to deny, and even to reverse, albeit half-hearted and futile, its happening.

To leave things the way they were required the presumption of an irrefutable stability of things as they were.

Yeah, sure. Stability. Undeniable stability.

Even with the most complex denial mechanism that I was deploying, I could not help seeing that what we had was everything but stability. Something was bound to give; someone was bound to breakdown.

She did.

And she sat there with me in that cold night, tears in her eyes, her heart pounding, her lips trembling, her soul displayed, only to go on hearing my continued pretense as if nothing had happened?

Where were all this pretension and denying of mine leading us? What good were they now? What was I doing to myself? To her?

She took a chance and spoke her heart, or at least she was ready to. What about me? Would I speak my heart? Or would I continue on denying myself that chance, too? How long could I continue like this?

Is there Right or Wrong in this matter? And is it Bad to find yourself in what seems like the Wrong setting? Even if you never meant to be in it ? Never wanted to be the key character? to play a major role?

Sometime ago, somewhere, probably in New York, a philosopher had written, "...Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Shortly after that, he was killed by a crazed man's bullet, leaving behind his wife and his Beautiful Boy, Sean Lennon, to whom he had dedicated the song.

It's no use questioning Life. Either live it, or get out.

That night, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling again.

"...Live it, or get out...," I kept hearing myself. "Live it; take control of the situation, or stay the heck away from her, from them."

The two horns of the dilemma became two obvious choices; but that did not mean it was going to be any easier. It only meant that I realized that the ball was now in my court.

It was my turn to face Life; harsh as it may have seemed.


* * *


I was anxious to see her again. But to add to my anxiety and agitation, she was nowhere to be found in the cafeteria, where our pseudorelationship had had its strongest expression, and where I had been at my best and my strongest in our interaction.

The following day, sometime in the afternoon, she came to the reading room and found a seat a few seats away from me. She glanced at me to say hello, as if nothing had happened. I of course had been at the edge of my seat the whole afternoon waiting for her to show up and debating on what I had to say to her.

Shortly after she made herself comfortable, I was at her side.

"Can we talk?" I whispered.

She looked at me, somewhat surprised, and nodded.

We walked to the outside through the main entrance of Powell Library.

It was a sunny Winter afternoon. The air was brisk, and the sun kept us warm if we kept walking. Royce Hall loomed majestically from across the quad, silently witnessing my incredible apprehension as we walked toward Janss Steps.

We sat atop the 87-step red-brick staircase, overlooking the Men's and Women's gyms, the intramural field, Drake Stadium and its track field, and afar, on another hilltop, the dorms.

A few people walked by, but no one took advantage of the steps as we did.

We sat there, silent and motionless. Without movement, it was rather cold.

She waited this time. It was my turn to talk.

"The other night..." I uttered.

She cut me off, "The other night was history. It never happened."

I was taken aback, "What do you mean?" Red lights and "Danger" signs were flashing in my head.

She looked away, "Forget about what happened the other night. As you said, let's just leave things the way they are."

Great! So much for my confused suggestion!

I panicked, "I know I said that. But...I can't do that."

She did not look back toward me, but I felt her attentiveness heavy in my direction. She waited patiently while I struggled with my thoughts.

"I said that because...I do like you. But...you… already have a boyfriend."

She sighed.

I continued, "It hasn't been easy for me. I just don't know how to behave. It's really all up to you. I can't really tell you what to do, or how to feel. However it is you will decide, you'll know what to do."

She sighed again.

After a long pause, she finally said, her voice somewhat trembling, "After the other night, I tried to convince myself that we weren't meant to be together, that I can't be with you in this life."

She paused briefly, then continued, after another sigh, "Mike, I have had much more fun being with you these past two months than with my boyfriend for the past two years."

She had revealed to me more than what I had ever hoped to hear, and she seemed to have accepted the feeble declaration of my affection for her. But what was probably more on her mind now was that she was in no better situation; she already knew that all along. It had been for her only to confront me to admit it. It was an important step, and it was indeed significant that I finally verbally expressed it. But now what?

Now... it was her turn again.

She was deep in her thoughts, and never said anything else.

We finally walked back to the library. I was still feeling incredibly heavy, unrelieved.

Now, it was a different kind of anxiety.

I still could lose her, if I ever did have her.

* * *


A few days later, long and unsettling, with no contact with her in the cafeteria or the library, I found a flower left on my book in the reading room. A note beside it read, "You are right. It's all up to me. And I don't know what to do."

A few hours later, she found me. And we found ourselves at the top of Janss Steps again. It was late in the afternoon.

"He wouldn't let me go..." She said, sighing.

I was at a loss of words. I did not know what to expect when I was walking out here from the library, and I really did not know how to react to that. The only thing that struck me most clearly was that this whole thing had indeed been difficult, and it was not getting any better. Whether we left it alone or not.

Something finally made out of my mouth at the end, "However it'll turn out, I can wait. Even if it will take a couple of years."

What was I saying? I have to try to comprehend my own mind from way back then.

Was I offering to wait for her to break up with her boyfriend, smoothly, without my having anything to do with it? Was I evading the responsibility and the guilt of breaking an existing relationship? I am sure that at least some of my friends then would have pushed me to "go for it." But I wasn't like that; my mind had yet to be exposed to enough of life and love to make such decision.

She was silent, no doubt confused. She didn't seem to fully comprehend what she had heard. Even I now have trouble comprehending the naivete of such statement, and of the mind that had expressed it.

She sighed again. At least hearing her sighs was not as painful as watching her face eclipsed from my insensitivity.

"Let's just be friends."

Classic statement. But not necessarily in a classic setting.

She had expressed as much naivete as I had, proposing the "friendship" as the easiest way out. It was an emergency escape hatch; and here again was the assumption, this time on her part, of an acceptable stability. But it was only a flimsy lid on a roaring inferno that was our mutual feelings for each other.

I agreed to it, sincerely. Or as sincerely as I could be conscious about it. After all, if I were to wait for her for a number of years, I had to be just a friend to her.

That evening, we friendly walked back to the cafeteria for dinner, stirring up friendly conversation, exchanging friendly banter, expressing friendly smiles... behaving in a friendly way altogether.

It was still too fresh to be sitting with our acquaintances in the cafeteria. And we found an empty rectangular table that would have seated eight.

I sat down diagonally across from her, skipping the seat right in front of her.

It would have been too friendly to have sat across from her. Get it??

Thirty seconds into sitting down, I felt awkwardly silly talking to her from an angle.

I coyly remarked, pushing my tray toward the next seat across from her, "This is awkward."

A profound understatement of the decade.

She smiled understandingly.

I loved that smile.


* * *


How long did this friendly relationship last? I don't remember the exact length of time, but I think it was no more than an awkward couple of days.

It was probably during this time that I realized that aside from the fact that we both had openly acknowledged our mutual affection for each other, we really did not make any great stride forward, or backward for that matter, in our pseudorelationship. I still was feeling as miserable as ever, from talking with her, laughing with her, being with her, and knowing that she was not mine.

Sure, we had agreed on a "friendship", but it was just a matter of time before we, or more to the point, I, realized that we could no longer go on pretending that we were happy with our lives the way we were.

I was essentially back to square one. The only difference, and it was an important one, between our situation at that point and before was that I had finally confronted myself and was learning to be a little more decisive and resolute about certain things in this whole interaction.

Still, it was not an easy decision, whatever it might have been. One thing for sure, however, was that I could not go on pretending to be just a friend to her. The ball was back on my court again. The road that I chose came to another fork again, or maybe it was just the same one that I, in my wandering, came across one more time.

I also came to realize that she was having as much difficulty as I in resolving the boyfriend problem. It should have been, and it indeed was, more of a problem for her because she would be more than directly involved – she would be the one to make the decision regarding one man versus the other. As much as I had difficulty dealing with the potential of my causing the break-up, she had even more difficulty doing the breaking up; and from my knowing her, it was understandably so.

Unless, of course, I could give her good reasons to...

Was I ready to make the decision?

And could I live with that decision?

I immersed myself with soul-searching questions constantly during my waking hours, and even in my dreams, as Winter quarter was drawing to an end.


* * *


As finals came looming by, the heat was on. Powell Library was getting more crowded. Even her boyfriend came with her to study one night. In my own Periodical Room.

It was a cold night, and my favorite seat was near the only window left opened. I rather liked having it opened, since the room would have been too stuffy otherwise.

She and her boyfriend were across the room from my seat, facing toward me. She was coughing. A cold?

The silence of the reading room was sprinkled with the sound of page turning and the annoying clicking sound of the numerous four-in-one ballpoint pens as one color was being constantly exchanged for another, and it was occasionally broken with her hacking coughs.

Her boyfriend did not seem to pay any attention to that.

But I did.

Hey! She's suffering!

Then, after another bout of her hacking cough, a seemingly endless one, I got up, unintentionally creating some noise in the process, and turned to close the window.

That took some effort, because I had to get up in a chair in order to reach the window.

A few heads turned toward me. But hers was the one I saw.

Our eyes met, and somehow I had just sent some warmth through that shortest route along our line of sight into her.

She was no longer suffering.

She smiled. And her unspoken "thanks" was as loud and as clear as the soundless expression of her eyes and her smile would carry across the width of that reading room.

Need I even say that I felt absolutely wonderful?

I was her man in that short moment.


* * *


My Gosh! I had never felt like this before. Finals were just a week away, and I didn't seem to care. I constantly thought about her. Before, finals were my life around that time of the quarter. I would eat, sleep, drink, and breathe finals. I would metamorphose into a highly efficient studying machine. But now, she was my life. Every page I turned, I saw her smile; everywhere I went, I heard her laughter; every pony tail I saw, I thought of her.

Okay. So finals needed to be gotten over with – I did want still to pursue medical school, but this part of my life needed to be tended to as well, if not better. How meaningful would my M.D. be without her sharing it with me?

"...Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans..."

We had become so close to each other during the past ten weeks; how could I stand seeing her at the dorm, or on campus, walking with her on Bruin Walk, studying with her at the library, without being hers, and her being mine?

How could I continue to pretend to be just friend to her, when all I wanted to do was to embrace her, to hold her tight, and to kiss her whenever we looked at each other?

The choice was obvious. And I had been denying it for so long.


* * *


Dead week – the last week of lectures – marched by, then finals week. I had gotten over with three of my four finals. Friday afternoon, from three to six p.m., the last exam time slot of the last day, would be my Physics final. And as much as I had enjoyed and sailed thru Physics-Mechanics last quarter, Physics-Electricity and Magnetism really threw me for a loop this quarter.

That Wednesday afternoon, I was plugging numbers into formulae and trying to make sense of Electromagnetism. It was an empty day in the Periodical room; half of the campus population probably had finished with their finals and gone home already.

As my fingers were fiddling with the calculator, my mind was filled with images of her. And then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw her walking by the door and heading toward the Audiovisual room.

I felt my heartbeat suddenly quickened, and this intensified rapidly over the next several seconds. The intensity of each beat began to cause an aching pain in my left chest.

I was, for all intents and purposes of Internal Medicine, having angina.

My heart was beating with such rate and intensity that it was probably needing more blood than it could receive, and part of it was getting suffocated. Whether this was in fact happening physiologically, or psychosomatically caused by overwhelming emotions, I could not really differentiate. But I was sure that if I had glanced down, I could probably see my heartbeat through my chest, although I couldn’t keep my eyes off the doorway.

This kind of electromagnetism could not be elucidated by any physicist, nor could it be explained by any formulation. No number needed to be equated, only feelings expressed. And if no feeling was expressed, all the suppressed energy it generated would explode in the most devastating way. I should know better; because I had been unknowingly experimenting with this dynamitic force for the past ten weeks.

I was about to explode. My chest first, then my mind, then I didn't care about the rest of my body.

I got up out of my seat, my chest aching more than ever with each pounding heartbeat. It could definitely be visualized now; my eyes probably saw it eventhough I kept fixing them at the door as I walked toward it.

(Now I know why Dr. Zhivago died so disappointingly at the end.)

From just inside the entrance to the Audiovisual room, I tiptoed and scouted the room. Each desk was compartmentalized with high sidewalls for privacy and sound insulation, so as to hide the occupant's face. It wasn't hard to spot her in the mostly empty room, even with a headphone on.

She didn't have a language class; what ever could she be listening to?

I came closer to her cubicle. The empty cassette tape holder lying by her arms was “Rubber Soul” by the Beatles.

I recognized that tape, because "Norwegian Wood" was in it.

I had just mentioned that song to her the other night. I did not have one favorite Beatles song – I had many; in fact, almost all of them. But "Norwegian Wood" somehow connected me to her, or her to me.

"...I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me?"

I approached closer toward her, all the while feeling lightheaded and almost unsteady with my gait, my heart pounding faster and harder than ever. It was like walking a high wire, or at least that was how I would assume high-wire walking would feel like. And there was no safety net.

"...And... when I awoke, I was alone; this bird has flown..."

Don't let this bird fly.

I kneeled down beside her. She wasn't startled.

She slowly turned to me as she removed the headphone, as if she had been expecting me. It was almost surreal.

"It's a very nice song." There was something sad in her eyes as she said it.

I agreed by looking deeply into her eyes.

She stopped looking at me and turned to stare blankly into the back wall of the cubicle, apparently anticipating me to say something yet not needing me to say anything.

"May I talk to you?" I whispered.

"Yes, of course." There was a gleam in her eyes as she looked back toward me.

"When?"

"Now?"

"Of course."

We slowly walked out of the library; we were not in any hurry – we were enjoying each other's company, each deep in each own thoughts.

Outside, a few people were walking by through the quad in front of Royce Hall; a few others studying on the lawn or by the columns of Royce.

"Let's go to the Sculpture Garden." I suggested.

"That'll be nice."

"By the way, there is something I'd like to ask you before we get back."

"What is it?"

"No. Just before we're ready to get back."

"Okay." She didn't push it, because I sounded firm, and she was again deep in her thoughts.

Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden in the north campus was a nice place to stroll, or just to lounge, or to study. I didn’t frequent here much, being a science nerd form the south campus, whereas the northside was home of the liberal arts. I wished it were a bit larger; but still, its gently rolling grass knolls gave it some sense of seclusion, especially if one lay down behind them.

We picked an isolated spot and sat down on the grass.

She had her arms around her knees, one hand toying a blade of grass, her head held slightly down.

She kept silent, anticipating.

I sat down beside her, making sure that I was very comfortable; I did not want to be distracted by anything else right now. I did not start right away, and was still savoring the moment, although somewhat surprised by myself for being so calm and collected.

Finally, I pulled from my pocket and handed her a neatly folded letter that I had written and rewritten until my handwriting was just the way I wanted, and read and reread so many times already. I had to rely on writing because I usually expressed myself better in writing than in words, and I had wanted her to see my thoughts tangibly, and to see them again if she needed to, and for her to have the time to absorb them and think about them.

(I did not use the word "Dear..", one of my fortunately now extinct idiosyncrasies.)

" Jenny,
" It has not been easy. I have come too close to you to continue to repress and ignore what has been going on in my mind.
" I don't want to make you promises. If we get together, sure, there will be differences, but I truly believe that we can learn and grow together, and that we can overcome all hardship.
" I ask whether there is a chance we could be together.
" You owe it to yourself to at least think about this. Whatever your decision, I trust that you will know what to do."
" Love,
" Mike."

It seemed forever since I handed her the letter. Part of me felt relieved that I had delivered the letter; the other part was burning for a reply, or something. Anything. How many times did she read it?

She was still sitting there in the same position, with her arms around her knees, the letter in place of the blade of grass.

Finally, she lowered the letter, drew a long sigh, and muttered, "...I owe it to myself..."

Then there was silence.

I could hear her breathing, slow and regular, somewhat rhythmic. How calm she looked, while I sat there, burning.

Then it was my turn to sigh, "Jenny. It's only a matter of time before I say 'I Love You.'"

I did not lie to her. I wasn't ready to say to her those three words, but they were very, very close. I could just feel them.

I was already in love with her.

She sighed again, softer this time, "It's a very nice letter."

I flushed in acknowledgement of her compliment. She had always been so polite.

I did not expect an answer right there and then, or really, anytime soon. I was sure it was going to take a while before she could make up her mind on such an important decision. But all cues pointed to a favorable response so far.

We remained silent for a time after that.

Words were not necessary at that point. Although each of us was deep in our own thoughts, our minds had just fused and mutually enveloped us in an invisible sphere filled with those warm thoughts.

After a pleasantly long nonverbal communication, we were getting ready to go back. And she remembered.

"You have something to ask me before we leave?"

"Oh yes!" I flushed; I had never really forgotten, because I had been anticipating this moment ever since we left the library.

I paused to compose myself. I was nervous. But it came out more easily than I had thought,

"May I kiss you?"

She was surprised in a subtle way. She blushed, smiled coyly, and slightly lowered her head, all almost simultaneously, and just before a soft whisper, "Yes."

Then she looked up, and our eyes met.

My Gosh! She was beautiful. Her eyes beckoning me to come closer.

I touched her face for the first time. We narrowed the distance, and she slowly closed her eyes.

I laid a soft kiss on her lips.

My first.

There was more of the emotion of kissing than the physical kiss itself, which was too soft and too quick. And I was too nervous.

Nevertheless, what mattered to me was that I asked, she agreed, and we did.

And it was my first.

And with her.

* * *


March 26th, 1981. Drake Stadium

We started back to the library, gathered our stuff, then headed back to the dorm for dinner. We now talked like two birds that just learned how to sing. Our conversation was riddled with spontaneous laughter all the way back to the dorm. We did not hold hands – she had not said yes yet. I was conscious of that and kept my respectful distance.

Along the way back, we briefly stopped by the construction site of the future John Wooden Center. Even the heavy machineries, and the dirt, and the steel beams, and the lumber looked marvelous to us that evening. A large area of dirt had been excavated as part of the construction process, leaving a huge hole in the ground.

"I want to fill that hole with water." I pointed.

"What do you have in mind? Turning it into a swimming pool?" She asked, not a bit surprised by my comment.

I didn't have the slightest idea why on earth I would want to fill that hole with water. If I had to really think about it, it was because it was there, and I was with her.

And everything was right when I was with her.

I came up with a quick answer anyway, "I want to put some alligators in there." I was silly high from being with her.

And we both became hysterical. We laughed until it started hurting, and continued walking back to the dorm.


* * *



Dinner was most interesting. She bombarded me with questions as if she was interviewing me to make a final check on my qualifications.

Did I smoke? Yes, two packs a day, occasional marijuana. She laughed.

Did I drink? Yes, a few shots of whiskey a day, the whole bottle after exams, and I drank beer for water. She laughed.

The laughter and the smiles were nonstop.

We were high. Endorphin was in our blood, and all the receptors were fully saturated.

Love was a good drug. And I didn’t mind the addiction.

How radiant she looked, always beaming a bright smile and breaking up readily in laughter at the smallest and silliest of my jokes.

I felt light, as if I were on the moon's gravitational force. Intense energy filled our lungs with each breaths, and high-voltage electricity flowed through our line of sight; and there were plenty of eyes indulging on eyes.

I was having an ordinary cafeteria dinner with her, but my eyes were feasting on her smiles, and her eyes, and her hair, and her lips. And my ears were drinking the continuous stream of her laughter. And I was swimming in and splashing in her loveliness, her radiance, her presence. Her.

I was having the dinner of my life.

We. Were. In. Love.


* * *

After dinner, she followed me a short distance back to the library. She had finished with her finals, but I still had one more to go.

Descending the west end of Bruin Walk from the dorm, we came to an entrance to Drake Stadium. Unplanned and without a spoken word, we both spontaneously headed toward the seating area high above and overlooking the track field below.

It was dark, and I thought that there was no one else around us, until she pointed to a lone jogger on the track. At least one of us had 20/20 vision.

It was a cool night, but we were warm with our arms around each other. Numerous bright stars were out, and we were admiring them.

She pointed to one, "Look how bright that star is; it looks really close to us."

I lined my sight along her arm, my head brought close to hers.

That star was indeed the brightest, and seemingly closest.

"We are up there at this moment." I whispered into her ear.

She smiled again, blissfully agreeing.

She was the better astronomer of the two. But she did not realize that she was the brightest and closest star in my universe.

I gently touched her cheek and caressed down her chin. She closed her eyes.

We kissed again.

My second.

It was a long, slow, deliberate kiss. And I felt incredibly lightheaded for the duration.

I never realized that kissing was like tasting.

I tasted her.

I inhaled and swallowed everything that was she through her breaths and her lips.

During that moment, we rose above the seats; everything around us faded into emptiness.

There was no more Drake Stadium; no jogger. UCLA just vanished, and the earth just involuted. We were left floating somewhere in space, inseparable through our kiss.

Nothing else seemed to matter. Not the President of the United States; not the Russians, or the Ayatollah, or the Nobel Price. Not the MCAT, or Medical School; not books, not lectures, not finals, not letter grades...

We were unbounded by the earth, already in space; even Time was subject to Relativity. And we would care less about Father Time anyway.

If somehow we could become forever fused with that kiss, hanging there in outerspace, and every cells in our bodies would slowly grind to a halt and deteriorate and decompose over time, I would be perfectly fine with that. I would be in eternal bliss.

But we landed at last. And I finally regained my consciousness.

She gently pushed me away, feigning a terrified look, "Wait! Did I say yes?"

I was caught off-guard. "Oh!..." was all that could come out of my mouth. No doubt I must have looked rather foolish.

She laughed blissfully, drawing me closer once again, "Yes! Yes! Yes! A million yes!"

We were off in space again.

It was a perfect evening.

Drake Stadium, UCLA.

It was Wednesday, March 26, 1981.

***