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Madcap love

Submitted by Tony R. Rodriguez
E-mail: tonyrodriguez@hotmail.com

I’ll tell you of the mistakes he’ll make that aren’t really mistakes.
Henry scurries along a sidewalk of San Francisco, his feet chanting the festive beat of love. Complete love. True love. His smile is noticed by many who see the music in his steps—complete strangers who look at him in wonder or in disgust. Some think he’s mad, and in a sense he is truly. Henry notices colors on milk cartons on sale for seventy-five cents. He smiles as he passes two little girls holding hands with their mother, each pointing toward a pigeon eating crumbs of bread next to a bench at a bus stop. Lively advertisements in windows smack his cheeks. Cracks on the sidewalk slowly distort and signify her initials: the dot after each initial comes alive with a pulse just as he’s feeling. Think of the last time you’ve felt this way. Kristie, Henry’s co-worker for the past six months, just said she felt the same about him. Kristie looked deep into his eyes, casting shaman spells on his heart, filling his ears with words he’ll quote to himself and to no other for the rest of his life. Distinctive words. Life-words soul mates share eternal. Words that will remain imbedded in his heart for fifty-plus years because he knows what Kristie said is true. She’s the one. He felt life during a time when there was none. Kristie said she couldn’t explain it either, the feeling being mutual. They’ll have the rest of their lives to explain how they feel for each other, and the rest of their lives they will share and celebrate. Kristie said their relationship would make sense in a world that feels that there’s no modern romance. Suffice to criticism that will soon surface, neither of the two denies this love, an attractive feeling crashing around their modern hearts and modern minds.


Henry speaks to himself aloud as he gleams toward the parking garage a few blocks away, North Beach becoming a field of golden wheat. A true life-moment. Henry runs down Vallejo toward the car garage, clouds above him lightly moving east. Rat steam rises from street gutters and potholes near the intersection of Columbus and Vallejo. And Henry rises with it, clearing away any rancid feelings of the street. And these moments should happen for all of us. Henry, how alive he is, how brilliant this new stage of his life will be.
He reaches his car, pays his fee and drives along Columbus singing songs that Kristie just sang to him minutes before. Thumbing through the channels on his stereo he comes across the song he’s singing and knows this is no coincidence. Henry doesn’t know of the song’s artist or title, but Kristie says it’s by a local band. Now among the buildings of the Financial District his steering wheel becomes a drum, Henry playing an esoteric concert dedicated to new love. Nearby cars stare and poke fun at Henry’s elation. The tall buildings along Market Street bow to Henry as he drives toward his home, for these buildings constructed over once forgotten ships of the Barbary Coast understand his natural high. And this Market Street becomes a smooth river, little ripples skipping past his boat with music and mirth. Streetlights he approaches whisper to him through the color red that he shouldn’t have left her. He wants to turn back and spend more time. He can afford to, but he doesn’t. He’s alive with ardent love, and she’s not there to share the maddening feeling.
Home, but not home. Henry parks his car in his driveway, blocking the sidewalk of Castro Street, Market just blocks away. There’s a “No Parking” sign on the garage door that applies to everyone except Henry, and one other person. Henry breathes in and smoothes out his shirt and checks his breath. His hair. His neck. Up the stoop he spins trying to contain his excitement, the beating heart we all wish we still had. He didn’t expect this to happen. It just did. He didn’t plan on finding a true love in a woman. He’s strayed from women due to bad experiences of the past.
Henry may be considered a metro-sexual.
Henry used to spell his name with the letter I.
Henry lives in the Castro District of San Francisco, intentionally, but not for long.
The house is empty, just the life moving quickly below on the vibrant, in-your-face streets are heard, life painting brilliant motions in every direction, as it does every day of the year. The life Henry’s led for the past six months was never life: it was confusion.
“Hello,” he shouts to the walls that display pictures that never really meant anything deep down. They were merely walled because of another. Confused moments these pictures are. Memories, but not grand memories. Recalled times spent with a person Henry felt was the right thing, confusion getting the best of him. And these pictures don’t hurt to look at. They should, but they don’t. In fact, Henry flips a few down, turning his back on a part of his life others told him would accomplished him, yet it never did fully. He should feel bad about this new feeling, but he doesn’t. He shouldn’t be in love with Kristie, but he so is.
The telephone rings and Kristie is asking if he would come back.
“I need you here.”
“Are you all right, Kristie?”
“I need you here. You’re not here.”
“Kristie, what’s wrong?”
“Do you love me Henry? Will you take care of me? Will you grow old with me and no one else? Tell me. I need to hear you tell me this,” pleads Kristie, her voice sounding true and conscious.
His face becomes bright red and worried.
Zip.
Zap.
Zoom.
In the car back toward her: toward North Beach.
Market Street again becomes his river—this time rapid waters smacking hard against his boat, slowing him from reaching his destination. Henry yearns to see his new zeal. “Could anything be wrong with Kristie?” he wonders. And then he reaches his golden field, this charming North Beach, parks his car in the same garage and walks speedily toward her. The streets become more alive than just before: intense images of her face flashing around in windows and clouds and strangers he passes. New advertisements on rooftops intensify and shout, as they do on street poles next to flyers for concerts at the Fillmore. The street cracks appear as crooked as American politicians promising things they can’t fulfill. Everything’s taunting him and leading him faster and faster to her place. Henry springs into the intersection of Columbus and Vallejo, through the rat steam rising out of potholes, vapor representing mystical life. Henry dodges cars honking fifteen feet away. Pedestrians and slow-moving life stare again at Henry, thinking just how mad he is. And Henry is just that—completely mad. His heart is beating. Colors too bright for the rainbow sprout faster this time all around him. Flowers bud and breathe the same breath Henry respires. His hands are shaking—confessions were just shared twenty minutes ago between two lovers who shouldn’t be in love. Cars honk as Henry enters another intersection, the light not yet signaling to go. Approaching Green Street. Just a block away. Just up the staircase. Just a few feet from her door.
The doorbell rings.
“Henry!” Kristie’s voice slides under the door, rising up to kiss Henry’s red face. She opens the door to her studio. Henry enters and circles around her and tells her things he can’t believe he’s saying. Poetic words spill freely from his lips. Eye contact stamps truthful understanding in Kristie. She follows him in circles, never taking her eyes off his face, never blinking. How beautiful she is. Henry becomes drunk. Spinning. Shaman spells. Henry’s consumed ravenously. Her plush lips. Her chic light blue eyes. Her curly blonde hair. Her smile makes Henry smile. Kristie leans into him, grabs him with both hands behind his neck, and stops all the spinning, but both their insides are gravitating and rising at this potent spell of true love. Words trickle of how much she missed him—more poetic words—easing Henry’s heart, saying everything’s going to be fine. And in time, everything does work itself out. Henry’s face gleams red, a sacred blush that remains due to his drunkenness of love.
She leads him back to her bedroom, where earlier they’d spent hours of ungoverned embracing, unrestrained mixing of emotions—childlike love. And here Henry speaks with Kristie, confirming how elated he feels.
Henry’s cell phone barks and he reads the caller id, switching the power to off. The two infernos sit up on the bed and look into each other souls and share a response that needs not to be said. Life isn’t fair. Love isn’t fair. Love is never the love you wanted it to be when you were younger. We fall for people we shouldn’t be falling for. Henry should be filled with torment and rage and guilt at this point, but he’s not. The two arrow-stricken lovers know that this won’t be easy, but they both know deep down that it’s right. This decision will prove over time that love isn’t logical, but it was right for them, having a lasting and giving modern romance.


Henry decided to renounce women when he discovered his fourth girlfriend, Vanessa, contracted a virus that displayed itself immediately. Sleeplessness. Anxiety. Insomnia. Blood tests. Doctor bills. Women are liars. This was the third girlfriend to cheat on him. Many women claim they want the romantic—which Henry is rightly so—but when women get the romantic they want the bad boy lover instead. The troubled boyfriend keeps things interesting for the fool who subscribes to such infected love. Unhealthy, but bad boys keep things interesting. Henry always projected the romantic, but that wasn’t enough for the past girlfriends of his. They brought about so much melancholy to Henry. Stress and madness lurked within Henry each time he was cheated on. Possible infection? His doctor assured him that he was safe from anything, but this assurance took over a year to believe. More tests. More bills. Vanessa and past others had lied to him by fornicating with others in a careless manner, keeping secrets from Henry, foolishness and selfishness. And thankfully Vanessa and the past others withheld engaging in sexual acts while they drifted elsewhere, keeping him safe from any possible disease contraction. Devastating it was when he saw Vanessa’s sores. Vanessa loved him, so she said. He gave her his every. He gave her an open heart and she returned everything he gave in order to feed her lascivious, insatiable desires.
Henry then found comfort in a friend that worked well with words. He found Brad. Brad believed in him and his romantic heart and convinced Henry that love was still out there. Henry changed, but Henry wasn’t the Henry he was deep down. Henry believed Brad when he said that Henry’s not a heterosexual. Henry felt Brad was right even though he was wrong. The two later moved into a place in the Castro District together, Henry changing the spelling of his name to “Henri” as suggested by Brad. Yet Henri never felt the same. He felt alone and somewhat uncomfortable with the move. There was always something missing. Brad was fun Brad, but Brad never fulfilled Henri the way Kristie now does. Henri was being someone he deep down didn’t want to be.


Kristie doesn’t say a word to Henry after he turned his cell phone off. Rather, the two continue to stare deep into each other’s eyes, warm under the bed covers, reflecting moments we all wish we could share daily. The two only hold each other, gripping and squeezing. The two looking bottomless into each other’s eyes and saying everything that needs to be said—non-verbal communication being a powerful witness. He knows that she’s the one, as does Kristie.
“You need to speak with Brad. Tell him how you feel. Turn your cell phone back on,” explains Kristie, fingers intertwining and locking hard with Henry’s. Kristie rubs along Henry’s back, smoothing away the tension starting to grow. Sincere looks of true love pepper their dispositions under the covers with patterns of flowers. The two will one day have such flowers displayed at their wedding.
“I’ve never told Brad that I loved him, as I do love you,” confesses Henry.
“I would think that you would have. You’re serious: you’ve never told Brad you loved him, and you live with him?”
She grabs his hands and squeezes, sketching tiny hearts near his wrists.
“I would tell you, Kristie. Simply and honestly. This feeling I’m having for you is true, never was it with Brad. Let me prove it to you through my actions and through my confessions.”
“Would you answer me every question I ask you? Henry, I must know certain things? I’m not feeling infatuation or puppy love. This is real for me. Would you tell me the truth toward any question I ask of you, no matter the cost?”
Her eyes move slowly along the contour of his face, vibrant specks of life in his eyes.
“Kristie, my life is now yours. And I’ve never said that to anyone either. Kristie, you are the fire within the understanding of my deep love.”
What Henry just said might not have made any sense to you, but Kristie understood.
“But I still think you need to call him. I think it’s only fair. For me, please call him. Tell him how you feel about me. You owe him that. Don’t wait it out. Call him and tell him now.”
Kristie kisses him deeply and touches his cheek with warm fingers that proclaim her love. Henry’s face maintains its fiery furnace color.
“For you and for myself I’ll call Brad. He won’t understand. He should. I think he knows deep down that I’ve never loved him.”
Confusion got the best of Henry while he was with Brad, as it does with all of us. Brad would have never been an issue had it not been for Henry’s past failures. Why did Vanessa and others hurt him? Having a romantic for a lover only works if the other is a romantic as well—like Henry and Kristie. If his past others could have only been honest with him and themselves things would be different.
“Kristie, I love you. I was confused with Brad.”
“I believe you, Henry, and I’ll never ask again. But will you call him?”
Kristen never asked again about his feelings for Brad. Rather, she confessed her feelings for Henry daily, romantic actions by romantic people in love.
Henry calls Brad, immediately apologizing for not picking up his cell phone. Brad doesn’t even ask if everything’s OK. Brad’s been waiting for this to happen. He can accept and respect Henry’s true find, realizing the fact that Henry isn’t gay. Brad—that humble saint—tells Henry that he doesn’t need to explain anything to him. Brad knew all along that Henry really wasn’t a “Henri.” Brad, too, did feel that Henry never loved him. They did live with each other for six months, but love was never really there. There was only confusion on Henry’s part.
“I knew this day would come Henry,” says Brad. “When I saw the pictures flipped down I knew you were in love with someone else. I always picked you to be the romantic, but you never displayed it with me. I need to go. I can’t talk now, but I want you to be happy.”
Henry floats Brad kind words that Brad will grow to appreciate for their honesty. And Brad’ll get over it. Whether you’re homo- or heterosexual or even bi, people come to the realization that it really doesn’t matter what sex you’re with. All that really matters is the feelings you have for the person you’re in love with. And Henry has feelings for Brad, but not the passionate feelings he has for Kristie. He has only friendship with Brad.
“I love you, Henry.” Kristie holds his hands and looks deep into his eyes after the phone conversation with Brad. The two play under the covers and list things they like about each other, confessions from their work place when care was expressed through little gestures, feelings about the childlike times spent the few days before this day at the park on a lunch date. Pushing away the covers on her face, Henry outlines her smile with his index finger and traces it toward the ceiling, citing more reasons why he loves her.
“Henry,” Kristie says looking madly into his eyes, “let’s go to Reno.”

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