Gallivanting around the Griffith Observatory today. We’re standing in front of a display of every single periodic element. And in one ear and out the other is a poised lecture on the merits of the inert gases coming from a saucy sylph beside me. She points out atomic numbers and bobs and weaves through a textbook full of on-call information. Einsteinium this and Californium that. My ears have checked out. But my eyes are glued to this professorial petunia.
We move the lecture downstairs to the planetary displays. Each exhibit comes with a freight of ancillary information from her. All elocuted masterfully by Angela by way of Taiwan. Born in Queens but raised a little bit of everywhere. She finds herself on a quick detour here in Los Angeles. And here our paths cross serendipitously. And here I whip out my pen and paper and start the third degree.
“So,” I burble, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
She leans into an encasement holding a crumb of moon rock. She’s so entranced by the lunar lump she forgets the Plexiglas barrier and softly bumps her nose against it. It was the most darling thing I’d ever witnessed. A major win for science, I’d say.
“This morning I had yellow watermelon.”
For want of not sounding like a complete imbecile I did not inquire as to the ripeness of the fruit and assumed this was just a type of watermelon you’ve never heard of before. It would join a bounty of many fruits that are unknown to you. Limited knowledge of them, you. What the hell is a rambutan?
“And a side of five grain bread dashed with a squirt of olive oil.”
Healthy, this one. With a sturdy ticker, I bet. Quite the contrary to mine. Which is beating a continual hum of nervousness and romantic distress. I’ll have to hold out a little while longer. I’ll allow myself to die after the interview. I’ll take my chances with the defib.
“If we were to crack open your fridge right this moment, what would we be liable to find lurking within?”
She moseys on to the next exhibit. A booth on the planet Venus. It’s easy to place her at the front of a Venutian phalanx waging a full-frontal assault on Mars. And we’d bend eager knee to her and her lovely Valkyrie.
“I suppose you’d find an assortment of fruit, some soy milk, and a few bottles of tea. Maybe a tube of miso soup paste. And aloe vera.”
I did not know one could eat aloe vera. Fill a museum with what I don’t know apparently.
The next series of questions came out rapid fire. I don’t know how much longer I could stave off cardiac arrest.
“Favourite phrase?”
“N’importe quoi.”
“Least favourite word?”
“Ecureuil.”
“Era you’d like to live in most?”
“Pre-colonial Africa.”
“Historical figure you’d like to dine with most?”
“Amelia Earhart.”
I relinquished my finger from the trigger momentarily. This answer gave me a bit of pause. I coaxed out a few more details and she painted for me a very lively and civilized dining experience.
“I suppose I would invite her to brunch. And we’d share something very un-brunchly. Like ratatouille or something. I’d pick up the check, naturally, since it’s me doing the inviting.”
Lady-like and mannered.
It’s at this point I challenged her to a staring contest. Of which I was soundly smote within seconds. We clenched eyes and I counted down. But when she brandished those giant peepers of hers I had no chance. Upturned lashes like pagoda roofs. I was vanquished before my eyes opened.
Her post-victory glow heaped onto her already near floodlight wattage ebullience? I required one of those Manhattan Project grade UV goggles.
“A test. Could you recite the alphabet backwards?”
She proceeded to. With deftness and alacrity. Apparently this was something she could do sober or drunk. She rattled them off easy and silky smooth. I’ve never met anyone who could do this before.
“That’s impressive. Please stop impressing me.” My strained heart pleaded too.
The talent show continued though. I ask her for a self portrait and a haiku. And she hastily produced these two MacArthur Grant worthy mirabilises.
“What’s a talent you’d like to have?”
“I’d like to pick up silk aerials.”
If heaven is designed by our innermost desires then awaiting me at the gates would be a cadre of hers suspended from silk ribbons contorting and scissor-kicking me a divine greeting and welcome home.
“What’s an ideal death?”
“A natural one. Old and comforted in a bed surrounded by loved ones.”
I always ask people this question. As it has always been a bit of a noodle scratcher for me. I can’t quite seem to land on one that’s satisfying enough. I’ve pondered jumping a Harley into a volcano. Or trying to waltz with a Great White. Any number of grisly and spectacular endings. But still I’m up nights mentally engineering the perfect exit.
“Alright. Tell me three facts about yourself. Make one a falsehood and don’t tell me which is which.”
And just as easily as she recited the backward alphabet she counters with these ingots.
“I was hospitalized once for a whole week. I collided into a tree once and lost half a tooth. And I traveled from one Indian city to the next once barefoot.”
Good responses. Maybe the best responses.
“How do you like your steaks?”
“I’m a vegan. So I’ll replace a steak with an eggplant. Which I tend to take grilled. With garlic and basil.”
‘What’s your favourite song to sing in the shower?”
“Alouette.”
“What’s your favourite smell?”
“Fresh tofu.”
We’re walking around the dirt trails surrounding the Observatory and taking in the view of the city. The wind lugs a plastic bag across our path and she darts over and fishes it up. She sighs dejectedly and deposits it into a nearby waste bin. She bemoans litter. And I suddenly felt like that kid from American Beauty. I well up and could collapse from the profound beauty of it all.
“What’s your earliest memory?”
“When I was five my grandmother used to leave sweets for us on the table when we awoke from our naps. With a comforting reliability. Like clockwork.”
“What’s your worse trait?”
“I’m a bit of a homebody. It takes awhile for me to get my motor running. I could have one errand to do all day but it’ll take me forever to finally do it. Once I’m home it’s hard for me to find the resolve to leave again.”
“Is it better to give or receive?”
Without hesitation, “Give.”
And give she does. Angela has given me quite a bit to mull during the drive from Griffith Park.
We soon find ourselves on her stoop. That awkward moment of bidding farewell. She holds a pineapple I purchased as a parting gift. She inhales it deeply and comments on its freshness. She thanks me for the afternoon outing and skips up the stairs. She glances back briefly and hits me with one last one-second staring contest.
My throat seizes. I clutch my chest. I start to crumple.
I think I found my ideal end.
This.