"Laid down last night but I could not take my rest."
It's a little after 2 a.m. When the moon is full, I'm usually awake. My dad asked me last night at our regular Tuesday dinner if I was a werewolf. I mean, this is my father—if he doesn't know, who does? "I think I am, Pop," I said. "The desert is doing all kinds of strange shit to me." Guess that's why I'm here. Yep, things just keep getting stranger in this strange land.
Yesterday afternoon, a mischievous hair entered my rear portal, as they say, and I put a sign up in the mail room of my complex. "Moon wreaking havoc with ya? Under stress? Confused? Come on out to the pool for some healing midnight yoga with your resident fool. Come none, come all. No charge." I've been thinking about this. I know enough Kundalini yoga after five years of stretch-and-study to teach the children a few moves that might make 'em feel good after a long day in the neon salt mines. I anticipated a complete no-show. I was right. But I had a great time by myself, cross-legged and painless, under the stars and strobe-bright moon, breathing from the belly, detaching and disappearing into the immaculate desert night.
It was so quiet. I took a seat on a lounge chair and started staring at the water. Turquoise blue. Sparkling clear. The moon's reflection bounced off the surface like a mirror. The palm trees were blowing as if the lips of creation had whispered something to the sky. I postulated that all the trees on earth in that instant were rustling. Do you listen to nature when nature speaks? In this odd and fantastical place, one has to strain to hear the near-silence of nature over the droning din of decadence. Unless one listens. My problem has long been negotiating the internal symphony, not the external. What's my head playing right now? I flash back to earlier in the day and el tiempo con la chica se llama, Carmella.
I was sitting in the same lounge chair, reading. She appeared with a tiny tot in tow. I engaged her and la nina in dialogue. I initiated the conversation by noting what a cool pair of floaties the little one was wearing. The children always talk to me 'cause they know I'm one of them; a freak. They don't see a just-turned 48-year-old man wearing bright orange bathing trunks with white crows on 'em, sporting a goatee that's been doing a fine job frightening away most of the females I've encountered in the last few months. They see a big, dumb kid who looks like fun. She had a 2-inch Snow White doll in her hand.
"This is my baby-sitter," the child said, looking up at the girl. "She's Spanish, and I don't understand anything she says." That's when I shifted my eyes from the fairy-tale princess in la nina's right hand to the bronze goddess peeling off her T-shirt.
"Hola," I said. "Un dia bonito hoy, verdad?"
"Si," she replied, softly.
Her name was Carmella.
"Mexican girls, Mexican girls, te quiero/Spanish girls, Spanish girls, te quiero."
When she took her hair down, it was as if someone had unfolded a thick, brown wool quilt. I'd never seen such a breathtaking mane. Except in fairy tales: Rapunzel, Lady Godiva, Mary Magdalene, Julia Roberts. Could one possibly hold this princess in one's right hand?
"Su pelo es magnifico." A reserved but authentic grin cracked her wide-eyed countenance. Carmella, I learned, is the youngest sister of five brothers who left their native Mexico en masse three years ago for the wonder, promise and viva of Las Vegas. I learned that the brothers were married, every one of 'em, but Carmella, only 19, was still too joven for that.
Then from left field, the toddler interrupts. "She has a boyfriend, and they kiss!" I marvel at this because the kid doesn't speak the language. She just knew what we were saying because we were talking about love. That doesn't require brain work, education, adulthood, even puberty.
Carmella is still a kid herself, though wrapped in a highly evolved package. Her body harkened back to the Vargas Girl drawings in Playboy, except the curve-worshipping cartoonist never painted the simple girl, the uncorrupted, innocent girl. If he had, Carmella would have inspired him. She lives with the little one and her mom here in our delightful residential enclave in summery Summerlin. Carmella cannot leave the apartment at night. That is when la nina duerma. I tell her that midnight is nice out by the pool. I do yoga then. She doesn't know what yoga is. Not a clue. And it's something I can't articulate in Spanish. I ask if she likes rock 'n' roll. She flinches, and I learn that it's Christian music that floats her raft.
And so the surreality of life sets in again. I am engaged in a foreign-tongue poolside discussion about POD and Jars of Clay with a teenage Latin nanny a few ticks older than my daughter. I am also conscious of the fact that I have as much in common with this young lady as a muskrat with a rattlesnake. But that doesn't stop me from frolicking further through the fractured dialogue.
I asked Carmella if she had seen la pelicula de Passion. She hadn't, but her brothers had. Guess she just has no time for entertainment, save the make-out sessions con el hombre de amor. I described how painful Mel Gibson's film was for me to watch. I said she would find it very powerful. Her smile was so disarming. Gentle. What could this boyfriend have going on? What did she have going on? Being solar sexy in Sin City can make you rich at Cheetah's. But she was nowhere near that life. Then again, in a year, who knows? A few evening English classes could change everything. "Hola, big boy. My name is Carmella. I speak just a little English. But for $200, I'll shut my mouth and show you el grande illusion."
Twelve hours later, in the same chair by that same pool, the moon was almost as bright as the sun, and I couldn't help thinking about what was happening, out there, beyond the walls of my suburban day camp. I hoisted an invisible goblet in toast to all the werewolves, immigrants, strippers, barkers, bouncers and baby-sitters, brown and white, braving life here on the sands of sin and spirit. And I say aloud, "Attencion, gente! (Attention, people!) Venga con migo y viva la vida loca. (Come with me and live the crazy life.) En Las Vegas, hay algo para todos. (In Las Vegas, there is something for everyone.) Por que? Porque la bonita esta es en los ojos de ... como se dice, 'beholder'?' (Why? Because beauty is in the eyes of the ... how do you say, 'beholder?')"
If I ever see Carmella again, I'll ask her.