Also by Rodrigo Haro
South Chicago (a novel)
Content Test (a novel)
Short Stories II
Gangero (a novel)
Short Stories
Chicago (a novel)
Rodrigo Haro
Imprint: Independently Published
In memory of my niece Penelope Chanel Vitela (March 29, 2018 - November 25, 2018)
Chapter 1: Columbus, Ohio
I was in Ohio when Barack Obama got elected. The people celebrating the election jumped in the campus pond. They undressed to their underwear and dove in. The campus, and Columbus Police officers were on horseback. They were doing nothing. They were watching. The students pulled off their shirts, the girls took their clothes off as well, got down to their bikinis, and jumped in the almost freezing water. This was winter. Some people wore tape shoes. They wrapped upside down tape on their feet and crawled around the yard. I walked back to my small room in an apartment which I was sharing with other people. I saw two girls walking sadly. They said something uplifting and kept walking. They said something similar to,” They’re not with me.” They were wearing different shorts than the Obama shorts. I went back to my room and thought about God. My life was changing in Ohio. I was once drunk and walked to a hospital looking to share myself in. I walked in and asked to use the bathroom. I needed to live. I did not need to die. I kept walking and thinking. I eventually made it back to my room. I was safe in place. Life was not bothersome. I always saw the girl from across the hall. I also attended church every Sunday. I prayed. I stared at the big screen. Mass was short. After one of the Masses. I saw a seminarian in an after Mass event.
I was thinking of Chicago when I was in Ohio. I used to go to the Newman Center, a church run by the Paulist fathers. There was a big screen TV in the middle of the church. I sat in the back. The sermon was telecast on the television. The priests poised questions and ideas on the screen. The church was a proscenium theater. I went every Sunday. Some days I went during the week. I saw families and friends at the church. I rarely spoke. I went to confession. I wanted to inquire about joining the Paulist fathers. There was a man who was celebrating his ordination. He wanted to make it big. There was a reception. I attended and ate what I ate. Sandwiches and drinks were served. I went in. I wanted to talk to him and congratulate him. I spoke to him and asked him a question. I wanted to speak to the rest of the fathers. I went to the street after praying. I wanted to make sure I was okay. I was spiritual like my mom told me. “Tienes que tener temor de Dios,” she always said. I always try to follow that guidance. I wanted to stay with them. I saw food. I saw drinks. I saw camaraderie. I saw myself doing me. I wanted some guidance. I went home and prayed. I saw myself being part of them. I felt myself going in a fruitful way. I saw me in a way completely in God’s plan. I wanted to know how to join the church. I wanted to join others. I wanted to be with them and know what I wanted to know. I wanted to belong and know where to go. I needed to be with them. I needed to stay put. I wanted to know how to join the church from upstairs. I wanted to know where to go. I wanted to know what to do. I wanted to walk. The church was big. It was huge. It had a big altar.
I missed Chicago. My brother visited me once in Columbus. He dropped off my mail. I could not catch him and said hi. He drove off in his van with his friends. I caught my mail in the mailbox where he left it and did not catch him. I saw him drive away and get into the van. He and I never got along. I went back to Chicago a year later at the end of the school year. I went back to my mom’s house and reapplied again to Northern Illinois University. I was accepted. I packed my things at the end of the summer and moved to Dekalb, IL. I went back to Chicago and made up with my mom. I even got a summer job. I knew I had to persevere. I told my mom, “I am going back to school.” I went ahead and got an apartment, a room, in a three story house. God bless. Amen.
My mom tried to control my sister. I tried to wait for her in grammar school to walk her home. My mom used to tell me to wait for her. I waited for her as much as I could. One time I did not walk her home because my teacher Mrs. C. (Eternal Rest) from seventh grade told me to load books into her trunk. I loaded crates of books. I then walked back home and my mom yelled at me for not walking her home. I was with my friend Ruben as well and I ran home telling him with a loud voice, “ I have to go home.” “Wait,” Ruben yelled.
Another time my mom yelled at me for smoking. I smoked a cigar from my friends grandfather (Eternal Rest) and went home smelling like smoke. My mom berated me for not getting home early. “We had a doctor’s appointment,” she said. God help me. Amen.
Chapter 2: The Idea of Liberty (Freedom)
The idea of liberty was into place after the financial crisis of 2008 and the ensuing protest of Occupy Wall Street. People were suddenly aware that their money was gone. The Occupy Wall Street movement and protest involved people of my generation, Millennials, the generation before me (Generation X) and after, and other others occupying Wall Street St in New York City for a common cause. They marched, but mostly they blocked people from entering work. These people build camps, got tents, and chanted “We are the 99%!”. People, financial workers, were seen carrying their boxes full of desk stuff out of their offices. The CEO’s kept most of their money, and Barack Obama bailed them out with more money. He passed the Bailout Package with Congress. The banks were saved. Fred Bermanke was on TV talking-to Congress and others asking for money. My friend Jim lost his money after the crash again. He told me one time while studying. “I lost it all,” he said. “I then found an opportunity to go back to school,” she said.
The idea of freedom (the idea of life) was questioned once again. Around this time, people were dying at the hands of the police. The police in New York City killed an unarmed citizen who begged for his life, “I can’t breathe!” was the rallying cry of many protesters. We protested his death all over the country. In Chicago the Police shot and killed a young black teen, Lacuna McDonald (RIP). George Floyd also passed away (RIP) and the city shut down. The city was in a mass protest. He also said, “I can’t breathe” similar to Eric Garner (RIP) in 2014. Breonna Taylor passed away (RIP) in 2020. The police shot her too. A mass protest ensued because of her as well. In Mexico a group of students went missing in Iguala (Eternal Rest). The students were pursued by military police and criminal organizations, they were gunned down. It is right to fight for the right to life. It is wrong to take someone’s else’s life. The idea of ethics stems from these protests. We protested the War of Iraq as a generation as well. We marched the streets all over the world chanting against the War. We marched against sexual violence against women. Me Too! was created in 2006 by Tamara Burke, a Harvard researcher. It spread fast on Twitter, a social media platform, it also got it started on MySpace, in 2017. People, mostly young women of our generation, posted their stories of sexual abuse and survivorship followed by the word MeToo! in 2016. These protests were about ethical issues, issues of right and wrong, were put into place and front-center as a means to give response to the crisis.
In Chicago, the Chicago Public Schools CEO resigned over the right to be safe. Many children were abused by security guards in Chicago as our CEO announced her resignation. The right to an education was questioned. In 2008, the Chicago Public Schools closed more than fifty schools to transfer children to other schools and neighborhoods. The schools were closed or reused as other schools. The idea of Art was exemplified by the creation of the Hope poster by Shepard Fairy. He created the poster for the election cycle. The poster garnered critical attention. The poster became the most famous painting of Barack Obama and his slogan “Hope,” and created many fans of Barack Obama. God bless. Amen.
I was in Ohio alone.
Chapter 3: The idea of happiness
I was not happy. I was sad. At times, I was mad. Back in South Chicago I was happy. I was happy in Springfield as well. I drank on my back porch multiple times. I drank and got mad. There were other times when I was not happy. I wrote in Ohio. I wrote a story about the campus. I submitted it to the New Yorker. It was not accepted. I received an email back telling me it was not accepted. In Springfield, I wrote as well and submitted a story to The Alchemist as well. The story was not accepted. The editor of the literary journal told me, “writing takes time.” The summer before I had started a story about my Theater professors. I lost it. The summer before that I started the first page of my novel Gangero. I was ready to make Art. I wrote the story in my basement on my laptop. I wrote the first pages of Gangero on loose-leaf paper. I also painted years later. I painted in my backyard. I went to therapy at Mercy Hospital. My art therapist showed me how to make art through painting. I painted in my backyard and my roommate Ari said to me. “I like that one,” she said. I submitted my story to the literary arts journal SEEDS. The journal and editors accepted it. I attended a reception. My William Shakespeare professor gave me a certificate. The story, “Report Card Day” appeared in the journal. The literary arts journal was published in 2012. The paintings were painted in 2013. I wrote the theater story in 2007. I wrote for the student newspaper, The Journal. I enjoyed my art in the newspaper. I attended meetings with friends. I attended staff meetings where I did not talk. My art was created through journalism. I published articles on education, racism, and human rights. I wrote an article about speech. I wrote an article about a student. He was tased by a police officer. He asked for the microphone to ask Mitt Romney a question. He screamed out, “Don’t tase me bro!” I also wrote an article on the environmental degradation caused by The Coca-Cola company. I attended a class for my World Literature class. My classmate recognized my writing. He congratulated me on the article. The article was on race. He mentioned that he had an argument about the content. “I told the guy you’re wrong,” he said. In high school I played the guitar. I attended a guitar workshop with Mr. S (Eternal Rest). He gave us brand new guitars. He taught us major chords. He gave us chord charts. In South Chicago I published my first collection of short stories. I passed the “publish” button. I published it in the memory of my faithful departed niece (Eternal Rest). I sat in my room in Albany Park. I sent a copy to my mom. I went to the apartment to rent. I walked all the way to South Chicago. I sent a message to rent the apartment. I received a response once I got to South Chicago. I got back on the train and dropped the money. I then went back to South Chicago. I went back to the empty house that my sister had emptied out. She packed her bags, She moved in with my mom. The kids as well. My niece (Eternal Rest) passed away. I kept writing. I survived. I made Art. I choose life.
I went into the house after her passing. I saw God bless. Amen.
Chapter 4: Truth needs to be told
There is one truth. The truth lies in faith. Before Ohio, I was a student at The University of Illinois at Springfield. I was living with my girlfriend in my off-campus apartment. She used to walk back to her dorm occasionally. She used to say hi to her roommate. Her roommate cried one time. We were trying to make love. I was lying on top of her, and looked up. We heard her crying. “What’s wrong with her?” My girlfriend asks. “I’m not sure,” I said. We hurt her. I am sorry. Ethically, it was wrong to have sex with her in the room. Before our relationship, she was a really good friend. I knew God and I knew I was wrong. The truth lies in God and He took my girlfriend away. I ran away to Ohio the next year. I emailed her from Ohio State asking how she was. She emailed me back stating that she was okay. I had faith in her. Our faith turned to hope. Our hope turned to love. We stopped loving at the end. We still have faith. Truth lies on knowledge. The knowledge was that I was not supposed to isolate the roommate. The reality of the situation was that I was in a relationship (which was hurting the roommate). Our existence at the time was known through our love. We existed therefore we loved each other. I saw J. Years later. I met her for dinner. I drove three hours to Round Lake Beach. She cried in front of me. She cried on the table. I held her.
My sister changed after the accident. She was always my own. She was always by my side, or at least I tried to keep her by my side. My mom carried her how she could. She had weaknesses. Her weakness was running away. In college, she dropped me off at The University of Illinois at Springfield. She told me, “You’re going to afford this?” Looking at the bathroom. “Yeah, financial aid,” I said. A year later she was with child. Her first child, and our first nephew. By then I had come back to South Chicago for my first summer vacation. She carried her baby how she could. My nephew, D., used to cry at night. My sister never got up to feed him.
I used to knock on the door lightly.
“Chacha, get the kid,” I used to say. She never got up. The baby would simmer down. She would get up the next day and carry him. My sister ran away two years before that. I used to go to work throughout the day. I used to come home at night. I came home after working at Sears in the shoe department. I also worked as a busser. The bussing job was the best. I got hired by the restaurant owner. I wiped down the counters with a rag. I also refilled tables with cutlery. I took the buns to the dishwasher. I got paid in tips and my weekly check. I struggled to keep that job. The restaurant manager once said, “Do me a favor, learn the menu.” “Okay,” I said.
“It would be a good idea. You can apply to be a server,” he said.
I worked the rest of that summer. I studied the menu. The restaurant served diner food. The restaurant also served jewish delicacies. The restaurant served Matzah Ball soup. We refilled the matzah ball soup container with new balls every thirty minutes. I carried my red bucket and disinfected tables. I also filled the bus bins with dirty plates. My back hurt a lot. I got to know the servers well. I got along with one of the waitresses. She was flirty. She was Latina. She spoke
Spanish to me. She introduced herself to me as Blessed.
“You have to hit with your heel,” she said.
I kicked the side bar under the table. I then got up and folded the table.
“Thanks,” I said. Her eyes were beautiful. I fooled around the restaurant. I kept talking to her. She used to hug one of the other bussers. I stared. Her smile was contagious. I kept working. I went home early one day after breakfast and lunch. I got home at around 4. I did not know where to go. I wandered around downtown. I walked out of 11th and Wabash and walked right. I crossed Roosevelt Road, and there’d Line. I did not get into the Red Line. I was walking. I started the first pages of my First novel Gangero that summer. The idea of the novel (was foreign yet familiar). I read Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison in my A.P English class. Mr. Abrams signed to us. “Draw a picture of the end,” he said.
I read the instructions on the assignment sheet. I drew a fence and Milkman and Guitar leaping over the fence. I drew them facing each other. I read the whole novel. I also read The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. That year, I read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. My
English professor also assigned other novels. Years later I read Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. The idea of the novel was familiar to me. I also read Things Fall Apart by China Achebe. My professor explained the novel as a historical fact. The novel is also a product of genre. The idea of a novel follows a plot. The idea of the novel started with Daniel Defoe and his novel Robinson Crusoe. Later in my third graduate school program, I wrote about the idea of the novel. The novel is an experiment in literature. Miguel Cervantes wrote Don Quijote. It was hailed as a masterpiece. The idea of the novel starts with Defoe. The idea of a tragedy stems from Aristotle and his throes of tragedy, art, and narratives, and language in Poetics. He wrote about the tenets of tragedy, a reversal and a recognition. He wrote about the need to write the answer to, who did what? Also, the answer to the question, what happened? pushes the plot forward together with the first question. He wrote about tragedians. He wrote that a tragedy should not have episodes or details. The plot should push the novel, he said. A writer should not rely on deus ex machina. A writer should not insert himself into his text. Further, a tragedy should instill fear and pity. The idea of the novel stems from all these things yet is an idea of its own. The idea of the novel was born before the novel was born. The idea of the novel takes the short story and elongates it. It produces a novel from itself. God bless.
Chapter 6: Truth, Ethics, and God
If we think about truth, ethics, and God we find a way to knowledge, reality, and existence. We have knowledge about our life which is our reality and our existence relies on a Higher Being. The truth is God, the knowledge we have is to do right, and God is our Father (coming full circle). The truth is that I have a sister who I adore. The ethical question stems from our knowledge of doing right and wrong by each other’s side. God provided us a way back to each other’s side. I suffered in Ohio. I was not right in Ohio, and I found my way back to her through God. I had not forgiven my sister for her misdeeds (for running from my mom) actions that she had committed seven years before. I turned twenty-one in Ohio. I was in high school when she ran away. I went to a bar for my twenty-first birthday. I told one of my co-workers that it was my birthday. He visited me at my second job at a restaurant. I said hi.
“Do you have to work?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. He stared at me.
“It sucks,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. He walked away and I saw him the next day.
“We finished all the beer,” he said.
“Oh, cool,” I said. I grabbed a small cup. I tasted the chicken noodle soup.
I went to bars on my twenty-first birthday. I bought beer and shorts for other people. I went to a bar. I ate a Rueben. I also had an Irish coffee. I climbed the stairs back up to the sidewalk. I went to another bar. This bar was a dance bar. I went to the second floor. I drank a couple of beers. I met a Navy veteran. He told me he was a couple of years younger than me. I drank with him. One time I saw a girl on top of the bar. He was shaking her butt. I thought about Chicago. I was angry at my sister and in pain. I once bought a girl a drink. She took me and never talked to me again. She walked away. She told her friend, “that one,” pointing to me. I went out to the sidewalk and cried. I screamed out for my sister. I kept thinking about crying by myself in the bedroom. I thought about honor. I thought about my mom. I felt rage, pain, and sadness. I called out to her and I needed to understand. I went to my apartment and stood on the back porch and screamed out. I screamed out to the skies knowing I was wrong, knowing I was calling out God in my rage, I knew I had to exist with her not apart. I called my mom sporadically. I called her from a pay phone. “Estoy solo,” I said. I was crying. I told my mom I did not have money. “Yo se,” she said. “¿Cuánto necesitas?” she asked. She deposited onehundred dollars in my account soon after. I hung up the phone. I walked back to my room. God bless. Amen.
I spent the rest of the year in Ohio. I went to the Quad one of my last days on campus and wrote. I wrote a short story that I submitted to The New Yorker. I did receive a response back.
They read my story. Before my junior year at Ohio State, and before my sophomore year at Springfield, I spent the summer in Chicago in my neighborhood South Chicago (on the Southeast Side) and met a girl. She was from Slag on the Southeast Side, south of South Chicago in what the city terms South Deering. Slag was familiar to me. It is where my grandparents lived together with my uncles, wife, and kids. It is also where my childhood friend lived. I met her in South
Chicago three houses from my home. She was in a friend's garage. We were drinking. “Hi,” I said. “Hey, my name is Ashley,” she said. “I am Rodrigo,” I said. We were already pretty inebriated. We decided to go to a bar. We climbed into cars. I slipped myself into the car with her. “No, no, what are you doing?” she asked. She was giggling. I kissed her deep. I stared at her big eyes, and stared at her lower lip which she was biting and kissed her. She was ecstatic. She looked at me with huge eyes craving more. After the bar where a black guy tried to sell us marijuana and I bought a dime, we went to her house. She was house sitting for her aunt. She sneaked me in. I got naked. “You’re naked,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. I slowly took her clothes including her Spanx. I adored her butt. I took off her bra. We made love. In our young age, we were lustful and lovable. We were in love. I smoked a joint afterwards. She told me to stay. “I can hide you,” she said. “I can offer you cereal,” she said. “Okay,” I said. I did not know what to do. I left for my house. She closed after me. I saw her again a couple days later. She came to my mom’s home. I sneaked her in the basement. There was a mattress. I laid her not the mattress and made love. She moaned. Afterwards she said, “ I want to go home and wash.” I walked her home. She texted me later that day. “I took Plan B,” she said in her text. I said okay. She had asked me if she should take the pill. I offered her my advice. I should have kept her. I saw her again at her campus, The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I took a Greyhound and found her. She was in her apartment. I made love to her again. She was having a party with her roommates and friends. I did not want to let her go. I went back to Springfield and my roommate picked me up. I saw him at the dorm. “I went to visit a girl,” I said. I texted her when I got back. I wanted to go back. I felt broken. I laid on my dining room floor. I texted to see her. “I want to see you,” I said through text. “You’re gonna go to the party and get high,” she texted back. “Do you want to go to me?” I asked. “I can text you while you are partying,” She said okay. I missed her. I went to a party with my high school friends and got drunk. I called her drunkenly like she said I would. I missed her. I texted again when I was in my dorm. I wanted to see her. I called. “I want to see you," I said. God bless. Amen.
Chapter 7: The Idea of News
The idea of news was detrimental. We relied on the news like Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC to tell us what to believe. The news got less biased. The War in Iraq created a news cycle that told us news from the War, body counts, battles, and atrocities. Soldiers swept through homes thought too belong to enemies. Whole families were killed. The body count was shown daily in the news cycle. The Guantanamo Prison was on the news. Soldiers took pictures of them torturing and piling up prisoners. We saw on television how the statue of Saddam Hussein crashed on the floor. American soldiers pulled him down. The War in Afghanistan was a far flung conclusion, second best, and the battles in that land were not calculated or shown. The news was used to captivate the audience and show the effort of war. The news also showed the mass scale protests before the War started. There is and was oil in Iraq. The War kept going. My friend Adrian and I tried to join the military. We were sitting on the porch. We said no. The War was our War, the news said.
We all struggled to understand. When John Kerry was running for President I was in Springfield.
I was with a new girlfriend. I wrote about the War. I missed my sister. I spent time alone writing. I wrote my articles at times with my girlfriend. I spent my sophomore year there. In Springfield, I spent my last year, my second year, writing. I did not think I would go to Ohio the next year. I arrived in Columbus and called the rooming house. I kept writing and living there. The housekeeper smoked a lot of weed. I called and told him that I was with my traveling bags. My bags were on High Street. The house was on 4th street. I walked with my things to the house. I made it to class every day. I took a women’s literature class. I also took a World Religions class. I saw my co-workers at the class. “Mr. anti-social,” she called me when she saw me again at work. “You have the World Religions class, right,” she asked me. “Yes,” I said. We ate pasta with cheese. She was pretty and skinny. She wore make-up. She loved me. I was close to another coworker, she was close and dear, she was the friend and roommate of another co-worker. She was beautiful. I talked to her around the salad bar. The bar where I was during a football game was close to my apartment. I drank a couple of beers and went home. I drank everyday while in Ohio. I wanted to go back to Chicago. I thought about Chicago every day. I went back to Chicago late. I went back in the summer. I took a plane.
The year before I was in Springfield writing for the newspaper. I showed my mom the printed versions of the newspaper. I told her to save them. They were the First pieces I published. I put them in a plastic gray bin. I found the bin in the basement. I went to a college press association dinner. The newspaper won a prize. The photographer of the paper won an award. She went up to the podium to receive the award.
Chapter 8: Roommate, and First Semester
Before the newspaper, I spent the year with my girlfriend and her roommate. She was a pretty girl, and her roommate was Asian. This was in Springfield. The roommate was from her hometown and her high school. I spent time in their bedroom. I was dating My Pretty Girl. My Pretty Girl was the first girl I made love to. She kissed me the first day in the dorm room. She was the first one I was intimate with in the dorms and the first woman I made love to. She kissed me on the way to her bedroom. She said goodnight. I then went downstairs to my dorm. My roommate was in the top bunk bed. He stepped on the bottom bed to get to the top. My Pretty Girl shared her food. Her mom and dad visited once and brought her homemade food. She also went home for the weekend and brought back food. “I am mad that you ate my food,” she told me one time.
I would go home to Chicago as well. I would take the long Amtrak train to Chicago from downtown Springfield. We needed to find a ride back to campus. One time I met her on the train. We secretly took the train back together. I was her campus boyfriend. Her parents were trying to arrange her marriage to another man. He was from Indian-American. During the train ride we made love. She was seated next to me. I looked around at the train. I saw a man, and other people walking down the aisle. I caressed her head above my lap. I love her. She was in rebellion against her family. I needed to keep her.
That whole year I got along with my roommate, Kal. He was Indian-American as well. I drank with him a couple of times. I visited my mom one time and got robbed at the 87th Street
Metra station. It was a young guy. He wanted to say hi but did not know how. “Who are you? What you claim? He asked. He asked if I belonged to any gangs. I did not.
God let us understand.
The guy took all my credit cards. I did not have any money. I missed the train. I also missed Kal. He was going to give a ride to campus. She stayed silent the whirl way. We were both angry. He waited more than one hour. His sister drove. When we got to campus we were glad. My mind was always on My Pretty Girl. She always gave me a kiss. We always made up at the end. Our love was unconditional. We were hurt when we did not love. We had a fight once. She chased me down the hallway screaming at me. Our roommate from the dorm who was her wing mate was with her. I asked her,” Do you want to be my girlfriend?“
“What does it matter?” she asked.
“I think you’ll use me,” I said.
“I don’t want to put a label on us,” she said.
“I need to know,” I said.
“I’ll break up with my boyfriend for you,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
She went back upstairs with her friend. I stayed cool. The same day we made love. We were back together. I was working at the time. She picked me up from work one mite at the
Sequin lab. I washed petri dishes and lab equipment all day. That morning we had not made love.
We made love again. I bought her fast food once. I passed all my classes and read when she wanted me to read. I read for my Communication class. I read about speeches. I sat on her top bunk bed and read while she read with me. Kal went up to her room one time yelling, “Somebody stole my laptop!” he said. “Who did it?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. I was scared and felt his emotion. He was heart-broken. The laptop was the concern, it was the betrayal of the one who did it. I tried to be compassionate. I even thought of offering my laptop which was a Dell. We confronted and asked one of our wing mates and he said he did not do it. We kept being friends. We had a meeting one day in Spring. “We have to pick roommates for next year,” he told me. “Okay," I said. “Do you want to be my roommate?” he asked me. There was one more friend in the room. “I am not sure,” I said. I was sentimental and slightly angered. I wanted to hang out more with them. I hung out with him the next year. I needed two roommates right away. Someone from Theater and two random guys were my roommates. We had the meeting, and we were both heart-broken. I ended up losing the university because of my need and unrestrained anger and revenge. I did not know why I wanted to hurt him, our relationship, and myself. I talked to my Pretty Girl about it, and she said to make up with him. I did.
Vane wanted to stay with her job. She struggled to stay in school. She gave me the job to get with me as a friend. She was smoking too much. Although, I always wanted to smoke with her. I tried to make her understand that she needed to keep going. She left the Spring semester and went to South Chicago. I saw her in the summer. She did not go back for the Spring semester. She was going to graduate although she needed extra semesters to finish her work. I needed to give her job back. I wanted to see her grow with me. Vane was leading the pack. I saw her on the second floor. Her room was shared with another girl.
Pretty’s roommate, Vicky, was a journalist and had a clown at The Journal, the student newspaper. She wrote about dating, and advertised her sortie. She told one once about an opening after I asked.
"Do you know of any openings in the newspaper?” I asked
“Yes, you can talk to my editor,” she said.
“You can send your resume to my editor. I will ask her personally. I will send an email,” she politely told me.
“That is perfect and nice of you,” I said. “Thank you,”
She inquired and I sent the editor as well. The editor contacted me and scheduled an interview.
“I am writing to inquire about the position of reporter/columnist for the upcoming year,” I wrote to her an email and sent it.
The summer went by fine. I saw Pretty the last day on campus. We re-consumated our relationship. Then we all went home. I saw her again in the fall. Her husband-to-be had transferred to the university. He was now by his side. I got a girlfriend as well, Joe. She was part of a group of Latino students: OLAS (The Organization of Latin American Students). I did know how to consummate. She helped me out. She stared to the right. On the road, we walked to my apartment. We then made love. She screamed out, ‘Thank God!” We stayed together, but the group came apart. There was another who wanted to date me. She was her roommate. We all hurt. Our decisions are ours and God gives the will be free. To me that means, that we will judge by our actions as well. But God helps those who do good. I stayed with her. One day we were walking back to the dorm (was walking Joe back to the room), and I saw Pretty and her husband walking towards us. She said to Joe. “What’s your name?” She said. “I’m Joe,” Joe said. She did not talk to me. “She’s nice,” Joe said after walking away. “Yeah, she used to be my girlfriend,” I said. “Oh,” she said. We dropped the conversation. I was hurt. Why didn’t Pretty say hi to me? Why did she have to talk through someone else? Why was there immense silence? Why did I have to run? We went up to her room and grabbed some things. On another day, Joe saw one of former partners walking up the stairs. He was a black guy. “Hey,” she screamed at him. He lowered her head. “Hi,” she said again taking a step to the left and getting his attention. “Hi,” he finally said. He did not want to make eye contact. “I had sex with him,” she said. “Okay,” I said. “I had sex with him,” she said again, “we had sex on a desk,” she said. I kept walking. “Okay,” I said. I did not understand. Her shame had turned into something else. It had trued into jealousy. But jealousy for whom? Did she want me to feel jealous of the other guy, and thereby gain (negative) energy or confidence to date her? But I was dating her. “Well, go with him,” I thought but did not speak. A couple of days later she said, “I am sorry about the other day,” she looked right into my eyes. “That was not right,” she said. “It’s okay,” I said.
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