The Fantasy Years

WHOOSHT! THE ROMANCE WITH HUONG continued in Dennis’ head. And it wasn’t always romance as much as a desire for adventure, for thrill. That’s what he felt when he thought of Huong. Like big fiery explosions. Like chases on foot through the jungle. Hot and panting. Lots of panting. Planes flying low to the ground, low enough to rattle the palm trees, then soaring back up again into the hazy blue sky. That was the feeling. The feeling of consequence. Of one thing crossing into the next.

Except with Huong, instead of going on outside of him in reality, everything would happen inside of him, with her, in their own cozy little shared world. She would make it all come true. She would be someone for him to come close to and there was nothing better than coming close to a beautiful woman. Yet he knew he was day dreaming. He lived every day for her to pass by. Today, he was in the office pantry getting a coffee when she walked in. His heart began to pound.

“Hi, Dennis. How are you?”

He almost shuddered at her beauty. So effortless and black haired. Did she know? He wondered. Did she know how beautiful she was?

“Good, Huong. How are you?”
She laughed her hard laugh.
“What?” he asked.
“I love the way you pronounce my name.”
“How do I pronounce it?”
“Hoo-Wong. It’s Huong.”
“Hoo-Uong.”
“Huong,” she said. “But that’s okay.”
“No, I want to pronounce it correctly.”
“You know I have lots of cousins who took American names just for this reason.”
“Why didn’t you take one?” he asked, not liking the challenging tone of his own voice.
“I guess because if people are put off by my name. Well then, if that’s too hard for them…I was born with this name,” she shrugged. Completely happy. Without a care.
“I want to pronounce your name correctly.” He stammered. “When did you come to the US?”
“When I was a child.”
“During the Fall of Saigon?” he asked.
She glanced at him suspiciously. “…Around then.”
“Oh, I was just wondering because, well, I figured that would be about the time you came.”
“Yeah, it was.”

And then the conversation stopped. Dennis wanted to blurt out everything he thought about the Vietnam War but knew that wouldn’t be appropriate. He just kind of stood in silence, stunned. At a loss.

She smiled. But a little less brightly now. She finished filling up her cup of tea and went back to her cube to carry on brightly with everyone she sat near. Dennis’ face burned with a mute embarrassment.

He hated how there was no context when he went to talk to a woman. There was a whole world people could talk about. Everything. Anything, in theory. And yet the fact was with women he had nothing natural to say. Nothing obvious that led itself to a conversation. A context they could understand each other in. He couldn’t even fathom her life. He had no idea what she enjoyed in her free time. What was important to her. Was she a sincere girl?

Or was she superficial? He doubted if she could fathom the monkish life of reading history and speculating on alternate outcomes to obscure yet crucial battles in American military history. But he knew a lot about the world. He didn’t just watch TV. Yes, there was a universe of things to talk about and yet nothing in common on which to start the conversation.

It was the multiculturalists, Dennis thought. The multiculturalists changed things. They killed the commonality in America. Dennis wished things were like they were back when his parents were young. If you saw a girl you liked, you just asked her to dance.

There was some kind of order to things. There was a process between men and women. A way to show your feelings without making a fool of yourself. But that was all gone.

Dancing was gone. Courting was gone. Manners were gone. Tradition was gone. Even ceremonial wife-stealing was gone. All of it was gone.

Now it was a man and a woman put in a lonely place and if the guy wasn’t exactly James Bond in terms of smoothness, he didn’t have a chance. Add to that the saddles of fat surrounding Dennis and he was fucked. Royally.

And what changed? What changed it all?

The 1960s. And who made the Sixties what they were? The fucking hippies. The liberals. And with that thought in mind as Dennis reflected on his conversation with Huong, he said to Will the next morning at the Country Kitchen where they met and ate breakfast.

“Liberals aren’t like us.”
“They’re rich,” Will shrugged.
“They are moral relativists,” Dennis said.
“We believe in fundamental values.”
“They drink wine.”
“We drink beer.”
“They drive Volvos.”
“We drive American.”
“They do yoga.”
“We work.”
“They listen to NPR.”
“We listen to Garth Brooks.”
“They vacation in Martha’s Vineyard—wherever the hell that is.”
“And we, well, we vacation in our backyard.”