Casanova's Hope
"Hello..how are you?" he asks relentlessly, everytime I pass him by in the neighborhood. I am not sure what he does. He is always engaged in frantic discussions with the cigar-smoking, retirees in the Sicilian social club. But he always stops himself in mid-sentence and asks "Hello, how are you?"
Using the well-ingrained tactics to avoid strange men who approach me on the street, I dodge him. I look ahead or turn my head the other way. I swiftly look in his direction with bold eyes but do not answer him. Through it all, I hope he understands that I am not interested. He never gives up. He doesn't miss a chance to give a holler.
He is not bad looking, not in bad shape, not without friends. I am not exactly sure what he does, but he survives. Well, almost...
The other day I noticed him limping. He had done that for a while, but I thought maybe he had fallen off a ladder or something. He had resurfaced with his clutches. Yet this time, his pant was dangling from his left foot. Because there was no left foot. He said "Hello, how are you?" I kept my eyes on the ground, pretending to be embaressed by our encounter but more so curious about his leg. I wanted to stare and figure out what exactly happened, but I didn't want him to feel like a circus animal, so I let it go. He knew that I knew he was missing a limb. He didn't skip a beat though; "Hi!" he said. I kept to our ritual and did not respond.
The plumber came today. Water is seeping from my bathroom to my downstairs neighbor's. We chat up. He knows everything about the neighborhood, as he goes into every house. He asks me about the crazy one across. "Gone, " I say. He thinks she bought a co-op somewhere else. "Good grief, with what money?" I gossip. Then I bring up the hello guy. "What happened to his foot?" I ask. "You mean Casanova? I think he had cancer. He had gangrene, but not a diabetic..." he looks to me over his glasses while meddling with my water tank. "Wow, poor guy. Is that his real name?" I ask naively. "Well, that's what everyone calls him. You know he is always asking the ladies how they are doing, hello, hello, hello..." he imitates.
"Really?" I fake ponder. "Why is he always on the prowl though? He doesn't have a steady one?" "He likes it that way, I guess. Believe me he had many opportunities to marry. This one girlfriend of his who was Russian but spoke Italian fluently, she figured him out."
"How so?" I ask, curious to finally get some clues about Casanova's life. "Well, she realized he had been here for years but didn't get a steady job, doesn't speak Italian even that well, he doesn't speak English..."
"He doesn't?" I was baffled. How did he carry conversations which he so desperately hoped to initiate. "Nope, he doesn't. All he knows is this hello, how are you?" Obviously, some people take to that.
Casanova still walks around the neighborhood with clutches under his arms. His handicap doesn't seem to stop him from hoping to meet a fine lady. He never misses an opportunity to say hello...He will never give up.
Using the well-ingrained tactics to avoid strange men who approach me on the street, I dodge him. I look ahead or turn my head the other way. I swiftly look in his direction with bold eyes but do not answer him. Through it all, I hope he understands that I am not interested. He never gives up. He doesn't miss a chance to give a holler.
He is not bad looking, not in bad shape, not without friends. I am not exactly sure what he does, but he survives. Well, almost...
The other day I noticed him limping. He had done that for a while, but I thought maybe he had fallen off a ladder or something. He had resurfaced with his clutches. Yet this time, his pant was dangling from his left foot. Because there was no left foot. He said "Hello, how are you?" I kept my eyes on the ground, pretending to be embaressed by our encounter but more so curious about his leg. I wanted to stare and figure out what exactly happened, but I didn't want him to feel like a circus animal, so I let it go. He knew that I knew he was missing a limb. He didn't skip a beat though; "Hi!" he said. I kept to our ritual and did not respond.
The plumber came today. Water is seeping from my bathroom to my downstairs neighbor's. We chat up. He knows everything about the neighborhood, as he goes into every house. He asks me about the crazy one across. "Gone, " I say. He thinks she bought a co-op somewhere else. "Good grief, with what money?" I gossip. Then I bring up the hello guy. "What happened to his foot?" I ask. "You mean Casanova? I think he had cancer. He had gangrene, but not a diabetic..." he looks to me over his glasses while meddling with my water tank. "Wow, poor guy. Is that his real name?" I ask naively. "Well, that's what everyone calls him. You know he is always asking the ladies how they are doing, hello, hello, hello..." he imitates.
"Really?" I fake ponder. "Why is he always on the prowl though? He doesn't have a steady one?" "He likes it that way, I guess. Believe me he had many opportunities to marry. This one girlfriend of his who was Russian but spoke Italian fluently, she figured him out."
"How so?" I ask, curious to finally get some clues about Casanova's life. "Well, she realized he had been here for years but didn't get a steady job, doesn't speak Italian even that well, he doesn't speak English..."
"He doesn't?" I was baffled. How did he carry conversations which he so desperately hoped to initiate. "Nope, he doesn't. All he knows is this hello, how are you?" Obviously, some people take to that.
Casanova still walks around the neighborhood with clutches under his arms. His handicap doesn't seem to stop him from hoping to meet a fine lady. He never misses an opportunity to say hello...He will never give up.
posted by Mimi Media @ 4:20 PM
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