Hope

This moment's hope was brought to you by brunch last Sunday, eaten with intentionally internationally fabulous Sarzi and her beautiful boyfriend, Melo. Melo, an interesting someone instead of an interesting something, with milky white skin, Pitti Palace Blue eyes, black hair, and a nice height, used to be gay, you see. No big deal; I exercised restraint, so consistently unbecoming of me. He and I had a connection, he said to Sarzi, asked for my recommendation on hors d'oeuvres, he did; he even made me something that he would send to me, they said. Reluctantly hoping, but rationally suppressing, I opened my mailbox. It turns out the only things in Chicago that arrive within four days of posting are bills. And plenty of them.

I hoped for a speedy ride on the el this morning; it has been done, I am sure. I entered the train, sat down, then before I could obliterate my fragrant surroundings with my walkman, I heard the conductor yell into the speakers "Y'all best not be holdin my do's! Now we's all go'n be late for work!" Lurching forward aggressively, I am most certain she had the best of intentions.

At work I hoped our system wouldn't crash. I hoped, along with my fellow and fella employees, that the obscene amounts of money they spent on this marvelous system should somehow guarantee some functionality. However, in tune with patterns established yesterday, the system was up for an hour, then faltered, squiggled, jiggled, then collapsed. How fortunate the executives hoped that the system would be our one-stop shop, eliminating the need for all other systems and applications. How fortunate then was I to see their hopes had come true. With no ability to do anything but answer phones, we engaged in a scientific head measuring contest, which I won by a scientific measurement of three Mardi Gras necklace beads.

After the measuring contest, I went online, to play on Lavalife, to see what the hype was about. I couldn't see the hype unless I signed up-all's fair in marketing love and marketing war. While hoping that this would be the fulfilled promise of the ads and internet dating success stories, after initial browsing I felt confident that the guy I'm online looking for is not the kind of guy who knows how to use a computer. And if he were, he wouldn't stoop so pathetically low to look for a date online. He, you see, will have pride-which I also hope for, one day.

On my lunch hour I hoped I'd see someone interesting or unique to gawk at, so I sat by a window at Au Bon Pain, and tried to watch the world go by. Since I hoped earlier in the day that the weather forecast of rain and clouds would have been accurate, I wore solid black. The sun, respecting my wishes, was its most ferocious, and I got caught sitting in one billion foot—candles of squint inducing heat wrenching misery. How choice I would have been to anyone interesting or unique who saw me, directly in the light, eating my sandwich I hoped would be good, but turned out to be miserably soggy and finger sticking good.

On my way back from lunch, now shivering in the shadows of office buildings, I choked on a cigarette I hoped I'd be able to quit. I followed a man walking unusually slowly, sobbing through affronted masculinity into his phone, probably to his wife, who must have recently discovered his affair. His hope broke three ways; he hoped she'd not find out, he hoped she'd forgive him, and hoped she'd not sue away his Ferragamo briefcase and Bruno Magli loafers in the divorce proceedings.

Selfish it would be were I to limit my hope to myself. I use hope to empathize. The man I saw today, for example; I hope his god and his attorney will forecast his resurrection. I hope his wife can dismiss his sperm stained underwear and forget her imaginings and evidence of the other woman's kisses, taste, and scent. I hope womankind can maintain superiority, defy all that is human, and forgive cheating husbands. I hope more that womankind can maintain superiority and sue the pants of the shit heads, and take new leases on life, with the best attorneys their husband's money can buy.

I hope my friends understand how happy they are. I hope Brad realizes that his soul mate, Liz, is the best thing that has happened to him; I hope she realizes conversely. I hope that the knowledge of this luxury of love will be sufficient to carry Brad through the grueling task of work, at which he suffers, moans, gripes, and remains miserable. I hope Liz sees the same, and realizes that a love-fed soul is more important than not having a friend, no matter how wonderful, to go to the mall with.

I hope the man engrossed in prayer, who I see ranting alongside the beige granite of my building, will hear an answer during his frequent conversations with god. I hope his children will return to him; I hope he has medication. I hope the masked bandit who walks so closely behind him, who he spits at, at whom he alternates anger and fear will dissolve into the nothingness I can see.

I hope Jake Allens finds the strength today to wake up and make coffee. I hope his wife of 35 years wouldn't succumb to lung cancer. I hope these past seven months have been a joke, that Krista Allens will leave her wheelchair and return to the well-coiffed blonde goddess of entertainment I remember her being. I hope her hair will re-grow, he skin will have luster, and she will once again wear her signature Armani gowns, toy with her pearls, and throw her head back in voracious laughter. I hope she has recovered from burying her 32 year old daughter last month, who died suddenly of an aneurysm, while she drove to visit her decaying mother.

I've sensed a pattern. Instead of hope, I should wish for serendipity; the secret joy from the kiss of kismet, the beholding of an eye, the fated finding of a flower in the concrete jungle. I can tolerate serendipity, like when I found my favourite cologne, withdrawn from sale in the US in 1992, while drunkenly wandering around Times Square. I bought two bottles on the spot, using my Discover card, finding the pun amusing, while the store clerks stood blankly, having had seen everything before. And while soon the postman will only bring that bill, I still hope it'll be a letter from Melo.