The Lost City of Love

The Lost City of Love

By

Hugh Morshead c2012

In his youth, Rory O’Dysess was a bootlegger of love, or at least, that is how his friends described his chevalier attitude to girlfriends. Today, after the loss of a life partner and two decades of marriage he had an aching emptiness that he yearned to fill. His wife was taken away two years ago after a brief illness, yet it still seemed like it was yesterday. The halcyon days of youth made socializing a breeze; in middle age, a more solitary lifestyle reduced the opportunity to meet potential mates. Rory sought the internet for romance. He was as upbeat and enthusiastic as he had been when he volunteered for an NGO in the Amazon rainforest many years before. His friends had found partners online and he regarded it as another adventure into the unknown, just like he felt when he cruised up the Maderia River into the interior of Bolivia.

      Back then, co-workers told him that every day in the jungle is an unremitting fight for survival against toxins, spines, stingers, claws and teeth. Similarly today, he ignored the naysayers who told him that online dating is a vast, intricate braid of lost people, ensnarled with past failures, tormented by media promises and debilitated by disappointments. For Rory, the very names of the dating services conjured up images of being engulfed in hot lava-like passion or leisurely fishing in a creek teeming with shoals of fish.

      With clicks of the mouse, he cast his lure into the pond immediately the screen lit up with images of potential mates. The smiling photos masked the reality that in this savannah of singledom, partner, prey and predator are as camouflaged as the yellow and brown bushmaster viper coiled amongst the dried leaves of the jungle floor.   

      ‘You have a message’. Rory opened the box and replied to the message – and the next. It became a digital game of ping-pong as the cascade of chat from potential mates revealed character. Instead of romance, he felt mired in niceness. His potential partners were, like himself, set in their ways. A common interest, such as bicycling or gardening, would solicit a response; this might lead to a meeting over coffee. The reality is that by middle age we are all slightly worn and like the wool sweaters on a thrift store clothes rack, offer comfortable companionship rather than the illusive soul mate we all dream of finding. He despaired of ever finding a life partner. Then, two emails caught his attention, an online notice for a singles’ night in a local pub and a meeting for a community garden.

     The meeting was held in the church basement. Rory descends the steps, paused at the door, he felt out of place as took in the handful of pensioners and gaggle of tame teenagers sitting on the rows of hard plastic seats. He took a seat at the back and nodded to the elderly couple dressed like department store greeters. He felt even more out of place in his grubby jeans and work boots.

      Rev. Patterson opened the meeting with a short prayer and then outlined the mission. It was to build raised vegetable plots on vacant church land and offer the plots to low-income families. He called it the ‘free food circle’. The municipality provided the compost, volunteers managed the operation and low-income families reaped the benefits. After the presentation, introductions were made and the refreshments unveiled.

     “Ahh, birdy numb numbs,” said Rory, borrowing a line from a Peter Sellars movie, as he helped himself to the tray of hard ovals.

     “I baked them this morning,” said Joanne, a woman of indeterminable age with a headdress of frizzy hair, army camo pants and an Indian cotton blouse. “Birds migrate thousands of miles on these seeds, they will give us energy to soar to our goal of food security.” Her hand rested on his arm and he found it strangely disconcerting.

            Rory had really come here to promote his fledgling worm compost business. His plan had been to chat up potential clients and then slip away. Now, Joanne, the Che Guevara of community gardening, cornered him; her intensity matched the acrid herbal tea he sipped to wash down the birdseed cookies. Finally, he escaped after promising a tub of composting worms. He shrugged off the wasted evening and thought with anticipation of the upcoming rave at the singles’ bar.  

     The Mad Dog tavern is on a side street, a short walk from downtown. Inside is dark and smells of stale beer with a whiff of perfume fragrance.  He sat at the bar, ordered a beer and struck up conversation with a blue-collar worker sitting on the next stool. Dave was a professional at the singles game.

     “Success depends on understanding desire,” said Dave and continued, “Men desire women, but women want to be desired. One is concrete and the other abstract.”

     “How do you square that circle?”

     “With a little help from Jack, Jim or Johnny,” said Dave, gesturing to the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. Rory sipped his beer with disillusionment; he was looking for a partner not a drunken one-night stand. It was like the hopelessness he felt when he lived with the Napare tribe between the Beni and Madre de Dios rivers in Bolivia. They were powerless to the encroachment of gold miners and settlers, their land and traditions were disappearing like the fragile topsoil washed away during the rainy season. 

     The crash of guitar chords booming from the stack of Marshalls jolted him from his reverie. The hard driving rock n’ roll shook the building and drowned conversation. Talk was trumped by the body language of dancing.  He stood with his back to the bar, transfixed. In center of the floor were the twenty-somethings, frothing like piranhas in a feeding frenzy, while in the darkness of the margins lurked the battle-hardened bottle blondes and tattooed men in biker jackets. Rory downed his beer, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and waded into the swirling melee.  The booming rock anthems obliterated any chance to talk; instead, communication was reduced to gestures and eye contact. Many of the girls danced holding their drinks to prevent becoming victim to date rape drugs. Rory was of two minds; there was the pull of the music and swirling bodies and the reality that this was a road to regrets.  He escaped early and on the way home thought about the inherent happiness of the Amazon Indians, despite being impoverished and trapped in the turmoil of change, they found solace in the timeless planting and harvesting of crops.  

     “Rory, the work party for the community gardens is on Saturday at 9:00 am, hope to see you there,” said the phone message. It was from Joanne.

     Saturday dawned bright and sunny; Rory loaded up his truck with tools and bags of worms.    The morning was spent building the garden frames and filling them with wheelbarrow loads of compost. The ladies of the church brought overflowing hampers of sandwiches for lunch. Joanne and Rory sat under the shade of a towering oak and he regaled her with stories of his adventures in Amazonia.

      “Why did you want to go there?” asked Joanne, her face lit up with an open friendly smile.

      “I was always fascinated by explorers searching for lost cities in the jungle. When I finished college the opportunity came to do an internship there.”

      “What was it like?”

      “At first it is merely terrifying, then it grows on you – literally, fungus eats your skin and the oppressive heat and humidity overpowers you until you no longer care. Life is easier when lethargy saps your ability to worry properly.”

      “What about the creepy crawlies?” She leaded closer to him and with the lightest touch, placed her fingers on his bare forearm.

      “It’s all one living organism. You can’t touch anything, leaves make you itch, sting or are covered in biting ants. The air is filled with screeching parrots and the maniacal cry of howler monkeys. Everything is in semidarkness because only shafts of sunlight penetrate the forest canopy. Travel by dugout canoe was relatively safe in the rainy season because the piranhas prefer fruit to flesh and feed around the fruit trees that are now in the shallows. Before stepping out of the canoes, you have to pound the paddles on the river bottom to scare away the sting rays and electric eels.”  

      “What did you get out of it?”

      “Bananas.”

      “No, seriously.”

      “Sometimes it’s worth going a thousand miles into the jungle just to get a good banana.”

      “Hey, would you like to come to dinner this evening?”

      “Sure, I’ll bring bananas for dessert,” I replied, with a smile.