No Envy

I've got a rather devilishly handsome and frustratingly charming friend. He's what you would call a natural. A natural with women. The ladies love him. Needless to say, I'm thoroughly jealous of him.

His name's Avon. And this is the story of how he proved to me there's no need to envy him.

One day, he was sitting alone in the park. Alone. A rare occurrence with Avon. Like most men who are good with women, he's seldom found alone. He's afraid of it.

I happened to walk by and saw him there, sitting on the bench with its peeling green paint, his eyes gazing out into the autumn sunset. The leaves had just begun to change colors, falling in a flurry of yellow, orange, and red.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Time," Avon responded.

As I said, Avon is an incredibly good-looking guy, but everyone knows good looks aren't enough to get you by with women. You have to know how to talk. And Avon sure knew how to talk. Hearing his voice was like-or so I've been told by members of the opposite sex-feeling the vibrations of harp strings: subtle, teasing, not at all enough to be obtrusive but just enough to leave you wanting more.

On this evening, I heard no harp strings.

I sat down next to him. There was an old couple on the field flying a kite together, their hands overlapping each other. A youngster was playing with his dog, laughing as the canine licked his face. The occasional bicyclist or jogger went by. The setting sun seemed to stretch the shadows of the tall trees into eternity.

"You okay?"

"I...don't know. I just know I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired." His words were robotic.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

"For?"

"Them. I thought it would be sincere to do this in person rather than over the phone. With all of them present."

I knew then what Avon meant: the girls. Avon didn't look at me as he spoke, his eyes never leaving the setting sun. Or maybe it was the falling leaves.

"How's your girlfriend?" he asked all of a sudden, his voice betraying interest.

The question surprised me, for Avon spurned steady, long-tern relationships. He said they felt like a prison. He despised the terms "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." I never dared to ask him about his opinions regarding the words "husband" and "wife."

"She's...fine." I wanted to tell Avon I loved her, but I knew he would only laugh. I had only been with her for a few months, which would've been like a lifetime to Avon. Strangely enough, I would agree with Avon on this matter. I felt as if I had known her a lifetime.

Avon was silent, as if expecting me to go into more detail. He is never shy about sharing with me using verbal dioramas what he did with whomever it was the night before. I, on the other hand, am a little more...reserved.

"Why aren't you with her now?"

He was starting to worry me. He had never before shown such a degree of concern for my relationship. In fact, he had discouraged me from it.

"She's out of town, visiting family."

"You must miss her a lot."

"I do." I wasn't afraid to admit it.

His eyes drifted to the sky, following the birds and planes. "Did she drive or fly?"

"Fly."

"Fly, huh?"

Just as I was about to ask him what was really going on, one of them showed up. One of the girls.

There would be seven of them at this point. At one time, I was too tired to keep track of all their names and just referred to them by the location where Avon first met them and, in some cases, where they first consummated their relationship, whatever kind of relationship it was: DMV, Parking Lot, Hotel, Crosswalk, Bookstore, Tennis Court, Dormitory Hallway. Avon scolded me one time for being disrespectful and demanded that I learn their names. It's funny how I never found Avon to be disrespectful toward women.

In time, I learned all their names, but it didn't take me long at all to remember the stories.

Contrary to what an average person would assume, Avon is no party animal. He loathes the party and clubbing scenes. He thinks parties are almost always places where attendees stay in their cliques and an army of testosterone-driven guys cock-block each other all night long. And to him, dance clubs are called dance clubs for a reason. People go there to dance. The music is loud, designed to make having a conversation-especially with a guy you just met-impossible. Girls go there to dance; guys go there to try to get laid, "try" being the keyword. The formula doesn't work. Avon could've been a military strategist. He is not interested in approaching women when they have their guard up. He prefers more random, everyday locations.

I would also like to point out here that Avon recognizes many girls go out dressed the way they are expecting and hoping to be hit on. Avon isn't interested in them either.

He met Susan at the DMV on a trip to get a new driver's license. He had lost his while on vacation. They were in line to get their pictures taken. Susan was fixing her hair in the mirror when Avon walked up to her and stated, "You were in a hurry getting ready this morning, weren't you?"

That single comment at once caught her attention and grabbed her interest. It was an innocent-sounding question that was a direct slap to her face. "In a hurry?" Did she look like crap? (All this, Avon patiently explained to me.)

She was clearly upset at him but couldn't quite do anything to him because of the way he made the question sound. Had I said it, I would've either sounded like a real asshole who deserved to be slapped or someone who really was just asking an innocuous question out of curiosity. Only Avon could tease like that. I at one time knew all his lines, but my execution was way off.

They went back to Susan's apartment that night.

One day (I gave up long ago to remember in what order he met these girls; I'm just naming them as I remember them), Avon was walking down the staircase (the kind that's enclosed in its own room) of a parking structure when he heard someone wearing heels walking up the stairs. It was a beautiful girl wearing a midriff that showed off the tattoo on her lower back. "Hello," she said to him in one word that carries more meaning than I could ever decipher.

They made eye contact, and she was about to walk out the door-to her car, presumably, far from Avon. Then he said, "I like your tattoo. Is it okay if I touch it?"

It was a risk, he told me. He was in a hurry to go somewhere (and so was she, evidently), so he had no time for anything but the most aggressive approach. It was a calculated risk, though. Unlike cats, human males cannot smell it when their female counterparts are in heat and simply want something that society says of course only males could ever want urgently. Avon comes close, though. Instead of relying on his olfactory sense, Avon trusts his eyes and ears. Body language speaks more than words ever could. Tone matters more than the words themselves. Unlike most men, Avon is a great listener.

The beautiful girl, Rae, let him touch her tattoo. That was just about enough to seal the deal. Humans by nature yearn for each other's touch. Many of us just aren't very honest about it. Avon understands that very well and fulfills that need with cunning effectiveness. In about a minute or two, Avon took something out from his wallet, and Rae pressed her hands against the wall for support-or maybe better pressure.

A few minutes later (after a highly embarrassed white-haired lady walked in and out the door), Avon was on his way to his appointment and made it just in time.

This is not a journal of Avon's adventures, so I'll just talk about one more girl. And I only remember her so well because Avon and I met her at the same time. They met on the tennis court. Avon is a fine specimen with his shirt off. I, as his usual tennis partner, typically keep my shirt on.

That hot summer day, after our match (and after Avon squeezed the water from the water bottle all over himself like he was in a commercial), we noticed that a pretty girl, Maria, had been watching us-I mean, Avon-play for the past half hour. Avon sauntered up to her and said something. With a smile on her face that she was trying not to make too obvious, Maria wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. Walking back toward me, Avon unfolded the slip of paper, looked at the ten numbers on it, smirked, and in full view of Maria flung it into the closest trashbin. I was too afraid to turn back to find out Maria's reaction, but her friends were either whispering or yelling something while she remained silent.

They saw each other again at Starbucks. Avon was sitting alone, leaning back on his chair, sipping on his mocha frappucino, and casually stared at Maria and her friends for about two whole minutes before Maria stalked up to him and demanded to know not why he was staring at them but why he had just thrown her number away like that a few weeks back.

"How else could I have gotten you to remember me, Maria?"

He then proceeded to explain how at least a dozen guys must ask for her number a week and how he had to do something to stand out. Maria didn't verbalize it then, but her heart raced when she found out he remembered her name, which she had written on the slip of paper.

All seven of them had arrived, forming a semi-circle around the bench Avon and I were sitting on. They didn't look particularly happy or upset. Some held their arms crossed beneath their breasts, which came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Others had their hands in their pockets. Some stood with one arm limp by their sides and the hand of the other arm on their hips. It must've been an ominously ridiculous scene. Or ridiculously ominous.

The evening breeze flowed through their hair. It was like a movie effect. The dimming light complimented their skin to no end. My throat was dry. I almost blushed remembering Avon's specific stories with each of them.

They all knew about each other. Avon had been upfront with all of them about relationship expectations. Basically, he was no one's boyfriend but was more than willing to have some fun together. Surprisingly (to me at least), most of the time they were fine with it. Probably because a good number of them were seeing other guys anyway. Avon didn't care. He only asked that those other guys never entered their conversations. Likewise, Avon never mentioned the other girls while being with one of them. This, however, was the first time any of them had seen each other. They looked astonishingly calm for such a mix.

I had never been within such proximity with so many beautiful women who were all looking in my general direction, so I couldn't quite remember what Avon said to them once everyone was here. I hadn't realized "everyone" included me. One of the girls asked whether or not I should go, and Avon said I would stay. Was he more comfortable telling them what he was about to tell them with me around? I have yet to get around to asking him that question.

He told them something along the lines of his having finally met someone he wanted to stay loyal and faithful to, someone with whom he would be happy in a single, long-term relationship.

"But I love you all," he said at last. Harp strings are for everyday use. That line was delivered with an entire symphony.

That wasn't something he said to any girl, though. Anyone who only knew Avon superficially would've thought he was lying, trying to let the ladies down easily. But I knew better. Avon doesn't lie to women. For one thing, telling lies is a low-level technique used by desperate pursuers. More importantly, he prefers to tell women the truth and let them interpret it as they will.

Avon really did love each one of them. It was just that none of them was someone he could see himself spend the rest of his life with.

At that single moment in time, right after Avon had let it all out, even after the "I love you all" bit, I was honestly afraid for my life. Most of these girls were obviously in shape, Some of them probably had mace in their handbags. I was wearing sandals whereas some of them were wearing sneakers. Someone, I imagined that some of them would even be able to chase me down in heels.

"She must be quite a girl," said one of the girls. It was Maria.

I'm still nowhere as good as Avon at reading body language and tone of voice, and I've improved a bit since that day, but even I could tell Maria was one of the only, if not the only, one of the seven who wasn't seeing any other guy. She was sad to see Avon leave her life. It seemed to be an unsaid rule that being friends afterwards was simply impossible. The floating tears in her eyes were a dead giveaway too.

"Yeah, she is," answered Avon.

He hugged and kissed each of them in turn-either on the cheek or forehead. I shook hands with each of them. By then, they must've realized how close of a friend I am to Avon, and some of them looked at me jealously, knowing that I had seen sides of Avon that they never would.

As they walked away, I thought they were just waiting until they were out of earshot to yell or claw at each other, but I thought I saw them exchanging business cards.

"So who is she? When'd you meet her?" I asked him.

"A long time ago." Avon's eyes had returned to the sky, gazing upon the birds and planes. "It's funny, isn't it? Ironic, I mean. The very thing that I thought would imprison me has given me such freedom I have never known."

I looked at him carefully as I tried to figure out just what the hell he was saying. The sun's dying rays bathed the park in orange-red.

"I'm going to fly see her," said Avon.

I think I actually gasped at that moment. No kidding. My eyes were as wide as they had been for a long time.

"It's Yuria, isn't it?"

Avon smiled at me and nodded softly. It was such a smile that it made him look like a boy again.

Yuria is someone from a long time ago, before Avon was Avon, before the girls.

"How's everything going to work out?" I asked.

"I don't know." His shrug was dramatically subtle. Or subtly dramatic. "I hope everything works out."

"Hope" was not a word found in Avon's daily vocabulary. He viewed hope as a sign of giving up control of one's life and sitting in passivity, waiting for some miracle to happen. Well, it's only human to hope.

"Come on," he said, "let's walk back home."

On the way back, he asked me, "Can't wait until your girlfriend comes home, huh?"

"Every passing moment is like a thousand bitter winters."

"Do you love her?"

I looked him in the eye as I answered. "Yes, I do. I love her."

Avon didn't laugh.