Brian Brotarlo

Brian has just finished a novel. He writes and writes and writes.

He can be reached at brofont@iloilo.net.

Kill the Babies?

I don't know if it's my responsibility alone. Sure, maybe it was because

of the present emptiness of my life, which can only be temporary (we

hope). You can't rely on a person's feelings and the thoughts that they

provoke when that person is lonely--especially men. They tend to up and

leave. What seems now like a worm stuck on the sticky sap of a leaf

could be like a spider next and jump off into the air.

So Ana and Boo-Boo in my head, and, maybe, a couple more girls and a

boy, should not be taken too seriously--are not legitimate repositories

of tender feelings, except my own alone. I don't have anything in my

life right now, that's all. It will pass. There's no point in thinking

of the babies in my head like they are real. No, one should not even

elevate it to a dream, if by dream, one means like those other dreams

about having a house and two cars and a good social standing. Rather, my

baby fantasies should be right about there with climbing Everest and

going deep into the Congo forest, finding that lost dinosaur. If I could

correct all possible detractors of my dream(s) all at once, I would say,

How about my thoughts about babies being in par with the exact same

thing with women? Women seem to be more vocal about these things anyway;

what if I was affected by what they were always sharing? They kneel down

at any baby in the mall, can't get enough of how cute it is. They would

thrill at something as if Ricky Martin was there; you turn around to

see, it was a baby.

So it got me thinking. To fully impress a girl, one has to appreciate

this number one obsession of theirs. It was not my fault that I fell in

love with the idea, too. I liked babies, it turned out; they are better

people than any of their parents. This was what I would have said to a

woman: If it (the baby) is better than you, then I would definitely be

looking forward to having one.

My first would be a girl, and my second and third as well. My reason was

that I would be so in love with my wife that I could not get enough of

her image. One boy would be ideal, for facts that would be obvious to

any one with a sense of humor. I mean, I'm not a beast.

Ana would be a perfectly pure name, I thought, never mind that it's

well-disseminated in porn movies (no pun intended). The next one,

Boo-Boo, of course, is a nickname. I got it from Salinger, one of the

Glass twins--in which case, I could name the other two Franny and Zooey.

The boy could not be a real Jr. I still have a first name, besides the

one on the byline. Obviously, the reader doesn't know that one. But he

could be a Miguel or a John. I would want him to be the youngest, so he

would be well looked after. It's a well-buffered position also, being

the last. You are not hit by too many responsibilities and one's pride

and ego tested early on. That's what happened to me.

I often imagine myself being an adoring father. I would be the "fun

parent" and my wife the disciplinarian. I could make them giggle with my

little finger, ecstatic with laughter with both hands and my mouth.

They'd wake up early in the morning to have some more of it. I would get

no rest. They would take turns sleeping with us at night, leaving little

for the husband and wife things. My wife would feel inadequate as a

mother, jealous of me and yet helpless before someone who is superior in

parenting. She would be desperate to learn how to be a master--to be me.

So I would ask her, "What am I going to do with them if it's not going

to be you? I practically would have to kill these kids." Certainly, the

faces that I had pictured would not be. They could still be an Ana and a

Boo-Boo, but would I really do that if it was going to be with another

woman? I would more or less have to puke out my soul to be able to start

from scratch... find another woman, then go back to the drawing board,

as if kids are only so many shapes and sizes.

Why is it that this plea of mine could not be a solid one? Most people

are sympathetic, but it seems that I had been exiled to the margins. And

this redemptive (decidedly superior to mere redeeming) quality of mine

in thinking about babies already--a young man, in the threshold of his

life--is not working at all. It doesn't get me anywhere, while almost

all other forms of sincerity do, is with other men. They go to a house

every day with flowers and it is thoroughly appreciated.

Brian Brotarlo