On The Waterfront

Marlon Brando died yesterday. Sad in a way, but yet not. Man lived his life to the fullest; highest of highs, lowest of lows, so how can you feel sad for a man who’s lived thus? Celebration is in order! So I won’t ladle on the pity and condolences, preferring instead to tell you a story about how he and I met and became very silent friends during a time when he and I had the same itch for the same gal, a most unusual girl; an Indonesian ex body builder from Detroit.
I met her when she was an instructor at the Jack LaLane Health Spa on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. I knew the second I saw her that she and I were destined to be together. Not a doubt in my mind. Didn’t help that I was already dating a fabulous young Greek girl, but the truth was I was perpetually horny and stupid back then; my dick calling all the shots. I was just a life support system for it.
True to my instincts, soon enough this gal and I were embroiled in a tempestuous, clandestine affair, not able to keep our hands off the other.
One day after a rather fierce session we were laying in each other arms, legs 'twined 'round the others, basking in our sweat and afterglow, feeding each other grapes, when she surprised me by telling me she was dating another man. By nature I’m not a jealous person, so solely out of curiosity I asked a variety of questions about him but she wouldn’t divulge anything; his name, occupation, nothing. We never discussed the matter again, preferring to keep our animal instincts sharp and clear, unmuddied.
One day while out riding my bycicle along the ocean, I dropped in on her unexpected like. She made no bones about being uncomfortable with me there, and told me the fellow with whom she was spending her other time with was on his way over. I told her point blank I didn’t have any problem with it and before she could protest there was a knock at the door. She got nervous as a cat in a house fire, but dutifully answered it. To my shock, there in the doorway stood an old woman, all frumpy and bulgy. A baggy floral dress covered her lumpy body and she wore a headscarf pulled down low on her forehead, right to the edge of her sunglasses. I heard them mumbling to one another, then my gal waved good-bye and away they went.
The Detroit Indonesian and I avoided the subject when we were together, even though I was busting a gut after seeing "the other man", preferring, as was our want, to concentrate solely on the prurient interests of the other. We did, and how!
A few weeks later I unexpectedly dropped by again after a day on the beach. My gal wasn’t near as nervous as last time but mentioned her date was on his way to get her again. Shortly there was a rap at the door and my gal asked me to answer it. So I did.
I opened the door and there stood the old woman again. I asked her to come inside and she did, taking a seat on the couch, never looking me in the eye, mincing with her cuticles, saying nothing. Finally my gal came out of her bedroom whereupon the old lady bounded up from the couch with a leopard’s graceful ease and hugged and kissed her passionately; then without another word said, only a look over her shoulder that screamed of a burning desire for me, did my gal leave with him.
I must admit to being rather confused by this odd scenario, but this sort of triangular relationship continued for months and the old woman never once said a word to me, only grunting here and there when things were offered, but never engaging in any parts of conversation.
Knowing something was up, something quite indistinct in this not so Rockwell scenario, I just played along, allowing her to date this “old woman” while she and I didn’t miss a beat either, ravenous as we were for the other. And the old woman never objected to my being there either. A menage’ a trois of mutual love and lust, I deduced.
It wasn’t until many months later that my gal told me she and her fellow had unfortunately broken off, their relationship at an end.
I asked her to unveil the mystery.
She told me she and her fellow most always did the same thing. They would be taken by a limo to a grungy, seedy pool hall in Venice where they would eat peanuts, drink beer, and play pool until the wee hours, then he would bring her home and disappear back into the night.
Of course, my curiosity wasn’t sated by this and I had to know. “Why the old woman getup?” I asked.
She smiled a devilish grin, pacing the length of her apartment, wanting badly to tell me but by reading her body english it was obvious she was about to break a great trust. Finally she couldn’t contain herself any longer and she told me. “The old woman was Marlon Brando. He loved me and I him, but because of his marriage he had to don a disguise, not to mention he liked his privacy and it was the only way he could get any.”
“Marlon fucking Brando?”, I said.
“That’s right”, she said, “Marlon fucking Brando.”
Knowing as I now do of Marlon’s predilection for dark, swarthy island types, I’m not surprised he found my gal, this unpolished diamond, in a town overrun with the most unbelievably drop-dead gorgeous blondes, amazon Aryan wanna be’s. My gal, our brown-eyed brown-haired gal, was plain and simple and pure. Without a stitch of makeup on, nor without any cosmetic enhancement, she was divinely beautiful on the outside; inside resided a soulful, deeply rapturous woman. In her, both he and I found a solace, a peace, a spirit that moved us and a skin that made our mouths water.
Marlon and I never spoke, and in true Brando genius -my naivete’- I guess we both played our parts to perfection on this stage of our making.
Marlon’s gone now. His roller coaster of a life has come to a close. We'll never know the demons that haunted him, but I do know that he sought, through these women, a simplicity, a natural order in a world that’s upside down, a world that champions most anything fake and unnatural. So, Marlon, in his own way, got it right. And I know it’s why he harbored disdain for his craft in his later years, because to him and others like him, the work is all that’s important, and all the accoutrement that’s yoked around the work in this modern society is what kills the childlike spirit. And in these dark, swarthy island women he found that peace, that perfection, that simplicity he craved to be able to wake in the morning, take a deep breath, and live within his own skin.
Good night, Marlon. Sleep well.
As for my gal, she too grew weary of Hollywood, moving back to Detroit and marrying an auto executive, from what I hear. I miss her. I hope she’s happy. If the man is worth his salt, I know he’s happy.
Me? I left Hollywood, too, and I, like Marlon, am seeking my peace and attainment through my work, my life, and I’m patiently waiting on a dark, swarthy island girl to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Come with me, let’s leave this world behind”. I won’t hesitate. I will take her hand, and we, too, will disappear into the night.
I know she’s out there. I’m waiting... I’m ready.