Hunger Street

By Oscar Pallotta

In Hunger Street author Oscar Pallotta follows the spiritual awakening of his flawed characters struggling to make sense of life. Their stories pull us in with their ordinary lives and complex inner selves as they unravel the illusions that make life believable.
As an author and spiritual seeker, he matches spiritual concepts with everyday situations en route to self-discovery, “we identify with our ego, our mind, and our thoughts, but we are neither, we are ineffable souls.”
Most of the story is set in Hunger Street an unusual place for spiritual growth, “Chiara observed Hunger Street remembering the evolution from a neglected blind alley to a chaotic street filled with food trucks, smoke, and grease smell to an about-to-become a beautiful, romantic, and artistic street. Hunger Street was evolving like her life or better yet -her soul.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oscar Pallotta
• Release date: Nov 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005289881

Book preview

Hunger Street

OSCAR PALLOTTA

Copyrighted material

Copyright © 2022 by Oscar Pallotta

All rights reserved

All material in this book belongs to the author solely. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Disclaimer

The material contained in this book is not intended as medical advice, the author of this book does not prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical or emotional problems. All the material in this book is for your information only.

Illustrated by Maria Figueroa

Table of Contents

The House of Mirrors

The Puppet Theater

Hunger Street

The Mind

A Dark Night of the Soul

Holistic View Capital

Breaking the Shield

A Dream within a Dream

Preamble

As Chiara advances her corporate career through emerging opportunities and well-deserved promotions she struggles with her spiritual growth. This is the story of her difficult journey to becoming more conscious of her inner Self by discarding wrong beliefs and false ideas in… Hunger Street.

We experience life through the body’s senses, and all 5 senses send impressions to the brain where the mind processes, learns, and stores them. The human body is subjected to live an illusion and this illusion helps to keep the soul unaware, unconscious of his true nature.

Spiritual growth is awakening from the illusion of knowing the way life and people should be, the illusion of having control over our lives, the illusion of having free will to do as we please, and the illusion of being separated.

The House of Mirrors

Chiara was a bubbling, exuberant brunette incredibly attractive from head to toe, she could pass for an actor or a model, she dressed business casual, and her clothes, although not very revealing, let you guess what was underneath. She was the office manager of a medium-sized real estate company in downtown Houston. She wore many hats in the office, human resources, administrator, bookkeeper, and peacemaker, she reported directly to the owner and was well-liked in the office. She had mixed feelings about her future with the company, on one hand, it could be a dead end if everything stayed the same and, on the other hand, there were many business opportunities if you liked real estate investments. She had access to an extensive network of real estate agents, mortgage lenders, title companies, lawyers, property managers, contractors, and handymen through the office. All she must do was to save enough money for the down payment and wait for the right opportunity, but she wasn’t interested right now, she had other plans, and the anxiety of a high-leverage real estate investment wasn’t appealing to her, she figured that living on the edge financially would impact her quality of life and she wanted to enjoy life without commitments for a while longer. This was her first job after college, when she started three years ago the agency was half its current size and her compensation had increased proportionally to her experience and workload, she was treated fairly and she liked her boss, life was good.

Chiara spoke English with a slight foreign accent, but she had no problem expressing herself clearly. She always chose easy words, her diction was flawless, and her conversation engaging, one forgave her accent almost immediately. Her eyes were dark, big, and perfect for her face. She knew she had beautiful eyes and she enhanced them with sharply trimmed eyebrows and long lashes complemented with discreet but well-thought-out makeup.

She enjoyed a glass of wine or two at the hotel La Maison de La Paix on Fridays before heading home. The Hotel was located across the street from her office, it was a medium-sized, renowned hotel with a busy but quiet bar next to the lobby. Sometimes they had live music from small ensembles on a stage located in a strategic corner facing the bar. The bar’s stools were comfortable, the bar was simple and inviting, and they served trendy cocktails and gourmet snacks priced right. A conspicuous bouncer, Tito, was always vigilant to keep the noise down he controlled the ambiance by controlling the noise an intense stare was all he needed to keep the voices below the noise of the bottles and glasses. He used a tall stool to sit on one buttock and rest one foot at a time, he was big and imposing but he looked like he was slim and fit not long ago, probably an athlete or a football player. He carried himself well with an air of elegance and style.

A singular ensemble was playing Latin Jazz. The bongo player caught Chiara’s attention. He was tall, slim, and athletic, but it wasn’t his looks that got Chiara’s interest he was a misfit for the band and particularly for the bongos he didn’t look Latin he looked more like a slender GI Joe with small eyes and thin lips that went well with the thick curly hair and incipient but well-trimmed beard. The rest of the band consisted of a bass guitarist, saxophonist, trumpeter who doubled as a trombonist, and pianist.

A lady from the audience in her late fifties approached the bongo player and whispered something to his ear. He dismissed the band except for the piano player and took the lady to the microphone, grabbed the bongos, and sat next to the piano he had a short conversation with the pianist before squeezing the bongos between his legs and starting a very lively tune it was a son, definitely a son. The lady started singing and the whole bar was stunned by the singer’s potent voice Quiquiribu mandinga, quiquiribu quiribu mandinga.

Tito signaled to the bandleader to cut it out, he wasn’t happy. The bongo player avoided Tito’s intense stare by looking at the drums, Tito crossed his arms while his eyes were fixed on the band. The public was mesmerized by watching the impromptu trio perform in perfect rhythm. When the music stopped, the public rewarded the piece with long applause and loud cheers. Tito moved his head from side to side in disapproval.

The singer waved both hands to the audience as she returned to her table, the bongos player looked to the bar and walked directly toward Chiara while the piano player didn’t know what to do so he did nothing and stayed put.

What are you drinking? he asked Chiara with a friendly, bright smile.

She was used to this kind of direct approach, she had been coming to the hotel for almost two years now, California Chablis, she answered returning a friendly smile.

Is it any good?

Is cheap wine.

Why do you drink cheap wine? the bandleader was trying to get the conversation going.

I don’t think they serve good wine by the glass.

May I buy you a drink?

My cup runneth over.

From the Bible?

Yes.

After you finish that one?

We’ll see.

He looked around and found Tito still staring at him.

Tito is not happy, said Chiara.

I know, he has this fixation with a quiet bar, is he still staring at me?

No, he is talking to someone.

I am sure he is not going to scold me in front of you.

That song was nice, I liked the spontaneity and improvisation, impressive.

Thank you! My name is George, and I am the band’s leader and percussionist, well, that’s not my profession it’s more of a hobby. I used to be a professional baseball player, you know, the Big Show. I was drafted from High School when I was 18 years old and I made it to the big leagues four years later but once in the big leagues I ran into trouble with my control, I mean my command wasn’t good enough to be successful in the big leagues.

I am guessing you were a pitcher, interrupted Chiara.

Right, continued George, I was traded five times and decided to hang the spikes after I was released unceremoniously. I was not enjoying the game anymore, you know? So, I quit but I made rivers of money during those years then I tried to stay in the show as a scout but I didn’t like it, ridiculously low pay, extremely long hours, and excessive traveling.

Did you…

I know what you are going to ask, no, I didn’t like coaching either, I coached in low A and it didn’t work out well, I was a pitching coach, I guess it’s my personality, I like the action, I get dead bored sitting on my hands in the dugout doing absolutely nothing during the games and you need to coach for a long while before they allow you to manage a team.

You use hyperboles without a purpose.

Hyperboles?

Hyperbole, a pedagogic exaggeration, an overstatement intended to make a point clear.

For a foreigner, you have an outstanding command of the English language, are you an English teacher in your country?

Hyperboles exist in every language, she replied.

George looked at her puzzled and started again, I know you are wondering how a baseball player becomes a bongo player.

Not really, interrupted Chiara.

Well, during my playing years I met several baseball players from the Caribbean and some of them were exceptional percussionists I got interested in the bongos and the tumbadoras or congas, they taught me all they knew, and then I took classes, not music classes, you don’t need to read music to play the bongos and tumbadoras, sometimes you serve as a metronome and sometimes you enhance the music, see? I discovered I had a talent and developed that talent into a skill and then put the band together.

Smart athlete.

Are you being sarcastic?" asked George confused.

It’s an oxymoron, replied Chiara with a reassuring smile.

AH!

Why…

Why Latin Jazz? Well, I thought Salsa may be hard to sell but a fusion of Jazz and Salsa may be easier to appreciate by the American public, I need the salsa sound to use the bongos and the Jazz to appeal to a larger audience.

Simple! exclaimed Chiara.

Excuse me?

That’s a euphemism.

Ah! Okay. I take elements of Salsa, mostly with heavy bongos’ sounds, to complement jazz music.

George, your preambles last forever so you have control of the time. Like in sports, if you control the ball the other team cannot score a goal?

Preambles? asked George.

Yes, your preambles are like soundbites you have two or three blurbs about yourself and your experiences and you use them to hold on to the control of the conversation you don’t even get to the point, you get stuck in the preamble, she paused for a second, showed George her index finger to stop him from talking, and then continued, you interrupt me constantly and steal my turn to talk, turning a conversation into an endless speech, your speech. You are not interested in a conversation; you want an audience to deliver your discourse. You don’t care about what I have to say, you are elated listening to yourself, and you come across as an arrogant, condescending, narcissistic, unskilled phony.

I guess we are not going to be friends, replied George jokingly.

Epiphany!

What?

We can’t talk.

George tried humility, well, as an ex-baseball player and musician, language and communication are not my strongest points.

This is junior high material, George.

You are trying to win an imaginary game that only exists in your mind just to prove you are better than me, charged George impatiently.

No, I don’t, denied Chiara embarrassed.

You are not being honest, everybody deep inside believes is better than the rest one way or another but in your case, you wear your superiority in plain view.

You are just repeating an aphorism that may as well apply to you.

A what?

A cliché.

You are a bully.

Now labels, replied Chiara tired.

Labels? It’s a description of your behavior.

No, it’s a label, a judgment intended to define who I am.

You are impossible, cute but mean and my break is over, see you, George got up and walked toward the band’s corner.

Chiara didn’t know if she should laugh or be ashamed of herself. She didn’t order a second glass of wine; she left the bar without looking toward the band. Sure, George was irritating but her behavior was reprehensible, she felt she was overanalyzing an inconsequential encounter; however, she revisited her conversation with George over and over again that night.

Chiara told Camille about her encounter with George and how it affected her.

You bullied George, said Camille.

Indeed, Chiara repeatedly attacked George from a position of power, George was attracted to Chiara and she used that power to humiliate him. That was Chiara’s modus operandi, she engaged strangers in a conversation and while they believed they were chatting she was debating and determined to win the debate by discounting and trivializing their accomplishments and undermining their self-esteem, bullies only interact with others on their terms, she appeared accessible in a bar of an elegant hotel and with Tito standing by she operated in a controlled environment where she felt protected.

Your bullying seems to be a way to cope with a stressful situation, it may be an outlet for your anger you need to address the underlying problem that is driving you to bully strangers, said Camille.

I guess I set them up, but I don’t want to be a bully.

Your cunning is in your words; you weave your words around your targets and pull the thread when they are distracted by the beauty of your eyes.

Oh, shut up Camille! This is serious.

By admitting her plot Chiara showed remorse, this was the right time for Camille to intervene, talk about what is bothering you with someone you trust just talking about it is very helpful a problem shared is a problem halved and, by the way, you are not a bully, bullying is what you do not what you are, behavior is not identity, dear.

That’s just semantics, sure I am a bully but George was a pain in the neck, replied Chiara reversing gear.

Do you want to go deeper into this matter? asked Camille.

Yes, I do, definitely.

When you look at him you look at yourself, all you see is yourself, do you understand what I am saying?

Let’s go back a little, George was self-centered and egotistic… Chiara paused for a second, oh my God! Oh my God! Am I talking about myself? asked Chiara upset.

Yes Ma’am, you are projecting, and George is reflecting your projection.

That means I am self-centered and stupid?

You cannot see it in yourself but you can see it in him.

But George is not a bully.

He can only reflect to you the flaws and qualities he shares with you.

This is wild, cried Chiara.

You live, we all live, in our own house of mirrors and all we see is ourselves.

I can see you, replied Chiara.

You don’t see who I am you see who you are, you project who you are, and I reflect what you project, you can only see the virtues and defects that we share and nothing else.

What is this house of mirrors?

The world where you live is made of your thoughts, what you think all day long.

Yes right, what are all those thoughts?

Those thoughts are your beliefs, views, hopes, dreams, hurts, and memories accumulated from past experiences that’s the garbage you have collected throughout all your lives.

Garbage?

Difficult experiences, unresolved issues, grudges, fears, pain, shame, blame, grief, emotional junk. In other words, your reality.

Like an alternate reality?

No, your reality.

Chiara stared at Camille incredulously and then asked, how do I get out of the house of mirrors?

The walls of the house of mirrors will fall when the incessant and involuntary self-talk ceases freeing you from confinement and allowing you to see others as they are, to see the truth.

Chiara wasn’t convinced, wait a minute, wait a minute, if all I can see is myself and the walls are made of garbage then I am garbage.

Sort of.

What?

You identify yourself with your garbage because you are not seeing the truth.

How does the truth look like?

What do I know? I am not enlightened.

Enlightened? How do you get enlightened?

Only the ones who explore their inner self go to the light, once the walls crumble down, once the garbage is removed, you’ll see the truth, you’ll be enlightened, it’s a gift.

But this garbage…

That garbage is like a hornet’s nest inside you and when it’s stirred it causes mayhem in your mind.

Okay, the garbage is inside me, or are the walls of the house of mirrors?

You project your garbage and that’s all you see.

How do you know all this metaphysic stuff is not garbage?

OK now, you wanted to go deeper.

Chiara’s head was spinning this was all new for her, so when you are in love, you are in love with yourself.

You see in others only what you have in common, I guess you fall in love with someone who has what you like the most about yourself.

Twin flames?

That’s mythology.

Soul mates?

Maybe, but I’d rather consider it karmic relationships.

I need a break.

Tea?

The conversations with Camille were taking a toll on Chiara’s peace of mind as she was becoming aware of her thinking patterns. Back at home alone, Chiara’s mind was raided by angry, sad, and doomed thoughts every thought was a negative thought from the past associated with guilt, remorse, and shame.

Physically, Chiara wasn’t well, she had been to different doctors, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with her, it was unsettling, her malaise was real. Joint pain, chest pressure, a stiff neck, and other minor aches.

Friday afternoon, Chiara was exhausted it was a busy week at the real estate agency. She asked her friends at the office to share a glass of wine at La Maison de La Paix across the street but there were no takers, she would go home and take a long bath, Kate waved her hand from outside Chiara’s office Chiara waved back. Kate was the maintenance supervisor for the company’s property management division, Hi Chiara, do you have a minute?

Sure, come in.

I am having problems with my job, started Kate, as you know I take care of repairs for the portfolio of properties we have under management, Kate paused, "lately, my manager is all over me to generate more income,