by Auld, Alexei
I loved it:
“Thanks for the good word. It's baffling to me that with the amount of fantastic work that you do that you don't have more friends. It has been noted, oftentimes, that those who engage in charitable lifestyles are fated to suffer loneliness. I've been fortunate to have many good friends I've cultivated over time, since it takes time to develop trust, shared experience, and to truly understand a person.
“That being said, it's a bit premature to define our brief interaction (a dinner and a few emails) as something as strong as friendship, when I really haven't known you that long. Whether I will or I won’t, well, I guess that's a function of fate.”
I was geeked. Text sent. I kind of wanted a response, but would’ve been content with none.
Soon afterward, I received it.
“I understand, but I am different. Feelings are instant. Maybe that's the Victorian poet in me. A time when things were simple: smiling, laughing, trusting, becoming friends, or falling in love. I am one of those old souls, and as a result have friends that I know instantly, and they know me instantly. For me, the time to know someone, it does not make a difference. You either know their soul or you don't. But a conversation for another day.”
I cringed. “‘A bit of the Victorian poet in me’?”
Enos sucked his teeth. “Maybe the spooge of a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Victorian is stuck in her cooter…”
“Like she’s European or some shit.”
“Or maybe she fucked a Victorian corpse and the tip is still lodged in her—”
“She loves the Victorian era?”
“Then again, the Victorian era ended in 1901, so he’s not necessarily ancient…”
“The racist-ass Victorian era?”
“…but the guy would have to have been an adult in that era…”
“I’d love to see how they would’ve treated her black ass in Victorian Europe.”
“Still, an old dick is an old dick.”
My hatred turned into curiosity. I wanted to find out what made her tick. So I called and asked her about being a Victorian poet. Specifically, what was it about things Victorian that appealed to her.
She replied, “The sense of calm in the eye of the storm, or perhaps restraint. The décor and the art of life. I guess it's more with all things British, perhaps? I know it sounds absolutely strange, but I just finished A Room with a View, by Forster, beautiful novel.”
“It’s funny you said that, Felice. Some coworkers were talking a few days ago about how we end up reading some books as opposed to others (friends, a particular writer, mood) and envisioning where we would fit in if we were in the story.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and it leads me to ask you what is the trail that led you to read A Room with a View, and how do you think you'd fit in if you woke up tomorrow morning in the book?”
“Well, definitely, I see myself in Florence, being courted by a sensitive, mysterious, amazing man, who only has eyes for me!”
“Really…”
“I think I definitely have aspects of Lucy in me, and the men I fall for are a hundred percent George Emerson. Quiet, dignified, not morally ambiguous, and clear-sighted on goals, creative, etc. I love family, so I loved reading about her family and community's interplay with her life, etc. Interesting, my friend.”
I did some Googling and found out all of her references, George, Lucy, and Florence, were from A Room with a View. And they weren’t Victorian at all. They were Edwardian. Finally, I had found the source of the evil. Schools ban impressionable youth from reading Catcher in the Rye, but I’d suggest a ban of Forster. This could not stand! I thought that my inquiry would be simple, but now I realized that I had to go deep cover.
I had to act as if I was a fellow fan.
I read a few research papers on the book and found a site that had a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. Armed with the knowledge of this vile necronomicon, I was ready for battle.
I texted, “I finished A Room with a View yesterday and I don't know where to begin. The points raised (self-actualization, happiness, love, redemption, judgment, the fallacy of the British ‘stiff upper lip,’ the Augustinian fear/hatred of the flesh, and so much more) deserve real interaction that email simply cannot facilitate. I'm fascinated by the interaction/tension between your views/life experience and the book. It's as if you've written an epilogue and possible sequels I haven't read.
Take care,
George. I mean, Rufus.”
She texted, “You moved me that you were moved as much as I was. Why did we take so long to read it?”
I wished I never had. “Right.”
“I was so upset when it ended. I chanted, 'Love conquers all.'”
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d chanted anything.
She wrote, “How about Union Square Park with the rest of the lovers?”
The strange this was, after reading the book, a lot of things she’d spoken about just jelled. I had an overwhelming sense of clarity and a greater feeling of curiosity and intrigue about her perspective/experience. She no longer became a test subject.
She arrived at Union Square a half-hour after we were supposed to meet. We strolled to yet another New York street fair and she spoke about her family and how burdened she felt by her job.
“I’m tired, and old.”
“You’re what? Forty…”
“Doesn’t matter. I feel burned out.”
“Maybe it’s time to move on to something else.”
“I don’t know.”
“You like singing, so why not follow that, like your brother?”
“I can’t, dear friend. Lives depend on me and I must answer the call.”
“Maybe you need to take a break.”
“And do what?”
“Go out on dates. This city’s filled with guys who’d love to—”
“I don’t date. Not since…”
It was turning into a soap opera.
“I once knew love, but my heart. My heart, it was broken beyond repair.”
“You’re still young. I’m sure that—”
“I’m an old maid.”
“You’re forty—”
“I’m old and haggard. I hope someday soon I will wake up and I will no longer have a heavy heart, a broken one. How does that happen? Is there a magic potion? Can one ever heal? Can one ever get over something like this? I am not sure.”
“Felice…”
“If I were George, which perhaps I am, I will never get over it, and descend into darkness, which is where I am. But his is a noble defeat which he is willing to accept without the easy way out, without avoiding the pain, and the suffering of a great loss, which makes him the better person.”
I was dumbstruck.
“Cecil is easily cured. I am not Cecil. Lucy is clueless as to her pain, which says much about Forster's way of looking at women. I am much more a man in Forster's view than a woman, which I like.”
Now I was scared.
“I truly enjoy your company, and think you are one of the most interesting and articulate people I have ever met. I hope we can continue the journey of friendship.”
She kissed my cheek and ran for a cab. Crazy.
I didn’t know what to do. So I slept on it, looked at some of the articles online involving A Room with a View, and wrote:
“Felice,
Every moment we live is a chance to change our lives for the better or worse. In other words, we live in a constant state of possibility. The pain you feel is connected to a past trauma, and is impeding your ability to embrace unknown joy. I find myself enlivened more by the wonder of the unknown than the settled pain of my past.
Remember what Mr. Emerson said, ‘Passion is sanity.’
To remove passion from your life puts you deeper in the darkness, where ‘Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed.’ To fight the dark, we need warmth.
Work is not a substitute for warmth. Companionship is what is crucial to proving that
we are not only capable of loving, but that we deserve to be loved.
Rufus”
The next day, I received an email from Felice.
“Your soul is beautiful, Rufus. Fate has brought us together.”
She sounded like Enos now.
She wrote, “Maybe we can write a screenplay together?”
I felt sorry for her. Yes, she was a weirdo, but if naughty girls need love too, so do weirdoes. Especially fine weirdoes.
Her benefit was in a week, but I had a conference in DC a few days before. I went back home, looking forward to seeing her.
After a few days, I came back to NY. I plunked down $150 for my ticket and went to the benefit. Before the show began, I saw her. The first thought that entered my mind:
“She’s phony.”
Suddenly, the scales were lifted from my eyes. I then began to watch her in action. From her dress to the way with which she held her glass, everything was affected. I sat through the performance, in the back, and it was dreadful. At the end, I tried to sneak out, but thought better of it. I walked up to her.
“Felice?”
“Rufus? Thanks for coming! What did you think of the show?”
“To watch and think you know something, only to realize you’re only deceiving yourself…”
“Eye opening, isn’t it?”
“Humbling. To realize how much time we waste on such things.”
She gave me a faux kiss on the cheek and made her way through to the actors. I walked out of the Edwardian era and came back to the twenty-first century.
49
I WAS BURNED out from all my failed dating attempts. I spent so much time surfing the Krueller intranet, looking at photos and profiles, having hope for a match, only to get nothing. I was running out of time. And the prospect of tailoring specific emails to all Krueller partners (and senior associates) over the world wouldn't work.
I needed to clear my mind and work on my game, so I went online and surfed some dating websites.
And saw one woman with photos that suggested she was really relaxed. Like a surfer girl, at least what they look like in the movies. She reminded me of Bridget Fonda in Jackie Brown.
Fortunately, she looked just as good in person as she did online. I guess she liked how I looked too, because she broke out a big grin when I saw her and said, “Sunshine?”
“Rufus?”
I nodded. She gave the aforementioned grin and a big hug. I could feel her breasts press up against my chest.
She took my hand and said, “It is so hot today I wish I could just jump in the ocean, but I guess that is not an option over here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“What brings you here?”
“Friends in Chelsea.”
“What do you do?”
She did a double take. “‘Do'?”
“You know, for a living?”
Her brow furrowed. “I live for a living.”
“I don't understand.”
“Instead of one job, I do a bunch of things.”
“Things like what?”
“Like DJing at parties, working as a waitress, or doing retail.”
At first, I wondered if she was some gold-digger hoping for a guy with EP—Earning Potential.
She scratched her upper lip. “I live from the money from those jobs, sublet my apartment, and roam the country.”
“Like Caine.”
“Cain and Abel from the Bible?”
“David Carradine from Kung Fu.”
“Who?”
“You see Kill Bill?”
She karate-chopped me in the gut.
And it hurt.
“Guess you did.” I shook it off, but pretended it hurt a lot more than I did.
She put a soothing hand on my back. “Sorry.”
“No worries.”
She wanted to live in New York full-time, but it was too cold.
As far as her status? She said she’d had a boyfriend in the past, but started writing about someone she'd “seen around the country and at parties for years.” She said, “He is really nice but tries a little bit
too hard for me.”
Guess I should've chopped her back. Was it too late to do it now?
Probably.
She said, “My ex had a party.”
“He did?” This was going into weird territory. Was this her way of rejecting me?
“He invited a bunch of people and I knew I should not have gone. But I have, I mean had, faith in him, and wanted to support him, I guess. Well, I ended up seeing him with ten different girls.”
“Ten?”
“Ten. I had to get out. Not that I have a right to be mad, but I guess I am just mad at myself, and pretty disgusted, too. It’s just that I am such a good girl in that way. Loyal, unconditionally loving, and such blah blah blah, but I seem to be falling in love with assholes. It’s probably the challenge I am going for and a helper syndrome and lots of naivety. I won’t say more ’cause I could go on forever, but I might scare you away.”
I was scared, but pretended not to be. “No, that's a lot for anyone to deal with.”
“Do I give you a really weird impression?”
“No, why?”
“I mean, I swear it’s just mentally. I don’t fly around and have loads of lovers, ’cause that is the total opposite of what I am.”
I was confused, but felt a little sorry for her. “So you travel a lot.”
“I inspire.”
“You do?”
“Mostly artists, I guess, since they are more sensitive to things like that. But just believing in someone and loving them means the world for some and for me too, I guess.”
Wasn't sure what she meant.
“You want to come to my apartment? I promise I wont bore you, or at least not the first time.”
Sounded promising.
***
On our walk to her apartment in Brooklyn, she spoke about the beach again. Her love for family and how she really enjoyed my vibe.
“Do you have any vices, Rufus?”
“Vices?” I thought about it. “Not really.”
Her face dropped. “Oh.”
She didn't say one word the rest of the way. I didn't know what to say. So I kept quiet too. I needed to recover from my earlier faux pas. So I decided to come clean. “You know, Sunshine. I was a little embarrassed earlier when you asked me if I had any vices and I said I didn't.”
More silence.
“I mean, I'm not perfect, you know. And I really like scrapple.”
“Scrapple?”
“You know, it's like a breakfast dish in the South. Made up of all the parts of the pig that no one in their right mind would eat by itself.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I mean, it's not like pickled pig lips, but—”
I got a giggle.
“Still, it's something that is really country and tasty. And when I see it on a menu, I have to order it.”
She grabbed my hand.
I was back, baby!
When we reached her apartment she asked, “Do you smoke?”
I coughed.
Her face dropped again. Did she mean “smoke” smoke? “Do you mean 'smoke' smoke?”
“Weed.”
That was what I feared. “Nope, I don't. Not that I judge who does, I mean, I like scrapple, after all. But don't let that stop you from smoking, weed, that is.”
She said, “Okay.” And started for her apartment.
I followed, and she held out her hand in a “stop” gesture.
“You know, Rufus, I'm married.”
“You are?”
“Yes. For trust fund purposes. His.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I mean, it's not like we're a real couple, but once he gets his money, he's good to go and we're getting divorced.”
“You are?”
She nodded.
Was this true or just something she said to have me tuck
my tail and go home? Was this all about the weed? Fucking junkie.
“Okay, Sunshine. Sorry. Was all this about—”
“All what about what?”
More brow furrowing. I took it as a hint. In her eyes, I was a fucking square.
“Okay, Sunshine. You want me to walk you up to your apartment?”
“No.”
She turned her back on me and left my life with less sunshine.
I hadn't bombed that bad since, well, Valentine's Day in college.
***
“What ethnicity are you? My father is Persian and my mother is Italian.”
That was Bella. I tried dating online and didn't have much success until she seemed to like what she saw.
I wrote back, “My father is Chinese-Jamaican and my mother is American Indian.”
She replied, “There must be a mistake, I never selected the 'black' category for someone I wanted to date.”
Offensively ignorant enough. “What did you think I was?”
“Italian.”
“That's funny.”
“What racial preferences did you pick?”
“None.”
“Stop lying”
“I'm serious.”
“You had to eliminate some groups.”
“Nope.”
“You're full of shit.”
“Did you eliminate groups?
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Not my friends.”
“Whatever.”
“What about yours?”
“They don't date outside their race.”
“How did they view your father?”
“He's white.”
“I thought you said he was Iranian?”
“Persian. And he's white.”
“Not after 9/11.”
“Bullshit.”
This was the reason why I avoided race like the plague. Life was hard enough as it was. But no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, there'd always be some asshole rubbing my face in it. And their ignorance.