by Rick R. Reed
A sensible part of him told him to nip this thing in the bud before he really hurt himself—not to mention Brian. The exit door was open, and it was easy enough to waltz right through it and try not to have too many regrets as he looked back on this unfortunate incident. All he would have to do is go to wingpeople and delete his account, which could be accomplished with a couple of mouse clicks and a confirming email. Then all he would need to do was shut down the email he had set up for this express purpose, and voilà! No more Brian.
And that thought filled him with dismay. No more Brian? Already the world seemed like a darker place without the prospect of him in it, even if he was only a cyber presence in Ethan’s otherwise rather bleak existence.
How many other people “in love” had similar thoughts when the wiser course was to move not toward the object of one’s affection, but away from it? And how many people actually took that course? How many actually followed their heads and not their hearts? He was willing to bet very few.
So while he had even gone so far as to think out the course of action for ending this whole state of affairs quickly, if not painlessly, he knew he could never do it. He glanced up at the clock and saw he had only a few minutes if he wanted to get to work on time. He hit the Reply button on Brian’s email.
My dear man, you deserve a more detailed response than I am able to give at the moment. The rather rude interruption of real life (and work—I am a publicist for an entertainment-related PR firm) prevents me from answering as fully as I’d like at the moment. But rest assured, just as soon as I can carve out some quiet time for myself, I will turn my thoughts to you… and to providing answers to all your questions.
Ethan looked up at the clock again and saw that if he didn’t leave right now he would be late, and he worked for a woman who prized punctuality above all else. With a performance review coming in the very next month, now would not be the time to put a blemish on an otherwise untarnished record. So without giving his short—and, he thought, sweet—missive a second glance or thought, he hit Send.
As he hurried out the door, the anal-retentive side of him nagged at him for not giving his email to Brian at least a quick once-over. He wanted to give the man the most favorable impression possible, and a typo or spelling error would not reflect well on him. But, he chided himself, what’s the worst that could happen?
WHATEVER THE worst that could happen might be, it was not going to happen on this day. Outside, the weather was glorious. And inside the office of LA Nicholes, a very peevish and jealous Bubbles was staring down at Ethan. The poor young man was seething with envy, and Ethan knew he was just biting his dirty little tongue in an attempt not to say something unkind.
But Bubbles did not like the fact that he had just—as part of his duties as receptionist—delivered to Ethan a gorgeous bouquet of asters, lilies, and irises in a beautiful cut crystal vase.
“Who’s it from?” Bubbles asked. “One of the theater companies? Is it your birthday or something?”
Ethan tore open the card and looked down.
A little something to brighten your day, the card read and was signed, With Warmest Regards, Brian.
Ethan set the card down and looked up at Bubbles, who was regarding him with undisguised disbelief, hands on hips.
“Uh, no, it’s not my birthday.” Ethan put on his best cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and said, “It’s from an admirer.”
“Whatever.” Bubbles started to walk away, and Ethan could just hear him mumble something along the lines of “Must have spent all weekend with his legs in the air.”
The nerve!
It was not until he heard the pneumatic whoosh of Bubbles’s desk chair as he sat down—hard—in it, that a chill ran through Ethan’s body. And then, paradoxically, he felt a furious burning rise to his cheeks.
Oh. My. God. How had Brian known? Ethan thought back to his email to Brian that morning and exactly what it had said: how he was off to work at a PR firm for entertainment. Geez, Ethan, why didn’t you sign it with your last name? How hard would it be for someone to narrow down a list of Chicago PR firms that specialized in entertainment? How many of them would employ someone named Ethan? Maybe, he wondered, only one?
Oh good Lord. Ethan closed his eyes. His stomach was churning, and his face was so hot a line of sweat had formed at his hairline, poised to trickle down his shamed and humiliated face. He looked to his trash can, making sure it was empty enough, just in case the croissant and soy latte he had enjoyed for breakfast decided to exit out the same way it had gone in.
He forced himself to breathe deeply. Forced himself to lean back in his chair and close his eyes, trying through sheer force of will to slow his galloping heart rate. Relax. Just because he knows where you work does not mean, in any way, shape, or form, he knows what you look like. The jig is not up yet. His breathing slowed just a bit, then went back into overdrive. But what’s to stop him from waiting around outside, or even swinging by one day to take you out for a surprise lunch? Who’s to stop him from bringing flowers to your desk personally next time? Bubbles, that faithful watchdog?
He could imagine the delight the little queen would take in his cruel unmasking right there in his workplace.
He immediately minimized the screen where he was working on a press release for yet another production of A Doll’s House, this one cast with little people and their full-size counterparts, and brought up his personal email. How best to approach this latest turn of events? No matter what he did, Ethan felt he was treading on very dangerous ground. Indeed, he felt like he was walking along a crumbling and narrow path at the edge of a cliff.
But his mother had always tried to impart to him the common courtesy of sending thank-you notes, and right now it was easier to concentrate on what Mother taught over what Mother cautioned against—although the sweet old dear had never warned him about impersonating someone else on the internet. Whatever. If he could still or at least slow the panic coursing through him by crafting an email of gratitude, then bring on the cyber paper.
Oh, you dog! How sweet of you to send me flowers to cheer up my dreary existence at the old 9-5 grind. Believe me, no one was more surprised than I was when your beautiful bouquet was set down on my desk by the very jealous receptionist. How sweet and absolutely thoughtful of you, Brian. And we haven’t even met yet! I can only hope I can live up to your expectations and floral salutations.
Live up to his expectations? What? Brian was expecting a silver-haired hunk with piercing blue eyes, a hairy chest, and the kind of facial structure seldom seen outside of runways. The bar had been set pretty high. Ethan knew coming even close to that bar would require extensive plastic surgery.
Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you flatter me too much with your generous gift. But I’m not complaining. I’ll write more later.
Ethan did a spell check and read his short message over once forward and then once going backward—an old proofreader’s trick he had learned early on in the PR game—and then hit Send.
Almost immediately a response came back, so quick Ethan did not even have time to close out of his personal mailbox.
Ethan. This is only the beginning.
Ethan shivered. This latest message had a stalkeresque ring to it, and he was only slightly less dazzled with his online paramour. Ethan told himself that Brian was probably just in a hurry and wanted him to know he had received his thank-you.
Ethan stood and wandered out to the reception area, where Bubbles was on the phone, engaged in a heated/whispered/unintelligible conversation. He raised an annoyed finger to Ethan, telling him, in effect, to “Just wait!” Funny, Ethan thought, I had yet to even indicate I wanted to speak with him.
Casting irritated little glances up at him, Bubbles hurriedly concluded his whispered conversation, then stared at Ethan, who was looking at that week’s edition of Entertainment Weekly.
“Did you need something?”
Ethan smiled. “I just wondered if you saw who brought in the flow
ers for me. Was it a typical delivery man?”
“Honey, if your idea of typical is dirty-blond hair, receding hair line, and a paunch, then yes, he was a typical delivery man. Why do you ask? Problem with the posies?”
Ethan laughed. “No. I just wondered if maybe my friend brought them in personally. But the person you describe doesn’t match his description.” Ethan shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Whatever.”
ETHAN SPENT the rest of the day relatively unabsorbed with the online drama into which he had inserted himself. There were press releases to be written, phone calls to be made and answered, and a quick trip up to the Steppenwolf Theater, where he hoped to interest their PR person in the help LA Nicholes could give him.
By the time he returned to his little Halsted Street studio, he was exhausted and for the first time in the past several days was not thinking about what awaited him in his email, but what to have for dinner. In spite of the pull toward the computer, he ignored it and made himself a chicken breast sandwich, heavy with mayo and romaine lettuce. He put it on a plate piled high with Doritos and started to sit down in front of the television with his feast and even let his hand waver over the remote control.
But he couldn’t. He knew whatever offerings his more than a hundred channels afforded, none would be able to entertain him as much as the prospect of what might await him in his email. Was he becoming addicted? Would this condition only worsen? Would he need to buy himself one of those iPhones or Blackberries so he could check his email no matter where he was?
As Bubbles would say, “Whatever.” He was in his own home now, and he was a grown man, master of his destiny, so to speak, and could do what he wanted to do—and what he wanted to do was check his email.
He crossed the five or six steps to his glass-topped desk and powered up his laptop. There were about twenty messages forwarded from wingpeople, many with the word “dude” in the subject line. Ethan deleted them all without reading them. The only one he had eyes for was the one lying innocently before him, still bold-faced because he had yet to “break” it open. The email from Brian. Oh, what a constant and attentive companion he was turning out to be.
Hi Ethan!
I know it’s your turn to write, and I should probably be patient and wait for you to do just that, but I couldn’t. For one thing, patience has never been one of my virtues. (I will save the list of other nonexistent virtues for a more personal connection.) For another, oh, how do I say this? For another, well, Ethan, I just can’t stop thinking about you. I have printed out the picture from your profile and tacked it to the corkboard above my desk so I can look up at it from time to time as I write to you. Gazing into your blue eyes inspires me. Anyway, I just wanted to write and let you know I was thinking about you.
Brian’s message was just the kind of thing Ethan was hoping he’d see, even if he didn’t realize it until he opened the email. In his forty-some years, he had never been wooed this way, and he wasn’t talking about the online portion of the wooing. No one had ever told him that he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or that he was an inspiration.
He laughed a little, and some Coke Zero came out of his nose, stinging. He closed his eyes to let the bliss of what was happening to him sink in.
But instead, reality came home to roost. Reality began talking in a clipped, no-nonsense voice much like that of actress Eve Arden. Ethan, honey, you haven’t inspired love, passion, admiration, or devotion in anyone! Not you. See, this person who’s all gah-gah over you is not gah-gah over you, Ethan Schwartz. He’s gah-gah over some imaginary guy, someone who’s one part outright lie, one part embellishment, and the third part simple bullshit. So get your head out of the clouds, mister. This Brian can’t be head over heels about you because he doesn’t even know you.
Ethan almost wanted to chastise his internal voice out loud, saying something like “Well, aren’t you the harsh bitch? Ever hear of kindness? Ever hear of letting a man experience a little joy in his lonely life for once?” But he realized the little voice inside was too on-the-money to argue with, and besides, his walls were pretty thin and his neighbor next door could probably hear him.
He banished the Eve Arden voice and the even more querulous one waiting in line behind it and hit the Reply button on Brian’s email. Common sense be damned! He was enjoying this. And didn’t he have the right to enjoy something, no matter how fragile the foundation upon which that enjoyment was built?
Things might crash to the ground and burn to ashes tomorrow, but tonight there was this:
My dear man, you are too much! But I am loving making this connection with you. Where did you come from? Didn’t you ever learn that romance was a no-no for online socializing? Today’s men are all about “hooking up” and have never heard about flowers or sweet nothings. Today’s men define sweet nothings as “So what do you like to do?” or “Are you a top or a bottom?”
You seem to have missed the lesson. But I am so glad you did. What a relief to find a man who not only appreciates the finer things in life, but one who appreciates romance and taking things slow. Delayed gratification, I think, is often much more sexy than just “going for it.”
So tell me more about Brian. Where do you work? What do you do? Now that you know the answers to those questions for me, it’s only fair to give full disclosure about you. Right? I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t some kind of private eye, since you were able to locate me so quickly. Note, I resisted using the term “private dick.” LOL.
Anyway, I left your beautiful flowers on my desk at my office so that they would be there to make the day more bearable and to remind me of you. Now, you mustn’t be so impulsive again! As much as I love it, save your money for spending it on me when I can actually be there to say “Thank you” in person. And I will do the same.
And you must promise me never to surprise me at the office. When I meet you, Brian, I want to be prepared. Can’t have you catching me with my hair up in rollers, wearing a tatty bathrobe and with a can of Schlitz Malt Liquor in my hand. No, I would need some time to freshen up and put on my best face for you.
Write soon.
Ethan almost signed his message with the word “love” but decided that would be being much too hasty and instead settled on a short line of x’s and o’s. He congratulated himself on the humor and brevity of his final paragraph, which he hoped Brian would perceive as lighthearted but would safeguard him against any surprise ambushes.
Still, he didn’t know how long he could hold an actual meeting at bay. Wasn’t that what all this online stuff was supposed to lead to eventually, anyway?
IN SPITE of Ethan’s warning not to do so, more flowers arrived the very next day. Before the bloom was even off the first bouquet, he had yet another with which to contend. If this kept up, his little cubicle would look like a funeral parlor… with his ashen complexion fitting in a little too comfortably.
Ethan sniffed the bouquet of yellow roses and closed his eyes in delight at their sweet scent. When he opened them, the simple card, face up on his desk, delighted him further with its simple message: I just can’t help myself.
Aren’t you sweet? Ethan thought. The other part wished Bubbles had been here to see him receive flowers from a gentleman admirer two days in a row, but the erstwhile receptionist had called in sick that morning. Ethan snorted and surmised that a fierce hangover combined with a bleeding rectum was cause enough to loll around in bed all day, watching the Logo channel. Oh, Ethan! he chastised himself. It’s not like you to be so uncharitable and just plain bitchy. Maybe the poor thing really is ill. You shouldn’t make fun.
Karma can be a bitch.
He wished Bubbles had been in the office for reasons other than lording his popularity with the male sex over him. Because the reception desk was unmanned—a term very loosely used here—that morning, Ethan, whose cube was closest to the reception area, was forced to accept the flowers when they arrived. He had first peeked over the top of his cubicle and could see a d
eliveryman, wearing dark blue trousers and a pale blue shirt, waiting outside the etched glass doors. He had rung the doorbell and was about to do so again when Ethan hurried around his cubicle partition, waving his hands. He smiled and opened the door for the man, who looked very much as Bubbles had described him, with sandy hair and a little paunch.
“You must be getting used to coming to this place!” Ethan said. “Second day in a row.”
The man grinned at him, revealing two rows of very white, even teeth. “Yeah. Someone here is very popular.” He fumbled with the card envelope attached to the vase. “These are for Ethan Schwartz.”
Ethan could feel a blush rise to his cheeks as he said, “I’m Ethan Schwartz.”
“You are?”
“Yes.” Ethan quipped, “Surprised? It’s really me… in the flesh.” He smiled and made a little bow.
The man shook his head and stared down at the floor. “Sorry. Usually when I deliver to an office, I don’t often get to hand off to the actual person the flowers were intended for.” He said nothing for a moment, then thrust the flowers out to Ethan. “Enjoy!”
Did Ethan detect a note of false brightness in his voice? He was pretty sure the man was a little taken aback. And then it dawned on him: the flowers were from Brian… to Ethan. The man probably had some homophobic tendencies. Well, shame on him! Just for spite, Ethan said, “Oh, I will! Thanks so much… sugar.” Ethan headed back into the office. As the glass door closed behind him, he looked back to see the deliveryman waiting by the elevator. Staring at him.