by Romi Moondi
But here’s how it goes in actual life:
-I lock horny eyes with a no-nonsense “soccer mom”…or a greasy teenage dude…or a thin-moustached pedophile. I abruptly turn away, stupid as I feel for getting pre-maturely horny.
And now, here’s my question to the lovely men:
-WHERE ARE YOU? Do you take the bus? Do you not leave the house? Just quit your hiding please, ‘cause really, I’m not crazy! (But I WILL find you, one way or another…)
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In reality, of course I wouldn’t find Mr. Right in a nearby vehicle. Not when he was across the Atlantic Ocean. As my cursor hit “Publish” I felt a wave of satisfaction. At the beginning the blogging had only been a reason to write. But three months later with the comments building up, I no longer felt like a crazy person writing to myself. I felt like people were actually listening.
***
I was glad to be wrong about James finding me boring, changing his phone number, and moving to Greenland via the witness protection program. I mean I must’ve been at least okay at this phone call thing, since we were currently fifteen minutes into our latest conversation. I’d even had some interesting things to say, though his accent continued to be a loin-rumbling distraction.
I needed to ask him if he’d ever recorded audio books. They could be about anything at all and I would listen; football, colonoscopies, my sister…
“Roms, you are still listening to me, aren’t you?”
“It’s Romes!”
“Did you ever consider I might enjoy calling you ‘Roms?’“
“No.”
“Well I do,” he said laughing.
Did you ever consider this is MY world, and the only people who dare call me “Roms” instead of “Romes” are those at a distance? In which category…you currently fall…damn.
He wasn’t finished.
“Well anyway you let me know if I’m boring you, I know I can ramble at the best of times. Here I am talking about the beautiful Catalonian beaches that lay waiting at my doorstep, and you barely have a word to say.”
So maybe I was right all along; he though I was a twit with no original thoughts.
“Trust me James I find it very interesting. Going to the beach just isn’t something I do, for a couple of reasons.”
“Reasons such as…?”
Oh great, now I have to explain…next stop crazy-town. I clutched my pillow tighter as I lay in bed, hoping I could hold it together.
“Well for the first thing I’m not a very good swimmer, and I’m not a very good swimmer because my parents were not very good swimmers. I don’t think my parents have ever worn bathing suits, and if I ever saw them wearing such attire I would cry.”
And you said I don’t have anything to say. Pfft.
He laughed. “Well I suppose that is a fairly good reason.”
I nodded to myself. “Trust me it’s a big one, and it sort of brings me to the second reason.” I covered my mouth as soon as I said it. The train was now headed for crazy-town, was there any way to stop while he still found me semi-normal?
“Now what would that second reason be?” he asked. “Or should I guess?”
“It’s just that…well…” The sweat was beginning to gather on my forehead. Just get it over with. “I just don’t like being around a bunch of people so exposed. And I also don’t like having to stare at all those bodies. Because in most cases…the human body in its many forms, is gross.”
There. Next stop, full on psych-evaluation.
“I’m not quite sure I follow you.” He paused. “Are you telling me Canada only has nude beaches? That might be a cause for concern of course.”
I burst into laughter. “No, thank God! As if I’d parade around like that. I choose my clothing carefully for a reason.” I whispered the last part. “To hide all the flaws!”
“Flaws? Thank goodness you didn’t say ‘claws,’ you had me slightly worried for a second. Look I’ll only say this: find me the most perfect person on the planet and I am very sure they also believe they have flaws. We all do, it’s just part of who we are and I can assure you, you don’t seem very flawed in your photos online.”
I could feel myself blushing, but I didn’t want to dwell on his compliment and ruin it. “Thanks. Anyway the beaches here aren’t nude, but to see all those ages and body shapes strutting their stuff? All those tattoos and unsavoury angles on full display? It creeps me out.”
“Ah, so you confess to not having any tattoos then?” he asked.
“That’s right sir I am tattoo-free. Are you disappointed?” I turned on my side in bed and looked behind me, imagining what it would be like to have a tramp-stamp. It would have to be pretty big to make a mark. Well at least I’m wide enough to carry a fetus.
“I’m not disappointed at all,” he replied. “I am just not really a tattoo kind of person, if you know what I mean. But I did once date an Italian woman who had a couple in the most peculiar of places. Or three if I remember correctly, and not all available for public viewing.”
“Oh.” Once I uttered that word, every speck of air escaped from my mouth. I had nothing else to say, as my mind raced with images of adventurous sexual exploits with James and his tattooed lover.
Kill me!
“So what did you do today?” he asked.
Thank God! I was relieved with his change of subject, which was sure to be free of tattooed Italian porn stars.
“Me? Ummm…nothing of importance what about you?”
Wow, Time Magazine should do a piece on my wildly exciting life.
“Well I’ve been working my fingers to the bone on a new TV series, and with a deadline looming this coming week, I have a feeling I will be late with it.” He paused. “But creativity can’t be forced, right?”
“Right!” I said strongly, though not really sure at all.
“But I will tell you a secret,” he said softly, as if someone might be listening. “I hate writing for television, there is simply no art to it. It’s chewed up, spat out and forgotten the next day. Films however, ah yes, films are where the real romance to writing lies, and next week I’m starting up a new script, on spec.”
“On spec – wow!” What the heck did “on spec” mean?
“Should be a lot of fun, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well thank you for the window into your writing world. You could talk like this for hours and I’d listen.” I stretched my toes and smiled.
“Well there aren’t any hours left for me tonight,” he said. “It’s already two a.m. But I must say it was fun to learn about your beach phobia…”
I laughed. “Hey! You weaseled it out of me. You writers and all your questions. And thanks for kicking off with some writing advice this time. It’s so easy to get distracted with you.”
“No problem. And you better run for cover, as I still have one more question.”
I sat up a little straighter. He wants to know if I’m in love with him? Affirmative! “Well ask away before I steal any more of your sleep.”
“I was just wondering if we should perhaps make our next chat a Saturday one? I don’t know about you but this time-zone gap is a little bit jarring for mid-week. With a weekend conversation we could start much earlier. Don’t you think?”
He wants a SATURDAY chat? The weekend flexibility made a lot more sense, but how would I tell him I went home to my parents every weekend? That they controlled my life in a way no travelling dreamer could ever understand?
I couldn’t, so I lied. “I’d love a Saturday chat…but there’s a family reunion this weekend. You know how it is. All samosas and noisy relatives.” I laughed. A family reunion? Does anyone even have those anymore? “How about Tuesday instead?” I was almost certain my sister would be late that night.
“Tuesday should work, but let’s try the weekend another time then,” he said.
“Sure!”
“Okay it’s late. Good night Romi.”
&nb
sp; “Sweet dreams James.”
From the second I shut off the phone I was filled with worry. His sexy accent and romantic existence seemed a distant memory now. All I could see was that sooner or later, I’d have to let him know about my sheltered loser-life.
***
With Saturday (and my fake reunion) well underway, I thought about James and how I was supposed to be caressing my phone to the sound of his dreamy voice. I’d essentially turned him down, and was worried he might retaliate…in a wild and drunken partying kind of way. But was he really a partying guy? All I had as evidence was a handful of photos.
The combination of guilt and uncertainty stayed with me during dinner that night. I had little reaction to the family conversation…Sorry what’s that? My second cousin got engaged, and she’s only twenty-two? And the guy is a wealthy engineer? That’s interesting...no wait: I don’t give a shit.
The apathy broke when a new and scary topic came about.
“But we never re-modeled the kitchen. How can we get a good price?” My mother spoke the words with her token disdain.
“Don’t worry. The market is doing well here,” said my father. “The hard part is finding a good house in Toronto. And we still have to sell the girls’ house too. That’s a lot of work!”
My sister and I jerked our heads in the direction of my father.
My sister spoke first, with a look of pure childlike fear: “You’re selling this house?”
“YES we are selling this house,” he said. “How long did you think we would stay here, with you girls living so far away?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was my sister’s response, through a hollow expression and eyes googled out to their extremity. I was having the exact same reaction, along with the lettuce that would not go down, as it rolled in my mouth like rubber.
“And Sonny will be finished school by the end of August,” added Mother. “After that, we can all come to Toronto.” My mother finished off with a smirk; it was almost like she knew she was killing our bad-girl party.
“It will probably take until January,” Dad explained. “To sell two houses, and find a new one that your mother doesn’t hate.” He chuckled to himself as he wiped a grain of rice from the table.
January? The death of my social pursuits lined up perfectly with my deadline to find a man. So if I couldn’t meet, enrapture, and get engaged to James by January (while I still had the freedom to gallivant), I’d be locked in a dungeon and sold to the highest bidder (or any bidder, as long as he fit the racial profile).
“What about your jobs?” asked my sister, with the deepest concern for their careers I’d ever heard.
“Hmph! We work in government services,” answered Mother. “Our jobs go with us.”
Dammit, they had a comeback for everything.
“Don’t worry about our jobs,” my father stated. “Worry about your future. All you need is a boy from a good family.”
This conversation was exasperating. All the while my brother tried to stifle his chuckles. What was he so happy about? The idea of watching his sisters’ lives go up in flames? Well...probably.
While he sat there amused, I steamed at the idea of being a shut-in again. It reminded me of rules from the teenage years, ones that would soon take effect on a permanent basis. Like the rule where I was banned from going to the movies with my friends (“Go with your brother and sister! They’re the only friends you need. And I don’t trust those Canadians. They do drugs!”)
Yeah, this is gonna get ugly.
That night I lay in bed wide-awake for a while, my thoughts undefined but coloured by an overall gloom. At half past one I finally shifted, turning my gaze towards the blinking laptop.
Oops, did I forget to turn it off?
James was still asleep, but for the last couple of nights I’d been sending him funny messages, or “dream mails” as I liked to call them. I was all out of funnies tonight, so I turned back around, robbing the keyboard of its nightly grope.
Oh James. How do I get you to marry me?
The rational part of my brain should’ve punched out any “marriage musings,” but they passed right through with ease. That’s what tended to happen when the “rational” part of one’s brain barely made up ten percent. The rest of me knew this heartthrob writer could have any woman he wanted in Spain. But instead he was spending time with a freak like me, online and in phone calls at least. That had to mean something, didn’t it? But then again, what if we met and he hated something physical about me? Like the way I smile, or how my ass seems so much bigger when you’re standing right behind it?
It was a risky proposition, but if James factored into my quest to find a man, I had to meet him (and I had to do it soon). By the second visit a proposal would be ideal, and then we could break the news to my parents.
I can’t be placed on a marriage website if I’m already engaged!
Of course, my parents would still hate his guts for not being Indian. But a kind man? A good earner? It could be worse.
Yes, just get engaged moron! How hard can it be?
I changed my mind, and sent some e-mail funnies after all.
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Hey James,
FYI: I can see into your dream. My only questions are: what is Scarlett Johansson doing there? And why aren’t you wearing any swim trunks?
You disappoint me.
;-)
Romi
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I turned out the light with the hope of meeting up with him in dreamland, for some laughs and a whole lot more.
***
With Tuesday evening here and my sister staying late for a conference call at work (or for whatever she was doing, it’s not like she would ever tell me), I was ready for my favourite voice.
“James Caldwell.”
My smile went from normal to giant. “Hi James, it’s me.” Was I allowed to say “it’s me” without my name yet? Or was that a boyfriend/girlfriend type of thing? “So how’s Barcelona tonight?”
“Tonight it is far too beautiful to sit indoors, which is why I am out on the terrace, soaking up the warm sea breeze. The culture is so vibrant and it really comes alive at night. A cold gin and tonic, a few olives and I could write here until sunrise.”
Olives? Excuse me while I gag.
“That sounds beautiful!” I said.
“So tell me about the girl behind the blog, tell me about you, tell me about your last relationship.”
Uh oh. This was not my kind of question. What was I supposed to do? This was the moment to either lie or tell him the truth. It was a big truth, since my blog had never specified just how long I’d been a dateless wonder.
I couldn’t think of a lie, so I stalled.
“Why would you even wanna know? I’m just some freak on the other end of the phone.”
I was suddenly a mix of emotions. Mostly a split between nervous and “loserish.”
“Oh just curious,” he said, giving nothing away in his voice.
“Fair enough,” I said, without really answering. I let the silence hang between us for a moment. “Let’s just say me and relationships don’t have the best track record, you know what I mean? In fact,” I said, grabbing at any word I could find, “me and relationships are kind of like peanut butter and…and…(what doesn’t go with peanut butter, dammit?) olives!”
“Peanut butter and olives?”
“Yes peanut butter and olives, exactly. And also, I fall hard and fast, or not at all. Which means the frequency and longevity of my male encounters is… umm…below average.”
“What?” he said clearly confused.
“Great.” I exhaled loudly. “So what about you?”
“Did you actually just answer my question?” he said laughing. I could hear him sipping gently from his glass, the ice cubes clinking together. No doubt a bowl of black and green olives sitting next to him Why did he have such a perfect life? Sitting around drinking long cocktai
ls and going to exotic parties in beautiful places with gorgeous people.
Who does he think he is – James Bond?
“Roms? Hello? You still there?”
“Where else would I be?” I said, ignoring the fact he had just got my name wrong again. Just busy trying to hop into your world via daydream. “So do you ever get vacation and stuff?” I asked, quickly moving on to a safer subject. As in a vacation to Canada. I could suddenly hear that damn drink jiggling around again.
He laughed. “My life is kind of like a vacation, wouldn’t you agree? But seriously though, I tend to write in blocks and it depends on what I am working on. I usually take a six-week break after completing an intense project like a film or similar.”
“Uh-huh,” I said nodding. Should I be writing all this down?
“In fact I’ve planned a break in June.”
June? But that’s so soon!
“Speaking of which,” he continued, “I won’t be around much from this weekend as I’m off to Italy for a while. Hopefully the sprawling piazzas and blue-green waters will be good for inspiration. This film isn’t going to write itself.” He sighed. “I have padded out the ideas but I need to make some headway with it.”
Okay, so maybe it won’t be a visit in June.
The mention of his script switched my busy brain straight into writing-mode. I could never get enough of hearing his writing stories, or travel stories, or anything stories. A single strand of his hair was more exciting than my whole life.
By the time our conversation ended, I felt like we had reached a new plateau. We’re just two compatible souls who happen to be apart. But how do we get together?
The pressure of meeting was clouded by a more immediate truth. The one where I couldn’t even speak to him on weekends.
Lucky for me he was headed to Italy, which gave me plenty of time to stall.
***
The next few weeks hummed along in a blissful manner. James e-mailed me often while in Italy, which really kept me company with Laura also away (off in France, enjoying a vacation with her cousins).
But with all those nights staying in, Amy and Eleanor started to wonder what was up. Wasn’t I looking for a guy after all? I was, but now I had an Internet one.