He’s out in the middle of Switzerland by himself. When he leaves and the semester is done, he wants to start over, find a new school, get a teaching job. What will that look like? If anything, he needs me more than I need him. I’ve started over a few times. I know I can count on myself. He might disappear from my life, but I will retreat to movies, books, work, and family. No problem.
Maybe I have turned into Julia, after all.
Sam and I remain fast and furious on Skype, talking to each other every day. His ticket is booked, and I’ve mentioned to a few people what’s going on—like Melissa at work, my mother, my brother, my friend Nici, Rachel, and Marie—but I am trying to keep the day-to-day excitement to myself. This whole idea is insane. What could possibly happen with this Skype relationship?
We know what Julia would do. She’d continue to sparkle and understand that the guy will appear.
But because I’ve been Sandra for so many years, I keep the lessons of her movies in mind. He may show up and it’ll be great for a week before he goes for the Pamela Anderson lookalike on the sixth floor of my building. In an Ambien moment, I’ll smear cat shit on the door and then hang out in my bathrobe with no recollection of what I did. Of course, Keanu Reeves will be the cop who comes to investigate me for vandalism and harassment.
As the days pass, I see new layers of Sam. He posts photos of himself skiing on Facebook. Because of his daredevil ways, I worry he may die on the slopes. Wouldn’t that be perfect? The guy I’m falling in love with hits a tree, mere weeks before he’s about to see me for the first time in twenty-six years. He assures me that for once in his life, he’s opting to wear protective helmets. If there’s anyone who needs one, it’s Sam.
Since communication over Skype is far more satisfying, our e-mails are sparse.
To: Sam
From: Patience
I got a Snickers bar to celebrate the Full Moon, yeah, that’s right. I’ll only eat half and bury the other half in a plant. I guess that’s a little Wicca-ish.
Happy hiking!
xoxoxop.
The part about burying the Snickers is not really true; I wouldn’t do that unless I was feeling very into nature. Julia would give her chocolate to nature. I eat the entire Snickers and tell myself I’m going to hell, which is so Sandra.
To: Patience
From: Sam
Subject: Sending from my yahoo to your hotmail
Doldrums after hike. Was thinking of you on the way back down the mountain. The thought of Patience lifted my spirits. (Won’t comment about the Snickers.)
This is a red flag—that Sam is a health junkie. I throw out hints about my rabid chocolate eating and he doesn’t seem to share in the obsession. I worry that he’s into eating seeds and might be a vegetarian. This is not a deal-breaker, but what a bummer for me since I love cheeseburgers. I’ve tried vegetarianism many, many times, but because I’ve been a runner since childhood, when my father took me to the track, I get weak when it’s just tofu and vegetables.
To: Sam
From: Patience
It’s my pleasure to lift you out of the doldrums. Serious about the Snickers.
• • •
As the weeks go by, there are feelings I don’t dare express. I want to date you in a normal way. I wish we lived in the same city. I’m falling in love with you over Skype.
These feelings strike me as normal but ludicrous. I’ve been through this before. Not really. I say nothing, though I remain cheerful. It’s easy with Sam. He has no problem being effusive with his affection. He even teeters on the edge of “I love you” a few times, but I know it’s too soon. I mean, we haven’t even met yet. As scared as I am, or rather reserved, I do relay often how much his friendship means to me, no matter what it turns out to be.
During this fall courtship, I have one obstacle in addition to the three books I have to edit: a writers’ conference in New Mexico. I accepted the invitation long before Sam appeared on the scene. I wanted to go because I adore Albuquerque and plan on spending my golden years there. Also in New Mexico is my dear friend and mentor Lou, whom I don’t get to see much.
But I’m terrified, because what if I die in a plane crash? It would be the ideal ending in a story of unrequited love. Those winds flying into Albuquerque are a nightmare and, I’m sure, could bring down a jet. In the days before I have to fly, I am miserable, very Sandra, crying, cursing, wishing I could cancel due to some unforeseen illness, maybe a blood clot in my leg (not funny, I know). It’s shameful because I’m forty-one and still fragile when I have to get on a plane. There has to be a way out.
There isn’t. I have to do my job, go to the conference. If anything, the job reminds me to keep my sanity, not give up everything for a guy who may not pan out.
The night before my flight, I buy a card just for Sam and write a heartfelt message: If I die, please know how much this correspondence has meant to me.
I leave the card on my desk so that my mother will see it once I die and send it to Sam. I even triple the amount of postage so that it would get to Switzerland. A “good-bye and I love you” message for him, even though I haven’t yet said that to him.
Funny thing: Once I get on the plane I am okay (with a tranquilizer and deep breathing), ready to give my best editor performance. After five hours of air travel, I arrive, put on my faux-leather skirt and aquamarine sweater, and do my conference thing. I give the occasional “weird” talk, as in think too deeply about what I want to say, as if suddenly conference-goers want to hear a more philosophical speech (they don’t—they just want to know what you do and how to get published). My talk topic this time is how Facebook might be impeding the writing process. What the hell do I know about it? The more I say, the more I hear the crickets in the room. Big mistake. Huge.
Facebook is important for authors, as is Twitter. In fact, social media is vital for promoting books. Oh, hey, and am I not the one who wouldn’t even have this relationship with Sam if it weren’t for Facebook? I love Facebook. So why the brain freeze? Oh right, Albuquerque is five thousand feet above sea level. It’s the altitude. Live and learn.
The flight home is uneventful, even with my usual impulse purchases in the airport, prayers to the Cosmic Goddess, and sudden yet quiet freak-outs 37,000 feet in the air. When I step on solid ground this time, I feel double the euphoria. I am home safe. I am going to meet Sam. Only fifty-two days left.
Then thirty.
Twenty-five.
With all the expectation, the building of momentum, the deepening of our relationship, this is turning into a real-life romance novel—minus Jake Hunter’s millions and Protestant upbringing, and plus the eight years Sam spent in Israel shackled to his first wife. Romance-hero Jake wouldn’t be caught dead in Israel. Maybe Afghanistan, and he’d single-handedly bring down the Taliban for all the crimes they commit against women (Cassie gets kidnapped by the Taliban, but nothing bad really happens to her). Sam and I are turning into a romance novel because we are leading up to a happy ending of some kind (though it could go terribly wrong, too). We’re taking so much time to get to know each other, time I could have been soaking up the Kardashians and Housewives. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
As the big day draws closer, I blithely forget all my cynicism about romance—that it would never happen to me, that I wouldn’t experience that swoon-inducing fairy tale. This whole experience couldn’t be more real. With my last few boyfriends, I had the thought, Well, this is wrong, but I can live with it. With Sam, I feel no reservations, just free-floating excitement. I want to live with what I’ve seen so far. Of course, we could crash and burn. We both are riddled with problems, but at heart, we are solid people who care about each other.
Sam and I plan for every kind of disaster, too. I joke that he’ll kill me in my sleep; he jokes that I’m secretly crazy. Even though we flirt like mad over Skype and talk half
-seriously about our life together, we don’t kid ourselves. This might blow up in our faces, and we reason that he can always return to Florida, Switzerland, or Israel to teach. I will continue to edit romance novels, and one more failed love story won’t destroy me.
With sixteen days left, even with our guards up, Sam goes onto Facebook and posts a picture of himself holding what looks like an IV bottle with the caption: Swiss saline solution sold in IV bottles saves me money on my contact lens care. The bottles make great canteens afterwards. I love Patience Smith.
By this time, the “I love you” has been said a few times, though with the knowledge that we might hate each other on arrival. Sam said it first in mid-October, first by repeating the word love over and over in a sentence and finally just saying, “Sam loves Patience,” in the third person, just like Julius Caesar. For me it took a couple more days, because I don’t like to just throw it around, and there’s still some after-burn from previous botched “I love you”s. But finally, without reservation, I just said it to him over the webcam, and now Sam has said it to everyone via Facebook. But it’s an “I love you” with an asterisk. In the flesh, there could be boredom, ambivalence, revulsion, and “What was I thinking?” The worst for me would be an empty apartment, which is a speck on the timeline of life events. For Sam, it would mean figuring out where to go. He has no plans beyond getting another teaching gig or staying with his father in Miami at some point.
Family. Now, there’s another issue.
For a couple of months, I’ve mentioned “my friend Sam from high school” to my mother and Patrick, not expecting them to hop on board this potential train wreck. I would slip him into conversation in the usual way, as one might bring up an acquaintance. Certainly there’s no mentionitis, as in I have to bring up Sam or pine over him with my relatives. I’ve cried wolf far too often. But when Sam books his flight and our relationship escalates, I have to be frank with my family. There may be a new man in my life. This whole romance may sound strange, but here it is. My brother’s reaction is his usual diplomatic one: He shows support without giving an opinion. The poor guy has endured my many breakups, endless phone calls with me whining. What are the chances that this could work out? Very slim.
Carlos, my brother’s boyfriend, is another story. He hasn’t heard my tales before, the desperate phone calls. This darling man loves a good romance. He’s sassy and has strong opinions. His eyes light up when he hears the details of me and Sam, the progression of our relationship from e-mail to phone to Skype to visit. But he’s ready with advice like, “If he takes advantage of you, you kick him to the curb,” spoken in his thick Peruvian accent.
So Carlos has regularly asked me how things are going with Sam. Am I excited? Is he as cute now as he was in high school? He’s even hotter, I answer. At least from what I see on the webcam.
My other gay best friend, Jose, who used to teach with me in Albuquerque, is also supportive and sends me uplifting e-mails, asking for details. In addition to the opportunity for salacious exhibitions via webcam, he’s fascinated by my potentially becoming Jewish, like Charlotte from Sex and the City. I wish it worked this way since I’ve always loved the idea of having a religion. Jose continuously e-mails me positive messages. Did I show at least my breasts? Did we celebrate Yom Kippur via webcam?
I’ll never tell.
As my mom and I get our manicure/pedicures, I drop in little details about Sam—that he’s an academic, a Francophile, a bon vivant—but she doesn’t really seem to be paying attention. She’s listening though not that interested. He could be another Barry the Teacher, Superman the Finance Guy, Nathan the Spanker.
“I’ve invested too much. I can’t go through it again,” she says. Losing a potential son-in-law has got to be painful, especially since she bought Barry the Teacher a very expensive tie from Barneys a few months before he broke up with me. Investing in Sam is not an option right now.
But then she calls me one Friday night in November, breathless.
“I was talking with Nancy . . . from the College Board . . . and [wheeze] she knows Sam! I told her my daughter has this friend who’s coming to visit. He teaches French. ‘Do you know him?’ I asked her.”
It turns out Nancy does know Sam from their days at Columbia and reassured my mother that he is a “great guy.”
How random is that?
Mom is now invested in an academic potential future son-in-law. In my book, Nancy is another one of those angels. She appeared at the right time and gave my mother the assurance I couldn’t have provided.
After this, my mother Googles Dr. Sam like crazy, analyzes his scholarship, sees that Sam’s got potential in his field as a Proust scholar, had a rough time in his marriage, dropped out of the circuit for a while to hide and start over, and now he’s ready to reenter life.
In addition to Nici, my work BFF Melissa and childhood friend Rachel show interest in my budding romance. Suddenly, there is a whole army behind me. They want to know what happens next. How long did we talk last night? Boxers or briefs? Is he still a daredevil? After so much time on Skype, will we have the same chemistry in person? What if Sam moves in and does nothing? What if he takes advantage of me? What if it’s just a fling that goes nowhere? What if he’s a big lush and wants to rappel down buildings just for fun?
What if, indeed.
These are all questions I’ve thought myself—often. I’m not a moron. If Sam wants to steal my fortune, he’s foolish since there’s not much to take. If there are evil ulterior motives, so be it. I have nothing to lose. I’m not looking for marriage or babies. Bad things have already made their mark on me. He couldn’t do much damage, and if he did, I’d pick myself up.
I’m not expecting miracles, but it’s more fun if you can share these exciting moments. My friends are mostly with me. Except for Patrick. Though not unsupportive, he’s cautious, and I don’t blame him. We have a complicated relationship—95 percent loving siblings, 5 percent childhood ick. We’ve risen above the ick, to the point where as my father exited from his paternal role, Patrick took over.
He’s the one who advises me on the big issues, the proud parent when I do something great. I want his approval more and more over the years. All this time, Patrick has been the most important man in my life. It should have been my father taking some of the slack, giving me those pep talks through my twenties and thirties—like you’re doing fine, maybe I’ll come see you in the city, what are your friends like? Patrick always took that time with me. Now I just hope he’ll give his blessing on this last journey because, surely, I can’t go through this emotional ordeal with anyone else ever again.
It’s true love with Sam or single girl forever.
It’s Wednesday, the day before I go to meet Sam at the airport. He arrives on Thursday night at eleven P.M. and I’m taking the A train to meet him at JFK. My boss approved my taking Friday and Monday off. Normally, I’d take this kind of exciting day off to have a nervous breakdown, but this time I don’t. It doesn’t seem fair to stay home again since I work from home on Wednesdays. What am I going to do all day on Thursday—watch romantic comedies, practice talking in the mirror, and get my nails done? No, I’m an adult. I can talk into the mirror after-hours. For now, I need a distraction, the romances on the page that pay my bills.
On Wednesday, I do my usual waking up late. There must be some homing device planted on me since I get a phone call from Lesley, one of my regular Resurfacers. It’s a rule that the minute you’re “taken,” you’ll get a rash of signs asking, “Are you sure about this?”
Something is up with him, otherwise why would he call me? He knows all about Sam, that in a day I’ll be cohabitating with this person for at least a week (or maybe permanently). Soon, Lesley won’t be invited into the apartment anymore. We haven’t fooled around in years so that isn’t an issue. But is it improper for me to be friends with him?
From our talks, I get the feeling
Sam doesn’t like my friendships with men. Some seem to threaten him—like Lesley and Superman, both of whom keep in touch with me. But I’m so far beyond my exes, and, damn it, Lesley and I have been friends for eight years. Can’t I even talk to him if I want to? Sam and I aren’t married. We haven’t even seen each other in person! No guilt.
Lesley and I go to the nearest coffee shop, where he tells me about the latest book that he’s writing. Ah, there’s the rub. He’s almost done with it, this seven-hundred-page masterpiece. I’m a single girl with nothing better to do than grant him a massive favor. I usually don’t mind when people give me stuff to read. It’s my job, my passion. But when I notice the bizarre timing, I get apprehensive. I can smell a request, and I steer the conversation toward Sam and my monogamy. It gets steered back to making his book into a movie, and wouldn’t it be cool if we could write a screenplay together?
It might be a cerebral hemorrhage that prompts me to invite Lesley to my apartment on Wednesday, to hang out, not do anything improper, but to look at photos, talk more about Sam. I have this feeling that inviting him over might be the wrong thing to do the day before Sam is due to arrive.
So, when Sam calls the night before he’s about to leave, I’m both excited to see him and burdened with my faux pas. Our big moment is twenty-four hours away. He asks me about my day, and I’m terrible at keeping secrets.
“Lesley came over to talk about his new book. And then I did some editing, and then I went to the gym. . . .” Cover up the big event with minutiae. This shows how inconsequential Lesley’s visit was. But I notice Sam is upset.
“You had your ex-boyfriend over the day before I come see you . . . ?”
“He’s not an ex-boyfriend. Nothing’s going on. He just came over. It’s been platonic for years.”
“Don’t you think that’s crazy?”
Oh God, of course it is. I can see Sam wilting on the other side of the webcam. Did I just screw this up majorly? He has to know that his visit is the only thing I’ve looked forward to in years. Years. Not since I got to see all five original members of Duran Duran onstage at Madison Square Garden in 2005—a miraculous event. Meeting Sam is a miraculous event.
Romance Is My Day Job Page 19