by Неизвестный
“I can assure you my ad was in the best of taste,” I finally answered her original question after she wound down her encumbered explanations. “Here, I’ve a copy and I’ll read it to you.”
Sorting through the massive piles of paper on my desk I un-erringly pulled just the right piece of paper from a stack of bills to be approved, inter-office memos, and tasks not yet even contemplated. My skill at desk-top filing was impeccable.
“Attractive and single female jazz dancer looking for male alto sax. Object, Jam sessions. Write Box 440 to set date for gig,” I read my ad with renewed excitement. It was rather clever, I thought.
Stunned silence met the anticipated camaraderie. Finally, a weary voice said, “Patti, I mean Trish, you’ve lost it. That ad is absurd.”
“I think it’s great!”
“What does it mean?” Marsha, who always kept her closet hung in alphabetical order, asked.
“Well,” I tried to explain. “What it means, or what I mean, is that I’m available and looking for a man to go out with. I love jazz and I thought I’d catch another jazz fan’s eye.”
“I’m afraid of what you might catch with that bait,” Marsha dejectedly responded.
“In any event,” I patiently continued, “the ad runs today and the answers go to a post office box. The newspaper will forward the answers in confidence, no one will know my name and I get to pick the letters I want to answer. What could be safer?”
“I don’t know,” said Marsha, resigning herself to my fate. After a moment of thoughtfully and audibly chewing her celery stick, she added her final words on the subject. “Just be careful.”
“I will,” I promised.
* * * *
The rest of the afternoon was spent moving papers from pile to pile, anticipating reading my ad, my very own ad, in the late afternoon paper.
It was routinely dropped off at my desk. I swiftly snatched up the daily edition with more enthusiasm than I’d shown over anything in the past year and a half. The mailroom clerk noticed my lunge but probably chalked it up to a sale at Clayton’s Department Store — I hoped. As soon as the clerk was a discreet distance away I turned to the classified section.
There was my ad, third down in the second column. Good position, I thought. Not too pushy, like being first, yet not last and forlorn in the pack.
After carefully reading my ad for typos, not one thank goodness, I read the ads positioned before and after mine — as well as those adjacent in the columns on either side. Relief flooded through me when I realized mine was surrounded by mundane, mediocre and otherwise boring copy. I stood out like a jewel in the sun, a star in the crowd, a shining ray of hope amid the dullness surrounding me. I walked home on a cloud, felt light as a feather, whistled a happy tune and was otherwise feeling pretty jazzy.
A day or two and the world would be my oyster, they’d be lining up at my doorstep, I could take my pick of the city’s most attractive and available bachelors. Ahh, to be beautiful, witty and desired!
“Who, me?” I said aloud as the fantasy burst (yes, like a bubble). Still giggling to myself over my flight into platitude lane I was, nonetheless, in a very good mood.
* * * *
The next two days dragged on endlessly, and then came the weekend. My normally tedious routine of housework, shopping, exercise class and reading was all that was available to me to maintain any semblance of normalcy. A movie with Marsha might have helped pass the time but she was busy with a visiting aunt.
Monday dawned bright and cheerful, a sanguine smell to the early morning air. Today, I knew as soon as I opened my eyes, would be the day I would get the hundreds of letters responding to my clever ad. I’d answer only the best dozen or so, ignoring the ordinary and even slightly better than ordinary. My life would change when I got home that night.
The day went rather quickly. My office associates seemed to sense the excitement and offered me just enough of a challenge to let me handle my assignments with a flair. Almost too soon the day was over and I was home.
As I opened the downstairs door, the hall table for packages and magazines was in a direct line of sight. On the table lay three large envelopes. Rushing to reach the table, and catching my heel in the worn hall carpeting in the process, I quickly scooped all three packages up in my arms and headed for my own apartment door.
Fumbling with the key, I glanced at the corner of the first package, which was as far as I could see with my hands full. A return address in Kansas noticeably dampened my spirits. Walking back to the hall table, I replaced the top envelope. The second envelope, not that I looked, was for the young married couple in the upstairs east apartment and the third, and last, was for the retired gentleman in the apartment opposite me.
Dejected, nay — crushed I headed for my small mailbox. There was a slightly oversized envelope that I could see through the grid, and reaching in I saw it was not only for me but was from the newspaper.
Good things often come in small packages, I consoled myself, and, with my door key now ready, entered my apartment.
The small lamp I always kept lit to ward off any intruders glowed softly in the far corner of the combination living and dining room. After paying the lawyers for the divorce, which Ted had claimed was my financial responsibility — he would be forced to maintain the expensive house and property — my decorating budget had been severely limited. Eventually, when the three years loan was paid, I would replace the cinderblock-and-wood bookshelves and the Salvation Army couch. My dinette set had been our kitchen set, Ted’s and mine, and he had let me have it.
Putting my coat and purse in the bedroom, which did contain a bed, I carried the envelope back to the dining table. Opening it, I coolly assured myself, would wait until after I started dinner. I did this with great alacrity — tearing open the frozen food package and skillfully popping it into the oven.
Pouring myself a light scotch and soda, I tuned the radio to my favorite classical music station, stretched out on the overstuffed, slightly lumpy sofa and opened the envelope.
Three letters, all addressed to the box number I used in my ad, fell into my lap.
The one on top looked good right away. Creamy-colored, heavy stationery, of obvious good quality, it immediately stood out. Putting the other two aside, I tore the heavy envelope open. A color-coordinated sheet of paper was neatly folded in thirds, not one careless crease which I found of great importance, and contained a symmetrically balanced and well penned letter.
What it said was also wonderful. Signed “Albert,” it was addressed to “Dear Jazz Baby,” and he had picked up exactly on the tone I was hoping my ad would convey. “The high notes that Miles Davis can reach are just the beginning of the heights I would take you to,” the letter started. He talked about Paul Horn and Coltrane (both John and Alice) and how he would travel with me on their musical journeys. Mentioning an upcoming Keith Jarrett “gig date,” he assured me that if I called him I would never have to sing the blues. It was a wonderful letter and, heartened, I resolved to call him at the number listed first thing in the morning. It was the first time I ever mildly resented not being able to afford a phone at home.
Both the other envelopes were similar — standard size, standard quality paper, typed and with no return address. Picking one at random, I slit it open.
The second letter was awful. Suffice it to say that I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it towards the kitchen trash can as quickly as I could. I missed and wondered how long it would be before it was safe to pick it up and put it in the trash. There are some very sick people in this world.
Carefully looking at the third envelope for any clue as to its contents, and finding none, I realized I would have to open the letter.
It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was quite charming when read on its own, but I found myself comparing it to the first wonderful letter. T
he gentleman who wrote the, and I was sure he was a gentleman because he addressed me as “Dear Jazz Lady,” signed himself Edward.
Edward told of his lonely life, evenings spent alone with his music — in which jazz played an important part, he wrote — and his books. I could almost smell his pipe tobacco as I read, knowing he wore tweed jackets with suede-patched elbows and sat in a worn red leather armchair. Edward asked that I not call, that he would prefer a return letter. That although he was home by the phone every night he would prefer learning about the inner me before hearing my voice. That way, he wrote, we would have something to talk about when we met.
Edward also asked that I write him care of a post office box until we got to know each other better. I was impressed with his prudence and resolved to secure a postal box for myself the very next day so that I could do likewise. A man who values his privacy now, I thought, would be all that much more worth the effort.
Perfect, I thought, whipping over to the shelf where my stationery rested. I get to talk to Albert tomorrow and write Edward at the same time. Wait until I tell Marsha. I might even treat at our weekly Friday lunch just to see the expression on her face.
Two days hence the salad bar was crowded but we found a small table in the back. Waiting to order our drinks before filling up at the salad bar, Marsha’s curiosity won out over my reticence to open the subject and gloat.
“Well, Trish — I’ve finally got the hang of that,” she cautiously opened the conversation, “have you been swamped with men from the ad?” I thought I caught a sarcastic tone in her voice but being the bearer of good news I could afford to be generous and ignore any dig.
“As a matter of fact, Marsha,” I coolly replied, lighting a cigarette but screwing up the inhale, “I’ve a date tonight. His name is Albert and he sounds absolutely divine.” I took another drag of the cigarette, getting it right this time, and practiced a sultry smile.
“Put that thing out,” snapped my friend. “You’ve never smoked, you look foolish trying and I don’t know what kind of expression of your face makes, you look like you have indigestion.”
Realizing she was probably right, but could have phrased it better, I put out the cigarette and returned to my normal lopsided smile.
“He does sound interesting. His letter was fantastic,” I gushed as I dug to retrieve it from my oversized purse. Handing it over, I could see she was impressed by the stationery. “I called him this morning and he suggested a drink after work.”
“As long as it’s a public bar with lots of people around I guess it will be okay,” Marsha said as she scanned his letter. “Well, he doesn’t sound like a nut case from this,” she conceded as she returned the letter to me. “Was this the only response?”
“Heavens, no,” I said with what I hoped was just the right degree of aloofness. “There were scads of letters. I haven’t even opened all of them yet.” I crossed my fingers under the table, hoping there was finally another envelope waiting for me so I wouldn’t be a complete liar. After the three letters on Monday my mailbox had completely dried up — only bills and circulars from the laundromat found their way into its federally protected sanctuary.
Marsha studied me closely, her face a serene mask. “Were the other letters as interesting as this one?”
“There were other very interesting letters, but I liked this one the best. It struck just the right chord, if you know what I mean. He must be so responsive to pick up on the jazz theme the way he did and he’s obviously trying to please me.” This was also truth, I assured myself.
“Did you call any others?” Marsha asked, the barest flicker of interest showing in her eyes.
“Actually, I wrote one other. That should be enough for now. Next week I can contact more — that is, if one of these hasn’t swept me off my feet.”
“You wrote back? That means you gave him your address to write to.” Alarm had crept into Marsha’s voice. “You don’t know if he’s a homicidal maniac who’ll come after you in the middle of the night.”
“Not to worry, Marsha, you don’t think I’d be that foolish? Of course I took out a postal box and I’m not even using my real last name,” I answered but neglected to add that I wrote him at his postal box.
“That’s quite clever of you,” my friend acknowledged. “I don’t think I’ll worry half as much knowing that you’re taking precautions and approaching this wisely. Actually,” Marsha leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial hush, “ever since you told me what you did, well, I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not such an awful idea. And you seem to be doing so well.”
To my credit, I didn’t laugh at her. Nor did I tell her that I’d actually met Albert last night, the same day I called him. He was free for the evening and after I met him I realized why. They say that for everyone there is someone else, somewhere. I’m sure that’s so, even for Albert, but there wasn’t a chance in the world that someone was me.
That’s not terribly nice and maybe not fair of me but I was just so disappointed when this wisp of a man sat down next to me. His forehead was level with my breast bone and I must have outweighed him by fifty pounds — and I’m barely a size eight. Hope springs eternal, I thought, and at least I know he has a great mind.
Albert finally admitted, after almost an hour of hemming and hawing his way through some semblance of conversation, that he’d never listened to any music, much less jazz, in his life — unless you count commercial jingles on television. His roommate had helped him with the letter. A surge of hope hit me when he said that and I asked him about his roommate. It turned out to be his 80 year old uncle. I kept looking for something charming about him to hang on to but his conversation centered on his pet turtles, sit-com reruns (I’ve heard sit-com chatter done well but this wasn’t one of those times) and his uncle’s diet.
Marsha’s words kept pouring out and I realized I hadn’t been paying attention. Catching a phrase about her seeking new horizons I breathed easier, knowing I hadn’t missed much. She was working herself up to placing a classified ad and I was her sounding board.
“Of course it’s a good idea, you don’t think I’d ever do anything foolish?” I asked, all wide-eyed and sincere. Our drinks long gone, I curtailed further conversation and headed up toward the salad bar to fill up on our weekly allotment of chick peas and bean sprouts. Our munching was interrupted only by the barest bits of gossip.
Exchanging dutiful pecks on the cheek, we were heading back to our respective cubicles to finish the week’s work. “Don’t forget to tell me how it works out with Albert,” Marsha gushed, “and let me know what happens with Edward. It’s really so exciting.”
Promising her anything until I could get my story straight, I headed back to work and consoled myself with the thought that Edward might very well have answered my letter by now and maybe I would have something interesting to tell her. I had until Monday before I reported in to Marsha and that should be enough time to come up with at least one interesting tidbit.
Encouraged, I decided to stop at the post office before I returned to the office. It was there, waiting for me.
A plain white envelope, like before, but this time I could have sworn I recognized the typewriter’s peculiarities. I asked myself if it was because I felt I was already getting to know this man, but I forced myself to logically dismiss the thought as a touch too romantic. I was right, though, and it was a letter from Edward. He was, after all, the only person who knew my postal box number.
* * * *
The afternoon flew by. He wanted to meet me. He even named a time and a place — Saturday night at 8 in the Gotham Hotel’s lounge. A little more than twenty-four hours from now, twenty-nine at this exact moment, and I would be sitting next to the man of — maybe — my dreams. He described himself and I knew I’d recognize him anywhere. About 6 feet, sandy-brown hair and, I knew it all along, smoking a pi
pe.
Fortunately I’d included a description of myself in my letter which would be enough for him to know that I was the right person when I approached him — that is, if I ran over to Clayton’s Department Store first thing in the morning and had my hair rinsed red, a full make-up scheduled and bought the slim skirt with the slit up the side, I might just pull it off.
I did. Saturday night came quickly after the day’s activities but I was ready. Entering the Gotham lobby I paused for effect and was pleased to see that I did — have one, I mean. Heads turned. The exercise classes, the blue slit-skirt, the matching soft clinging sweater, perfectly accented by my favorite silk scarf stick-pinned to drape gracefully at my throat, and my mane of glowing red hair all added up to the “very attractive, trim and dynamic red-head” just as I had described myself.
I knew who he was the minute I entered the lounge. Sitting at the bar with his back to the door, his wonderful broad shoulders perfectly filled the tweed jacket, the aromatic clouds of pipe smoke seemed to fill the room with a heady perfume all its own. Quickly crossing the room, I reached out and touched his arm. He turned to face me, a smile frozen on his face.
“Patti.”
“Ted.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m meeting someone,” I barely said, searching the rest of the room for my Edward.
“So am I.”
“I’m sure Edward will be here in a minute, so I’ll just leave you to wait.”
His eyes seemed to roll upward in his head, the whites showing under his half closed lids.
“Oh, no! You’re Trish.”
We looked at each other. The silence that followed was deafening.
“Look,” he graciously began, “we’ve obviously gotten ourselves into a stew here. Why not at least join me for a drink?”