Overture

Twilight, New York, H&H Bagels. Me, seeing into the double espresso, looking at nothing.

Him: Excuse me, is this seat taken?
Me (without looking up): Yes
Him: Mind if I join you?
Me (still not looking): Yes
Him: Oh well, in that case I will have to sleep with someone else tonight.

Head snapped up, “Hey fancy meeting you here, I thought you were up at Berkley.”

He said he was in NYC just for the night. He was/is a moderately famous author of two wildly famous books. In a country starved of intellectual role models, he was/is the perfect peg to hang your opinions on. Young, fresh scrubbed, almost too wholesome a look to him. Had met him at a party once and been on email off and on.

The way he was looking at me right now, I could read the glint, troubled woman; maybe, I will get a story, at the very least an idea for the blog.

The usual chit chat, where have you been; you never answered my email; how come you don’t take any calls; just been busy. Read anything lately; no. Silence. Stir sugar, which he didn’t add.

Him: Heard the story about the woman who lacked perspective?
Me: Whose perspective?
Him: You were always a tad too smart with the rejoinders, weren’t you?
Me: Um-hmm
Him: Anyway, that’s the stuff I am researching right now.
Me: Sounds boring

He said, it was terribly interesting how the modern woman with her obvious intelligence, spirit and accomplishments, still allows one rejection to undermine her entire confidence.
I thought that was overstating it a bit. Just because we let our emotions show doesn’t mean we are stripped off self respect.
He said it wasn’t about emotions; it was about how perception of self changed if a man didn’t do as he was expected to do or feel as he was supposed to feel. I think, you are pompous and presumptuous, that’s what!

Silence, again.

That speculative look and then: You look more beautiful tonight than I remembered you to be. You mean with my pasty, flu ravaged skin, sagging flabby body and oily ,disheveled hairdo? He glowed then, under the sharpness of the retort. Almost like a bright light seared his face to a hot red and then “you mean you don’t consider that beautiful?” The involuntary shared laughter. Relaxation almost imperceptible; achieved.

One step at a time he draws close. This writer of a fancy bordello book that I regretted ever wasting time/money on. He is getting near, almost inside my head. How can a guy preoccupied with writing about the exploits of wannabe page 3 types, be interested in the mundane inner workings of an all too common mind. Yet, here he was sidling up to me, looking hopefully at my face, waiting to be fed. Chance to play god for a day, mess my head!

Him: I know I am a sellout, I told a story that didn’t really need to be told. I talked about things which did not really move me. I wrote about people I could never comprehend or be interested in even. I camouflaged the lives of uninteresting people in pop psychology, tacked a moral at the end and whored myself. I know, I know! You can never respect me. My books will always come between us. How I hawked my gift for financial gain for fame and recognition. I know!
You will always hold it against me that I had the gift of being able to think so much more, broaden the contours of thought as it were and yet put down only what the audience could take. You won’t forgive me the hubris that made me deform, modify and ultimately nullify the original spark so I could see my name in print. You see me as a purveyor of packaged sensibilities, pandering to the hordes. The median denominator.

Me: um-hmmm

The maws of pain on his face; open, raw, throbbing. Can this be? Is he really in torment? His voice full of self loathing. Is he really so conflicted? So in touch with the darkness within him. Is he? Or is this a kind of hubris to widen the circle, take in the other denominator now. Me?

No way! He is way too smug, way too sure of himself and the mesmerizing power of his handsome face, the almost studied humility that could fool anyone. He is only looking for a story, maybe some inspiration; he told me long ago that words had dried up inside of him, he no longer felt the need to communicate. Yet, here he was opening himself out, on the off chance that I would take the invitation and in turn allow him to delve into the layers I so successfully camouflaged under so many labels. Finance shark, soccer jock, clubbing gal. Nah no way!
I turn to him; practiced smile, great running into you, hope to see you again soon, look forward to your next book, blah! He hands me my jacket and then falls into step next to me. Second Ave, I turn onto the 80th, he walking beside me as if oblivious to the fact that I am there. Trudging, hands in pockets, counting the pavers on the sidewalk. Wow, never knew the street was so long. Ah, Lex at last, my office in sight, should I dash in, or keep walking home. Try and lose him; just pretend he isn’t there. Two can play that game.

Just look at him, walking as if the crowd doesn’t exist, the Sunday evening strollers, mostly people like me looking for comfort in a crowd, alone at home, thoughts like sharp sphincters. Incisive, honed, they never miss. Escape to the streets, the billboards, the ethnic food, the tourist throngs. Avoid solitude at all cost. Here he is, oblivious to them and especially to me! Glancing around, his gaze passes me by.

And finally, the Park, I have to turn, to home. He is walking on.

Me (pointing at my building): Sid, this is me, would you like to come up?

Him: Um-hmmm