Part 8 (1/2)
When I turned to see what she was looking at, I saw a gentle cascade of grayish feathers.
”What happened?”
”The falcon just grabbed a pigeon.”
”What falcon?” I asked.
”A peregrine falcon nest up there with a fledgling.” She was pointing to a small stone doorway high above the second pillar. By her general demeanor, I knew this Audubon member wasn't her her I still had fifteen minutes before her toast. I spent the time scanning both sides of the river for any glint of a wine gla.s.s. After an hour, feeling empty and p.i.s.sed, I headed back to Brooklyn and walked to the F train stop at York.
A teenage girl was waiting all alone at the farthest end of the platform. I seriously considered dragging her a few extra feet into the darkness of the tunnel. But before I took a step, I realized the token clerk got a good look at me. If she screamed, there would only be one escape route. I was actually relieved when someone else finally showed up.
Upon arriving home, an e-mail was waiting for me: Happy birthday to you.
I wrote back that I was in agony for her.
Agony?
I know this sounds odd, but I think I've fallen in love with you.
That's funny. Tell me another.
I'm serious. I can't get you out of my head. I'm always thinking about you. Can't we just put all the bulls.h.i.+t aside and meet somewhere like two adults? We'll just have coffee and if you like what you see, we can go on a proper date.
To be quite honest, I'm nothing special to look at. Right now, you claim to be in love with me and we didn't even meet. I've gone on dates with guys who've used me in the most degrading ways and then decided never to call me again. Frankly, I don't even like s.e.x. (I only like what it symbolizes.) Me neither! We don't have to have a s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p. I can love you as a friend.
We can be friends on the Internet.
In order to a.s.suage my obsession, and allay my fears of rejection, I need to meet you face to face.
And by meeting you, I stand to lose everything, she replied, as though we were corresponding in some G.o.dd.a.m.ned nineteenth-century epistolary novel like two star-crossed lovers.
I promise, even if you're old, fat and limbless, if you got bad skin or an overbite, if you smell awful or can't dress, or your eyes are too close together, or your ears stick out, whatever irregularity or infirmity you got, I will forever maintain our friends.h.i.+p.
I'm sorry but no.
Are you a man? Is that it, because if that is the case, even that I will not mind, but I need to see you.
Please try to understand-I just can't.
I feel that this is cruel and manipulative on your part and I resent it.
I've only adhered to the stated rules of our friends.h.i.+p.
You led me to believe that this relations.h.i.+p would eventually lead somewhere.
And so it has. I feel I know you, and here we are arguing with all the intimacy of old lovers.
Are you married? Or in a relations.h.i.+p?
Not that it matters, but no. Please try to understand that anonymity is for both our sakes.
That is so f.u.c.king patronizing! And I resent this mock legal formality as if you have some bulls.h.i.+t authority!
You're right, I'm sorry, but frankly you're scaring me.
I don't mean to, but if I can't find some resolution to this, you'll leave me with no recourse other than to cease this relations.h.i.+p as it presently exists.
When did you become such a needy person! The thing I always found most attractive about you was that you always sounded so firm and strong. I took you to be a lone wolf but here you are a braying little lamb.
I didn't respond.
Perhaps we can work something else out.
I didn't respond.
Perhaps I can speak to you on the phone. Would that be acceptable? You can give me your number and I'll call you at some specified time.
I didn't respond.
What exactly is it you hope to gain from our meeting? If anything, I believe it will kill the love-a word I don't use lightly-that does exist.
I didn't respond.
Do you want me to be more vulnerable, is that it?
Though I wanted to respond, I didn't. I really was half hoping she'd just go away-for her own sake.
Suppose I send you a nude photo of myself-deleting my face of course-my nudity will be fully vulnerable for you to see. If you respond to this, I will e-mail the photo. I will also trust that you won't simply laugh at my less than perfect body and then never return my messages. This is my last and best offer, and let me a.s.sure you that even if we were to meet (which we won't) you'd never get such a candid view of me. If you don't reply to this final offer, I will be compelled to bid you farewell and give up this e-mail address.
I finally responded: I am inclined to accept this offer, but I suppose I must do so with a word of caution. In matters of the heart, there are no lies, nor is there right and wrong. Despite all the cliches to the contrary, the heart is a shark. It consumes what it must, and turns its back on what it cannot use. This photo might very well do the trick, and satiate the hunger of obsession, but there is a chance that I will still find myself pining for you. If so, then I'm truly sorry.
Spare me the bad Tennessee Williams prose. If I am going to stand naked before a mirror, and snap a G.o.dd.a.m.n polaroid of myself, then scan it into my computer and e-mail it to you-some whiny clown whose name I don't even know-I d.a.m.n well insist that I get some a.s.surances for it. Specifically promise me that you will continue our correspondence without any more bulls.h.i.+t. Otherwise, goodbye forever.
It wasn't exactly like I had a lot to lose. Still, in an effort to drive a hard bargain, to get the very most I could, I said, All right, but let me begin by saying, I can spot a phony picture right off. If you do take a self-portrait, I expect it to be well lit, well focused, and in color. In addition to your body, I will require your hair-not just pubic, but head hair. And if you dye your hair or put on a wig, and I sense that too, the deal is off. I understand you don't want to show your face, fine. But a woman's hair is very important to me, it allows me to grasp some sense of her character and ident.i.ty.
Although I'm beginning to fear that I seriously miscalculated you, she replied, an offer made is an offer kept. I suppose I can reveal my hair, but first I plan to wash and brush it, so if you find that ”phony” say so now. Let me also specify that the photo will not be some raunchy piece of p.o.r.nography. I will stand nude, in a lit room at a distance of several feet, and snap the photo using my polaroid camera, but I'm not some hussy, so if that is what you're expecting, say so now as I do not want to degrade myself any more than I have to. If you send me a follow-up e-mail saying you were expecting to see ”pink” or some c.r.a.p like that-just forget it, buster. It'll be a straight-forward shot, minus my face.
I replied: I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't pose in some p.o.r.nographic fas.h.i.+on, and you should know me well enough to know that I wouldn't expect such a tawdry thing. Though you probably don't believe me, this is not for erotic purposes.
Three days pa.s.sed without a word. Then on the night of the fourth day, checking my e-mail account, I saw it: her e-mail with an attachment had arrived. The re: said, Why not take all of me.
When I hit the attachment, I slowly watched a naked form loading onto my screen. As she was revealed, I could barely catch my breath. I didn't remember seeing anyone quite as erotic. The entire time I knew it was her, simply because she really was quite ordinary. Her brushed-out s.h.a.g of red hair, then an oval whited-out face, strong shoulders, a firm, lean torso. Beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a flat unscarred abdomen. Below that was an untrimmed tangle of reddish brown pubic hair, so rich I could smell her. All unscrolling into a typical, intelligent, early-middle-aged woman, who clearly watched her diet and occasionally exercised.
The one detail that particularly caught my eye was just above her ankle. It was a small green sea horse.
The correspondence had quickly devolved into a game of stud poker. After seeing the photo, I had this instinct to fold. The little voice in my head said, this is as much as you can ever hope to hurt her. this is as much as you can ever hope to hurt her. So, if only to do that, it made sense not to reply. So, if only to do that, it made sense not to reply.
Therefore I made no response. Of course, she grew indignant sending her own unrequited e-mails. But I never opened them and I only read the re: line Where are you? and, Am I that Ugly? and, I thought you were a man of your word. Finally, after the second week, I got a re: from her that read, I forgive you, I only hope this the worst thing you ever did.