On Turpentine Lane(7)

I didn’t want to be seen as a jealous partner, and it was hard to argue with “Am I not supposed to see/talk to/have a drink with interesting and accomplished women just because I’m not dating them anymore?”

I didn’t quibble with the “accomplished” because he would judge me a snob. Stuart claimed to be unimpressed by fame or degrees or job titles, especially if the latter fell into categories he considered conventional. He once said that if he had to be on a desert island with only one person and the choices were a doctor or a nurse, he’d pick the latter. Or between a college professor and a kindergarten teacher? A football player or a cheerleader? In every case, he favored the less-lettered alternative.

Our engagement hadn’t gone public. Once I asked why, among all the signs he held up in photos, one never says LOVE YOU, FAITH! Or even just HI, FAITH? He said it was because the signs were a team-building tool. He had a public persona, and—as with actors and celebrities—being perceived as unattached helps with socializing, which may lead to cash contributions, a necessary evil along his journey.

I tried his cell. He said he couldn’t talk—he was with hair and makeup at a cable TV station in Terre Haute.

“While you’re there, charge your phone so when you call me back—”

“Babe, gotta go. Seriously.”

He did call back after the interview, but not immediately; in fact, he woke me up. His greeting was “I hit the jackpot! The TV station is putting me up at a Hilton Garden Inn! I’m calling from the tub!”

I said something I’d never said to him, or to anyone over the phone, ever, maybe now from some altered sleep state, “Are you naked?”

I was expecting his answer to be at least a little encouraging. Such as “Why do you ask?” or “What are you wearing?” But all he said was “I’m in the tub, dummy. Of course I’m naked.”

I said, “Oh. Just trying to get a picture.”

Another guy might have said, “Really? Want a picture? I can do that.” But what I heard was “I think I was pretty good tonight. The reporter was giving me the usual tests about my motive, about what I was trying to accomplish, and I told her I was in the business of seeking kindness. That it wasn’t just for myself, but what I’d discovered was that the dispensers of kindness or generosity or a thumb’s-up from behind the wheel or support in the form of cash came away feeling better about themselves. And she said, ‘So you’re giving forward?’ which was really a great takeaway. I said, ‘Exactly.’?”

I said, “Stuart? I’m in bed. I wish you were here.”

“Me, too, babe.”

“I’ve never had phone sex, but I can guess that one person in bed and another one in the bathtub would be a good start.”

I heard the slurp of the drain. “I can’t go there, babe. It’s been a really long day, and you wouldn’t believe how clean sheets and HBO appeal to me. And you know, of course, that the government constantly monitors cell phone conversations. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”

I said, “I have nothing to hide. And wouldn’t it be just some noises we made? I don’t think I’d be using actual words.”

He said, “I have another call. Gotta take this! It’s the producer from tonight!”

“Call me back—”

Maybe the station had gotten good feedback and possibly contributions. I left my bed and went to my laptop. His last blog entry had been posted at what he described as “twilight.”



I’m seeing kids on the streets of Terre Haute in masks and costumes & here are the messages I’m taking away: violence, gender bias, racism, missoginy, war, sexpot, Hollywood, commercial, commercial, commercial, so I started thinking of this 1 thing and couldn’t get it out of my head . . . where are those little boxes kids carry while Trick or Treating, where you ask for money for Unicef instead of candy? If your reading this and its not too late—ask your kids if they really need candy or do they realize that some children have never tasted one single piece of candy in their whole war torn life? Plus they have TB, malaria and worse.

Peace,

Stuart





Not feeling terribly indulgent, I commented, “You can’t just send kids out asking for money without the official UNICEF box. BTW, they get candy, too. What kid is going to ask for JUST money?”



Naturally, I was having trouble falling back to sleep. It was 11:45, too late to call one of the girlfriends I’d been neglecting since meeting Stuart, so I texted Joel, who’d had an all-important date—all-important because it was his first online venture—membership having been my birthday gift to him. How was tonight? I wrote.

I had to wait until morning for the return call, which I mistakenly took for a good sign. “No go” was his greeting.

“Okay. Tell me everything.”

“I get to the restaurant, and she’s sitting at the bar dressed like an Indian maiden—”

“You’re joking.”

“It was her Halloween getup, supposedly on her way to a party afterward. I walked over, and said, ‘Nice to see you, Pocahontas. I’m John Smith.’?”

“Good line.”

“Maybe. If she’d gotten it. But she had no clue that I was talking Jamestown. She thought it was my name even though my e-mails were all signed ‘Joel.’?”