Red Room Where the Writers Are

It was a scorching October, 2007, and the hills and mountains around where I live, in the High Desert in Southern California, were on fire. Literally. I could walk out into my front yard, gaze to the east and south and the mountains were burning like a woman with her hair in flames -- menacing angry blood and pewter clouds rolled cinder and brimstone over what were normally crystalline, cloudless skies and the air smelled of resin and smoke. To the west, the sunsets erupted in furious explosions of intense russet and orange, colored by the particulates choking the air. It was then that Jim came into my life.

Bored, I was scanning through the profiles on Match, my weekly share sent to me as "perfect matches." Jim didn't immediately catch my eye, but I did click on the link and read his profile. Big bear of a guy, articulate, warm, into the arts and other pursuits that were similar to mine, background in advertising (ditto). I liked his phrase "I would like to be walking on the beach hand in hand with the woman I love when we're 85."  Romance, warmth, good sense of humor - all good. But he was in Portland and only wanted to meet someone local. Given my mood, I decided to write to him anyway. I wrote a brief note about my geological undesirability and how IF I lived there it might be nice to meet for coffee. I didn't really expect to hear back. But I did.

Then started an short email exchange, flirtation and dancing around with words and phrases. He was likable and funny, down to earth. But not a guy to indulge in endless email communications. So he suggested we talk on the phone and gave me his number. I called.

I have unlimited calling, so the dark cloud of long distance charges is never hanging over my head. Long distance to me in any case, is just a state of mind -- and not an insuperable hurdle. Since I moved to the High Desert -- for the space, the clean air and the quiet -- I also realized (a realization that becomes more apparent all the time) that I was also trading those luxuries for the branding of  being GU -- Geographically Undesirable. Oh well... the choice was to become an ever increasingly irritable city dweller on the edge of road rage or to chill out, be closer to nature and closer to my nature, but become somewhat of a recluse. For my mental sanity, I chose the latter.

 I need to interrupt this saga to explain how living in the desert (High Desert, because I am at over 3700 ft altitude -- an hour away from Pasadena, but it snows here, gets down to freezing in the winter -- something that never happens in Los Angeles and vicinity) has given me certain insights. Observing the local flora, this revelation came to me, a synergy with where I am with my life -- I am like a tumbleweed. Although I like my house and my space, my roots here are shallow, like that desert plant. And if the right wind comes along, off I will go, rolling along with the breeze. Permanence is not how I see my life here -- if ever.

 So Portland, Schmortland -- doesn't matter to me. Jim and I hit it off immediately. He had a big, infectious laugh and soon we were both telling tales and laughing till tears and hiccups got us gasping for breath and laughing even more. That first night we talked for three hours - about everything. Politics, the craziness of the dating scene, working as a creative person, tales of childhood, admissions of embarrassing situations. Conversation flowed over the passage of the hours, wrapped in a time warp.

 I told him about growing up in Denver, Colorado and my blossoming interest in boys, which happened at around age 13. I went from zero interest in boys to a zillion percent interest in what seemed like -- and could really have been -- overnight. At that time I was babysitting for extra money, even though I really didn't like little kids. When the kids were asleep or when I was home I would get on the phone and call what we kids called the "Teen Line." I'm not exactly sure how it worked, but all the kids in my circle knew about this number. You called it and you heard a busy signal: beep..beep...beep. In between the beeps lots of kids could talk at once! You could hear them or you could talk too, "My...beep..name...beep...is...beep...Dan...my...number...is...TR...1...434...822..9" and so forth.

 I would write down the number and call. I'd talk for hours. But I didn't want anyone to know that I was a tall, skinny 13 year old with braces on my teeth, no boobs to speak of (yet!) and a very awkward look. I wanted the boys to think I was sophisticated, sexy and aware. So I told them I was a 15 year old, in high school. I said I was 5'2", smoked cigarettes, had kissed boys. I told them I had waist length blond hair and blue eyes -- not the reddish-blondish-brownish hair and hazel eyes I really had.

 I remember one embarrassing moment when a boy called me on the cigarette idea. "So tell me, Darla," he said ( I had a slew of made up, romantic names for myself), "How many cigarettes are in a pack?" Busted!

I got on Teen Line every opportunity I had. A couple of times I made an appointment to meet the boys on the phone. Then I would come to watch and no one showed. I think that most of the boys were as full of it as I was and I think only one time did anyone even show up. The rendezvous was the local drugstore and soda fountain. This boy arrived -- at least I think it was him, looked around for a few minutes, then got on his bike and pedaled off. I was shaking with anxiety that he might realize the person he had been talking to on the phone was actually me, but all I had was an anticlimax as nothing at all happened. I was sipping a root beer float at the counter, trying to act "normal." He never even glanced my way.

Jim said he was a good golfer, and his son was also -- he had received a golf scholarship to his college. This triggered another memory, of my very first date. The boy's name was Ira, Ira Davidoff. He invited me to his family's country club for the day. I was impressed as I had never been to a country club, but I knew they were supposed to be for the wealthy and prominent. My mother was a divorcee, a scandal at the time, and we certainly were neither wealthy nor prominent.

I met Ira at the club, delivered by my mother. He was nearly a head shorter than me, with dark hair and lustrous black doe-eyes He had a twin named Leslie and a sister, Sharon, who was friends and sometimes arch-enemies with my sister. Ira asked me if I would like to learn to play golf. "Why not?" I said.

So we went to the driving range. Ira taught me how to hold the club and let me hit a few balls, which quickly gave me blisters on my palms. He hit a lot of balls and then we were ready to go out on the range. It went like this: I carried the giant, heavy bag of clubs, balls and paraphernalia --  and Ira hit the balls. I followed along behind him for the eighteen holes. And he hit the balls. I didn't hit one single ball and he didn't ask if I wanted to. Need I mention that I wasn't too enthralled with my golfing experience?

At the end of the course, I was exhausted, extremely sunburned and dehydrated. "Let's have lunch!" said Ira. That was a great idea. And big glasses of lemonade, lots of lemonade. The lemonade was good.

"Let's go swimming!" said Ira. Another great idea as my extremely fair skin was fiery red with sunburn and the thought of the cool pool was very appealing. Into the pool we went. We splashed around a bit and then Ira got into the ducking-me-under mode, little boy rough stuff. Sputtering I came to the surface and started to protest, but he pushed me under again. This time, while I was under the water, he grabbed me and kissed me, FRENCH kissed me! I had never been kissed by a boy before, but being French kissed under water was... well, totally disgusting! I pushed him away and pushed him way again. He soon got tired and soon after that we got out, dried off and the date ended. A few months later my mother started dating Ira's father. But that is another story.

This first date, I told Jim, was the reason I was not too hot on golfing... 

The next night Jim called and I called him back. Again, it was the weightless marathon -- fluid and effortless discussion, verbal ballet, light and yet meaningful. Again, we looked at the clock and three hours had flown by. It seemed we couldn't get enough, drinking in each other's life stories, insights and admissions, dreams and fears. We spoke nightly and try as we would to limit the phone time, the conversations usually lasted several hours. Romance and sex started entering the conversation, the careful and wary dance, trying to keep the distance, but failing miserably -- at least on my part. I was falling into the image I had of him. I knew he was enjoying the flow too, and the companionship but whenever I would mention getting together, he reminded me of the barrier of distance.

He let down his guard -- told me about his failed marriage, his love for his 19 year old son who was the central focus of his life and whom he missed dreadfully, how he felt he was only treading water in his work and missed being involved in the creative process, how he lived in a small bungalow that was filled to the brim with boxes containing family memories and too much stuff he couldn't part with, how he couldn't invite anyone to his home because of the crowded conditions, how the only thing he looked forward to was his son coming back from college in Los Angeles for a visit. He told me that he would cook a pot of food and eat it all week, that otherwise he never ate vegetables, that he was pretty much addicted to Diet Coke.

He told me how he had been a disco dancer, like Saturday Night Live, a show man, a drinker and smoker, gave that all up. He told me that his father had been a very stern, demanding figure, that he beat him when he was drinking, but he loved him and nursed him through his final illness, which lasted several years. He told me about his mother, whom he had adored, a tiny woman, whom he also nursed through several years of illness until she too had passed.

He told me about his conflicting love for tradition and his desire for artistic freedom and unconventional lifestyle. We talked about passion, our inner most thoughts and things took a more intimate turn, both stimulating and elusive. We talked sex and fantasies, desire and the playground of the sexes.

We spoke night after night, day time when I was on the road, missing him when there was an evening without contact. I told him I would come to visit, sent him notices about cheap tickets with hotel packages, tried to make him understand about my flexibility, my spontaneity, how I didn't need promises, didn't care about anything -- just wanted to meet him in person, see if the spark was there when we met. He resisted, gave in, then resisted again. He said, "You need to be patient. I will be down there in the spring." Well, admittedly, in matters of the heart, I am not patient. And spring was an awfully long ways away. It was only November.

There were tiny cracks in the foundation, but I didn't notice them for awhile. The propensity for hoarding -- he said he couldn't let any of his things go, even though they were overwhelming his small house. The fact that he wouldn't allow his cat on the bed. His offhand mention of being  germ-phobic. But, in the greater scheme of things and in my enjoyment of our ongoing conversation, and with the fact that I had not yet met the guy in person, these things seemed small and insignificant. 

Later I would recall something he had told me when we first started talking. I said to him, "If you would like to know more about me, why don't you google me? You can see my website, where I live, read some articles about me."

 "No! I would NEVER do that!! That is a huge invasion of privacy!," he replied heatedly.

"But it is stuff that is public knowledge about me. I WANT you to look. There isn't anything I am ashamed of. It is all things I have done and there is a great iinterview in an Italian online magazine that I think you might like, tells about my time in Italy."

"No, no, no!!" He said, "Look, I met a local woman for coffee a few months ago. She worked for the health administration of the city. We were talking for a few minutes and then, laughing, she told me she had googled me. Then she proceeded to tell me all sorts of things about my health records. She was acting like this was the most normal thing in the world and was actually laughing about it. I told her that I thought this was the biggest invasion of privacy that I had ever heard, the biggest bunch of bullshit! I told her to get out! She thought I was kidding! Then she had the nerve, the balls, to call me again and ask if I would like to go out with her!" 

"Well, if she was looking into your medical records, that is really out of line. But you can't find that sort of stuff by just googling someone on the web!"

"Sure you can. And that is why I pay everything in cash and don't leave a paper trail so people can't have that kind of information about me. I felt totally raped when she told me that she had seen my medical information!"

I could hear the agitation in his voice, so left it at that. But I didn't catch the underlying tidal wave. 

It was Thanksgiving. In spite of my love for this holiday and the usual enormous gathering of friends we had had as tradition for the past 20 years, this year, emotionally and physically exhausted,  I decided to play hermit and forgo any celebration of the holiday. Jim was also alone in Portland -- although reluctantly. His son Alex had opted to spend the holiday with his mother and his mother's family and JIm "didn't want to impose" on his married friends, didn't want their sympathy for his singleness. I had no such compunctions. I knew that any number of friends would welcome my presence, but I didn't want to have to be engaging and charming for anyone. I just wanted to spend this day as a quiet day of rest.

 Towards evening, Jim called me as he was walking through the art district of Portland. I accompanied him on his walk. He was looking for a restaurant and for a traditional turkey dinner. With me in his ear, he walked up to one restaurant. I turned out to be closed, but the restaurant owners were having a family dinner. With warmth, they invited him to join them. But again, he "didn't want to impose." If this had been me, I would have jumped on this opportunity in a heartbeat. But then, I was not Jim.

Finally he found a restaurant that was open and that had a table and he got his turkey fix, all the while talking to me. When he left the restaurant, we said goodnight and he thanked me for my company on this holiday.

A couple of days later I decided to surprise him and send him a CD, an old one of Joni Mitchell, Hejira, which to me has always been the epitome of class and of the concept of music integrated with musical lyrics and of course, with the angel and steel voice of Joni. I asked Jim for his address, ordered the CD from Amazon and waited for his pleasure at receiving an unexpected little gift. I sent the CD to Jim Lloyd his PO box, which he said was his main address. I waited and waited. I told him something was sent and told him to check the box. It never arrived. Finally I go the notice that the CD was returned as undeliverable. What?

"Jim," I said, " I sent the CD to Jim Lloyd and to the PO address you gave me. You need to speak to the mailbox place and ask them what happened!"

"That's not my real name, but it shouldn't make any difference, " he said.

"What do you mean it isn't your real name? Isn't Jim Lloyd your real name? That is how you sign your emails. And we have been talking for two months now. You mean you aren't telling me your real name?" My voice was rising and I could feel the heat. I am slow to anger, but when I do... watch out!

" I don't tell anyone my real name or address. I don't want to have any records of me anywhere. I don't want anyone to know my real information or have it written anywhere. I take careful pains to make sure that no one knows anything about me. I don't want anyone to know where I live or anything else about me." He was yelling now.

"Why not? I just wanted to send you a CD. I didn't want to stalk you. Amazon can't deliver if they don't have your name." 

"I'm not telling you my name over the phone! I don't know who might be listening!" He was yelling louder now, angry and mean. Oh no, I thought... red flag, red flag, red flag... What is wrong with this guy?

I managed to let this die down, but we had a breather, a no-talk zone for a week or so. I did miss him though. We had been having these marathon phone conversations and at some level I was hooked, was feeling that empty space. So there was an unspoken truce and the dialog started up again, at first cautious, then less guarded. I promised I would respect his desire for privacy and he told me his real name. Life went on.

 I had given up on insisting I go and meet him. I just enjoyed talking and letting fantasy fly on the phone. It was getting near to the holidays. Ever respectful of his desire for privacy, I thought I would send a small "care package," a few things he might enjoy, a bag of homemade caramels, a card, the Three Tenors DVD that he had said he liked, a pair of my underwear, as a playful titillation, and inside joke. The package was ready to send. I just wanted to make sure that this time what I sent arrived at the destination and he received it. So I sent the following email: 

"HI Jim,

Called you last night, but you were out - not sure you got the message. I just wanted to check and see if I have the correct address for you:

PO Box XXX
Portland, OR 
Don't want anything rejected or returned again... Going to send to your real name. Want to go to the post office today, so hoping you get the message and can get back to me..."

 

That was the entire message. 

An hour or so my phone rang and it was Jim. I didn't have time to say hello as he immediately started screaming at me at the top of his lungs, " I TOLD you that I didn't want any information on the internet. And you go and blast this all over everywhere, saying I am not using my real name! What sick game are you trying to play? Why do you refuse to respect me? How dare you do this to me?" And on... and on... and on.. I didn't even get a word in -- just sat there making small protesting sounds that were drowned in his yelling and screaming.

 Then I lost it. I have to laugh now, but he was not amused. I started chanting, "Your real name, your real name, your real name... " like a child's ninna nanna, a taunting mantra. He hung up on me. Shocked and caught off guard, I started laughing and laughing. But truly, I was horrified.

I had sent the last message before Christmas. I didn't hear from Jim until late February, when he called me as he was planning a trip to Southern California to see his son in a performance at his college. He was friendly and ironic on the phone. I was remote, somewhat sarcastic, but agreed that he could come to visit and also stay at my house for a couple of days and I would accompany him to see his son's production.

I picked Jim up at the airport. He looked as I had imagined, maybe not quite as big in real life.  I tried to be objective. He was attractive. It had been a couple of years and I hadn't been laid (the crude truth). He was here. He eyed me with appreciation. I hadn't had much of that lately. In fact, this online dating was not proving to be  very fulfilling as other than lunch with the poor mountain man from the first week of joining Match, I hadn't actually met anyone since then. I did like Jim on many, mostly intellectual, levels (although I knew that a relationship was out of the question, and had long gone beyond the bothering to care stage with that). Questions, questions... choices to make.

We went to Los Angeles and to his son's play, which was enjoyable. We had a nice dinner, almost marred  by the fact that I told him his spaghetti ala carbonara was actually made with raw egg, cooked only slightly by the heat of the bacon grease when mixed (his germ phobia). Back at the house was the awkward moment of how to manage the sleeping arrangements (my bed? guest room?). Jim took things in hand and made the decision -- we would sleep in my bed. So we did, but no messing around, which was fine with me as I was too confused.

In the morning he wanted to take a shower. When I handed him a fresh towel I said, " Remember this is Southern California and we have a water shortage - it's not like Portland where you worry more about being soggy all the time," I joked, but with a deadly serious undertone. "So don't stay too long in the shower." He was in the shower, under the running water, for ONE HOUR, while I steamed and fumed outside. Grrrrr... He must have been awfully dirty (germs). 

Later that day we went to eat lunch. I noticed that he opened the door to the fast food restaurant by pushing the door with his forearm, not his hand. Inside, we ordered lunch. He went to sit down and I went to get plastic utensils. I put his down beside his plate. He immediately got agitated and started yelling, "Don't put those on the table! What are you doing!" Germs, you know. My eyebrow raised, I just looked at him and didn't rise to the bait. But really, you know about the last straw? Well, that was it. 

When he left, he wrote me an email, asking for the photo of him and his son that I took at the concert and telling me that my house was a "fucking icebox."

Now, remind me why I went through all of this? I guess so I could write this blog entry.