Lesson 18
The alcohol I’d consumed allowed me to step out of character a little; in fact, being at this party at all was out of character for me. As I stood among the others, rum and Coke in hand, I found myself taking more and more sips and actually enjoying myself.
I’m a very timid person and like to keep to myself. It was a coworker who suggested I go, and her, “You might just have fun!” loosened the ties I usually keep on myself and I actually told her I’d be there.
And so that night after work, I went home and got dressed in what I considered my most “party-going “ outfit including stilettos and makeup, as if I were on autopilot.
And, once there, I headed straight to their bar, having planned ahead on rum and Coke. I stood in front of the bar, letting the rum loosen me up and entertained myself watching everyone else.
On my third drink, I became amused at how hard the women seemed to be trying to attract the men with tossing back their heads, laughing too loudly and throwing them “come get me” glances. I found myself giggling at them.
And that was when Chris showed up. What’s more, he showed up at my side. And he began talking to me as though I were a normal person.
Lubricated with my drinks, I responded and he must’ve liked what he heard. Through my beginning alcohol haze, I detected that he was a kind man and he was not bad looking, in spite of the horn rimmed glasses.
At the end of that night, we exchanged phone numbers and promised each other that we’d keep in touch. And then he left.
And, like I could have predicted, he never called me.
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My shyness comes from my stuttering, which has always been my nemesis. I guess it comes from the outgoing personality and fluid speech that my younger brother is blessed with. And that was why it wasn’t at all like me to show up at the party that my brother’s office was giving that night. So I roused myself out of my timid lethargy when my brother suggested I go.
And I found her there. The woman I’d been dreaming about of whom I was not worthy.
To me, she was beautiful in her black and clingy dress, those stiletto heels to die for, and that heart shaped face with dimples on each side of her mouth. Even those buck teeth added to her allure. I was smitten.
We actually talked, with me actually getting my words out and I was enchanted with the melody of her voice. It reminded me of faraway strains of my mother’s, may she rest in peace. I guess for that reason, my stuttering decided to take a break. And she seemed to be interested in me! I couldn’t get over it. She fixed her breathtaking gray eyes on my coke bottle covered ones, as if everything I was saying had the utmost importance.
Now I’m here, back in my dingy apartment where I work online. It serves me well. I can make myself understood with the written word far better than I can in person.
On my kitchen table, where I have stacked old tins of TV dinners, unopened mail and things that need to be put away, I have placed the crumpled napkin with her number. It taunts me, daring me to give her a call.
But just as if it were a wave that had ebbed the night of the party, I could feel my stuttering flowing back anew once I’d returned home. Each morning I got up and saw that napkin. It had the curious effect of reminding me of my ill-fated attempts at asking girls out in high school; how they’d laughed at my stuttering questions and then turned and walked away.
I couldn’t risk it. But, then again, I couldn’t risk throwing away that napkin.
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I come from southern roots, which dictate strongly how a woman should look and act. Although I was born in Brooklyn, New York, both my Alabama-born parents carried with them their southern ways, which they bequeathed to my sisters and to me. Therefore, I didn’t dare call Chris.
My mind did funny things with me as I waited for him to call me. As it always does. He was just buttering me up at the party so he could laugh about me later with his friends. He would never go out with a horse. He was married. He was gay. And so on.
But the napkin, posted neatly on my refrigerator door, plain as day, kept beckoning me in spite of what my mind was telling me. Day after day it seemed to be calling my name until, almost before a month was up, I finally made a decision. Still too timid to call him, I’d break the chain of my southern roots and find Chris.
It took quick work at the office next day to find the whereabouts of the phone number he’d given me. He actually lived not far from where I did, in Queens. This, however, increased my anxiety tenfold, and I had to take a few more days to work my courage up. The fact that I was about to go searching for the verified man of my dreams took all my strength even to think about.
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My brother came over last night bringing two six packs and demanding we play poker. After his usual comment, “Still living in a pigsty, huh?” we sat down at my kitchen table, which he cleared off for me with one arm. And just like all the other times, the truth came out as we played: his girlfriend had left him.
And just like all the other times, it was totally her fault. I managed to get out, “Women. Can’t live with’em, can’t live without’em.”
“You got that right, bro.”
The beers helped me mention to him that I’d met a girl at his office’s party. He stopped dealing the cards and said, “So? What’d you do?”
I just had to lie. “Oh, we’ve been going out some,” I managed to get out without stuttering.
A big belch and then he said, “That’s m’boy!”
Apparently, my brother had had a lot more to drink before he made it to my place and he started nodding off before nightfall. I decided this ex girlfriend had really hurt him as I lugged his almost comatose body to my bed, turned off the lights and made my way to the sofa.
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It was too late, I knew, and on a weeknight. But before my courage flagged as it so often does before I start anything, I took the subway whose stop was near where he supposedly lived. The ride there allowed me to feel daring, as I so often wished I could be. When I got off and found the stairway up to the street, I gazed at the city lights, my sense of bravery still with me.
And it stayed with me while, incredibly, I found the apartment building where Chris lived. It was at the end of a long block and terminated at a park whose slide and swing set and tilt-a-whirl were mere shadows in the night. Pulling my jacket closer around me, I sat on the curb opposite of the apartment building, and tried to figure out which window was his. And what the inside of his apartment looked like. And if he had a roommate. And if he remembered me.
That last thought seemed to take my courage down with it and I decided I’d better get back. It was closing on midnight and there were fewer subways so I had to wait. And as I waited, the supposed courage I’d been banking on left me. I got home a wreck.
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I was working on a new assignment when my brother dragged his lazy ass out of my bed, urinated loudly in the bathroom and came into my kitchen. Opening my refrigerator, as I knew he would, he grumbled, “Christ, don’t you have anything in here?”
We ended up eating at the donut shop on the corner where he must’ve downed six, to my amazement. Then he mentioned something that took my breath away. “When I got up to take a leak last night, I looked out your window and I saw someone casing your joint. It was a woman, dude.”
Then, just like that, he took off before I could get any more details.
It was a woman. And I knew just who it was.
I returned home trying to figure out how she knew where to find me. And four-eyed idiot that I am, it took me a while to find out where she lived by Googling her phone number. Now, to work up the courage…
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How had I worked up the courage to even attend that party where I’d met Chris? I wracked my brain over this question for days. I’d since figured out that going to his apartment in the dead of night was no way to actually see him. What an imbecile I was!
And, as I’d counted on, the shyness practically immobilized me, and it was all I could do to make myself go to work and come home again. Autopilot existence. But I was used to it.
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I was practicing what I would say to her while I worked up the courage to actually go to her place. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, my stuttering sounded like the motor of a Harley Davidson, and I almost gave up. But I didn’t. I pressed on. After a few days, I could get out short phrases like, “It’s good to see you” and “How have you been?” As the week went on, I found myself saying even more phrases without even a stutter! I began to feel proud of myself.
And thus, a few days later, I actually walked to the address of her apartment. And on the way, I practiced saying hello to every person I saw walking on the street. It didn’t matter to me that each person looked at me weirdly, being the New Yorkers they were, at least I was getting practice. Anything for my girl.
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I got home from a particularly difficult day at work, looking forward to spending the usual quiet evening in my apartment. It had been a colder day and at home, I dressed myself in my warmest PJ’s and a new fleece robe I’d been looking forward to wearing when the weather called for it. Then I sat down in my tiny living room, put on Leonard Skynard as background music and opened one of my favorite books, Up a Road Slowly. Irene Hunt never failed to calm me down.
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I’m now standing in front of her apartment, my well-oiled tongue calm in my mouth. I see a light on in one of her curtained windows and I know she’s home. My nervousness won’t stop me this time.
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I’ve finished the first chapter, about how Julie Trelling has lost her mother and how she comes to live with her Aunt Cordelia who at first reaches into the closet where her niece is hiding and puts her arms around her. Then I hear a barely audible knock on my door.