Roxanne

Hi. You sound damaged. Tell me.

Those were the first words she ever wrote to me. We met online. I had posted an ad on Craigslist personals ( M seeking F):

Gentleman Wearies of Prostitutes, Seeks HIs Lady: 

The tone of my ad, while playful, was also combative: I compared the women of CL personals unfavorably to their working sisters. The latter were at least honest. I also ripped the negativity found in most F seeking M ads -- NO this and DON"T BE that. My hope writing the ad was not to "find someone" -- certainly not romantically -- but to maybe solicit a small back and forth with a female who found my observations amusing. Mostly I was bored and trolling. I left the typo in for affect.

Within minutes of posting the first responses arrived: Burn in Hell you fornicating motherfucker; What you need is a good understanding woman; Hey, can you help me find a male hooker; All men suck but you FUCKING SUCK; Here's me naked, send a cock shot and maybe we can hook up; Baby, you won't weary of me, only $200 for a great time and I'll come there if you want;  Hi. You sound damaged. Tell me.

"Hi! You sound damaged. Tell me?" How lovely. Someone bothered to read both the words and beneath the words. Rosie was a soldier, fought in combat and now she was an artist. She plays with  photography and sometimes clay but mostly paints: landscapes and portraits. I'd naively classify what I've seen of her work as ripe -- Life seems constantly in a state of burst.

We wrote back and forth several times that first day. Then she wanted to meet. I resisted and this bothered her. She pestered in a variety of ways: sometimes boldly ("I plan to be downtown Saturday afternoon -- what say?"), others indirectly ("Have you ever prayed naked before an altar of ache and known yourself invisible?") and often casually ("Today?") I insisted: No! This unpleasant tension grew yet the emails kept coming and going, and at an increasing frequency. Most mornings I would turn on my computer to find at least two, sometimes as many as five, emails from her in my queue. We were both so very curious.

Our correspondence now numbers several thousand emails, some of them quite lengthy. I have written War and Peace to Roxanne and received that x two in return. I've come to better understand her insistence on meeting: she fully trusts only what her hands can hold or her eyes can see. Is this her inner soldier or artist being heard? I think she has seared the latter upon the foundation of the former where they now become one thing.

"If you will not meet then send me a picture." No. "Please. Pretty please?" No No No. "Send me one picture and I won't bother you for any more. For ever and ever, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die." No. And then I sent her more words. Now and then she'll write something that triggers me and I'll unleash a flood of words on her. "This, bitch," is a header I used once when she was heavy on my back wanting a pic. I mention the unfortunate header by way of confession, not boast. I'm not proud of it but I know it adds context to our dynamic. We push against each other. It feels very urgent, very now. It is sudden and demanding like love. Rosie is now and I can not turn her off. "Please," she'll plead. "It's killing me. I have to see you. If not your face, send a silhouette. I can make the rest of you from that." No.

Then she'll send more pictures of herself, some quite thrilling. I'll send back another torrent about some random shit, like the epidemic of suicides Goethe set in motion with Werther, or the majesty of the matricide in the Battle of Okinawa. I give her stuff she'll have to look up if she wants to keep up. When she starts pressing hard I put obstacles in her path, like to shoo her away but it's only to slow her down. Yes, it's childish. But Rosie is competitive and will look up any damn thing. She'd learn Latin if I started using it.

There have been times I didn't write her back until the next morning, or even afternoon. This drives her nuts. The time I didn't write for three days she spammed me with a million You There? emails. Fuck, I hated that. She also sent the first picture I never wanted in the first place. A couple of racy ones followed. I kept the pictures but because I hadn't asked for them, settled myself into a firmly superior position. This business happened during the first week while we were still fumbling about with each other. There was a lot of gnashing and bashing because we were two damaged people alone in a place together. That it wasn't a physical place changes not a thing. In fact, the internet may have exacerbated things: creating a false sense one of us could, at any time, be done with the other.

That first week she wrote one time from her cell phone. The message looked awful, like some illiterate's text message, filled with poor punctuation and without capitalization. It also lacked her usual crispness of intention. Zero care had been given to its construction. It was a vile thing and made my heart heavy. I wrote back immediately: NEVER AGAIN. I CAN NOT WILL NOT DO THAT. NOT EVER. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? HOW DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? HOW? WHY?

Rosie had steadily gained sway over me and I hadn't noticed. Merrily merrily, each and every day, back and forth, oblivious me, until boom! Hadn't noticed a thing until she rocked me. So I unplugged from the internet and Roxanne and set about looking for distractions -- the base usual kind many hurting people take their diversion in.

When I came back she was waiting. She explained when leaving the house she doesn't have access to a computer. No more, I said. I can't do it. I can not. Send me nothing. Let the silence grow between us. It is pure, it is honest. "No," she said. "I'll stay home then."

Rosie acquiesced but don't doubt she's a clever girl. While in the midst of making concessions she's simultaneously at work making gains. Not 30 minutes after saying "I'll stay home then," she sent a seven second snippet of an audio clip. Although only a trial balloon it put me at a disadvantage. She was changing the rules, introducing a different element to our relationship dynamic. We hadn't discussed this -- one minute words are being exchanged and the next -- her voice is there, in my room. Her, there: unannounced and uninvited.

Of course I commented on it. Why wouldn't I? Your voice sounds hesitant, I wrote back. Mere seconds later she replied, "Like reaching a hand into a dark corner, or stepping into a strange room?" Yes, that. I was pleased we heard the same thing and I liked the basic imagery she chose. I also admired her trying new things to further our understanding of each other. While I was content with the status quo, she was a soldier, an artist, and had to push further, harder. On the one hand she scared me; on the other I felt immense pride. Had my hard drive contained a picture of me I likely would've sent it. The header: YOU WIN

Five days later she sent a full audio clip. The uncertainty was gone. This Rosie spoke with a brashly feminine cadence that undulated seamlessly, like a magnificent poem or fully correct piece of music. I played the clip over and over, lured by the symphony of her voice. While trying to commit her words to memory I tried speaking along with her but failed every time. Her rising and falling intonations were too dissimilar to my own and, frankly, embarrassingly superior. And then listening to her linger over the letters of my name -- it seemed a full breath on each -- it felt I'd burst.

Talk about an insanely quick thinker -- yesterday Rosie sent me a 168 word response, with several questions thoughtfully answered, thirteen minutes after I had hit SEND. This is more the norm than an outlier. If I bothered to track reply times, her's would be 30% or 40% of mine, maybe less.

She's also insanely troubled. Once she put a loaded snub nose Smith and Wesson to her bare chest and pulled the trigger. I had no hand in that; this was before our time. I'd guess it was in response to her military service, but I've not yet gotten up the nerve to ask her. She's not bashful about telling me things so I expect eventually she'll get around to revealing how she came to almost murder herself. What's obvious: she hurts. She's possibly psychotic, but I don't know. She hurts deeply. I've done research into some other things she's told me but it's not my place to put her business all out there. And certainly not before she's met me or even seen a picture.

I think she'd laugh at me labeling her possibly psychotic. She intensely dislikes labels, but mostly because they are poorly constructed and so patently false. "If you insist on putting me into a box I will agree only to be the air, not the thing. If this will make you feel safer, darling." Yeah, lately she's taken to "darling." It made me uncomfortable. But now I've seen it so many times it's grown on me. I already know the hurt I'll feel when she stops using it. It's another debt I gladly take on now.

The M word got dropped recently, which is the main reason I'm writing about her. Well, that, and the baby fixation mentioned at the beginning. I don't mind the idea of it as much as I once thought. I'd have to send her a picture first. We'd have to meet eventually. Whoa, slow down, I'm not ready, the instant thought. But then I sit with it for a minute, think about her, the possibilities. "Darling," she says, and I picture her full radiance. Why couldn't the E be an extended one? A year or two, several years -- that's not so far from the norm, is it? There's no rule says you have to rush into a thing without first fully preparing.

I think I have a fiance.

Team James Introduces: Mary Elizabeth

Many months back Team James advertised for a Choreographer (of love dances). The ad generated hundreds of applicants, a few who were qualified for the position.  Several candidates were interviewed and one ultimately was hired. 

By design, and for obvious reasons, I was only peripherally involved in this hire. I did read the resumes but beyond that had no further contact until a candidate was chosen. And the contact at that point was only at the insistence of the chosen candidate -- in essence, I was interviewed. This process was agreeable to me and, ultimately, proved successful. The Choreographer was, and remains, a wonderful addition to Team James. 

But another candidate from that pool, who's resume didn't even generate an interview, has remained in my consciousness. I was struck by its sheer honesty which included a precise cataloging of both successes and failures. For example: "Fiscal year 2012 was marked by an actual increase in sales revenues of 1.44 M (3.21%), well below the expected revenue increase of 2.47 M (5.5%). My year's-end assessment revealed my performance as the largest contributing factor; therefore, I tendered a resignation, which was accepted."

It occurred to me this resume might be a fully meticulous listing of huey designed to throw off the reader via proliferation of "candid" detail. A few "smears" added to affect the whole,  creating a ripe thing, a breathing thing, thus, a desirable thing. Yes, I had those thoughts because that was the affect I felt. Had that been the intent, it worked. But while my brain was on high alert my gut told me I was holding in my possession the one truly honest accounting of a person's work life I might ever encounter. 

Rather than delegating to the team, I personally set out to verify each and every claim on the resume with the understanding should any claim prove false, the candidate would no longer hold allure and the game would be up. I spent many hours on the telephone working around "gatekeepers" to get at the executives that could either verify or refute. Many were insistent at tossing me off to HR, but I am a skilled salesman and mostly found their efforts feeble and unimaginative and, ultimately, ineffective.

But try as I might, some I couldn't raise on the telephone. More than one executive was subsequently displeased to find me unannounced and settled into an outer-office chair with my newly arrived treasure, Manual of Painting and Calligraphy, and a very tall cup of coffee. Take your time, pally. 
Now I didn't get to all of them and, shameful as it is to admit, a few beat me at my game. But I got to enough to affirm my gut. The results of her background check were stunning -- her previous employers found her exceptional and were truly saddened she was no longer in their employ. 

Once satisfied she was the perfect candidate, I had her in for an interview. Confession: hearing her voice the first time on the telephone produced an awkward sort of deja vu -- her voice matched exactly how I had been anticipating (relentlessly) she would look: thin trim tin. And subsequently, her physical appearance one hundred per cent matched her voice and resume. She fit exactly in all ways, which makes her a perfect find: it's like a thing lost or stolen has now been returned. The bible says Rejoice! and I did. What was never is now.  

So it's official: a bean counter has been added. The expectation is for Team James to "tighten the belt" in several areas, reinvigorating dormant revenue streams while seeking/developing other at-present unidentified opportunities. Because this exceptional lady prefers no notoriety (making her quite the novelty around these parts) and was borderline insistent about her privacy, we will limit future disclosures. In fact, she might never receive mention again. But know she is here, behind the scenes, counting and cataloging, encouraging and reprimanding, exhorting, while steering Team James towards ... continued existence.

Team James Announces:

Announcement: 

Team James is pleased to announce a relocation of offices. If one might have classified the previous locale as "austere," then similarly the new headquarters might be labeled "luxurious." 

All staff members polled voted in favor of the change. In fact, one member was caught voting in the affirmative twice. That dishonest member was, regrettably, not disciplined. James labeled the transgression "enthusiastic," and demanded to "hear no more about it." Thus the matter was closed.

James will provide additional detail at a future date; presently he composes a related announcement.   

The Stranger

I haven't cooked a meal in almost a year, so mornings I take breakfast downstairs at the Mexican restaurant. If the weather is decent I'll sit outside on the patio, adjacent to Houston Street. I prefer the tables by the iron rail that border the sidewalk. A daily stream of strangers pass, and if I was so inclined I could stick out a hand and grab one.

Instead, one grabbed me. I had just placed my food order with Mary Mary and was half reading the newspaper, half drinking my first cup of coffee, when a street fellow just pulled out the chair across from mine and stood there gawking at me, presumably waiting for permission to sit. I looked at him from over the newspaper and nodded in affirmation. It was too early for company, especially a stranger. But, eh, it was also too early for confrontation.

Mary Mary responded quickly to my raised hand and soon the fellow was sipping from a steaming black coffee. He had the look of a four sugar packet guy and cream spilled here and there on the table. I was relieved he was not that fellow and told him breakfast would be my treat. His indifferent reaction suggested, perhaps, that was a foregone conclusion.

Mary Mary took his order and got it caught up with mine in the kitchen so both orders came out together. She's a pro and I like watching her from behind a newspaper or magazine or book. When she puts the food down on the table she never says, "Here you go." I hate when they say that. Where am I going? I'm not going anywhere. Then a confused "Huh?" follows. One thing leads to another, inevitably. I hate that whole exchange.

My eggs were scrambled soft and his were over hard with extra picante sauce. Some people need proof that their food is cooked dead, so when he took a fork to the eggs it reminded me of a soldier bayoneting a fallen enemy. He got to the refried beans last, spooning them into his mouth while wiping the plate with a flour tortilla.

"I'm not going back."

I shifted in the wrought iron chair, nudging it on the brick tile. Two pigeons pecking nearby startled, but only retreated a foot or so. I was no threat.

"Not going back where?"

"Death. Not going back to death. Fuck!"

"Yeah. I don't blame you. Where are you going then?"

"Life, man. Of course."

"Of course. Yeah. Sorry about that. Good luck then."

After the stranger put the last piece of tortilla in his mouth, Mary Mary cleared the table of plates and silverware, leaving only my coffee cup and teaspoon. She knew I was going nowhere. But there would be no more coffee refills for the stranger, no dawdling. His time was up.

Heard it on the radio

They taught me in law school: When the facts of the case are on your side, argue the facts. When the law is on your side, argue the law. When neither the facts nor the law is on your side, pound the table.