Sputterpub's Blog

Paula wasn’t having any of it. While she sometimes argued that it is up to the victim to define whether abuse has occurred, she took exception then. She asserted that Maggie was too young to judge the experience when it happened, and too warped by the experience to relate its effects accurately now. Paula likes to think she has an open mind. There was no way she was bending it to okay the Don-on-Maggie business.

Don kept arguing. He called Paula “Fluffy” again, and when she objected he told her to lighten up. He said he called lots of women Fluffy, and he only used the term for ladies he liked. As far as Paula was concerned, that added insult to injury. But she didn’t want to argue by email; that’s too easy to misread. And she sure didn’t want to go into it on the phone – angry awkward silences were not her thing. She didn’t want contention in person either. She kept the plane tickets, and she told herself she had no intention of flying to Texas to fight. After it all ended, she wondered why she retained the tickets and the plan.

And end it did, just two weeks after the Maggie memoir. By then their biographies had progressed into early adulthood. Paula was narrating the events that led to her accidental career and Don was about to report on how he came to marry his Berkeley girlfriend and why she changed her name. Paula had been interested in his memories so far, but she was sitting on the edge of her ethernet seat when it came to these subjects.

She booted up her computer on February 14 with some happy expectations. She looked forward to the chapter he owed her, and she’ll admit that she expected some romantic gesture from Don. Of course it wouldn’t be flowers or candy (she disdained cut plants and was on one of her diets anyway), but the man knew how to write mediocre verse and was clearly an accomplished flirt. For the first time in years, Paula had Valentine hopes.

She got something, and it was surprising, but it wasn’t pleasant. The only good thing Paula could say about it afterwards was that was the day she learned what the phrase “hopes dashed” meant. She got to feel her hopes dash.

Don’s email didn’t come to her till late afternoon. By then she was on the verge of disappointment anyway; he was two hours ahead of her and she’d expected a romantic communication by noon her time.

He wished her a happy Valentine’s Day. He apologized for not writing earlier. He excused his tardiness by telling her he’d spent the day in jail.

Of course there was more to it. And it was only city jail and a very bailable offense. He reported that, on arising and acknowledging February 14, he decided to start his day by fetching pastries and coffee for Rain. His wife. What?

His email continued. In his hurry to the bakery he ran into roads closed for a marathon, and a cop trying to detour him in a very roundabout way. He grew obstreperous. It was obvious to the reader that his obstreperousness was owing to stress from not yet telling his girlfriend that his estrangement from his wife wasn’t (or as he but it in the brief email argument, during the few days between his arrest and the cessation of their correspondence, “well yeah we have separate bedrooms, separate wings of the house really, but it’s not like an armed camp, fer chrissakes…”).

What symmetry. It won’t survive an editing session, but it’s the truth. Don’s wife bailed him out and Paula bailed on their relationship. It was all too clear to her. She saved their email printouts for a possible future book.

But she won’t go there. Paula reviewed those emails recently and she is mortified. It’s easy now for her to see how impossible the heroine’s situation was. She had too much money and comfort to thrive in Don’s fantasy arena. He’d just about perfected his solitary-man Hemingway image, at least ethereally, and nothing Paula could say or write would penetrate that persona. Don was comfortable by then with his failures, his heartburn, his cycles of depressed self-disdain. He was so accustomed to feeling low that he wouldn’t reach for any fruit that wasn’t already in his larder. He was immune to better feelings.

Paula didn’t have much from which to choose. It finally came down to hanging in with the Don dialogue and leasing from that a little attention, or closing the book that never got writ.

So Paula assumed Don was eligible when she sent the first email. She had no marital aspirations herself (having not succeeded in the institution, more than once). She knew he was poor (she lost the money she invested through him, and she wasn’t alone, and he soon left that business for the separate but equally dismal field of residential real estate). Paula assumed it was okay to flirt with a free heart.

Both of them aspired to write. Neither expected to make a living at it, but that didn’t stop them from keeping journals, trying poetry, occasionally attempting a short story. This meant the emails were readable at least, and sometimes memorable. In fact, it only took half a week after Paula sent her first “I’m here – be gentle with me” and Don responded with defloration double entendres before they found themselves exchanging chapters of autobiography.

Each managed to write with an attractive voice. Don was funny, affectionate, and on the verge of macho. Paula expressed herself with humor and insight, and when she complained she tried not to come off as shrill. For she did complain a little, when he called her “Fluffy,” or assumed she was heavier or more Jewish than she was.

Don didn’t complain. Sometimes he engaged in screen silence for a day or two, which tended to prompt Paula to send short “are you all right?” messages, to which he then responded with masculine monosyllables. Those exchanges made her look anxious and talkative and him appear busy and taciturn. The screenplay was then favorable to Don. Paula resented it. They quibbled and then engaged in makeup emails.

But they continued. They wrote their stories to each other from birth through a few post-college years before interruptions occurred. They engaged in suggestive comments. They signed their electronic missives with increasingly long strings of X’s.

They learned that their early childhoods were spent two towns away from one another, in Suffolk County, in New York state. They found coincidence in the fact that their birthdays were exactly six months apart; both commented that their astrologer friends said the best mates split the calendar like that. They interrupted narrations about their first sexual experiences, not because the words got too hot, but because those memories reminded them of more they wanted to tell one another. Right about then, Paula sent Don an explicit short story she’d drafted (titled “Sex”), and Don confessed how passionately he wanted to nibble on the underside of Paula’s breasts: not enough to cause pain, exactly, but sufficient to mark her so she’d remember him all day. That email made her remember him much longer than a day.

Two events then occurred in notable succession. Paula bought plane tickets, and Don shared a sexual anecdote from his hippie history.

They were American Airlines tickets – SFO to DFW to San Antonio, for late March, for a long weekend. It made sense to Paula: a scenic city close to Austin but not Austin, to get Don away from work and stress. It made sense to Don for other reasons (“I’ll have to take a bit of care arranging,” he mentioned cryptically, and Paula didn’t ask him for details).

She bought the tickets for $215, two months before the trip. She looked forward to looking forward. So his early February recollection upset her.

He wrote about an experience from 1966. Paula was 15 then, but Don was a fully formed individual of 24 years. He was living somewhat communally that summer, with one ex-roommate from college and two other guys. It was the typical situation for white guys of that era: junk food and litter, water pipes and beer, nubile women in bright colors. Don’s ex-roommate had a wild little sister named Maggie who visited their bachelor den every chance she got. She was 13 and adept at sneaking out of her parents’ house; it became something of a ritual to return her to the suburbs on Monday mornings.

Don sent an email to Paula, fondly describing the first time Maggie climbed into bed with him. He characterized their romps as pure fun, unmitigated play, lots of laughter along with easy orgasms.

Paula objected. She typed the words “child abuse” into her next email. Don reacted with weird indignation. He even brought Maggie into the conversation; he was still in touch with her brother, and he acquired an email from Maggie where she agreed that their “affair” had been harmless, actually good for her, a transition from childhood to adolescence that she’ll ever appreciate.

She isn’t a Luddite, but Paula didn’t start using email till 1998. She’d been a pen-and-ink type of writer (she used a fountain pen because she didn’t want to press hard, and she held the cap in her left hand when she wrote, in case there was any ink inside the cap that could smear the nib). But after she acquired her first word processing computer in 1980, she began typing so much that the 8th grade lessons flowered within her. For a clerk-typist who only managed 47 words a minute when she took her first job in 1975, Paula blossomed into a touch-typist who could work the machine faster than she could write.

When she finally got into email (Eudora program), she liked it. She sent greetings to the half dozen friends who were already into it, and everyone replied. Soon she was involved in a daily correspondence with her old acquaintance Don. He lived in Austin, she in Berkeley, and neither was much into the phone for personal interchange; email was an easy way to chat.

They’d met three years earlier. She doesn’t remember how he got her contact information, but Don was then selling oil&gas investments, and he’d been calling her with limited partnership opportunities, now and then. They both gave good phone (their mutual aversion to the medium was not based on lack of skill but on overuse during work hours), and they developed a conversational relationship that included news, amusement, a little flirting, and mutual respect.

There was humor between them from the first call, and chemistry soon after. Don is a tall handsome personable man. He has always liked women and flirted well, and he has succeeded with a variety of them. He was a little old for the summer-of-love (born in 1942, he can’t claim to be a boomer), but he was still associating with his old college buddies and living near campus till 28; he was active and into the era between free love and the advent of AIDs. In 1970 he made the cross-country pilgrimage to the left coast, traveling with four friends and hooking up with a dozen more in Berkeley. He peddled flowers and balloons, drove a cab, and fucked women (friends and fares), knocked one up and married her, sired a few more offspring on her and then had to move the wife and kids out of state, to make money and preserve the growing family. His wife was almost as bent as he – she tolerated and sometimes encouraged his sexual adventures, she managed to never earn money herself, and she changed her name to Rain, formally.

Paula was not like Don and, except for the fact that his taste was so broad, she wasn’t his type either. He found almost every woman lovely, but he was attracted to long blonde hair and long slim legs. Paula is about five and a half feet tall but tips the scales at 160 when she is “good.” She has dark hair that curls becomingly with the right products and humidity, but often frizzes out in the coastal air. Her legs are strong and too sturdy to be described as slim.

They met about a year after the first telephone calls, about a month after Paula finally agreed to invest in one of Don’s deals. He made a trip to the Bay Area, partly to see potential prospects like Paula but mostly to visit buddies from the good old days. Paula will never forget walking from her office to the reception area and getting a first look at him. He was taller than she expected, dark-haired, large-featured: very much her physical type. She felt a strong attraction. Their eyes met and it seemed he shared the feeling. She hadn’t then learned that any guy that good-looking and personable was easy with attraction.

They had lunch that day, before he flew back to Texas. That’s when she first heard his personal history. That’s when she learned that his marriage was pretty much over; he just didn’t have enough money to split up with Rain. He told Paula how each of them had a separate wing in the house where they raised their kids and still lived. He said they led separate lives.

It was one of those end-of-college parties. Potluck clean-out-the-fridge fare, with a congenial group of graduating seniors. Gail and Jean were giving up their northside apartment, and with a little help they put together spaghetti and salad and garlic bread for those of us who were still around.

I knew them, but not as well as my old friend did. Susan had gone through the experimental two-year Abbot program with Gail, and she and Jean knew one another from high school. I had the kind of chattery acquaintance that comes of sharing an occasional Benzedrine-stoked all-nighter before language finals, or a spontaneous day (I could remember two with Gail) of shopping and weird eating.

I wasn’t particularly eager to party with them, but I had nothing else to do that Thursday night, and I was curious about Mrs. Carter. She reportedly had a profound effect on Gail. Susan told me Mrs. Carter became something of a mentor when Gail took her comparative literature course, and in everyone’s opinion Gail, normally strong-willed, was too much under the influence of her charismatic professor.

“Influence to do what?” I remember asking Susan when I first heard the story. We were walking across campus on crunchy leaves, so it had to be that last autumn. Susan would have been wearing pressed trousers – she always did – and her black hair would shine to her shoulders.

“Oh, nothing corrupt,” she answered. “It’s just that Gail is always quoting her and following her advice and – I don’t know – almost managed by her.” She looked away from me, for traffic, as we crossed the street on the west side of campus. “It’s eerie to watch Gail act as some sort of acolyte. It’s not in her nature.”

That sounded true. Gail was very intelligent, of strong opinions, quick to judge and slow to embarrass. She was the kind of person who marched to her own tempo, out of step with most others but not jarring. Her father was a noted Jewish neurosurgeon in Tulsa; the family had to be resilient to flourish there, and she and her brothers had to be organized and effective to be heard in that family. Gail was quick, expressive, and learned languages easily. She was plump and her roommate Jean was anorexic; we knew she had to be pretty durable to deal with that. (Jean at her nadir dined on a thinly-sliced quarter cucumber garnished with three fresh peas, and felt full. Her knees were the biggest part of her legs. She had to be carried to finals.) And I knew Gail was capable of orchestrating a four-hour non-stop walking binge. By careful sequencing of salt, sweet, and fat, she had shown me twice how to spend a whole afternoon walking from treat to treat, talking around ice cream and french fries, jelly beans and Triscuits.

I remember looking at Susan that day and marveling at her description of Gail in thrall. She walked with her usual fast but disconnected gait, like she was severed at the neck and her head had no idea of her body. Susan can’t ride a bike. She can’t dance. She’s the most cerebral person I’ve ever met. She’s a dark-haired Swede, raised Lutheran but inclusively religious. I think she would have been a nun except she was born into the wrong tradition. She has always honored tradition.

I used to think Susan should be blonde. Gail brunette. Jean fat. But life didn’t play the way I thought. None of us could ever have guessed it would be Susan who had the most kids, or that Gail would birth triplets. All of us were completely astounded when beautiful Jean, cured and fleshed at last, announced that she was gay.