At a Loss For Words Read online

  This has been on my fridge for so long now that it’s all yellowed and brittle around the edges. The one beside it has been there even longer. This is a single frame, two women having coffee in a stylish restaurant. One woman says, I want a man who’s loyal, patient, honest, attentive, reliable, forgiving, unselfish, even-tempered, and a good listener.

  The other woman says, You want a dog.

  Naturally, all this coffee-drinking results in many trips to the bathroom, and every time I go in there, I’m reminded that I really should call the plumber. Despite all my best efforts and diligent employment of previously successful tricks and techniques, I still cannot get the bathroom sink unplugged. Entertaining though it is to watch the volcanic workings of baking soda and vinegar repeatedly poured into the drain, I think I need professional help.

  I have no relationship with my plumber. This is nothing at all like what I have with Ted. I don’t even know the plumber’s name. In fact, the company whose services I use has many employees, and seldom have I had the same plumber twice. So it should be a simple enough matter to call and make an appointment. And yet I’m reluctant to give up the fight and admit that I’ve been defeated by what is likely nothing more than a recalcitrant ball of hair and toothpaste and soap. There is also the matter of having to pay someone fifty dollars or more to do something that will probably take all of five minutes.

  So maybe I’ll just keep trying.

  Maybe I’ll give it another go right now.

  After we first became reacquainted, we wrote e-mails back and forth every couple of weeks, getting caught up on all that had happened in our respective lives during the last thirty years or so.

  Then you came to my house that day bearing blueberries and lilies, and we ate chicken and cherries and salad in my backyard. It was immediately after that that we found ourselves engaged in a lot of funny e-mail flirting, which seemed relatively harmless at the time.

  Earlier, my friend Kate had referred to the progress of our relationship as “glacial,” but after that visit it accelerated quickly.

  I said, I wonder what would happen if we had just one kiss?

  You said that having just one kiss would be like opening a bag of potato chips and having just one…

  Then you wrote right back and said that probably wasn’t the best analogy because you hadn’t actually eaten a bag of chips in years, so maybe it would be better to say a bowl of cherries instead.

  I said, Or a bowl of popcorn…or pistachios.

  You said, I love pistachios!

  I said, Did you know that pistachios originated in ancient times in the Holy Lands of the Middle East? It was common practice back then for lovers to meet in orchards on moonlit nights to hear the pistachios cracking open. This was considered a sign of good fortune and enhanced love. The Queen of Sheba claimed the country’s entire crop for herself and her royal guests because she believed pistachios were the most powerful aphrodisiac.

  You said, No! You made that up!

  I said, No, I didn’t! I read it in a magazine in the dentist’s waiting room.

  We talked a lot about pistachios as time went on. We talked about having a bushel of them, several bushels, a whole truckload of pistachios!

  But now they’re just one more thing in the grocery store that must be avoided.

  Now when I’m in the mood for nuts, I buy almonds instead.

  It was May. I was here, you were there. In a lunchtime e-mail, you said, I’ve just been out for a walk. The tulips here are so beautiful! I almost wrote “two lips.” Oops…Freudian slip!

  I said, Four lips are better than two! These two are going to have some lunch now…although they can think of a few other things they’d rather do!

  You said, Smooch! Yes, I see what you mean…four are much better than two!

  I said, Thanks…I needed that! Not nearly enough smooching going on around here (i.e., zero!) to suit me.

  You said, We are in total sync on that topic! Concentrating…is very hard today…(smiles).

  I said, I’m thinking about pistachios…seven or eight hours’ worth! There…now I’ve really done myself in! We’ve been very naughty today!

  You said, Naughty…yes…I loved it! The sun shines more brilliantly now because of our shared thoughts. Gotta run…

  Then off you went to a meeting, and I spent the rest of the afternoon washing my windows and dancing alone in the living room. I played U2’s “Beautiful Day” six times in a row. I jumped around and sang at the top of my lungs until my windows were cleaner than clean.

  I read somewhere once that a cat’s motto is “When in doubt, wash.”

  For writers, especially blocked writers, the motto must be “When in doubt, clean something, preferably your desk.”

  In the past week, I’ve reorganized my pens, my pencils, and my highlighters; my file folders, my envelopes, and my address labels; my extensive collection of Post-it Notes, my reams of blank paper (which I buy in many colors as I like to print my successive drafts in different colors), and all my many blank notebooks and journals (some of which I’ve had for years and never used because they are too pretty to write in).

  Now I really should sort out my elastic bands. Although I never actually buy elastic bands, still I have enough to last me a lifetime, even if I live to be a hundred and fifty years old. Where do they all come from anyway? There is no need for anyone anywhere to possess so many elastic bands. I’ll just take a few minutes here and throw away the stretched-out ones, the very old ones that have gone hard, the very small ones that I can never seem to find a use for. And while I’m at it, I might as well sort out my paper clips too. I really should throw away the rusty ones, the bent ones, the sprung ones that have lost their grip.

  How much more time can I possibly kill with these simple organizational tasks?

  The unflagging advance of modern technology has provided writers with a vast array of even more absorbing avoidance tactics. While sitting at the computer writing (or trying to write and failing to write), there is also always Solitaire to be played. My current stats are:

  Games Won: 87

  Games Lost: 884

  Best Winning Streak: 2

  Worst Losing Streak: 53

  You have played Solitaire for 37 hours.

  Surely another few games wouldn’t hurt?

  In addition to the ever-present distractions of Solitaire to be played and e-mail to be checked, I’ve also found it’s entirely possible to spend whole days surfing the Internet, downloading new screensavers and wallpapers, rearranging or deleting old files, trying to figure out how to create a PDF document, changing the font on my current document and then changing it back again, checking grammar and spelling and number of words, renaming and otherwise managing my Web bookmarks, googling myself and my friends and long-lost relatives, downloading music and burning CDs, and scanning in photographs of my parents when they were young (also of a vacation to Minnesota we took when I was six and a farm machinery exhibit we went to when I was ten).

  Yesterday I taught my computer to respond to spoken commands so that I can now tell it to “Quit this application” or “Move this to the Trash” and it will. I can also ask it to tell me a joke and it will respond with one of a seemingly unlimited repertoire of knock-knock jokes, delivered in any one of a variety of voices: male (Bruce, Fred, Junior, or Ralph), female (Agnes, Vicki, Kathy, or Princess), and novelty (Bubbles, Zarvox, Hysterical, or Deranged).

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Effervescent.

  Effervescent who?

  Effervescent for computers, I wouldn’t be here.

  All in all, the computer provides a blocked writer with many very satisfying and sometimes amusing diversions.

  Gloria Steinem once said of writing that it was the only thing that, when she was doing it, she wasn’t constantly thinking she should be doing something else. (I have just spent forty-five minutes searching for this quotation.) It is to this state of writerly nirvana that I aspi
re.

  But these days it seems that writing (or trying to write and failing to write) is the only thing that, when I’m doing it, I’m constantly thinking of all the other things I should (or could) be doing instead. But that’s not strictly true either. To make matters worse, when I’m doing most of those other things, I feel guilty and am constantly thinking I should be writing (or trying to write and failing to write) instead.

  In this lurching, peripatetic manner, nothing gets done.

  Watch a game show.

  Take up yoga.

  Wash the dishes.

  Sweep the porch.

  Play miniature golf.

  Take some swings in a batting cage.

  Treat yourself to a massage.

  Attend a religious service.

  Volunteer at a soup kitchen.

  Make a salad with at least two ingredients you don’t usually use.

  Make a paper clip chain six feet long or more.

  Go to an expensive restaurant by yourself.

  Open an encyclopedia at random and read everything on that page.

  Resolve not to surf the Internet until you’ve written at least one page.

  Apologize to someone.

  You said it first.

  It was about a month after you’d been to my house and we’d had lunch together in my backyard. I was in your city on business, doing some promotion for my new book. I’d taken the train up, and, courtesy of the publisher, I was staying at a majestic old hotel that resembled a castle with its limestone walls, its imposing turrets, and its regal soaring copper roof. We’d planned to have dinner at a much-acclaimed Moroccan restaurant just down the street. But it had been raining with a monsoon-like intensity all day.

  It was only a short walk from your office to the hotel, but when you arrived, your shoes and socks were sopping wet. I could hear them squishing when you came into the room. You hung up your coat, took off your shoes, left them on the floor of the closet, and draped your dripping socks over the shower bar. Then you made liberal use of the hair dryer.

  We reminisced about the last time we were together thirty years ago. It had been raining then too.

  I said, We have a history with rain.

  We decided to order dinner up from room service instead of going out. This seemed decadent and romantic, as befitted being ensconced in a castle that bore no resemblance to anything in either of our real lives.

  Half an hour later a white-haired man in an immaculate black uniform wheeled a table into the room. It was covered with a heavy white linen cloth and in the middle sat a tiny crystal vase bearing three perfect purple stalks of freesia. He reached down into the warming cabinet and pulled out several dishes covered with shiny metal lids. He made a sweeping gesture toward the table like a game show host or a magician and said, Monsieur, Madame, votre dîner.

  You tipped him generously. He went away and we arranged ourselves on either side of the little table. There was not enough room for your long legs, so we moved the dishes to the coffee table and sat side by side on the blue velvet love seat. For starters, we shared a large bowl of cold zucchini soup with basil and mint, and then a colorful parmigiano-topped salad of arugula, radicchio, and endive lightly dressed with a shallot-balsamic vinaigrette.

  Then we started on our main courses. You had the poached salmon in saffron broth, with celery root purée and steamed asparagus. I had the chicken breast stuffed with asiago cheese and spinach, served with lemon rice. After so much soup and salad, I couldn’t finish my chicken. You cleaned your plate and then mine too.

  I said, I see you still love to eat!

  You said, Yes, my appetite never fails me.

  I too am usually a big eater (much to the chagrin of some of my friends, those who say they gain five pounds just looking at a piece of cheesecake). We agreed that we were lucky to have such high metabolisms that we could eat whatever we wanted and never gain weight.

  Fortunately the desserts were small. I had the tiramisu and you had the raspberry torte. We fed each other tasty tidbits until both plates were empty.

  Then you wheeled the table into the hallway. I put the vase of freesia on the bedside table.

  Afterwards, we were curled up close on the love seat. It was still raining. We had been holding hands for hours. Time was passing so slowly that it didn’t seem to be passing at all. For once, time was not flying. Instead, it seemed to have ground to a complete halt.

  We had not kissed yet. We were not eating potato chips, cherries, popcorn, or pistachios. We were sharing a can of Pepsi from the minibar. (I gave up alcohol years ago. I said I didn’t mind if you had a real drink, but you said no, you’d sooner share mine with me.) Your socks were still hanging in the bathroom. I’d taken my shoes off too, so we were both barefoot. I was resting my head on your chest.

  You said, You smell so good. What’s that perfume you’re wearing?

  I said, It’s Obsession by Calvin Klein.

  You said, He knows a thing or two about obsession, that Klein fellow!

  We were both grinning. You were fondling and admiring my hair.

  You said, I love your hair.

  I said, I love this. (Meaning all of it: being there with you, quiet and close in the luxurious room with the lights dimmed and the rain still pounding outside and your heart pounding in my ear and the French classical music station playing on the bedside radio.)

  You said, I love you.

  I said, I love you too.

  You said, Yes.

  I said, Over the years, my relationships with men have ranged from the ridiculous to the disastrous. I’ve often wondered if there was some lesson I should have learned from our relationship way back then that I didn’t see at the time. Or something I did learn but then forgot. That scene of you driving away and me standing there in the rain sometimes strikes me as prophetic. There has since been a lot of driving away and a lot of standing in the rain. Sometimes I’ve been the one driving away and sometimes the one once again standing in the rain.

  You said, I’m so sorry about what happened back then. I’ve always felt badly about the way things ended between us. At that point in time, I was a stupid young fool, naive and confused. I’m better now at communication than I was then.

  You said, I made a mistake. I never should have left you.

  I said, I never should have let you go.

  You said, Now we’ve been given a second chance.

  I said, Yes.

  I said, You must remember how much my parents loved you back then, possibly as much as I did. Especially my mother. Sometimes I thought she wanted you for herself! You’re the only person I’ve ever been involved with that she approved of, before or since. I still can’t get over the fact that she actually said she’d understand if I didn’t come home that night, that last night before you left town, and after you dropped me off that rainy morning, she gave me coffee and Kleenex and let me stay in bed the rest of the day. I’m sure she’s very happy right now! She’s probably been up there in heaven lobbying God for years to bring us back together.

  We were naked in the king-size hotel bed.

  I said, I’ll bet they’re both smiling down on us right now.

  You said, I hope they’re smiling with their eyes closed!

  In the middle of the night, you got out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Being a very uneasy sleeper and not accustomed to sharing a bed, of course I came instantly awake. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see the crystal chandelier on the high ceiling of the hotel room. I heard the toilet flush, and then you made your way back across the room slowly and carefully in the darkness. You slipped back into the bed, naked and warm.

  I said, Is this my life?

  You snuggled in beside me. You said, I know I should leave you alone and let you sleep…

  I said, No, don’t.

  I molded my body as tightly to yours as I could. I said, At home I have a book by Ellen Gilchrist called I Cannot Get You Close Enough. That’s how I feel right now.
/>   You said, Yes.

  In the morning I had to get up early to do a television interview. When I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, I shrieked.

  I said, Look what you’ve done to my hair!

  You said, It looks beautiful.

  I said, So it’s true then what they say: love really is blind!

  My battery of hair products was spread across the bathroom vanity. You handed me the moisturizing mousse, the curling spray, the styling gel, the shine spray, one by one, solemnly, as if they were surgical instruments. Then you helped me scrunch my hair back into some semblance of a style.

  I said, Nobody has ever helped me scrunch my hair before.

  Then you sprayed a fine mist of the Obsession perfume at my throat and grinned lasciviously.

  You wondered if I might have a razor with me, but I didn’t. I did, however, let you use my toothbrush. You said you liked the taste of my toothpaste, a subtle citrus flavor with foaming action.

  By this time your socks were dry so you put them back on, and then we went back into the room, me still naked and you in just your socks. I drew back the curtains and the sun came in. You stroked my bare shoulder, admiring the way the soft morning light shimmered on my skin.

  Then you helped me get dressed. For the interview, I was wearing black dress pants and a black silk tank top with an elegant (and rather expensive) white linen overshirt. You held up the white shirt and I slipped my arms into the sleeves. You did up the pearl buttons and straightened my collar, rubbing the fabric between your fingers and commenting on its fineness.