It had been three weeks since that Valentine’s Eve phone call and other than work, Patrick hadn’t gone out or done any socializing. He had turned down numerous invitations to parties, and dinners with friends so he could be home near his landline in case she called.
Lorenzo stopped by Patrick’s apartment one night after work. “Dr. Renzo at your service,” said Lorenzo, posing in the hallway with a six-pack of craft beer and a bag of chips when Patrick opened his front door. Renzo breezed past his friend and plopped down on the black leather couch with the grace of a gorilla. Within seconds he had torn into the bag of chips, opened a bottle of beer and put his feet up on the coffee table. “Where you been, Paddy? Everyone’s been asking about you. Ever since my birthday party, you’ve been ghosting. Stuff going on at work?”
“Got a lot on my mind.”
“Like what?” Lorenzo asked as he stuffed several sour cream and onion potato chips into his mouth.
Patrick looked at his friend, unsure how much he should share, but he needed to talk to someone. “Remember that girl on the phone I told you about on Valentine’s Day?”
“The telemarketer? You still thinking about her? How many times have you said to me, ‘Renzo, there are plenty of fish in the sea’?”
“This fish was different.”
Lorenzo sat forward, opened another can of beer, handed it to Patrick and signaled for his friend to sit down next to him.
“Like I said, the doctor is in. Talk to me,” said Lorenzo.
For the next twenty minutes, Patrick shared every detail of the opinion poll phone call and how he had almost hung up on her. “At first, she asked me basic stuff, age, family, political questions. But as our conversation continued, we had so much in common. We were in sync on everything. I think she’s…she’s…”
“She’s…?” said Lorenzo, making a quizzical face.
“The one.”
“You don’t even know what she looks like!” said Lorenzo aghast.
“I kind of know. I found a writing group she went to and they described her. They said she’s very pretty. Here’s the crazy thing and I can’t even believe I’m saying this, I don’t care what she looks like,” said Patrick.
Lorenzo mimed being hit in the head by a sledgehammer and dying. “You don’t care what she looks like? You? The one who always scopes out the hottest girl in any room and now you don’t care? I don’t even know you.”
“I’m serious, this woman was different. We talked for hours about everything. I started to ask her out and I think she was going to say yes, and that’s when the blackout happened. I’ve got to find her,” said Patrick with a look of quiet desperation.
The two silently sipped their beers.
“I’ve got it,” said Lorenzo, sitting up straight, smiling and nodding knowingly. “Craigslist.”
“Craigslist? I’m not looking for used furniture.”
“Hear me out. Craigslist has a section called Missed Connections,” said Lorenzo. “It’s where people who’ve seen each other or had a brief moment together, but didn’t get each other’s names, can find each other. You might see something like, ‘you were on the number four train last Thursday morning. I accidentally hit you in the head with my oversized yellow gym bag. You smiled and said it didn’t hurt. I couldn’t get over your sultry brown eyes. Before you got off at the Bowling Green station, you told me you liked my earrings. If you’d be interested in meeting up, message me. Blah, blah, blah.’”
“People actually do that?” said Patrick, wincing.
“Are you kidding? There are tens of thousands of them posted. Maybe more.”
“I guess I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Later that night, after Lorenzo left, Patrick sat in front of his laptop trying to compose a message to post on Missed Connections.
The night before Valentine’s Day, you called me doing a political survey. We talked for three hours and after a while, I realized I was having the most amazing conversation of my life. You were funny, charming and smart. I loved your sense of humor. We both agreed the lack of political term limits has screwed up our government. We both love Ben Huston and support his run for senator in New York. We both love Cheetos—but only if they’re Flamin’ Hot. I was trying to ask you out and I think you were about to accept when I lost power and my phone went dead. I had no way to find you. I presume you had no way to find me either. If I’m right, message me. I’d love to take you out for that coffee. If I’m wrong, then I hope you have a nice life and will always treasure our conversation. So I know it’s really you, tell me what kind of dog I had as a kid and what her name was.
Feeling optimistic for the first time in weeks, Patrick posted his message in the New York City, New Jersey and Connecticut sections of Craigslist.
18
April 2017
After the blackout encounter with the Mystery Man, Callie changed her routine to include many of the places and activities he had mentioned. Every time she passed a coffee shop, she’d glance through the front window and evaluate every male customer. Too short, too old. If she observed a thirty-something guy over six feet tall, she’d go in, sidle up next to him and casually strike up a conversation.
“You look like you played basketball,” she might say as an icebreaker.
The truth was, most men over six feet tall played basketball at one time or another so her line of questioning wasn’t particularly efficient. One rainy spring afternoon between three and four when Callie often did her Starbucks trolling, she spotted a tall, good-looking man with glasses and a nice smile standing in line, talking to a shorter male friend while they waited to order.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said to the tall man with glasses. “What do you think America’s biggest political problem is?”
“We’re here to get coffee. I don’t want to get into a whole political debate.”
“How do you feel about members of Congress staying in office for forty years?”
“Fine?”
“You feel fine about no term limits?” Callie demanded.
“Not fine?” said the man, looking a little afraid.
And, so it went. For weeks she stalked dozens of coffee shops with nothing to show for it but weird looks and trouble sleeping at night from all the additional caffeine consumed during her “field research.”
Two and a half months after the lost call, on a warm April day, she entered a coffee bar on Lexington and Forty-First Street. A tall man was in the line ahead of her. She ordered a latte, never taking her eyes off him. As she paid her bill, she got up her courage. “Excuse me,” she called over to him. “Are you by any chance an attorney?”
The tall, sandy-haired man standing on the coffee pickup line turned and faced her.
He’s definitely over six feet tall and he has blue eyes. The MM told me he had blue eyes.
“Why? Do you need a lawyer?”
“Sort of…maybe,” said Callie, not knowing what she would say next.
“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I’m an attorney.”
“Hello,” she replied, walking closer as she tried to recall the sound and timbre of the MM’s voice.
Is this him?
“Let me ask you something,” said Callie. “From a political perspective, what do you think is the biggest problem we have in Washington?”
“I’m not sure where you’re headed with this, but I’ll play,” said the young lawyer, with a grin. “Taxes. They’re always raising our taxes. When I look at my paycheck and see how much of what I earn goes to the government, it pisses me off.”
It’s not him. It’s not him!
“Thanks. I’ve got to go,” Callie mumbled as she turned to leave.
“How about military spending?” shouted the lawyer as Callie walked away. “N.A.T.O?”
Disappointed and mortified, she quickly walked out of the coffee shop and onto Lexington Avenue, cut through the train station towards her office building, with a Starbucks bag in her hand.
I haven’t been writing or seeing my friends. I’m never going to find him. No more bike paths or introducing myself to six-foot tall men in coffee shops. The last chapter of this romance book has been written and they don’t find each other. They’re not soulmates. They never were.
She climbed up the steps into her building’s lobby, took out her coffee cup, crumpled the bag and threw it into a nearby overflowing garbage can and waited for the elevator. When the silver art deco doors opened, she got in and faced front. As the doors closed, the elevator directly across opened and two men got out.
“I’m telling you, if you don’t get all parties to sign off on the contract now, they’re going to litigate it for months,” said a tall man, looking for a garbage can to throw out his empty water bottle. He noticed a rolled up Starbucks bag in the trash.
“How about we stop for a coffee on our way to the meeting?” said Patrick. “We can cut right through Grand Central and stop at the one on Lexington and Forty-First.”
19
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“First Meetings”
You bump into a man at a street fair or on the subway. Your eyes meet and you feel something. It’s intangible, but unmistakably there. You know it and so does he. From almost the first sentence, something is different. You feel strangely calm because you’ve been waiting for him your whole life. He says something funny and you laugh like you’ve never laughed before. You and he are part of a club that only has two members.
How do you know if the person you think is the right one, is? Short answer—you don’t. There’s no definitive test like DNA that will tell you that he’s your person. It’s a gut thing and you have to trust your instincts.
For the tenth time, you explain to your best friend why he’s your destiny. She looks at you with big pitying eyes that scream “you need to go to a quiet place staffed by psychological professionals.” You’re sure what you felt for this Mystery Man is real and you owe it to yourself and the universe to pursue it.
If you’ve had that initial spark, if you come across a stranger and your gut tells you he might be the one and you’re pretty certain he’s not Jack the Ripper—you have to give it a shot. You have my permission to pursue this, even if your best friend is giving you “the look.”
You’re welcome.
20
May 2017
After many extensive internet searches for New York City personal injury attorneys, Callie narrowed it down to a list of 121 law firms. She didn’t know if he even worked in Manhattan and that if he did, the odds of hitting the right one were slim to none. Determined, she decided to take them one at a time.
Wearing a creamy white neck brace that she and Jess had purchased at a pharmacy, Callie pulled open the glass door of Astor, Spalding & Swords, Attorneys at Law. Right away she noticed what an unfortunate acronym the firms name spelled out and wondered why Spalding and Swords hadn’t demanded that Astor go last, or at least in the middle. The firm’s website displayed pictures of all their attorneys. One young attorney named Gary Goodman, appeared tall in one of the group shots. He was also reasonably good-looking. She guessed he was in his early thirties, so she made an appointment.
On a Friday afternoon, with Jess waiting for her outside on the corner, Callie entered the law office and walked slowly up to the wooden reception desk of the AS & S law firm.
“Hello. I’m here to see Gary Goodman.”
The heavyset, middle-aged receptionist with jet black shoulder-length hair and several layers of makeup looked up. A pair of royal blue reading glasses were perched halfway down the bridge of her nose.
“You have an appointment?” said the receptionist, revealing a thick Brooklyn accent.
“I do, with Gary Goodman.”
“And you are…?”
“Caledonia Swan,” said Callie, wincing to convey neck pain.
“You said you’re here to see Gary, right?” the receptionist said. “Take a seat. I’ll go find him.”
When the receptionist waddled out of the room, Callie looked around at the other people waiting for an appointment. A bald man in his fifties with crutches had a serious looking metal leg brace. Seated across the room, was a couple in their seventies. The man had a patch over one eye and a bandage on his head and the woman looked exhausted.
Am I committing fraud? Everyone in here has a serious medical problem. This lawyer is going to know I’m a fake.
Losing her nerve, Callie stood up to leave just as the receptionist returned.
“Gary’s all ready for you, hon. Follow me,” said the receptionist as she shuffled along the back hallway. With no way out, Callie obediently followed the woman down the corridor and was directed to an office with a little plaque on the outside that read, Gary L. Goodman, Esq.
The lawyer seated at his desk, was deeply involved in a phone call which gave Callie time to inspect him and listen carefully to the tone of his voice. He’s not bad looking, no wedding ring… but his voice doesn’t sound familiar.
Gary Goodman looked up from his papers on the desk, saw Callie standing in his doorway and waved her in. Thirty seconds later, he ended his call and focused his full attention on his potential new client. “Nice to meet you,” he said, reaching across the desk to shake her hand.
No sparks, thought Callie as her hand pressed against his.
“What brings you here today, Ms. Swan?” he said, looking down at his appointment book. “I’m guessing that neck brace has something to do with why you wanted to see me.”
Stay on script, Callie. “Actually,” said Callie, swallowing the saliva that had accumulated in her mouth, “I was in a car accident three weeks ago.”
“Were you driving?”
“I was a passenger in a limousine.”
“I love it! Car service is excellent,” said Gary, smiling and taking some notes. “Bigger financial awards from a company versus an individual. There are a lot of issues with this kind of liability these days.”
“My driver was on his phone while in moving traffic and I asked him several times not to use the phone while he was driving. It is against the law. He wasn’t paying attention and slammed right into a light pole.”
“Love it,” said Gary, grinning and taking more notes.
Callie shot him a wary look but continued. “Now, I can barely move my neck,” she said, pretending to be in pain as she tried to turn her head.
“Fantastic,” said Gary. “I mean, terrible, really awful for you. Are you in a lot of pain?”
“A fair amount,” said Callie. “It’s worse at night.”
“Have you ever used a personal injury attorney before?”
“No.”
“Let me explain how I work, I—”
“Mr. Goodman, may I call you Gary?”
“Of course.”
“Before we go any further,” said Callie. “I’d like to ask you something.”
“Sure, what can I clarify for you?” said Gary. “Ask me anything.”
“What do you think is our biggest problem with Washington?”
“As in Seattle?” said Gary, chuckling. “That’s easy, too many coffee shops.”
“No, I meant Washington, D.C.,” said Callie, starting to lose hope.
“Oh, D.C.,” said Gary. “I dunno. Too much red tape.”
“What’s your favorite junk food?”
“What’s this got to do with me representing you,” said Gary, leaning forward.
“I’d like to get to know you before I start working with you.”
“Okay, truthfully, I’m a bit of a junkaholic.”
“Really,” said Callie, hope returning. “What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?”
Gary sat silently, pondering the question for an inordinately long time from Callie’s impatient perspective.
“Got a bit of a sweet tooth so I’d have to say Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Love ’em. How’s that?”
“How about something salty? Do you like Cheetos?”
“Nah.�
��
It’s not him. He’s definitely not the MM. “You know, I suddenly feel better,” said Callie, moving her neck around.
“Take it from me, the pain from these types of injuries comes and goes,” said Gary. “That’s normal but the main factor for us is that you do have pain. Right?”
“My neck isn’t even hurting much anymore,” said Callie as she unhooked her neck brace and rolled her head around in all sorts of gyrations.
“You’d better be careful,” said Gary, standing up. “You’ll make it worse.”
“It’s a miracle,” she said as she quickly got up. “I’m cured. I don’t think I’ll need a lawyer after all.” Before he could respond, she dashed out of his office.
Waiting out on the street corner, Jess nervously paced until she saw Callie coming towards her. “Why don’t you have your brace on?” she shouted while Callie crossed the street.
“Shhh. I can’t do this,” said Callie, shaking her head as she got closer. “It wasn’t him, anyway.”
“We’ll try another law firm.”
“Jess, there are thousands of personal injury attorneys in the New York area,” said Callie. “I’ll be at this until I’m eighty-five.”
The two walked silently down the street.
“I know what will cheer you up,” said Jess. “Let’s go to MoMA. Friday nights are free.” Callie stopped and smiled, awed by her friend’s kindness. She knew that Jess would have much preferred going makeup or shoe shopping but suggested the Museum of Modern Art to give Callie a lift.
“Thanks Jess,” said Callie, giving her friend a quick hug as the two walked off towards the museum.
21
May 2017
Still in his office at 8pm on an unusually warm spring night, Patrick waited for his evening appointment to arrive. For three months he had spent much of his free time hunting for the MW with little to show for his efforts. He decided he needed professional help and called a private investigation company that his law firm often used on personal injury cases.
The Fussy Virgin Page 7
