Confessions of a Librarian

by Barbara Foster

  Johnny glared as though I’d asked him to get a crew cut. “Neither of them met the high standard of beauty I require. No charm or personality either. By the time Stella, came along, I’d almost given up.”

  “Compatibility counts too, right?” I tried to sound sensible.

  “It’s secondary to a killer face and bod. Anyway, I’m outta’ here!”

  Johnny stood up to check his cell phone messages. Melodramatic, he wrapped himself in a black-hooded, handmade flannel cloak from Paris. Before disappearing into the rainy night, on a prophetic note, he cautioned: “Remember what the Chinese say: ‘The future is only a shadow of the past.’” No doubt, in the quiet of his apartment, Johnny would indulge one of his favorite wee hours pastimes: sniffing Stella’s panties.

  Three weeks later Johnny phoned me. “ Every day, I sleep till noon. I’m exhausted,” he yawned.

  “You never called to get the lowdown on my date. Some friend you are! Can you come over tomorrow afternoon?”

  When Johnny flounced in, glad to see him, I kissed his cheek. Whew, I reeled backwards. His perfume, which smelled like dead leaves, activated my allergy. My itchy eyes contemplated an exotic flower grown in Brooklyn who, on vacations, transplanted himself to Paris.

  “Just came from Pilates class,” he said, throwing down a big gym bag. “I’m the only man there. Who can concentrate? One doll especially, name’s Milly, gorgeous. She’s a flower I’d like to drag in the mud.” Johnny pursed his lips as though in the throes of kissing his fantasy goddess.

  “So ask her out,” I suggested. Impatient to share the particulars of my own adventure, I squirmed. Our familiarity allowed me to tell Johnny things that might offend female friends. Most were scornful of dating via the Internet.

  “She made up a fiancé in Cobble Hill,” scoffed Johnny. “Sure, and I believe in the tooth fairy! American women are so monochromatic. They want a tall, corporate guy, a good provider who loves children and dogs. That opens their legs right away. Boring!” Johnny slammed down a paperweight resting on an end table.

  “Now who’s complaining? Where’s your positive attitude? Maybe next time... .” I sung a few cheerful bars from a popular song. Patting Johnny on the shoulder, his body remained as rigid as a toy soldier. “Ready for my story?” I asked, bursting to share the particulars.

  “If it went well, I don’t think you’d be summoning your Craigslist consultant so urgently. Something happened, right?”

  “Wine?” I inquired. When Johnny nodded his head, I changed my mind about the offer. He might start out a ruddy Bacchus, but before long he became sleepy and maudlin.

  “Sorry, none left.” I handed him an ice-cold Diet Coke. The caffeine would keep him on the mark. These days his conversation ran round and round the mulberry bush, and his temper flared up.

  “Time to watch the Sex and the City I brought along.” Johnny brandished the tapes as though to put them in my VCR. “Watch Carrie Bradshaw for pointers on how to handle men.”

  “At her age prospects abound. At mine older men are sour pickles who expect you to pay half.”

  “Age, age, age,” scoffed Johnny. “My mother died at ninety-two with beautiful, translucent skin. Luckily, I take after her, no need for nips and tucks.” A mischievous grin emphasized angry lines on the sides of Johnny’s mouth.

  Easing himself into my most comfortable armchair, he threw a dress in need of mending, a pair of new sandals, and a library book on the floor. As he slipped his feet out of bright yellow Moroccan babouche, I noticed his toenails were polished a glowing fuschia color. Before Johnny digressed again, I brought the subject around to my date with George.

  “Picture me walking into Starbucks expecting to find yet another freak—like the horsey guy who wanted me bare-breasted in skin-tight riding breeches, and spurs yet.”

  “Raunch on the range,” Johnny whinnied. Feet bare, he awkwardly cantered around me.

  “C’mon, hear the rest,” I insisted. “Surprise, George’s photo was accurate: brown hair, some gold still left, a toned body, no slouch at conversation. In the neighborhood of fifty. His grey suit fit as though it were hand-tailored.”

  “Well, what then?” Johnny clapped his hands to speed me up. Sipping the Coke, he tied his hair back with a band.

  “We hurried out of Starbucks, over to Cafe Loup for dinner and drinks. From a flower vendor, George bought a dozen yellow roses, kissed one, then presented them to me. As we strolled along I wondered if George had a nice, accessible apartment, or if he had a roommate. I hesitated to ask. Our French dinner consisted of several spectacular courses. The crab quiche was divine.”

  “That restaurant’s no dump. Stella and me used to eat lunch there after her Botox treatments. She had crème brulee for desert and never gained a pound.”

  Since I had Johnny’s attention, I finished the story. “George pondered over the wine list, then chose a Shiraz that perfectly complimented our dinner. Sipping our drinks, we burst into song like Rodolfo and Mimi in La Boheme.”

  “Sure beats the other weirdos you met on Craigslist.” Johnny clucked his tongue in sympathy. Briefly I caught a glimpse of my former, caring friend. “Okay, continue,” he urged. “ But don’t play the King and Scheherazade with me! I’m not going to hang on for one-hundred-and-one nights till you get to the punch line. There’s gotta be some twist, or I don’t know Belladonna, my favorite academic floozy.”

  “We talked till the restaurant was about to close. About the complicated dishes George loves to cook, about his relatives scattered all over Ireland, including a ninety-year-old uncle who rides a bike and drinks Guinness for breakfast. Words tumbled out and we kept interrupting each other. Out of the blue, he asked, ‘What do you suppose I like best about you, Bella?’ I expected him to say my hair, and I checked my curls to see they were not too frizzy. Instead, George said it was my openness to adventure, which was unusual in a mature woman. Next summer, he suggested, we could tour Ireland on horseback. His relatives would welcome us.”

  “So,” demanded Johnny, “the punch line already!”

  Recalling that moment, I had forgot about my allergy to horses and the minor back problem that would make bouncing along in the Irish countryside sheer agony. “Darling,” George murmured, “there’s only one impediment.” He stood up and paced back and forth. “It’s far from insurmountable. Naturally, that’s up to you.”

  “WHAT IS IT?” Johnny pounded the cushion he sat on.

  “George said he should have been frank with me sooner, but he didn’t want to spoil things. He asked me if I knew anything about bone marrow transplant surgery!” Johnny blinked as I continued, “‘Five years later, I’m still alive,’ George said. ‘All the other cases are dead.’”

  “Following his doctor’s diet had helped George, but mainly it was his ferocious constitution. He pounded his muscular chest to make the point. Then he started in on grizzly details, like: ‘The bone marrow must be fresh. They rushed it to me from a donor in Connecticut who’d just died in an auto accident.’ Johnny, I thought I would black out.”

  For once Johnny had nothing to say. I relived in my mind the final moments George and I spent together. Very pale, George had asked me, “Are you repelled like other lightweights from Craigslist? My chances are good, the worst is over. Say something, Bella. There’s so much we could do together, if you’re understanding and compassionate.”

  George’s heavenly eyes pleaded for understanding, while visions of black bone marrow from his body splattering on the floor made me dizzy.

  “Johnny, how can I live with such fear and uncertainty? George told me to think things over, and if I was ready for a sincere lover to call him. Before leaving, he whispered that he’d be waiting.” I trembled as I told Johnny this part.

  When Johnny shook his head without uttering a sound, I burst out: “Stop gaping at me. Say something! Do you care about me at all? Should I call George, try to explain?” I was almost sobbing.

  In the past, Johnny had helped me t
hrough several mini-crises. Now he examined his fingernails from different angles to check that his manicurist had done a proper job. I could see his concentration had drifted. Too much talk about me, not enough about him.

  Nevertheless, I continued: “I’m bored with creeps on Craigslist, their putrid conversation. If I were a dinner whore, it would make some sense. At the college library, I worked with disabled students. I started a special program for them. Now I’m caught up in a pursuit so trivial I’m embarrassed to talk about it. Next, next, next, the ferris wheel of fake romance never stops!” I raised my fists but suppressed the urge to pound Johnny for being so insensitive, for ridiculing me on the slightest pretext.

  “Enough, Bella, stop raving like Medea about to slay her kids. Why be a mope? C’mon chickadee, we’re taking a mini-grand tour in Stella’s footsteps.” Johnny frowned at my flat-heeled shoes. “Stilettos, puleeze! Would you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a pair stashed near him, slipped them on my feet and rushed me out the door.

  “My treat,” announced Johnny. “No schlepping on the subway. It’s a cab all the way for us. Grousing is forbidden, promise.” He placed his fingers over my lips to seal them. When I agreed, he stuck both thumbs up.

  Straightaway we found a taxi, which sped uptown. As we drove, I fidgeted and said, “Above Fourteenth Street, I may get a nosebleed. I’m a real Greenwich Village gal.”

  “Don’t give your tour guide any lip.” Johnny poked me in the side. “Think feet! Jimmy Choo’s or Bloomingdales?” he wondered aloud.

  “Shoes from Jimmy Choo’s can cost a thousand dollars, I’ve heard. Somebody you don’t know, Tiffany, bought a pony skin handbag there.”

  “Foot candy for the well-heeled,” he quipped. “Today, let’s do a favorite of Stella’s, Bloomies.”

  At Bloomingdales, we rode the escalator to designer shoes on the fourth floor. Suddenly alert like a beagle on a hunting trip, Johnny sniffed around to detect if Stella was nearby. It struck me then how much he missed her. He once said he would sacrifice a kidney to have her back. Did his face ache as he made a rare effort to smile?

  “Stella loathed flats,” he explained. “I loved it when she wore red stilettos in bed. Ouch!” Johnny grabbed his side as though pierced by a pointed heel. The elegant saleswoman—a Nicole Kidman look-alike—scowled at Johnny’s unkempt hair and his Moroccan shoes, which made his feet appear enormous.

  “Hey, your shoe therapy is a great idea! Those rhinestone studded slingbacks by Oscar de La Renta are gorgeous. Maybe I should try them on.”

  I reached out to examine the pair on display, while Johnny barked: “Stella’s pretty little feet are a size five and so elegant with a high arch.” He was frowning at my size eight. Indifferent to the other customers waving shoes to attract the salesperson’s attention, Johnny lapsed into a reverie:

  “I’d buzz around her like a bee about to pollinate a flower. Licking, tickling and sucking her toesies all night. If I behaved, she’d let me paint her toenails different colors with Dior polish.”

  Hurrying away from Johnny’s recollection of bliss, pretending not to know him, I hunched over in a chair. Next thing I knew, he tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Let’s decamp. It’s dinner time, Bubeleh.” Johnny’s silly mood infected me. We roared at nonsensical things and skipped while holding hands like teenagers on a date. Rush hour, it took maneuvering to find a cab. As I bent over to climb in, Johnny goosed me. While he listened to music on his iPod, he hummed and laughed to himself.

  Jefferson Market Library, a familiar West Village landmark, came into view. We walked a block and Johnny pointed to a high-rise building with a uniformed doorman outside. “There, on the tenth floor, that’s Stella’s apartment.”

  Johnny, as though he wanted to fly up like a bird, gazed longingly at Stella’s windows. Since she lived not far from me, I wondered why he had never introduced us. But I forgot the matter when, a couple blocks away, we descended the stairs of a townhouse to enter a softly lit Spanish bar-restaurant in the basement. How could I have missed this gem, which reminded me of a cafe I used to frequent in Sevilla.

  A waiter Johnny knew showed us to a semi-private booth upstairs on the balcony. None of the casually dressed customers reacted to his outlandish appearance.

  “Each Wednesday after Stella’s Reiki treatment, we’d sit at this table. Here, glance at the menu.” Before I could choose among the tapas listed, Johnny decided for me.

  “Order the Philadelphia truffle surprise, fried goat cheese with lavender honey, the bacon arancini with quail eggs...”

  “Bacon makes me sick.”

  As I scanned the menu, Johnny snapped, “Stella knew exactly what to order. She never dilly-dallied, or worried about her weight.” Without consulting me, Johnny ordered Moroccan spiced cashews, smoked eggplant, caramelized cauliflower, plus a pitcher of sangria listed as extra dulce. As he reminisced about the incomparable Stella, he fed me tidbits from each dish.

  “Superb! I’m drifting into food Nirvana,” I said. Suddenly, I regretted not sharing this spread with a lover of my own who would not compare me to a phantom.

  “Finish up,” urged Johnny. “We have just one more stop, in walking distance.” He paid the bill, adding a generous tip. We sauntered a few blocks downtown to wind up before the Pleasure Chest—a boutique selling sexual paraphernalia.

  “That kinky stuff’s not my thing.”

  “You’re so vanilla,” teased Johnny. “Bet you still wear old-fashioned, granny underpants. A thong would improve your sex life tremendously. Stella owns a drawer full.” Still a bit tipsy from the sangria, I imagined Johnny buried under a mountain of Stella’s unwashed thongs, sniffing them like a narcotic. Inside the store, Johnny filled up a basket with videos, postcards, and Kama Sutra massage oils. Then he dragged me over to a counter loaded with vibrators.

  “This baby gives the clit a twist and shake, makes the vagina see stars big time. Till the real thing comes along, give it a whirl.” Before I could refuse, Johnny had the salesperson wrap a pink vibrator along with complete directions. Rather than argue, I accepted the gift. Outside the Pleasure Chest, Johnny grabbed my hands as though he never wanted to let go. The warmth radiating from his eyes threw me off balance.

  “I’m fabulous.” Johnny put his hand over his heart. “You’re fabulous too, get it? Almost as fabulous as Stella.” Reeling from this unexpected compliment, I laughed to cover my confusion. Kiss and kick, typical Johnny, I decided. So what! His tour had been healing, transformative.

  Now I wanted to move on without the distractions of Craigslist. No more posting or answering ads from bottom feeders with hidden agendas, or dopes looking for full-figured “hotties.” Meanwhile images of George disturbed me at odd moments: His boyish smile marred by an endearing broken front tooth, blue-green eyes the same color, I suspected, as the lakes of Ireland.

  I left a couple of messages on Johnny’s answering machine, but he didn’t call back. Had his hairdresser cut his sideburns too short, a major catastrophe that would have sent him into hibernation until they grew back? Puzzled, about to call him again, the phone rang. Johnny’s unexpected announcement almost made me spit out the muffin I was chewing.

  “Listen, Bella, an aunt I barely know died and left me a bundle of money.”

  “Okay, now we’ll have time to hang out. You won’t have to work at those jobs that keep firing you. Maybe you can paint again like you used to.”

  “In a Paris garret, maybe. Not in New York,” roared Johnny. “I’ve decided to live my dream. My second home’s going to become my first. I’m a foreigner in my neighborhood anyhow. It’s infested with angry women whose metallic voices give me indigestion. At night they prowl in packs from club to club.”

  “What about your sister Margaret in New Jersey? Her baby, Andrea?” I floundered around for any excuse to discourage Johnny from leaving.

  “Since Mom died, we’re strangers. In New York I’ll never find a lover. Women here are obses
sed with looks and clothes. One glance at me and they run for the hills.”

  Frustrated, I burst out, “The French have bad teeth. And the women don’t shave under their arms.”

  “Stale canards,” hissed Johnny. “Americans belittle the French because their innate elegance makes them uncomfortable. In Montparnasse, there’s a small hotel above a cafe crowded with artists who always invite me to drink with them. The waiters know my name and the kind of wine I drink. The money from my aunt will buy plenty of Euros.”

  “Won’t you miss the hip East Village, those summer nights we sit in Tompkins Square Park to watch the tattooed and pierced amble by?” Sensing the battle was lost, I nipped at Johnny’s flanks. That he would abandon me refused to sink in.

  “Phooey, all the colorful types left the Park after Allen Ginsberg died.” Johnny made a sound as though about to retch. “My neighborhoods’ ultra-NYUified. Soon the Upper East Side will have more atmosphere.”

  Although Johnny was a tower of narcissism, I would miss him desperately. Similar tastes made him an ideal platonic companion for events around the City. No matter the late hour, he always escorted me to my door. After he hung up, I saw a vision of Johnny running into Tiffany on a Parisian boulevard! She would be wearing colored Jean Paul Gaultier glasses to match her outfit. Perhaps she would become his dream partner. Enviously, I pictured them enjoying drinks and dinner at a quaint bistro. Up to now they had never met. All they had in common was an obsessive devotion to their quirky selves.

  Obtaining practical information on Paris kept Johnny busy. He swore that, once he’d rented an apartment, we would rendezvous at his favorite cafe to catch up. Skeptical, I wondered if we would ever see each other again. Johnny’s departure sent me into a tailspin that lasted several weeks. I sat on the couch watching reruns of Sex and the City. The vibrator Johnny had bought me gathered dust. Mechanical contraptions were a pitiful substitute. This floozy—a cannibal with academic trappings—lusted after real flesh.