Year of the Chick

by Romi Moondi

  As he finished up the last of his words, the immediate emotions set in: offended, shocked, and belittled.

  “Look, I might get carried away sometimes with the topics that bug me, but that’s because these topics bug me! I mean why do we e-mail every day, if we can’t tell each other how we feel? Or maybe it’s just YOU who never says how he feels. Or maybe you never feel the need to vent. Maybe your life is perfect.”

  “What do you know about my life?”

  Okay, wrong button…back it up!

  “I don’t know a lot, evidently, but I simply thought the progression of our contact was to meet. Was it wrong of me to think that?”

  I wiped away the tears that had formed from these honest words. It was starting to feel like a losing battle.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” he said. “But you have to pay attention to our lives. How different they are, the distance between us. Who knows if we’ll ever meet? That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like it, but you have to accept the possibility that…maybe we won’t.”

  It was the worst he could have possibly said.

  I took a deep breath and prepared myself to salvage this disaster of a chat. “James, we’ve been in touch almost every day for five months. This is not merely something that pen pals do. And suddenly you’re so distant. You just don’t sound like yourself.”

  “But that’s the point Roms; what am I supposed to sound like to you? What is your expectation of how I should be, when you haven’t even met me?”

  “Why are you saying these things? You sound like a stranger right now.”

  “You seem upset. Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk.”

  Now I was getting angry. Stop treating me like I’m a mental patient!

  “Listen,” I said with my teeth fully clenched. “All I’m saying is there has to be some forward movement here…or it’s pretty unhealthy to continue.”

  Did I really just say that?

  “Continue what? We haven’t started anything.”

  He did not just say that, did he? DID HE?

  “But…” I started. I couldn’t finish as he interrupted quickly.

  “I’m sorry but I can’t make promises to someone I haven’t met. In fact I never make promises period, not for a long time now. I wouldn’t want you doing anything you think is unhealthy. So if this contact doesn’t work for you, maybe it needs to stop.”

  And then, after five great months of communication, the longest silence deafened us with crippling force.

  “I have to go now,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but it didn’t matter anyway. He had already hung up.

  I gave myself ten minutes to cry it all out. Ten good minutes for some raw emotion, and then I’d go home and walk through the door like nothing had happened.

  The emotionless cardboard cut-out Indian daughter…

  Chapter Nineteen

  That night when I arrived home, I went through the motions as required. Greet the parents, feed the cat, make a salad, set the table.

  No one had a clue that my heart was on the edge of being crushed to smithereens. The hardest part was trying to eat a full dinner. Food seemed irrelevant tonight, and I didn’t want to let it in. My mother suspected I was ill, which was perfect since it gave me an excuse to leave the table.

  So I went to my room and fell asleep by nine o’ clock.

  No phone calls, no e-mails, no nothing.

  ***

  I didn’t even wait for my alarm the next morning. It was five a.m. and I was up, already switching on my laptop.

  A minute later I saw his name in my inbox.

  ----------------------------------

  Hello Romi.

  Last night’s conversation seemed intense. I hope you’re feeling a bit better, you seemed a bit tightly wound.

  J

  ----------------------------------

  Wow.

  So nothing had changed at all. Is this how it was with guys? In one ear, and right out their butt-hole?

  I didn’t even know what I would say, but I wasn’t quite ready to deal with him yet. First I had to deal with an e-mail to my boss. Sick Day here I come…

  ***

  I groaned into consciousness at noon. I vaguely recalled muttering the words “I’m siccckkk” to my mother at a certain point, but other than that I’d been sleeping on and off the whole time. It was a new and lazy first.

  I still didn’t know what to write to this emotionally-challenged block-head. He who had never seemed emotionally-challenged before.

  I switched sides on the pillow, my symbolic way of considering his perspective. Okay, so maybe the arranged-marriage mentions with him as my saviour were a little bit much, but they hadn’t been entirely serious. And if it seemed like they were serious, well he could talk to me about it. I’m not a psycho man-trap in actual life! And shouldn’t he have already known I wasn’t a psycho by now? Maybe it was time for my blunt response.

  Stand-by for the hate-mail reply.

  -------------------------------------

  Hey James,

  I just woke up now because I didn’t go to work. I don’t feel well today.

  Not really sure what else to say…

  Romi

  -------------------------------------

  It wasn’t even “hate mail” really. It was “logic mail,” and how could you fight with logic?

  I crawled out of bed to begin my day, and I could sense it was going to be a crazy one.

  ***

  A half an hour later I was back in bed with a steaming cup of tea. And waiting there for me, almost like a ticking time bomb was his next response.

  ----------------------------------

  Romi,

  Just so we are clear on this, I never signed a contract that said I would visit and when. It was a nice idea back in July and that was it. Quite frankly I regret ever having mentioned it.

  If you ask me - and let’s face it you have done that often enough in the past - it’s high time you stopped playing the victim so well. You are in a crappy job you don’t like and have parents that can’t accept you have grown up. It seems your greatest creative talent is complaining about the two.

  You have great potential as a writer. Tear the walls down and start living your life.

  James

  ----------------------------------

  The first part of his note made me furious. The second part made me think. But a couple of minutes later, the second part made me furious too. Of course it was easy if you grew up in England and your parents had no rules and you conveniently had all of Europe at your doorstep. But had he ever walked a mile in Romi’s damn shoes?

  Apparently not.

  Fine, end this shit.

  -------------------------------------

  Hey James,

  I’m not sure what to tell you.

  I guess I got it all wrong. That’s all I can think of right now.

  Romi

  ----------------------------------

  Even as I told myself it was “closure,” there was a sprinkle of hope in that final e-mail. I wanted him to tell me that I hadn’t misunderstood after all.

  But he didn’t tell me that, or anything at all that day. Which could only mean the end of this Internet chapter in my life…

  Chapter Twenty

  Starting over.

  From scratch.

  With no more ocean of conflict.

  To my surprise, I was mildly excited. The idea of searching for someone, where I wouldn’t be restricted to the Internet and the telephone? Hadn’t that been my goal all along? To find a three-dimensional man?

  Then again, how sad was it to know that I’d never meet the man behind the Internet legend? The man who made me so much more of a writer, and the man whose pictures I was skimming through again, even though it was eleven days and counting since the “break up.”

  Sunday night and nothing t
o do but pine.

  I zoomed in and out of the pictures I had saved in my special “James” folder. This folder contained all the very best shots of James, but in case anybody should ever get a hold of my laptop, I’d labeled it as “Q3 ‘11 Results Analysis.”

  It hadn’t been hard to compile all these photos, as I’d copied and saved them from Facebook. I’d refrained from telling any of my friends I’d done this, but deep in my heart I knew it wasn’t crazy at all. He did give me access to his profile after all.

  Depending on the quality of the picture, if I zoomed in enough his face on the screen was practically life-sized. Which meant that if I raised my laptop to eye level, it was almost like he was sitting right in front of me.

  Oh my god...what have I become?!

  I set down the laptop in disgust, whilst suddenly feeling sweaty in this otherwise airy T-shirt. And much like my friends who had felt this way already, I was starting to worry for my sanity.

  I need to forget that face!

  It was only a two-dimensional face after all, how hard could it be to forget a flat face?

  I selected the folder and hit “Delete.”

  But it wasn’t so easy.

  “Are you sure you want to remove the folder “Q3 ‘11 Results Analysis” and move all its contents to the Recycle Bin?”

  Why did my laptop always have to be so specific? Couldn’t it make its own decision just this once?

  I hit “No” and decided to delete the pictures one by one.

  Baby steps.

  Much to my surprise, the beach pictures weren’t the hardest to delete. But the close-up shots, where he was staring right into the camera? Those were the heartbreakers.

  DELETE.

  Before I could even hesitate, I also deleted all the pictures from the “Recycle Bin.”

  In reality, this exercise wasn’t as sad or as liberating as I’d imagined. Maybe it was because all the pictures I’d lost to oblivion, were not really lost at all. They could be easily accessed again through the powers of Facebook.

  But had I ever really claimed that I was ready to move on for good?

  Baby steps…

  ***

  ----------------------------------

  Subject: Coffee Break? My treat...

  Location: The Usual

  Time: 9:30am

  ----------------------------------

  I made it official to Eleanor with a meeting request. I always felt like it was harder to “decline” or ignore a meeting request than it was to dismiss an e-mail. Besides, I’d had enough of being “declined” lately.

  A minute before the meeting time she accepted, and that’s how my apology to Eleanor began...

  ***

  “So...I’m a dick.” I took a big sip of my toffee-nut latte and looked at her for acknowledgement. Yes, I was having a latte, and I didn’t care if it was two hundred calories. Not today.

  “Oh yeah?” Eleanor sniffed at the soy-vanilla latte I’d bought her. To take the first sip was just like accepting the olive branch. So a sniff meant she wasn’t quite there yet. Plus she looked kind of scary in her bright red v-neck sweater.

  “I won’t trouble you with the ‘excuses’ version, so...you did nothing wrong by setting me up with Arjun. Sorry by the way, if he thinks I’m a cold bitch.” I crossed then uncrossed my legs, not really liking how the corduroy rubbed between my thighs.

  Eleanor raised the latte to her lips, and then lowered it back to the table. Dammit, so close to an accepting sip! “That’s right, you don’t have to give me the excuses version, but I’m still kind of curious. WHAT was going on in your head that night? Were you drunk? Were you having a mental breakdown? I’ve never seen you like that before.”

  I really had to think about this one. Why did I fall off the sane-train?

  I pulled at the collar of my big black turtleneck sweater. It was the sweater I wore when I wanted to hide from the world. But even this sweater couldn’t hide me from the truth.

  “Well...maybe ten percent drunk and ten percent mentally unstable.”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “And what about the other eighty percent?”

  I considered the truth and let out a sigh. “Let’s just say I was still pretty consumed with what I’d witnessed at my house. You know, that awful showcase of a supposedly perfect Indian guy who’s a stranger, but perfect nonetheless because of stats on a page.” I rolled up my sleeves as I could feel myself getting fired up. “Meanwhile spending five months communicating with a virtual stranger? Well he sure didn’t feel like a stranger to me. I actually became attached to him. To James.” I couldn’t help but cringe when I said his name.

  Note to self: replace his name with “Internet freak-boy.” It will ease the pain.

  It looked like Eleanor was waiting for more so I continued. “What was I saying? Oh right, I was totally attached, and there were future expectations in this ‘attachment.’ But apparently I imagined it all. Because I’m just a crazy freak from the Internet.”

  Eleanor simply stared.

  “So yeah,” I concluded, “that was the other eighty percent.”

  I looked up at Eleanor again, and all she could say was “Huh?”

  We both started laughing at once. It was my first big laugh since the very real break-up of my fake-ass relationship.

  And the cherry on top? Eleanor took a nice long sip of her latte.

  I was relieved, but also pretty sick of “just getting by” on my friendships. I could do a little better than this rambling barrage.

  “IN OTHER WORDS,” I added, “my stupid brain lumped you in with my parents, also known as the ‘arrangers.’ It’s just that in our world, no one takes the time to accurately analyze behaviour. The personality profiles are so dry. Like if you’re a parent, you have three jobs: make sure your kids don’t become slutty druggies, make sure they study all day and get good jobs, and make sure you get them married off.” I frowned at this trifecta that defined my existence. “And if you happen to be this ‘project work’ offspring, you don’t need to have a personality either. You simply have to meet the criteria mentioned above. It doesn’t matter how you get there, what your feelings are, what makes you laugh, what sort of things make your soul dance, you just have to be: pure, free of drugs, free of booze, smart, and eager for marriage.”

  I cleared my throat for the finish. “Therefore, you immediately resembled the ‘parental profile’ when you brought me to Arjun. In reality of course it was nothing like that. We weren’t at my house having tea with his family, we were at a bar!” I laughed as I realized how ridiculous it all sounded now.

  “But despite the obvious normalcy of the event,” I continued, “I took one look at him, listened as you told me how we’d get along great, and I snapped.” I sighed.

  “The worst part is,” I concluded, “I didn’t even come to my senses until now. Which is why you’re still allowed to hate me.” I lowered my head in shame.

  Eleanor punched me in the arm. “I don’t hate you! But I have to say...James really did a number on you. Or actually, I think you did a number on yourself. I mean you can’t let a guy take over your sanity. Because I know you, and most of the time...you ARE a sane person!”

  I felt enlightened for agreeing with her, but dumb for how I’d acted during much of the “James trance.”

  “So now what?” I asked. I was really at a loss this time, sitting in the middle of this hollow existence.

  Eleanor clasped her hands together and smiled. “Well for a little while at least, you’re going to let ME run your life!”

  It’s not like Eleanor could mess up my life any more than I already had.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I hope you understand what that means though. Like when I tell you to go for a run, smile at a cute guy, and delete Sir James off of Facebook, you’re going to do it, right?”

  I shook my head in disagreement. “Two out of three dude. I am NOT deleting him from Facebook.”

  �
�But why?” I could see some irritation creep across Eleanor’s face.

  Because I miss him, and I want to keep tabs on his “relationship status.”

  No, wrong answer.

  “If I delete him, it’ll be like he won. Like he’s sooo amazing that I can’t even handle his presence, because I’m just wayyy too distraught.” I rolled my eyes. “And besides, maybe you can put up some pictures from our next hot night out. Not that I’m trying to make him jealous, but you know, it never hurts.”

  “Oh, okay.” She nodded. “That totally makes sense.”

  The more I thought about James in my conversational attempts to forget him, the more I knew I’d be stalking his Facebook profile before I went to bed.

  I mean no, I will NOT be doing that. Okay good.

  With the internal battle of crazy vs. super-crazy settled (for now), I focused my attention on the most deserved topic of our reconciliation.

  “But enough about me El. Tell me what’s new in YOUR life.” I leaned back in my chair to relax as she filled me in, and for the first time in a very long time, I really, really wanted to know.

  ***

  I stumbled through the door with a pair of sore legs, an aching back, and arms that felt like spaghetti.

  Best gym session EVER.

  It was my first time working out for an extra half hour and I was proud. Of course, any progress I’d made in this entire week would be more than cancelled out by tonight’s Thanksgiving dinner.

  I rinsed my water bottle in the kitchen sink, making sure to peek into the oven at the two roasting chickens glistening with glaze. Or chicken sweat, or whatever that was. Mmmm...

  “Are you going to make the potatoes?” asked my mother who was busy washing dishes.

  I rolled my eyes. “Let me shower first.”

  Legs still sore, I managed to climb up the stairs and straight to the shower.

  As the hot water started to drench me with its constant pressure, the moment I’d been dreading arrived. The “James flashbacks.” The worst part was, they weren’t even flashbacks, since none of the events had ever happened. They were more like “would’ve been, but won’t ever be” flash forwards: first smile, first handshake, first laugh. Next fifty laughs. First hand-hold. Another ten laughs. First hug. A build-up of nervous anticipation. First kiss...