Love Creeps

by Amanda Filipacchi

  Perhaps there was another man who worked in the store. She had to make sure she found the right one, the one who had uttered her real name, and not jump to any conclusions. She turned around and found herself face-to-face with another man who was standing there, right behind her, wearing a dark blue apron and holding a vase. In one moment, she had absorbed his face, a feat that usually took her many hours.

  In a voice she recognized as the one that had uttered her real name in the bakery, he said, “May I help you?”

  The charm of his smile was almost painful.

  “What flowers do you recommend?” she asked.

  “For what occasion?” he asked.

  “For this occasion.”

  “What is this occasion?” he asked, innocently, but his smile was more playful.

  Since she could not possibly say, “The beginning of the rest of our lives,” she said instead, “My entering this store for the first time even though I’ve been working three doors down for six years.”

  “Oh, really?” he said. “Well, then, for this wonderful occasion, I would recommend …” and he looked around, his hand on his chin. “I would recommend creamy roses. How do you feel about creamy roses?”

  “Good.”

  He picked out the roses and wrapped them in silence, while she watched his every move. He handed them to her.

  “How much are they?” she asked.

  “It was nice to finally meet you,” he answered.

  “Yes, finally. How much?”

  “Very much.”

  “No, I mean, how much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “How about a coffee?”

  Before she could answer, the other man, who had been sitting in the corner, addressed the man of her life with, “Hey, what do you think of this?”

  The man of her life glanced back at the bouquet the other man had just finished composing, and gave him a thumbs-up. “Very elegant,” he said, before turning back to Lynn.

  Lynn stared at him, baffled, and murmured, “You keep saying my name.”

  “I do?” he asked, fascinated.

  “Yes, my real name.”

  He didn’t ask her what it was. He thought perhaps she meant it metaphorically.

  “I have to go,” she said, rushing out.

  “Shall we say six tomorrow?”

  But she was gone.

  That night, the nuts and the former bum had dinner. They still saw each other almost as frequently as ever. Now, instead of obsession, it was habit, grim mutual curiosity, and even a small degree of complicated friendship that drew them together.

  Lynn brought Patricia. Midway through the dinner, the others noticed Lynn hadn’t spoken much, so they asked her how she was doing.

  “I met the man of my dreams,” she replied.

  “Really?” Ray said.

  “Yes, he knows my name.”

  “So do we,” said Roland.

  “No you don’t. I have a secret name, a more real name.”

  “Won’t you tell us?”

  “It’s Airiella.”

  “And he uttered it?” gasped Alan.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s quite something,” said Ray.

  “What he uttered,” Patricia interjected, “was ‘scary elephant.’”

  “Same thing,” Lynn retorted.

  “Is it?” Roland said.

  “Yes,” Lynn replied, and enunciated, “sc—airiella—phant.”

  “Ah. A bit of a stretch,” said Roland.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Clearly not,” said Ray, annoyed that despite his expertise in matchmaking, he hadn’t been able to provide Lynn with her ideal man. “What about hairy electrician?”

  “What?”

  “H—airiella—ctrician,” Ray repeated.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “We’re just concerned,” said Roland. “What about primary element? Oops,” he added, clasping his hand over his mouth, “I just uttered your real name. Prime—airiella—ment. This must mean I, too, am the man of your dreams.”

  “Why are we trying to burst her bubble?” Alan said.

  “It’s not a bubble,” Lynn corrected. “It’s real. He also said, ‘Very elegant.’”

  “I hear it,” Alan said. “V—airiella—gant.”

  “Lord,” said Roland.

  “What is this nonsense, Lynn?” Ray said, as if talking indulgently to an unreasonable child. “We’ve just demonstrated to you that your secret name can be uttered very easily and very frequently by anyone.”

  “Perhaps,” Lynn said. “But I never heard it before. I only hear it when he utters it.”

  “And where did you get this secret name anyway?” Patricia asked Lynn.

  “I was at a fancy birthday party when I was around six, and a fairy told me to think of a secret name for myself and that one day I would recognize the man of my dreams because I would hear him utter my secret name.”

  “A fairy?” Roland asked.

  “Yeah, Miss Tuttle, the birthday party fairy.”

  “Miss Tuttle?” Alan asked, chills coursing through his body.

  “Yeah,” Lynn said.

  “Was she also a hairdresser?”

  “Yes. You knew her? She was from Cross, actually. Miss Ann Tuttle.”

  “You bet I knew her! Roland recently made me believe she was my childhood sexual abuser, but she was not,” Alan said, looking sternly at Roland. “I went to see her, and she had a mangofish in a fish tank in her house.”

  In a blasé tone, Roland said, “That fish is probably a cover-up, a fish she bought to appease men who, over the years, have knocked on her door to confront her about having abused them as boys.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Alan said. “I hope it’s true. I kind of regretted finding out I hadn’t been abused.”

  “You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Roland said.

  “No. Abusers are like garbage cans. You can toss all your crap into them.”

  “If you would like us to, I’m sure we could find someone to abuse you,” Roland said.

  “It’s too late. I’m not little anymore.”

  “You’re still pretty little.”

  “Alan, I’m sure Miss Tuttle didn’t abuse you,” Lynn said. “I’m sure that mangofish in her house was not a cover-up. Miss Tuttle the fairy is responsible for my finding the man of my life. She’s a wonderful person. I owe her, if not my life, then my happiness, and I am categorically certain that she would never harm a child. She is divine, and I mean that literally.”

  “Has anyone ever even heard of a mangofish?” Roland said. “I haven’t. Rest easy, my boy, you’ve been abused.” He patted Alan’s hand, and under the table he dropped a paper clip.

  The following day, at six, the man of Lynn’s life was already there when she walked in the café. He had called her at the gallery and told her where to meet him.

  He was sitting on a barstool at a high and little round table. He was not wearing an apron. She didn’t understand how she could have managed never to see him in the neighborhood, never to run into him on the street. He had sandy stubble around lovely full lips in whose lines a wonderful personality seemed evident. And his gestures were the furthest thing from superficial.

  She sat on a stool across from him, leaned over the table, and said, “I don’t care about hairy electrician or primary element.”

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  They laughed.

  Sixteen

  Lynn was secretly envied by Alan and Roland, who were yearning to find the same magic she had found.

  Roland, particularly, was on the lookout for an enchanting encounter. He kept waiting for it to happen, hoping it would, but nothing of the sort was happening to him. Until early one afternoon.

  He had just walked out of his usual restaurant after dropping a paper clip near the door. Outside, the day was cold and sad.

  He stood at the curb, wrapping his scarf
around his neck, looking left and right, searching for a taxi.

  He heard a female voice near him saying, “Usually there are more of them in the street at this time.”

  He looked at who had spoken. It was an attractive young woman standing next to him, alone. This was rather romantic, he thought. He told himself it was perhaps, even, as romantic as what had happened to Lynn. And it was happening to him, now, that mind-blowing romantic situation.

  “Yes,” he said. “Are you here every day?”

  She looked at him and asked, “What?” in a manner that seemed almost annoyed. He then noticed she had a black cord coming out of one ear. “What?” she asked him again. “I’m talking on the phone!”

  The traffic light changed, and she crossed the street with a youthful stride. He heard her fading voice say to her interlocutor, “Sorry, it was just another creep who thought I was talking to him or to myself like a madwoman.” And she laughed.

  Overcome with sadness, Roland could not move. He felt like a fool, and he felt old. Lynn’s sappy, silly story had gotten to him. Disgusted with himself, he clenched his fists in his pockets and remained standing there a long time.

  Just as he was finally about to cross the street, he heard a woman behind him say, “Excuse me?”

  He turned. A magnificent woman with black hair topped by a lock of white hair, somewhat resembling a skunk or Susan Sontag, stood there.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “You dropped something,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  Her hand came out of her pocket, holding a paper clip. “I wasn’t sure I should bother giving this back to you.”

  “Yes, you should.” He took the clip.

  “In that case,” she said, “perhaps you’d like the rest of your things.”

  He frowned. “What things?”

  “The things you’ve lost over time.” She pulled out of her handbag a plastic baggie filled with more of his droppings.

  “You must be mistaken,” he said, suddenly horribly embarrassed.

  “Yes, I probably am,” she said, replacing his droppings in her bag.

  He looked around, hoping to be comforted by the sight of something distracting during this awkward moment.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I come to this restaurant every day to have lunch and work at my laptop. I’ve seen you here very often, losing things. You’ve lost so much over time.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  She added, “I wonder why.”

  He thought about it, and for the first time the answer came to him. “To find something more precious.”

  Then, looking away, but holding his hand out to her, he said, “Can I have my things?”

  She reached into her bag and gave him his lost things. The package was too big to fit in his pocket, so he held it discreetly at his side, in as small a ball as he could make it.

  “I met my soulmate,” Roland told the others at a dinner reunion he had insisted upon, two weeks after their last one.

  “You did?” Ray asked.

  Alan flagged down a waiter and ordered a cocktail to get either flatteringly carded or drunk.

  “Do you have some identification?” the waiter asked.

  “I lost my driver’s license ages ago. Do you really think I could be twenty-one or younger?”

  “It’s possible,” the waiter said.

  “I’ll have a Virgin Mary,” Alan said, and turned to Roland. “You were telling us you met your soulmate.”

  “Yes. She had my things!” Roland said.

  “What things?” Ray asked.

  “The things I’ve been dropping for years.”

  “You’ve been dropping things?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kinds of things?” Alan asked.

  “Buttons, paper clips, pennies, movie stubs.”

  “How often?”

  “Every day. Many times a day.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever I happen to be. Usually as I leave a place.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Utterly.”

  “Littering?”

  “No, losing.”

  “Why?” they all asked at the same time.

  “In order to find something more precious.”

  “Like what, a woman who’ll pick up after you?” Lynn said.

  “No.”

  “Then what thing more precious?” Alan asked, holding his Virgin Mary. “What is this vague bullshit explanation?”

  “I don’t know,” Roland replied, sipping his white wine. “All I know is that I always go around with something to lose. I can’t stand having nothing to lose. I can never leave a place without leaving something behind, even if it’s just lint from my pocket. Otherwise, I experience discomfort. If you’ve got a better explanation, then tell me.”

  “Yes, I’ve got one,” Alan said. “You lose things. Hence, you’re a loser.”

  “I lose things on purpose.”

  “Well, then, you’re a double-duty loser.”

  “No,” Ray said. “The subconscious reason you were dropping things was to give anyone who wanted to meet you an excuse to. It was your way of reaching out to people. You wanted people to have access to you despite your cold facade.”

  “Maybe,” Roland replied. “But then why did I sometimes drop things where no one could approach me, like in the middle of the ocean?”

  “Dropping things had become a compulsive habit,” Ray said. “Since you weren’t exactly aware of why you were doing it, it’s logical that you would sometimes do it when it didn’t make sense. No?”

  “God, you should have been a therapist,” Lynn said, impressed.

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “But you said you were a locksmith!”

  “I lied. I was a psychologist.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Various reasons.”

  “How did you become homeless, if you were a psychologist?” Alan inquired.

  “I was a bad psychologist.”

  “Bad how?” Roland asked.

  “Oh …” Ray hesitated.

  “Did you analyze people poorly?” asked Lynn.

  “No …”

  “You gave bad advice?” Roland guessed.

  “No …”

  “Did you betray confidences?” he guessed again.

  “No …”

  “Then what?” asked Alan.

  “I asked too many questions.”

  They thought he was commenting on their interrogation of him. “Oh, come on, tell us!” said Lynn.

  Ray was confused. “I just told you. I asked my patients too many questions.”

  “But a therapist is supposed to ask a lot of questions!” Alan said.

  “Yes, a lot, but not too many. I asked too many. Too often.”

  “What do you mean, too often?”

  “I’d call them up every hour at home and ask for updates.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I was pretty good at analyzing behavior and giving advice. Roland, if you had told me sooner of your compulsive habit of dropping things, I could have helped you understand it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Roland replied. “If you had told us sooner that you were a therapist, I might have told you of my habit.”

  “It’s a good thing neither of you did,” Lynn said, “because if you had, Ray might have cured you of your compulsive habit, and prevented you from ever meeting your soulmate.”

  “Hey, Roland,” Alan said. “See, didn’t I tell you things would work out for you? I predicted you’d not only survive the ocean but probably also have a happy life. Just because you’re an asshole doesn’t mean you’ll ever suffer for it or be punished. And what about me? I’ve made a real effort to turn my life around and be a good person, and what do I get? I’m all alone and unhappy, and I’ll probably never meet anyone.”

  “Yeah, you might be right,” Roland said. “You make a convincing argument.”


  “I comforted you in the water. Why do you have to be so negative?”

  “I thought you were just being truthful back then. Now I’m just being truthful back—realistic,” Roland said. “It’s true that life’s unfair. I didn’t deserve to meet this amazing woman. I don’t really deserve to be happy. But she does. And I want to make her happy.”

  Alan was jealous of Lynn and Roland. He wanted to meet his soulmate, too. Now that Lynn and Roland had experienced the same magic, they probably expected it of him. He felt the pressure. And it was not agreeing with him.

  He told them that he was worried because he didn’t have a secret “real” name or a secret wacko habit that only his soulmate could recognize. So what was he supposed to do?

  Lynn replied, “You probably have one without realizing it. Everyone has secret quirks.”

  “Well I don’t! All my quirks are visible.”

  “Don’t worry, somehow it’ll happen,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.”

  He was afraid it would not happen, afraid he would be discontent forever. It wasn’t fair. It drove him crazy, this trend, this craze of soulmates popping up. He started acting erratically.

  He went around doing all sorts of weird takeoffs on what the two others had done. He invented various quirks for himself, and rituals, to see if his soulmate would recognize him. For example, he threw fistfuls of rose petals in the faces of women walking down the street, then watched for their reactions. When that didn’t work, he tried throwing Godiva chocolates up in the air and behind him while walking down crowded Fifth Avenue, and then he would turn around to see if a woman had been hit, or perhaps had even caught one, and seemed taken with him—his soulmate. But no. People were either brushing cocoa powder off themselves and looking annoyed, or looking at the ground in surprise where a chocolate truffle had landed. Since nothing good came of that plan, he engaged in his next one. He bought small diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and opals, and threw them lightly in women’s faces.

  He also considered walking around with his rat, holding it out to women like a soulmate detector, to see if any of them were charmed. But what was the point—if petals, chocolates, and precious stones hadn’t worked, why would a rat? So he persevered with the pelting.

  When Lynn, Roland, and Ray heard about what he was doing, they tried to explain to Alan that their own quirks were not manufactured.