A Coin Toss · Part 1

A Coin Toss · Part 1 (1/2)
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I sat before the computer monitor transfixed until the message of the screen saver scrolled across the display. Vague and general in a Chinese fortune cookie way, applying to everyone and no one simultaneously. One quote covers all: Today is the first day of the rest of my life. How pathetic I thought rereading the line. What was my mindset when I added the tired adage? To stop dwelling on the past, grab a hold of the present and embrace the future? It was to have served as a persistent reminder that life is for participants, not spectators. I had hardly heeded the advice.

It was half past three on Friday. The last half workday of the summer and I sit at my PC passing time. A half day of school in my childhood became hours of extra play; seemingly the sun dared not approach the horizon so long as I remained in perpetual motion. And here in the latter stages of my middle age, (not yet a crisis but nudging close) I had lost my thirst. I had become a spectator and the most depressing of sorts—I no longer missed participating.

I avoided the southern onslaught of beach lovers crawling bumper to bumper on the Garden State Parkway, filling the treasury coffers of New Jersey thirty-five cents at a time. Hell, I could simply stay home this weekend, be just as frustrated and still have some money in my wallet come Monday morning. Forget the half full/half empty argument, the damn drinking glass was dirty, cracked and wasn’t glass at all but some plastic derivative.

Earlier, I had dropped into an Internet chat room and had become a statue. Offering no opinions, adding nothing to the discussions, listening with a jaded ear. The chat room was filled to capacity and certainly my presence there precluded someone with precious little to say and an unquenchable willingness to voice it over and over from entering. It had been months since I dropped by this particular room but like daytime soap operas, it appeared I’d missed only a sentence or two. Spelled out clearly or in its acronym form, a chat room title painted its occupants with a collective mindset.

Their individual profiles may beg otherwise but if they were there longer than forty seconds, they either belonged or at minimum had a closet interest. The rules of checkers applied—entry into a chat room wasn’t final until the finger came off the checker or in this case the mouse. Some of the screen names seemed vaguely familiar but most tended to be variations on a theme—some clever, many less than.

An instant message popped onto the screen from someone named Goldie. It read, “If you’re half as intriguing as your profile, you’re twice as interesting as anyone in that room.” It was eye catching by online’s marginal standards—a good opening line. The screen name wasn’t familiar and emanated from outside the chat room. As was my custom I checked the profile before responding. Like that was some set of standards.

“Not everything one reads is truthful,” I typed.

“Very little is. Yours?”

“If I said yes, would you buy it.”

“I tend to allow enough slack for someone to hang themselves.”

“It’s true.”

“Good, I’d hate to be disappointed.”

Disappointed? She must be new to online. It was disappointment delivered at cyber speed. The level of disenchantment it took our parents a lifetime to amass we experienced in seconds. Surely technology had dangled promise along with its drawbacks. I saved the entire private conversation for later review. Typed words minus vocal inflection, body language and nuance begged misinterpretation. I know having found myself on the embarrassing end of a few conversations. So explained the several months absence.

Three hours of typed conversation that flowed like minutes. I was delightful online, wittier and more engaging than I’d ever been at work, at dinner or a bar. As if I didn’t have enough to fret over, I now worried whether the flesh and bones me could rise to the online version. My doubts had doubts. I knew how Walter Mitty felt. We shared conversation too intimate to be discussed in person. Things we wouldn’t share with a psychiatrist or therapist, with a drunken best friend or a lawyer and certainly not our clergyman. Shared with the safety of anonymity. And yet that anonymity was to be short lived as we selected a meeting place and time.

Was I being set up? Could she be a co-worker with suspicions? An inkling of a darker side, perhaps one she shared. I didn’t need to find a new job during tough economic times, didn’t want to find a new set of unsuspecting friends or neighborhood. Would I be exposed during a work softball game? At the company picnic? Had I given off signals? Was anyone at work that intuitive? Did I offer in jest what someone misread as an invitation? Was she in fact a she? That was a sobering thought. Why hadn’t I gone to the shore? I needed sleep. I needed a shrink. I needed my anonymity back. I had provided my cell phone number in case of any changes. Goldie stated there would be none—no need for calls. I turned on the Yankees game and zoned out only to wake up to Saturday morning cartoons—Sponge Bob. Things were simpler in Bob’s underwater world.

The rendezvous—yes that was the apropos description—was set for later this evening. A mere twenty-four hours since our paths first crossed. Anecdotal experience shared by friends indicated most onliners sought to delay face-to-face contact. Those not afforded good looks postponed meeting; needing time to achieve a comfort zone. Strangers could be ugly and friends were rarely rated. The first Volkswagen Beetle that rolled off the assembly line wasn’t beautiful. It took years for it to achieve beloved status. Some of the flesh and blood variety personally clung to that same hope.

In cyber space anyone could be Cindy Crawford or Brad Pitt, Sartre or Gandhi. It is when the realms of fantasy and reality collided that disappointment or worse occurred. Hearts were broken, egos deflated, frustrations that seemed to forever compound. * * *

Goldie (I still haven’t determined if it’s her real name) selected the restaurant. She had the home field advantage. Why did I always assimilate situations into sports metaphors? Why were the battles always perceived as epic? She opted for an intimate Italian bistro in the East Village, deceptive in both size and décor amid its neighbors. Secluded enough for private conversations and further exploration, sufficiently busy to alleviate any safety concerns. It was mutually agreed should any part of the evening not pan out, either could walk away and no further contact was necessary.

Unsure of the bistro’s location, I arrived early and waited at an undersized and cramped bar. I had to check a map for the location. What the hell kind of New Yorker was I? Not a recent arrival, not some Midwesterner—I had charter status. My birth certificate wasn’t issued in Kings or Richmond or even the Bronx; it was stamped New York county, aka Manhattan. While New York was comprised of five boroughs, Manhattan was synonymous with the city; it was the headliner, the outer boroughs relegated to non-speaking roles. I sported the typical New Yawker attitude, befitting a foreigner’s stereotype of us and fostered by the guardians of our fair city’s reputation.

I ordered a shot and chased it with a glass of merlot—pure liquid confidence—to soothe restless stomach butterflies. Or maybe I needed them drunk and cooperative. My conscience protected me well but at the most inopportune times proved far too intrusive. Their house wine was truly unique the bartender related, pressed and fermented right in the restaurant’s basement. It was enough to give my stomach butterflies, butterflies.

We hadn’t discussed any specific signal to identify one another. No color or style clothing, no yellow roses, no pictures had been exchanged. The bistro was crowded with patrons this evening; many who fit my imagined expectations and a few who exceeded them. Maybe that was part of the appeal; the mind games, an added element of mystery. Would I fixate on an individual and assign to her a mindset? Envision as the night progressed just how it would play out. We had danced around issues and scenarios without being specific, without taking sides. There were certain aspects undisclosed and others glossed over—areas ripe for misinterpretation. Two might express a love of the sea. One’s passion skippering a sailboat off the Hamptons; the other’s relaxing on pristine talcum soft sand as gentle waves caressed the shoreline.

How would I broach a subject many considered intimate and others would certainly consider a flavor well beyond vanilla? I imagined opening lines and yet they all seemed stilted. I figured my best prospect was to look confused and out of place, a fish out of water. Maybe then she would rescue me. I checked my watch for the fourth or fifth time. She might have been detained in traffic or strategically seated nearby analyzing my every move and expression, selfishly enjoying my self-imposed predicament.

I engaged in small talk with nearby bar patrons but there was little hint of familiarity. It eased my mind from racing though. Each time the front door opened, sunlight filled the bar and bathed the new arrival in a brilliant halo. But these newcomers greeted others. At half past seven, the door again opened and idle chatter ceased. It was as though golf tournament officials held up a ‘quiet’ sign and the galleries of spectators hushed in reverence. I listened to her footsteps on the bar’s hardwood floor, a sound I would recognize much as a forensics expert would fingerprints. A language no one spoke yet most recognized. It was the sound of utter confidence.

Had I the courage to check my watch, I expected to find the second hand frozen. I fixed on a spot among the staggered liquor bottles across the bar and locked my gaze. I knew it was Goldie and in that game little boys and girls play, I couldn’t permit her to see my longings. I listened to the staccato rhythm of her heels approach and fought the urge to turn. She covered my eyes from behind.

“Describe me,” she said.

Was she wearing gloves in summer or could anyone’s hands be so soft?

“Intriguing scent,” I offered.

“My own perfume. I had it designed while in Paris.”

“What’s it called?”

“Nine-tenths.”

“Nine-tenths?” I asked.

“Possession is….” Her voice trailed off allowing me to complete the phrase.

“Go on.”

“Confident. I could tell the way you walked across the floor.”

“Not bad.”

“Perceptive. Without a clue, you walked right to me.”

“You were the only one who didn’t turn around.”

If she only knew how difficult that was. The inner struggle every time the door swung open.

“I’d say about five-ten?” I sensed where her throaty words resonated.

“In heels. You’d make a good spy.”

“After our online discussion, if I were seated here in a dark trench coat and sunglasses, you’d have gone back out the door.”

“Probably,” she snickered.

“Witty, engaging, mysterious.”

“Whoa, lets not rush these qualities.”

We shared a chuckle. It was my first relaxed moment in thirty hours.

“I’m very impressed.” She paused before dangling, “and I’m a woman who rarely is.”

“I’m right on?”

“Lets just say I’m pleased you didn’t cite my legs, or body or face.”

“You’ve seen to it I couldn’t comment on those aspects.”

“The homeless could describe those. I wanted to see how perceptive you were without your eyes.”

“I’ll get my eyesight back at some point?”

“Hmmm, there’s a thought,” she purred. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“You suggesting everyone is beautiful when the lights are out.”

“Now, now.”

Goldie released her hands, slid closer to the bar and tossed a quarter in the air. “Flip you for the stool.”

In the chat room yesterday we had discussed tossing a coin to make the final determination. It had seemed so democratic.

“I’ll concede.”

“Rolling over already?” she asked coyly. “A sign of weakness.”

“Touché.” I smiled but in my defense added, “I prefer to call it chivalry.”

“Sir Galahad in a city of me firsts.”

“Yeah, a regular dinosaur.”

“No, it’s endearing.”

The patron occupying the adjacent stool settled his tab and parted. He’d either been bored by the conversation or turned on and neither prospect pleased him.

“Am I…”

“More than adequate for my plans.”

It was an answer. Not to the question I had intended before she cut me off mid-sentence but an answer nonetheless. “You have plans?” I asked.

“We do.”

“I don’t recall any input.”

“You had none.”

“When I mentioned confident earlier, perhaps…perhaps that was too weak a description.”

“Touché back,” Goldie conceded.

She was a bulldozer clad in haute couture apparel. A designer tornado. She defined beauty and elegance. Attired in a black French tailored jacket over white silk blouse, open enough to hint raw sensuality but suitable for a work environment. Matching ankle length skirt with an enticing slit revealed only when seated with her legs crossed. Polished black calfskin mid-heel boots that spoke Bloomingdales. Blonde tresses drawn up high exposing a slim neck, muted makeup and tasteful eyeglasses that seemed to simultaneously accentuate and tame raw beauty. Eyes of aqua that seemed both omniscient and accepting. I felt stirrings before even envisioning what might occur later. The stirrings actually began a day earlier and occupied both my dreams and waking thoughts. I wanted to glance away but it was impossible. As though she cast a spell and in my genetic weaknesses, I was ensnared.

I had learned much about Goldie from our online conversation and more from her profile. Internet profiles were similar to the signboards worn during the Second World War emblazoned with slogans like ‘Uncle Sam Wants You’. We showcased our turn-ons and turn-offs, or to those discerning enough, areas we were a little apprehensive of exploring. Limits that begged examination. Enticements to the select few perceptive enough to discern that what went unsaid spoke volumes above those expressed. What did my profile reveal? My limits were absolute stop signs when I initially created the profile; somehow they had become yield signs over the past few months.

A bartender queried what she would like. She answered but her eyes never left mine.

“I’ll have whatever my companion had and he’ll have another round.”

She appeared surprised when a shot of Tequila arrived along with the glass of wine.

“Nervous I see.” She downed the shot and studied my eyes. “Nervous is good.”

“A little bit,” I admitted. “Need I be?”

“What could you possibly fear from me?”

Although offered in question form, it had the impact of a challenge.

“I think its apprehension about what might occur…things I might learn about myself.”

“In the words of a former president, seems you have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

While delivering the reply, she fingered her necklace. It was of thick gold with a unique pendant design. Fashionable enough to not raise comments but an indicator nonetheless.

“Beautiful necklace.”

“It was a gift.”

“He has exquisite taste.”

“Making assumptions.” She wiggled a finger. “Dangerous. Actually it was a gift to myself, a subtle reminder. It took the jeweler three tries. I rejected his first two efforts and had to sketch the design step by step on paper, then show him first hand.”

“First hand?”

“No,” she smirked, “he hadn’t a clue.”

“That’s a…something bend.” I recognized the design but the name escaped me.

“I see you’re an expert.”

“Ah, but the word expert implies a person is unwilling or has nothing left to learn.”

“Interesting view. But then again, you’ve been quite interesting from the onset.”

“I feared somewhere along the line, I’d lose yours,” I admitted.

“Just be yourself. It’s worked so far.” She sipped the wine. “I usually get a little nervous before meeting but tonight its different.”

“Yeah, it’s contagious. You gave it to me.”

Her boot ran along my leg as she uncrossed her legs. Purely coincidental although I had come to suspect that nothing about Goldie was unintended. She reached for a maraschino cherry and said nothing. Played with the stem before placing it her mouth and tied the stem in a knot. It was a feat no man could resist.

“Incredible.” It’s all I could offer.

She held her hands up like a surgeon who had just finished scrubbing and boasted, “Imagine what I can do with these.”

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Dreams had always exceeded reality and here I’d never imagined anything close to what played out before my eyes.

She leaned forward and kissed me. It was a short kiss, a friendly one but totally unexpected. Everything about her was unexpected. Every word delivered with a hint of a double entendre’. She appeared four dimensional in a three dimensional world filled with one dimensional people. An artist interested in the subtler aspects of our shared interests—one who didn’t see accoutrements as a means to an end but an extension of the person. She had expressed a desire to unravel the layers of inner safeguards—to liberate fears, misgivings and doubts. A way to cut through the nonsense of everyday defenses and expose the inner person.

“Earth to Brent.”

She snapped me back from the moment.

“Sorry, I was thinking.”

“They’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

With the emotions that rocked me, it seemed little would ensure patience.

A hostess led us to a quiet, dimly lit booth segregated from the main dining area. A romantic nook undoubtedly Goldie had arranged. This evening had been carefully orchestrated, nothing left to chance and apparently only I remained in the dark.

“Nice restaurant?”

“It is indeed. You’ve dined here before?” I asked.

“I have. That’s why I chose it.”

A waiter took our order and sensing the moment, quickly departed.

“I’m enjoying myself intensely. It’s cute you were nervous,” she added. “Actually it’s quite endearing.”

“Taking pleasure in one’s predicament. Is that an enviable quality?”

“Pleasure comes in so many ways. Surely you agree. Predicaments offer,” she paused in reflection before continuing, “such possibilities.”

“It’s rare meeting someone who understands that much of what we enjoy resides between the ears, not just between the legs.”

She reached over and took hold of my hands. Examined them although I wasn’t sure what she looked for.

“Strong. Nimble. The hands of a craftsman.”

“Is that good?” I joked.

“The nimble part means I’ll have to be a little more careful.”

I held my hands up in a ‘T’ like an athlete calling for a time-out. “Whoa, we’ve decided who is who?” I added incredulously, recalling that humorous line. ‘Its been so long, I forget who….”

Her response cut the thought short. “I have.” She nibbled at a piece of bread allowing her statement to resonate. “You can still eat and split.” It was a challenge.

“What about the coin toss?” Online, we had agreed the toss of a coin would be the determining factor.

“A stickler for rules?”

“Some rules were meant to be broken but this one?” I paused.

“You worry too much.”

“It got me to the age I’m at.”

A medley of delectable appetizers arrived, providing a respite for thought.

“Lets skip dinner,” she suggested.

“Patience is a virtue,” I whispered. It was selfish on my part. I needed the delay. I needed time to compose my raging emotions.

“A ridiculous one,” she shot back.

She blushed, obviously enjoying her current state or contemplating what lay ahead. The evening thus far had been like two chess masters contemplating four moves in advance although I felt severely overmatched. Maybe it was more aptly compared to fencers rattling their foils, maneuvering for the dominant position. Parrying and retreating, drawing an opponent in, catching them off guard and lunging in for the ‘kill’. Life existed in the nuances. It was negotiation. It was compromise.

A few quiet moments ensued, both lost in the moment. The decisions had individually been made, a connection already forged. Whatever doubts existed melted away as did the remaining restaurant patrons. We dined alone, at least in our minds. Dinner proved exquisite but we weren’t here for a restaurant review. The meal had served its purpose: acting as an interlude between a race official yelling ‘Runners ready’ and the firing of the starter’s pistol. We skipped dessert. It awaited us elsewhere.

I escorted Goldie to the parking lot and tailed her BMW Z-4 through the Holland Tunnel, over some busy highways and then onto to quiet unlit lanes meant to be navigated by locals, not impostors. We arrived at a large and foreboding Victorian estate. Nestled dark against stately, old growth oaks—secluded from inquisitive eyes. It was a house Edgar Allen Poe would have written about, one in which Vincent Price might have resided and one in which those very parallels raised the hairs along the nape of my neck.

She exited the car and strutted to the front porch. I locked my vehicle and followed. Her boots echoing along the slate sidewalk like a mythical siren’s song reminded me of her self-assurance while mine betrayed me. Whatever confidence I had mustered at the restaurant now swept aloft by gusts that whistled through the sturdy oaks—winds that again exposed my insecurities. Imagination led me here and now had run amuck. Common sense screamed cautions but my feet kept pressing forward. I might be the unnamed spider soon to meet the Black Widow and my fate. Once satisfied, she would bend over and bite the head…and although I was genetically endowed with two, neither I considered surplus. The thought sent shivers coursing my soon to be sacrificial body.

At the front door Goldie turned, tossed a coin and baited me, “Call it.”

“Tails.”

She caught the coin on its downward cycle, slapped it over her wrist and smiled. As I tentatively stepped over the threshold into a darkened front foyer, I realized she never looked at the coin.…

Chapter Two

Stepping across the entry threshold was a more difficult proposition than I would ever have imagined. There was more to it than a sense of trepidation of the unknown. It was more the speed at which I arrived at her or any doorstep. Surely not of Puritan stock but hours after initially meeting was weeks ahead of any prior experiences. That the large Victorian was reminiscent of a residence that might have been Home Sweet Home to the Addam’s Family added a little to my jitters but that wasn’t it either. Stepping across the threshold was an acquiescence of a sort, of crossing a line I’d neither established nor could I erase. The threshold wasn’t an all or nothing decision but edged a little closer to that fine line.

I imagined myself crouching paralyzed at the open hatch of a skydiving plane, questioning whether I had the balls to jump or whether I’d bury my head in my crotch and touchdown on a runway nursing them. I still had time to chicken out later. Chicken out? Why? It’s what I wanted or what I thought I wanted. What I needed. What I’d romanticized since childhood television shows such as the Avengers and other secret agent programs. What I’d envisioned since reading cheap paperbacks and comic books that might soon become a reality. And in the privacy of my unshared thoughts the fantasy was truly exquisite; it was the reality that lay on the other side of the door that triggered doubts. She was so confident and assertive, in control of her own destiny and apparently ready to exercise a measure of that over mine.

“You’re coming in?” Goldie queried. Much as her conversation hinted of double entendres, the tone of her question was both supportive and challenging all at once.

I hadn’t realized how long I stood there. Apparently she had. “This is all happening so fast,” I offered. Was I ready? Was I capable of trusting someone I just met with such latitude?

“Nervous?”

“Would being honest here be politically incorrect?”

“Number one, you’ve answered a question with a question but you’ve answered nonetheless. Two, I’d expect you’d be nervous but I assure you there’s no reason to be,” she whispered.

Her voice sounded reassuring, comforting. She felt like a friend, not a competitor in a game of one-upmanship. I finally stepped inside and closed the door.

Goldie turned the lights on and motioned me into a room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us drinks.”

Comfortable? Easier said than done. She turned and headed toward the rear of the house. I entered a large library one was more accustomed to seeing in a law office. Floor to ceiling mahogany shelving filled with hardbound literary classics—Melville, Emerson, Faulkner, Dickens, Joyce and Hemingway most prominent. Tolstoy, Shakespeare and the early Greek philosophers anchored another bookcase. A hardwood floor stained deep cherry was accented by the muted tones of an oriental area rug. Leather wingback chairs that felt like butter to my inquisitive fingers. They looked as though they belonged in an old-monied, all-male fraternal club; occupied by stodgy cigar smoking industrialists that fostered an unwritten caste system.

“Great place,” I called down the hall.

“Thanks, its home.”

Home? This wasn’t a home. It looked like the restored homestead of some former notable.

“Are you allergic to anything?” she asked from the kitchen.

Death, injury, pain, blackmail, I contemplated. “No,” is how I answered.

“Good, I don’t make it often but certain guests receive the special concoction.”

“That’s the best name you could conjure up?”

“In my mind it has a name but not worthy of Madison Avenue.”

“Pray tell.”

There was a hint of embarrassment as the words left her lips, “The Inhibition Eraser.”

I was standing next to a closet door, quietly opened and then slammed it shut—a little humor to break the rising tension.

“Such a comedian,” she chuckled. Again her tone was friendly. It seemed she enjoyed the banter and for the first time in hours, so did I.

“I have no state secrets, no valuable information. Name, rank and serial number is all you get,” I called back down the hall before asking.

“Oh I’m sure I’ll get more out of you than that.”

I was sure she would also. “May I join you?”

“Sure, but no peeking. I haven’t yet received a patent.”

“Does it work?” I asked while sliding alongside her. Her perfume alone had erased certain inhibitions and her body erased most others. The few remaining—those primal survival instincts genetically embedded in human DNA—would surely be overwhelmed by the alcoholic libation.

“You can answer that in the morning.”

“Is Goldie your real name?” It was a question that probably should have been asked earlier but I hadn’t thought to probe. As intimate the details we’d shared, at times truly personal items were meant to stay that way.

“It’s Annabeth.”

“Such a beautiful name.”

“I love it now,” she confided. “Growing up I detested it. I was teased unmercifully in school.”

“So you learned from the best and now you tease unmercifully,” I kidded.

“You’ll see.”

Her smile was part warmth, part smirk. It was the smirk that concerned me. I wanted to share what I was feeling. I needed to unburden myself but opted for reflection. And as soon as I decided to remain quiet the words flowed. “I’ve never done this before.” Annabeth turned and held my gaze. “I mean in my mind certainly. It’s been a fantasy since before I knew what the word fantasy meant. Since before imagining or seeing an image that evoked cold sweats and wet dreams.”

It seemed she sensed my admissions were awkward to share. She placed her finger to my lips, an indication for me to pause. “Thank you.”

“For?”

A Coin Toss · Part 1 (1/2)
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