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Sleepless
in JFK PAGE
TWO But just as the best romantic comedies provide obstacles for their protagonists, the best-laid plans rarely come to fruition without a hitch. After all, Tom and Meg almost missed each other atop the Empire State Building. So when I needed to change my fated flight and return a day early, I called him in L.A. and we arranged to meet for a drink at his hotel. He said he was bummed it wouldn't be at the airport -- "like before." I decided to tell him the truth the second I got there. After all, I couldn't keep lying to my soul mate, could I? Unless, of course, he wasn't my soul mate. I stared at him as we sat by the pool at Sky Bar. He didn't look anything like the picture on the contributors' page. Soul mates aren't people you're not attracted to, right? Plus, he was sharing some pretty inappropriate information. Soul mates don't tell you on your first date about their ex-girlfriend problems, do they? And then there was his fond memory of our Kafka discussion at the airport -- the fake Kafka discussion that I'd made up. Soul mates don't fuck with your mind, do they? The bar closed at 1:00 a.m., so he invited me up to his room. I went. Not to sleep with him, but to find out why he was going along with my phony letter. He had a deluxe suite, and he sat next to me on the Herman Miller sofa. The week before, I'd fantasized about being this close to Hot Nerdy, our shoulders touching, our faces inches apart, his sweat dotting the collar of his button-down. But now, as he seduced me with what must be typical New Yorker writer topics -- his mother, his therapist, his friendship with Cynthia Ozick -- I had to end the charade. And I figured the only way to get him to come clean would be if I came clean first. Then again, I didn't want to appear like a complete nut job. So I started off tentatively. "You know," I whispered, a mere inch from his ear. "Now that I've seen you, I don't think you're the guy I was thinking of when I wrote that letter." "No, it was me," he said emphatically. "Well," I plowed on. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't you. I mean, I know it wasn't." "It was," Hot Nerdy said. "I remember." As a test, I asked what he remembered. He repeated the details from my letter -- the ones I'd made up. Then he added a few of his own -- the journal I was writing in, my confusion about what to do with my life. But these could apply to anyone. It's like asking a psychic about your past: You've got some unfinished business with an ex. You've suffered a great loss. Who hasn't? Still, I tried giving him the benefit of the doubt. "Is it possible you met some other girl in the airport years ago, and you think I'm her?" "No," he insisted. "It was you." I couldn't take it any longer. "It wasn't me!" I blurted out. "Because everything I wrote in that letter? It never happened! I made it up so I could meet you, okay? It's all a lie!" Pause. Silence. Silence, silence, pause. Hot Nerdy looked at me as if I were insane. His eyes bugged out a little, and he smiled placidly the way one smiles at a mental patient. I knew telling him would ruin everything, but at this point, it didn't matter. He wasn't my soul mate. Soul mates don't remember encounters with you that never happened, do they? "Well, it happened," Hot Nerdy said, putting his arm around me. "Maybe you thought you made it up, when actually it just came into your consciousness. Haven't you heard of recovered memory syndrome?" I hadn't, but I had heard of déjà vu syndrome: meeting another interesting guy who turned out to be a freak. I said I had to leave. At the door, he asked if he could kiss me. I gave him my cheek. He gave me his card. I went home, crawled into bed, and masturbated to some other guy's picture in the New Yorker. A guy I knew I would never, ever send a phony letter to. Soon I forgot all about Hot Nerdy and soon after that the New Yorker stopped running photos on their contributors' page. A few weeks ago, though, I had dinner plans with a friend when she asked if she could bring someone else along -- a woman who had the same last name as Hot Nerdy. "You may know her brother, the journalist," my friend said. I paused a second too long. "What?" she asked, "Did you date him or something?" "No," I said. "I really don't even know him." I was about to tell my friend about our encounter -- the picture, the letter, the meeting, the mind-game -- but then I decided against it. Because if it ever gets back to Hot Nerdy, he'll probably say I'm making the whole thing up. He'll probably say it never happened. And I, of course, will insist that it did.
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We
planned to meet between flights.
