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TWENTY-SIX HOURS,
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES
How do you ask a woman out? Bob asks me. Just like that, I say, pointing at Bob and encouraging him, lying a little about the simplicity of it all. You just ask, I tell him, like you’re asking for the time. What about the small talk? No small talk, I say. If you have the small talk, that’s fine, but if you don’t, that’s okay, too. So you skip the small talk? No, I tell Bob, you don’t skip it. You give it a try, but if it’s not going well, go ahead and just ask her out. To what? Bob asks. Ask her out to what? To whatever you want, Bob. A vacation? Okay, no, I say. Not a vacation. It’s sort of step by step: the coffee, the lunch, the dinner, the trip to the seventh arrondissement in Paris. So why the stalking? he asks. This bothers me a little—the way the word stalking has lost its status as taboo in our conversations, as though Shoshana, my ex-girlfriend, was doing the talking. As if she had wormed her way into the safe male bastion Bob and I create during these late-night discussions. I don’t want to talk about Shoshana, so I ask Bob whether he ever gets the feeling that maybe he should go outside more, junk the television, rub shoulders with the masses, get some exercise, do some girl-watching. Some stalking, Bob says, adjusting his thick glasses. No, I say, that's not what I mean.
One afternoon I was sitting in my apartment with Shoshana—who was, at the time, my girlfriend—sharing a bottle of whisky and talking about the possibility of one day getting married and having some kind of family. As a rule, this type of conversation made me a little shaky. But I was beginning to feel more comfortable with Shoshana—the whisky might’ve helped—and so the discussion went pretty well. I skipped over the negative and emphasized the positive, which is something I’m good at in the company of others. For instance, I didn’t tell Shoshana about Karla, two years before. I’d sunk to one knee, like a petitioner, to ask Karla for her hand in marriage; and then woke up one morning nine weeks later and felt as though my own private dream courier had arrived with an envelope, which I'd been forced against my will to open. Contained within was a message about overwhelming doubt and a happiness that never materializes and the end of big, big hope. How to explain? Let’s just say Karla wasn’t necessarily a woman to trust, even if she was a registered nurse. I was thinking enemas, to tell the truth. She was making inroads, slowly, is how I thought of it. I saw her with one of those little flashlights attached to a helmet, like mine-workers wear; she was tunneling her way through my mind, which made me think of a rerun of an episode of "Twilight Zone" in which a gross, slimy insect goes into a guy’s ear and eats all the way through, very slowly—it takes years, the pain mounting incrementally—until one day it comes out the other ear. Whatever. Anyway, I kept silent with Shoshana on that score—the Karla story. Instead I spoke of depth and the warm feelings associated with matrimony, and I measured out a little more whisky. She said, Don’t you worry that monogamy is monotonous? She was obviously testing me, so I gave her my quizzical look and said, You mean, just because of the mono? I told her that marriage to me was an ongoing exploration. In masochism. No, that’s a joke—I didn’t say that last part. But I guess you’re hearing it now.
When Shoshana gave me her phone number, after I’d actually met her in a drugstore—a pharmacy, she always insisted—I can remember staring down at the little piece of paper and feeling warmly satisfied that these numbers, in that particular configuration, met up exactly with what I already knew her phone number to be. Like coincidence, like magic. It only made sense that what Shoshana told me about her phone number, address, place of birth, place of employment, ex-boyfriend’s name—not to mention her brother’s dips into religious activity of a questionable nature—was consistent with what I’d already found out by following her and doing a little investigative work on the Internet. And I’d thought of that as a good sign—the consistency. What was I thinking? Now, a year-and-a-half later, I know everything there is to know about Shoshana, but I’ve got nothing to show for it—just one picture of her taken in a photo booth, in Galveston, Texas, of all places. And, who knows, maybe I was splitting hairs, not admitting to it all, trying to separate myself from the stereotype of some crazed, drooling loser in a cum-stained trench coat. But maybe the whole time I’d been trying, in the narrow corridors of my mind, to give it a slightly romantic flavor, to believe that stalking, or whatever—following, let’s call it—was just the initial step in the path of any romance. Like picking up a dropped pen or shaking hands or exchanging names and phone numbers or making conversation about the tabloids with a total stranger who happens to be wearing a killer bikini, in a coastal town’s supermarket checkout line. Yes, that could’ve been my mistake.
I find an article in a magazine that says that bachelors do not exist at the end of the twentieth century. The whole concept—a bachelor, living in the splendor of an unfettered life—is now passé. Or it's been replaced by homosexuality, according to the magazine writer. And so now a bachelor is, more or less, a homosexual. What am I to make of this? I mention the article to Bob the next time I see him, since he’s always been interested in a romantic life, or at least the idea of one. And Bob says, I’ve never pictured myself as a bachelor, looking almost solemn as he says it. And I tell him—without causing offense, I hope—that I’ve never thought of him that way either. But you, Bob says, you’ve tried once or twice to calm yourself with the idea that you’re a bachelor, haven’t you? Silence hangs between us or gets added to the drone of the television in the background. I hear a woman say, And I’m ashamed to tell you, Lisa, this wasn’t the first time. What is a bachelor? I ask Bob, philosophically, looking off toward the ceiling and wondering whether the category had ever made sense. Some French guy, Bob says. He’s short and ugly but suave, and he knows how to pour wine. I’m not listening to Bob at this point. Bordeaux. I’m still staring up at the ceiling and listening to the woman on television mutter on about things that really, truly matter and the gift of Jim’s undying support. And I was thinking back on a time when older women—typically, someone’s mother—would ask me, And why is it that you’ve never married? Now, lately, it’s younger women who ask, and a smile and a shrug of my shoulders no longer seem to clear up the question.
Truly the first thing I ever noticed about Shoshana—besides whatever scattered information I’d gotten from furtive glances in public places—was how the bridge of her nose traveled an almost uninterrupted path from her forehead to the nose’s tip. Not quite a straight shot, but it was the not quite that made up its beauty in my miniature museum of a mind. It was impossible for me—and there’s no telling, but maybe it would be for you, too—to look at Shoshana without feeling as though the strength of her face emanated from the upper slope of that nose. The nose itself wasn’t large, but the straightness of the bridge gave it, for me at least, an irresistible weight. The bridge of Shoshana’s nose, coupled with an unconscious habit of slightly elevating her chin so that she showed off her elliptical nostrils without a trace of shame, drove me crazy. And I am not embarrassed in telling you—though I wouldn’t tell Bob, since he might incorporate the image into his daily wank—about how a month into knowing Shoshana I asked for, and was granted, the privilege of taking that nose into my mouth. No teeth, I swear. Just holding it there, giving it a place where it could shine secretly like a fistful of flashlight in a dark cavern. But then, maybe I’m speaking of my own private obsessions. After all, when I showed the Galveston picture to Bob, a few weeks into the relationship, he said nothing about her nose. But he did sort of shudder at the sight of her: a sudden sucking-in of air, a hand shooting to his mouth. A moment later he pointed out Shoshana’s resemblance to Elisa O’Donnell, the actress. Resemblance is too weak a word, Bob said. The eyes, the hair, the smile. You’ve seen her, he said, as though speaking of some ubiquitous presence in the neighborhood. And then Bob mentioned an HBO movie, which I told him I hadn’t seen. I claimed ignorance; I didn’t want to add to the fervor, I guess. Yes, okay, I’d seen her in a couple of lousy movies, I finally admitted, but so what? Was Bob saying what I thought he was saying? I tried to erase the resemblance from my mind, and yet for days afterward—in bed, lights out, during frenzied sex with Shoshana—I found myself thinking of Elisa O’Donnell, over and over, in inappropriate ways.
Stalking? Stalking has the advantage of allowing you to find out a lot, Bob, without opening things up. Otherwise, it’s like handing over a blank check: you tell the woman of your interest, you lay it on out there like you were nodding your head at your own evisceration. Go ahead, here, take the knife. And now she knows so much more about you than you could ever hope to know about her, and there’s no telling what’s going to happen next, but it’s probably, you know, Goodbye, Mr. Fuckboy. Oh I see, Bob says, lifting his hand from his chin, where he’s often got his fingers poised in that habitual gesture of contemplation. So then why did you tell Shoshana that you'd stalked her? he asks me. I didn’t, I say. Not then. You did eventually, Bob says. It was a mistake, obviously. I heard the same voices you hear, I got vulnerable. It must've scared her, Bob says, to learn more about you than you thought you were revealing. This just comes flying out of his mouth, and I have to take a moment to consider. Have you ever stalked before? Bob asks, and I wonder why he's asking. Is he trying to depress me? Would Ricki Lake, in this situation, ask that question? Is he trying to make himself feel better, since clearly he’s not the type of man who takes chances? As a kid, I say, I once followed a girl named Dorothy all the way home and just stood there, out on the sidewalk, until I got invited in without even asking. In her backyard, it turned out, she had a white-haired pet llama. And it wasn’t even in a cage. Wherever you stepped, there was llama shit. And her father’s hair was white, too—I remember that—and he was a minister in a local church, even though he didn’t seem like a minister. She didn’t seem like a minister’s daughter, either. Bob listens patiently to the entire story and then asks, What was the llama’s name? Grace, I say, without hesitation.
So that was my mistake. After living with Shoshana for a year, I happened to tell her that in a strange sense I knew her even before I’d actually met her. Not very precise, I know. It begged the question, which she went about asking after giving me a frown that conveyed her confusion. Innocent confusion? So I went on to say that before I met her I’d been following her. I meant following in a couple of different ways, but I was hoping that she’d see it as the idea of a person giving thought, or paying attention, to another person even though that first person doesn’t really know the second person, not personally. Like following someone’s career. I may even have said that, trying to make her feel like someone other than a victim of a lonely man. A movie star. I can’t remember, but I probably said, You know, Sho, like someone following someone’s career, like with a movie star. And she said, You mean stalking. Stalking? I didn’t think that was exactly the word. But after she waited, and I gave her a complete explanation—it took five minutes or so, a brief speech that didn’t really go very well, or didn’t seem to make much difference—she looked at me and said, So it was stalking. And what could I say? She made it sound like I was one of those guys who owns a restaurant and sets up a hidden camera in the ladies room. And so, in short, that was my mistake—surprising Shoshana, popping it on her, telling her this little secret about how I knew her before I actually knew her—because it changed the nature of our relationship. I won’t say it ended the relationship, though it was over within weeks. If you were to ask Shoshana why we broke up, she’d tell you that she lost trust in me or began to think that maybe I wasn’t the person she thought I was, which scared her. How could it not? But take away the secret, take away the stalking, and there wasn’t really much to the idea of me as an untrustworthy person. Not that I am trustworthy, mind you. Just that Shoshana didn’t have any reason to think otherwise.
It's funny, the things you find out about women, even after you meet them. Whenever possible, Shoshana ate with her hands. Honestly, I used to marvel at it. I remember spending an afternoon conjuring up my specialty from cooking school: poulet aux champignons. And there I was, that evening, switching the fork from my left to my right hand, having ripped off a piece of savory chicken with the aid of a knife; and there she was, across the table, with the breast right up there in her face. She was using hands and fingers—and most of all her teeth—to tear the meat away from the bone, without so much as a drop of sauce smudging her face. I tried this, once, just to see. Very messy on the hands and face, not to mention the food slipping through the fingers. I had to get up twice for another napkin, and the second time Shoshana sighed. You’re just afraid, she said. Afraid? Afraid of what? I don’t know, she said. You tell me.
A little while after the break-up, under the illusion that Shoshana might actually want to talk to me—not to take back her rejection, maybe just some of her outrage—I dial her number. Free and easy. How does this happen, after not having talked to her for all those weeks? Well, we all suffer momentary lapses; forgive me for saying this, but I'm no different than you in that department. She might even be expecting my call, I tell myself. And so I dial Shoshana’s number, and, in dialing—in remembering having punched those numbers before I'd ever met her, just to hear her say hello—I begin to realize, if somewhat vaguely, my mistake: this sequence of numbers is tantamount to a secret entrance code to a place where I’m not entitled to go. Don’t go there, you shouldn’t go there. As it turns out, she isn’t there, and I hear her voice all over again and then I leave a message. I’ll try to keep it factual: Shoshana, hi. It’s me. Don’t know if it’s okay to call or not. I hope you don’t think I’m trying to bug you. Just calling on a lark. I was hoping, you know, just to say hello and see how you were. Are. And I guess to ask you whether it was okay—for you, I mean—to try one more time in explaining. That's me explaining. About following you, way back when. And I hope you don’t think that’s what I’m doing. Following you. Now. I mean, just by calling you. I’m not that crazy. Boy, the lessons I’ve learned. So anyway, as usual, it’s always nice to hear your voice. On your outgoing message, I mean. And then, pausing for a moment and thinking of the awful, out-of-control spontaneity of leaving a message on an answering machine—that is, my message, this message, this awful explosion of verbal mumbo-jumbo—I stop talking, hesitate, close my eyes, and then reach to hang up the phone. I put it back in its cradle like it was a long-dead baby. Resignation isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like lowering myself into a casket, which in turn gets lowered deep into the ground.
What’s the hope? Bob says. The hope, I say. What hope? You mean in calling her on the phone? I ask, trying to see what Bob has in mind. But he’s already shaking his head. Forget the phone call, he says. Say you never made the phone call, and so then what’s the hope? What do you want her to do? Or what did you want her to do when you made the mistake of telling her in the first place? Hey, listen, I say to Bob, I just wanted to own up to our origins. Share the stalking. Get it out there, up front. Not stalking, Bob says. Following. And then he brings a finger to his closed lips as though to emphasize the sudden importance of words in the private, dark universe of his studio apartment. I just wanted to tell her about it, I say. Let her get an inside look into the mind of someone like me. I guess I figured she’d get a kick out of me, I say. Imagine that! she’d think to herself—and I slapped my own cheeks, in pantomime—a man who follows me around and takes an interest, both from afar and up close, and I never even knew! Bob looks at me without expression and says, No, women prefer fate. Like he’s standing there in a khaki jacket, a field guide in his hand, speaking of some aboriginal tribe. Fate? I question Bob’s knowledge on this point; he’s guessing or repeating something he’s heard on television about the often amusing gulf that lies between men and women. Or, who knows, it could be true. Maybe you’re right, Bob. Maybe she just wanted to meet me in the drugstore, pure and simple. Pharmacy, Bob says. And he brings the same finger to the same lips, like he’s kissing the whisper of a dandelion.
Okay, I know what you’re wondering. So I’ll tell you: the first time I ever seriously followed someone—setting aside Dorothy, the llama girl—was back in my early twenties. She was a dancer in a city-based ballet company, which was very impressive, since back then I was living in a city where ballet meant something. Now, living in a cultural necropolis, my balletomane days are over and gone. Anyway, I went one night to see her perform—the piece, I remember, required her to do fish dive after fish dive in the arms of anonymous men—and then, for the next week or two, I kept thinking about her. I thought about her a lot. I thought about what it would be like to be part of her life. I made up a cozy picture in my mind of her apartment, its interior—a lonely place despite the gold-framed family photos and her nostalgic collection of stuffed animals. And, of course, I got closer: I found out things about her by reading newspapers and dance magazines and, while masquerading as a writer for a small weekly located out in the suburbs, I even made calls to the ballet company. Once I made the mistake of talking to her on the phone. After that fiasco—stuttering, mumbling, excusing myself, reaching for a glass of water and sending it plunging toward the kitchen floor—I kept a lower profile. I followed her just once, one morning as she came out of a rehearsal wearing a black, sweat-drenched cotton outfit that left me dizzy. Just for the experience, I followed her for the next twenty-six hours and twenty-five minutes. I kept count. I slept not a wink. And for that period I was her guardian. She wore the tutu, but I was the angel.
So one night I’m sitting in Bob’s dungeon of an apartment—where else?—and he asks me to name my favorite memory of Shoshana. The question, hanging there in anticipation of my answer, had a little flame of wistfulness at its core. In another world, I might’ve thought Bob would lead me somewhere—if I managed to somehow provide an answer from the heart. But Bob’s mind doesn’t work that way; he just wants to know, and he doesn’t know why, or he doesn’t care to know why. And so I tell Bob about this one time, during our only shower together—after Shoshana and I had first slept together—when she leaned her wet head against the tiled wall, looked up, and gave me a kind of beastly snarl, sans sound. And this is your favorite moment, Bob says, very slowly, as though he’s giving the television audience a wink of incredulity. The snarl wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, I explain to him. It wasn’t supposed to be terrifying. It was meant to be playful. And so I said to Shoshana, What was that? What was what? That sneer, I said. That snarl. And then, before she could answer, I said to her, I feel like I’ve been granted entry. Did I actually use the word granted? Bob shrugs his shoulders. I can’t remember for sure, I say, but I can remember that she seemed somewhat taken aback; she obviously thought I was commenting on the love-making we’d just finished, back in her bed, banging away in a rudderless frenzy. Getting inside of her, entering her—that kind of entry. No, no, I said to her. I like that too, but I meant a different kind of entry. That snarl, I said, it means something about you, it means that I know something about you that I didn’t know. And Shoshana did it again, showing off the shoddy orthodontic work of her adolescence. It does, it does, I said, exuberant in seeing the snarl again. She looked exuberant, too, maybe in the act itself or because it meant so much to me, I don’t know. So she asked me what it meant—this snarl of hers, this split-second baring of misaligned teeth—and I wasn’t sure, but it said something about her. Something. So what did it say? Bob asks, drawing his eyebrows up above his thick glasses. And I tell Bob I have no idea whatsoever. But I do know this. It was in that moment—not quite in the snarl itself but in the feeling of discovering something about her and then being, because of it, exuberant—that I got sent right over the edge. Tumbling head over heels. Even now, just remembering it. And maybe you, too, know how that feels.
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Kissing You