And to think it all started with a rainstorm…
It was October and I was caught in a downpour of sleet and red maple leaves. I sought shelter in a nearby library and she appeared—hair bright as the autumn leaves.
She was wearing a rust colored sweater and a beige cotton pencil skirt—and everything about her was earth tones and autumn. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I needed to hear her voice—have her say anything to me.
I’m an actor, and voice to me is very important.
So, I grabbed up two books and a magazine lying on a nearby reading table and approached the checkout desk.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she purred.
“I certainly did,” I smiled.
She glanced at the titles of my two books—The Immoralist, and Lolita.
“Oh, interesting…”
When a woman says ‘interesting’ you know it’s not meant in a good way.
“Oh, stupid of me—I meant to borrow The Immortalist—but misread the title.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And Lolita?”
“I don’t approve of the subject matter, but I hear Nabokov’s style is exquisite.”
“Ah yes, you borrowed it for art—and I suppose you also borrowed the magazine for the articles.”
“Of course,” I bluffed, but my throat went dry when she held up a copy of Playboy—holding it by one corner, as if it were something discarded by a derelict.
She handed me back my library card, holding it now by the corner too. “Thank you, Mr. Porter.”
“Oh please, call me Jay.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Uh, I suppose because I’ll be coming in here regularly now, and thought it would be more friendly-like.”
“I see,” she said with a brittle smile.
I grabbed my books and magazine and headed for the door.
That went well, I mused bitterly, as I stopped in the glassed-in foyer and stared at the rain now pouring down outside. No way I’d make it five blocks with these books.
I dumped them in the return bin, turned up my collar and headed back out into the storm.
Over the next few weeks, I’d try to drop by the library every chance I got, but it was damnably frustrating. Sometimes I’d be a couple blocks away and my leg would begin to ache, and I’d end up limping home.
On other occasions, it would be my arm. But never the same leg or arm.
“Phantom limb syndrome,” Harry, my doorman, opined.
Harry was in the war—I never ask which one, or he’d go on all day. He always talks about a wounded friend who was driven crazy by pain from a limb that wasn’t there.
I don’t bother correcting him, but if he’d care to notice, he’d see I’m still intact—outwardly at least—inwardly, well that’s another matter.
On those rare days when I do manage to get to the library, Sylvia pawns me off on her assistant, Frizzy Morgan.
Yeah, that’s right—I found out from Frizzy that my goddess is named Sylvia Blair, and she’s single, but I also learned she’s seeing a famous author named Nicholas Randall.
I’ve read a couple of Randall’s books and I’m sure he doesn’t read Gide or Nabokov—but Playboy? Well, let’s just say the jury’s out on that one.
According to the gossip columns, Mr. Randall is rumoured to be quite the man about town. Now I’m not saying he’s a roué, but I’m just saying if he were a scientist, he’d be doing all his experiments after dark.
And I don’t think Frizzy likes him much either. I think I’ve got an ally in her, but a lot of good that will do me if I don’t get to even converse with the girl of my dreams.
