And from the depths of gmail emerge correspondence.
“Correspondence?” you say, “I’ve never heard of that.”
Would you like to see an example of what happens when you decide to email a male romantic prospect and casually ask him what he’s been up to in the 3 weeks since you have last seen each other? And then he responds with a cryptic remark about a dinner? If so, read on!
Hi CHARLI!
I’m good. Dinner was great, but loooooong. Dorothy had this gift
certificate to some fancy restaurant on an old Rockefeller estate? We
had to take a commuter train? And it’s hard to get reservations so
dinner wasn’t until 9:30? And we almost missed our commuter train
back, which was at 12:10? And then the F was all fucked up? And I got
home around 2? But the meal was admittedly pretty great.
Then I woke up and was very tired and hung over so I went back to
sleep for 20 minutes and I’m good now! Good job me! I got to work
late, but it’s Friday so no one was here anyway and so that worked out
well.
Fall has sprung!
L.B.
“Who,” might you ask, “is Dorothy?”
I WANTED TO KNOW TOO! AND WHICH FANCY RESTAURANT?
I don’t remember the name exactly. Blue Stone or something?
But yes, Dorothy, who recently broke off her engagement to Diamond
Knights, has her eyes set on me and she knows how to win my heart!
DRINKS!
I ate a slice of pizza and now I am eating a six-inch sub.
I do believe L.B. has here in straight up admitted to me that he went on a date with another gal, another DOROTHY, who is capable of wooing him in a very fancy manner!
I’m f*cking done with this jokester. I just changed his name in my phone to DO NOT L.B.
***
4:29 p.m.
I pull out my middle desk drawer about six inches, pulling my phone from its place in the pencil compartment and reach my hands in further to the part of the drawer that is deeper and open my phone within the drawer. I text Blake.
<Hey. Can you go to drinks after work?>
I flip it closed and place it back in its pencil compartment spot.
I periodically open my drawer a few inches, watching for the ring around the LED display to light up red, indicating that I have a new message.
Finally after 30 minutes I see the glow.
<Yep. Daddy’s? Happy hour is till 7. I leave at 6.>
<Sweet, c u there.>
I slide the drawer closed and look around.
Ms. Sher is gone for the day, Barry has his tunnel vision stare in line with The Others, and Leigh is in the Executive Area doing tagging. Cash and Ranches Junior and Senior have been holed up in the Executive Lunch Room all afternoon. I click over to my gmail and hit print on L.B.’s email and rise from my chair to walk to the printer at the end of Cash’s row. I swipe my surreptitious personal print-outs and pivot, about to head back to my desk.
“I’m bushed, sweetheart, see ya tomorrow.” I nod and smile again and head back to my desk. 5:01 p.m. on a Tuesday. It seems Ranch Sr has stayed late.
I fold my contraband email and slide it into my purse, located in the depths of my middle drawer. I look longingly at my phone and decide it would be pointless to go to Daddy’s without inviting a few other gals. I text Krissie.
<Meet me at Daddy’s at 6:15> She writes back almost instantaneously.
<Already here with Mike I.>
5:03 p.m. 27 more minutes to go. I settle into my own tunnel vision stare and begin typing on here, periodically clicking back and forth to Alchemy and my email to give the impression that i am chugging along industriously.
5:15 p.m. My line rings. Eye roll.
“This is Charli.”
“No, no, no, you have to put the diamond IN the ‘O’. That’s how you do a grand slam. Hello?”
“This is Charli,” I say, doing my best to hide my annoyance from Ranch Jr.
“Do you know how to scan?”
“Yes.”
“Grrreat. I need you to scan something for me. Come to the Executive Lunch Room.”
I rise and walk past several rows of desks before knocking softly on the closed swinging doors.
“She is not getting anything from me. I’ll tell you that much. Hey Charls. I need you to scan this check and mail it out for me tonight. It needs to be in today’s mail.”
Ranch Jr hands me a check made out to Speyer Properties for $5400.00. ‘Rent October 2006 Apt 7E’ is written in the memo. “How much are stamps these days? I don’t think I have 39 cents. And oh, it has to be postmarked tonight? Charli, do you know what a postmark is?” Ranch is alternating between speaking to me, Cash and to someone on his BlackBerry.
“I have change and I can just take it down to the Post Office in Rockefeller Center on my way out.”
“Is this girl a team player or WHAT?”
5:18 p.m.
I am sliding into my chair about to start methodically shutting down all of the programs I have running when my line rings.
“Charls. Junior and I have to meet Brian Leung at DIME. Can you come get the line to put it in the vault overnight?”
“Yep.”
I go back to the Executive Lunch Room as the office slowly starts to perk in tiny gestures of the end of the day. Those coworkers who are past official retirement age start to slowly file out, seemingly in descending age order, dressing in their jackets and assembling their pocketbooks, cardigans, and plastic bonnets. I bet I can still get out of here by 5:30, I think to myself, longing to brandish my printed email in anger with Krissie over a two-for-one well drink. Cash is reading an issue of Complex magazine with his feet kicked up on a toile ottoman. Ranch Jr. Is sitting in the midst of a spread of mall jeweler newspaper flyers, an issue of Rolling Stone, the New York Post, and dozens of printed emails, typing on his Blackberry. Both men do not look up when I enter the room.
“Hi, um, you wanted me to take the line?”
“Is Brian doing bottle service? Diggy is asking me. Cash, do you know?”
“He bettter be,” Cash chuckles.
“Yeah, he better be. That’s what I should write to Diggy, right? Huhuh, he better be,” I see Ranch Jr type the words with his thumbs. “You think I sound street?”
“Sorry, but, you wanted me to take the line? The vault closes in two minutes.”
“Oh, yeah, here,” Cash lifts the black leather briefcase with one hand and pumps it twice in the air before handing it to me. I take it with two hands and carry it like a lunch tray back to the vault, which is just around the corner from my desk. I place the suitcase on the middle shelf under its designator, a piece of masking tape adhered to the wall, on which Cash wrote S.J.C. Sales Line in graffiti style letters.
I step out of the vault just as the operations manager who opens and closes arrives to do his evening duty.
“Good night,” I say.
“Night,” he responds, slowly walking the 12 inch thick metal door toward its frame.
I stop at my desk to quickly X out of my programs and sign out of my gmail. I log off, scooping my large brown leather purse from the drawer in one simultaneous motion. I slip my phone into an outer pocket lined in silver studs and zip it closed with a large fringed leather tassel and head toward the security line.
I wait for the elevator on the 28th floor and when it opens, Cash and Ranch Jr are standing there, having exited from the Executive Elevator on the 29th floor.
“Well, hello! I like that bag,” Cash greets me.
“Thanks,” I stand quietly while Ranch Jr’s eyes are glued to his Blackberry.
I stand silently in impatience as we descend 28 floors. I hate leaving at the same time as any Ranch. I’m always afraid they are going to ask me to go back and do something.
Finally, we arrive on the lobby level. Ranch Jr pushes past Cash and I, eyes glued to his precious Blackberry. “Cash, this way, gotta get my Rover from the garage on 48th,” he mutters, not looking up from his phone. I turn in the opposite direction to descend a golden stairwell to the subterranean post office. I slip away unnoticed.
6:45 p.m. Daddy’s Bar
Blake and I discovered that we had been on the same L train without knowing it when we find each other at the Graham Avenue stop exit.
“Ok, today sucked,” she starts off.
“I’m sure I can top it.”
“We all got our internet taken away because Maria opened myspace while we were in a meeting, and she couldn’t get this insane WWF song to stop playing.”
“OOOOooooooooohhh that sucks. But, well, I guess since you didn’t have the internet, you didn’t read my blog.”
“Nope, couldn’t have if I tried.”
“WELL, L.B. Is dating SOMEONE ELSE.”
“What??”
“Yeah! I printed the proof!”
“Charls, nooooo…. What did he say?”
“That some chick named DOROTHY took him to some fancy dinner on a Rockefeller estate and that she knows the way to his heart! Which is apparently, DRINKS! I haven’t even gotten wasted with this guy!”
“Let me see this email.”
“Don’t worry, I printed it.” I rustle in my bag and pull out the printed email, handing it to Blake and she starts to read as we are walking down Graham Avenue.
“What the…?” Blake shakes her head in disbelief, as we enter the cozy, dim light of Daddy’s. I see Krissie sitting at a small corner table with Mike Industrial and wave. Blake and I stop at the bar and order two whiskey and ginger ales, and join them in the corner.
“Yaaaaaayyyy, Charli and Blake!!” Krissie greets us as we sit down. “What’s up?”
“I’m mad. Le Bloggeur is dating some fancy chick. Read!” I slam the email down on the wooden table.
Krissie and Mike Industrial read over the email correspondence.
“Wait, so which fool of yours is this?” Mike asks me.
“Somebody I thought I was kind of dating, but just confirmed that he has in fact blown me off.”
“Man, that’s pretty blunt!”
“Um, yeah! He basically just spelled out what I needed to know.”
“Well, at least now you know he’s a TURD!” Krissie chimes in with her typical succinct assessment. “Time to meet someone else! Or just join me and Mike I.’s band! Inflict your pain on an audience. Oooh! Write that down, Mike, that’s a good lyric.”
“It’s fine, guys, we weren’t even going out, I have just never encountered someone so blatant about seeing someone else…”
Mike I. nearly does a spit take. “Bahahahahahaha!”
“What?” I recoil.
“Taste of your own medicine, much? 2004 much?” He taunts, referring to a time when we had both arrived in North Brooklyn and had a briefly torrid interaction.
“Oh stop,” I said, casting him a knowing scowl. Our long running platonic friendship had wavered briefly, but earlier this year we met up, had it out and drunkenly, platonically instituted a pact of maturity and agreeing to disagree for the sake of our mutual friends. I frequently find myself in the position to quickly and easily shut Mike I. Down with my ease at maturity.
After a pause Blake broke the silence.
“Who wants a veggie dog?”
“Meee!!!” “I want two!” We all cracked up laughing and toasted well drinks and the conversation started to flow. I was catching snippets of “ok, seriously, go home, do yourself a favor and just listen only to Wipers. You can thank me later,” and “they all TURDS” when I thought of something Leigh had relayed one day at lunch, sitting outside of Cafe Metro.
“Mama Vickie always says, ‘put ‘em in the freezer’,” she mused. “Write their name, crumple it into a ball, and put it in the freezer.” I slowly pulled the print out from the table and placed it into my purse on my lap. I folded it in half, vertically, and began shredding it inside of my bag, then rolling the shreds into cylinders. The night had worn on and the group had expanded and divided, amoeba-like throughout the bar. I linked arms with Blake.
“Let’s go out back.” We headed toward the 1970s grandma style wooden door, a little aged white curtain covering its window. Out on the suburban-style wooden deck, I led Blake to a round white plastic lawn table that had a candle in a glass lantern resting on it, next to a black plastic ashtray. I took out my pack of Parliament lights and took out the rolled up email cylinders. I lit my cigarette then lit the cylinders in the ashtray.
“Problem solved,” I said to Blake with a wink, and she rubbed her hands together, pretending like she was getting warm by the fire. “Mike I. is going to think I’m even crazier now,” I cracked up, taking a drag of my cigarette. The tiny flame burned out and I stubbed the embers out with the end of my cigarette.
deux mille six 