Only the hairdresser knows for sure
...written on 05.10.02, @ 3:13 a.m.
#4 of 4 entries posted on 5/10/02 . . .
Mon April 22, 2002
I looked at my ringing cell phone at the unknown number flashing on the small orange screen. The number may have been unknown, but the call was expected.
What was not expected was the tone of voice on the other end. No bright "hello, how are you?", but rather a dull muted inquiry with no mention of my name. Facts spoken in a monotone, then indecision, and finally with plans made, a brighter lilt to the voice was heard.
We were meeting at the station in half an hour. I had to hurry home to change and grab the belated birthday present I had gotten for him, throwing up my hands in despair at the ramshackle mess in my small apartment. We will not be coming back here, I thought as I locked my glass magnet bedecked metal green door and rushed to the rendezvous point.
I stood peering out over the waiting taxis and the passing cars, pansies at my elbow in the waist high planters lining the sidewalk in front of the station. The 20ft TV screen built into the side of the building across the street was blaring the top 10 j-pop hits of the week as I furrowed my brow trying to remember the color of his car. The trees were rustling with a cool spring breeze and I was glad to see that the rainy gloom of dawn had dissipated with the ascension of the sun into the now bright blue sky.
The small red coach appeared with a smiling face behind the wheel. Ah, maybe my companion had managed to down a cup of coffee or two before arriving? We jittered off in the pint-sized palsy affected car.
Throughout the day we chatted about how to teach English to 3 year olds, vacations in Bali, New Zealand, Italy and Australia, alchoholism, family divorces, brothers in Ohio, searches for knowledge, truth, recognition and credibility. We talked about the lives of samurai , Inuit, Italians, beetles and butterflies. We discussed masters and doctorates, endocrine disruptors, organic food, MSG and the Japanese' taste in curry.
We walked a mountain, climbing the steps where strode a samurai lord and his minions, surveying his forever changed kingdom criss-crossed with glinty ribbons of river and road and concrete masses of buildings nestled in the green breasts of gentle sloping mountains. Together we bemoaned the human led concrete penetration of these hills and the denuding and full-out demolition of others.
Later after a luscious dinner of Indian delights, we explored a computer research center enclave where we viewed the city from on high and compared and contrasted the technological mission of the site to the whimisical artwork that studded the grounds.
I reveled in his company, a man of my country and of my generation, with similar leanings in heart and mind. It was joyous. It was fresh.
It was . . . a little disconcerting .
He was almost perfect. So easy to talk to . . . I couldn't but help have certain feelings. Lots of what ifs of course, but lots of whys as well. Information was shared that I felt were clues to some underlying situation, desire or need. My projection? Perhaps, but that niggling feeling from when we first met remains. He needs something. Is searching for something, and I feel that I . . . am that something.
Or maybe I need him! I need him to show me that there are men out there that I can interact with both intelligently and sensitively. That there still is hope. That I really do have something engaging and worthwhile to share.