That was three months ago; now I survey my new "home." One room, bare floors, a nice view, a squeaky bed with six "Hefty" trash bags on top of it. Inside those bags, the salvage from an 18-year marriage. In the corner, my computer. God, how she hated that computer!
Together, my computer and I are about to get revenge.
Connected with America Online for over a year, I'm very familiar with chat rooms. "Romance Connection" and "The Flirts Nook" always have an opening. It's a new experience, signing on without the worry of someone (my wife) looking over my shoulder. I watch the usual "chat" scroll up my screen:
April21TX: Hello
Tsquare158: Any ladies want to play today? IM me.
Catbag12: hi, april21 tx
April21TX: How is everyone?
CHILLYPLMR: So your a gymnastic teacher
April21TX: Hi Cat
CPaper1605: yes
Catbag12: hornyJon3737: Im bored to death
Tsquare158: ditto
Angcambra: fine
Squido222: yes, what do you do
CHILLYPLMR: I'm a tour guide
Catbag12: i don't get this!
I don't either, Catbag! Why bother naming rooms at all? "Conversation" is the same in every room. Guys trolling for girls. Girls trying to act not interested. As if they're in the "Romance Connection" to talk about the weather! Enough of this. I'm a man with a mission.
Checking the names in the room. April21TX. Hmmm...definitely female; "21" is probably her age. Too young. Further checking reveals three more women. I IM (immediate message) them each the same message. A line I borrowed from the "Batman" movie: "Have you ever danced with the devil...underneath the pale moonlight?" A few minutes pass. Then I receive an IM:
ANGELIZ1: "Hell...Why not?"
Bull's-eye! I quickly type back, "Describe yourself." She can lie, but it helps with the image.
ANGELIZ1: 5'7''/120lbs/grn eyes/tight ass/brn hair/28years old.
MeLestate [that's my screen name]: Very nice. Are you married?
ANGELIZ1: Divorced. What about you?
MeLestate : Recently separated.
ANGELIZ1: Describe yourself.
MeLestate : 6"2"/200lbs/blu eyes/bln hair/39 years old
ANGELIZ1: I like older men.
[A definite green light, so I decide to close the deal.]
MeLestate : What's your name?
ANGELIZ1: Cindy*
I assume my role as a vampire: me-LESTAT-e.
MeLestate: Cindy fixed on his eyes, unable to break away from his gaze. Slowly he leans forward,
lightly biting her neck. His hand supporting the back of her head as his lips touch hers.
ANGELIZ1: I feel a rush of pleasure as my head begins to swim...
We spend the next hour engaged in passionate cybersex. Having finished, Cindy wants to hear my voice. She tells me to call her, then types out her number. Cindy knows I live in California. Living in Texas, she must feel safe. It still seems like a dangerous thing to do. But I agree to call, and we say good-bye, then sign off. Five minutes of decision-making. Two o'clock a.m., I call her.
A sexy voice answers. "Hello? Craig?" She tells me about her two little girls. Although she has filed for divorce, her husband still lives with her (yeah, I know). Until he can find a place to live. If he isn't gone in a month, she's leaving. She cries as she tells me how her husband beats her.
Several weeks, then months, pass. Daily we talk, share fantasies and have phone sex. I console her. One time she calls in hysterics. Her best friend, Helene, has just been in a car accident. Both Helene and her husband have died, leaving their eighteen-month-old baby the sole survivor. Cindy and Helene had once made a pact: if anything happened to one of them, the other would take care of the surviving children. Now, Cindy can't honor the pact. She barely has enough money as it is. My heart goes out to her.
We want to share the thrill of touching each other. Nightly we think of ways we can meet. She tells me of the beatings her husband gives her. I become incensed; I feel so helpless. I try to be her knight in shining armor, rescuing the "helpless" young maiden from her tormentor. Cindy tells me of the time she ran away from home as a teenager, because of an argument with her parents, about a boyfriend. Now she regrets it. "If only there was some way other teenagers could learn from my mistakes..." I cut her off in mid-sentence. "What if I write an article?" I say. "About runaways?" she questions. "Sure!" My voice is noticeably excited. This is our excuse to meet. An hour of brainstorming and we have a plan.
The next day, Cindy launches the plan. She tells her husband that Oprah did a show dealing with runaways. They flashed an 800-number on the screen and asked for runaways to call with their stories. She tells him she called and they were very interested in her story. He's glad she was able to talk to someone about it. The following week she tells him somebody from the show called back. That a freelance writer, working on an article concerning runaways, had called the producers and asked to contact runaways who called in. That the producers had asked if she was interested in being interviewed. Her husband's reaction is more than we expect. He is excited for her, telling her to call. She does.
When Cindy calls, her husband sits nearby. A few minutes of counterfeit introductions, then I read from a list of preliminary questions. Becoming bored with a one-sided conversation, and to allow Cindy privacy, her husband leaves the room. Our voices race with excitement. We plan to meet.
Only after I have bought my airline tickets do thoughts of danger enter my mind. I don't know this woman. I certainly don't know her husband. I haven't flown on a plane. I've never been to Texas. This might be a setup. When I arrive in Texas, I could be at the mercy of thieves, murderers or worse. I'm scared and I don't care. I've always played it safe. Eighteen years of doing the right thing, trying to be the best husband, father and family man I know how. All for nothing! My life feels worthless; I really don't care if I live or die. I want some adventure before it's too late. This is it. I leave a note in my desk drawer, explaining where I am and what I'm doing. Just in case. If I never come home, the police will know where to start looking.
The flight is like a ride at Disneyland. What a rush! A roller coaster straight into Fantasyland. During the flight, my mind is spinning with possible scenarios. My favorite is that of a long-lost lover, coming home after a series of misfortunes. Obstacles keeping him from the love of his life. Finally the two are united (no pun intended). I don't love Cindy; I know that. But I can play the role. My least-favorite scenario starts the same as the first, then it twists. In this one, Cindy is also playing a role, unbeknownst to me. She drives me to a remote area. Her husband or other accomplices are waiting. They rob me. Torture me. All the time, laughing. What a fool I am! Cindy mocks me. The others finally kill me. As the plane lands, my heart pounds.
I never sent Cindy a picture of me. All she knows is what I've told her. Six-foot-two. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Two hundred pounds. Thirty-nine years old. I could be lying. Cindy sent pictures of herself and two daughters. Her daughters are ages five and seven. One blonde, the other with brown hair. Both very cute. Over the phone, they know me as "Uncle Craig." Cindy is pretty. Five-foot-seven. Thin. Auburn, shoulder- length hair. Brown eyes. Impish smile. Twenty-eight years old. She mailed me several photos. In one picture I could sort of see the remains of a healing black eye (she pointed this out). I'm not sure if I'll be able to recognize her when, or if (what if she doesn't show up?), I see her. The stewardess opens the door. People stand, begin to leave.
My eyes bounce feverishly, scanning the crowd of people who wait for "loved" ones. A woman standing to the left is biting her fingernail. She's wearing glasses. Cindy has told me she sometimes wears glasses. Our eyes meet. I don't know. I keep walking. Nothing. I pass her, my eyes scanning the crowd. No one comes close to matching Cindy's picture. The woman with glasses has to be her. I turn. She's still watching people leave the plane. I stand beside her. Her head slowly turns. Our eyes meet. In almost a whisper I ask, "Cindy?" Her eyes widen. Hands cupped over her mouth: "Craig?"
Simultaneously our arms reach. We embrace. We kiss. Passionately. Minutes pass as the world around us blurs. Slowly we became aware of our surroundings. I break the silence: "Let's get my luggage." We stare into each other's eyes, then walk to the first hallway. Stopping in front of a row of seats, we embrace, then fall, once again kissing. Ten minutes later, we head toward the baggage claim area. Standing, Cindy in front, my arms wrapped around her, Cindy's hands cradling mine. We watch the luggage lumber past. She turns. We begin to kiss. Thirty minutes later, my luggage still hasn't shown. We don't care. Another thirty minutes, we're still kissing. Cindy looks up, begins to giggle. We're at the wrong baggage claim area!
It's an hour's drive to her house. I'm more comfortable now. I've met her. She could still be acting. Pretending to want me. Luring me into a trap. But I have to put those feelings behind me. I'm here to get an interview and to obtain research material for an article (at least that's the role I'm living). We maintain small talk. Small talk, peppered with lust and desire. Pulling into her driveway, thoughts of danger and panic once again flood my mind. The adrenaline rush is unbelievable. I have to appear calm, but be ready for anything. I'm an actor, playing a part. We walk through the backyard. She opens her back door.
The house is nice. As we pass through the living room I notice pictures of family and friends. Pewter miniatures of dragons, trolls and Hobbits are displayed on the mantle. Someone is a Tolkien fan. There's a 17-inch replica of Gandolf, the wizard, standing proudly in its display case. I can hear Cindy's husband in the kitchen. Pouring a cup of coffee, he looks up. Six-foot-three. Medium build. Black boots. A pocketknife hangs menacingly in its leather case, from his belt.
His name is Mike.* Seemingly, a very nice guy. He offers his hand, which exposes his forearm, decorated with a tattoo of Gandolf. He doesn't appear to be the wife-beating type. I feel like an ass. Still, Cindy's stories of beatings flash in my mind. I decide to play this out. I'm living on the edge and it's exciting. When I meet their children, two beautiful, friendly little girls, I realize I am an ass.
No! He's a wife beater! How long until he starts hitting these two little girls? I'm here to rescue them from all this horror. He's a good actor, putting on the guise of a loving husband. I wonder, does he notice the glimmer of hate in my eyes? We talk while the children play. It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Mike must leave for work soon and he won't be home until after midnight.
I open my briefcase. Open my notepad. My tape recorder sits on the table. We won't start the interview until the kids go to bed so, to kill time, we go sightseeing in Texas. We eat dinner. Come home. Put the kids to bed.
Cindy puts on a Yanni tape. With the soft music in the background, I begin my interview. Hours drift by as Cindy tells me of her childhood. Her hopes, fears and dreams. She cries. I console. Then she gets up to check on her children, to see if they're sleeping. When she comes back, Cindy reaches out and takes my hand. As she looks in my eyes, she whispers, "Take me." We walk to her bedroom and close the door behind us.
The next few days follow the same pattern. I come by an hour before Mike leaves for work. Occasionally Cindy stops by my motel first, after dropping the kids off at preschool. Mike is always cordial and he seems like a real "nice" guy. The day before I leave, Cindy comes to visit me at my motel. Afterward we notice that during the visit, without realizing, I had given Cindy a hickey! On the side of her neck, it's low, but still visible. Then she confesses. She and Mike are not divorced! I think I had already figured that out, but it wasn't what I had wanted to believe. So I insist we tell Mike what happened. She wants to tell him so she can leave. As she hugs me, Cindy says she's unable to bear the thought of me leaving without her.
As a "thank you" for putting up with me throughout the interview process, I offer Mike and his family dinner. He gladly accepts. Cindy looks beautiful. She's wearing a white lace dress. Her hair is pulled around to the front, covering the hickey. We sit with one daughter between Mike and Cindy, the other between Mike and me. Cindy sits next to me. The hickey is almost visible to Mike, but not quite. Cindy plays with her hair, making sure the "evidence" is concealed. The children are acting up a little, so Cindy scolds them. Then Mike says something, making Cindy angry. While looking at him with venom in her eyes, she pulls her hair back and tucks it into her collar. She looks at me and smiles. She's pissed and she's going for the jugular. I force a weak smile and thank God the restaurant is dark. Fifteen long minutes go by before Cindy calms down. Finally, she pulls her hair back down, over the telltale mark. Finally, I breathe.
If Mike sees the hickey, he doesn't let on. I don't think he does. By the time we arrive at home, it's time to put the girls to bed. As we sit in the living room, Yanni is playing on the stereo. It is Cindy's private message to me. After an hour of small talk, while I'm trying to get up the courage to tell Mike, Cindy is giving me looks from across the room. Eventually Mike gets bored and goes to his room for a few minutes, then walks out. Putting his hands on the doorjamb, he asks in exasperation, "Are we going to sit around and listen to this stupid tape all night?"
"Mike," I say, "We have to talk."
After I tell him what has happened, I suggest the probable cause is the closeness Cindy and I had felt, going through all those memories. My adrenaline is pumping. Both hands braced on the arms of the chair, I'm ready to jump, ready for anything. Anything, that is, except what happens. He sits down. With a look of disbelief on his face, he says, "I guess you don't chose when or with who you fall in love." For the first time, I'm forced to realize that Cindy's been lying. This isn't the reaction of a wife beater. This is a man who wanted total faith in his wife. A man who didn't want to see the obvious. I had been used. I had been lied to. I was scum.
Cindy starts to cry and runs to Mike to hug him. In order to let them talk privately, I go for a walk. When I return, they welcome me in. Cindy can't decide if she will stay or leave. I'm secretly hoping she decides to stay. Cindy suggests we consult the Ouija™ board. Reluctantly I agree. Sitting in the candlelit living room, our hands lightly on the pointer, trying to contact a spirit. I've already decided to let the pointer go wherever it might, not knowing if Mike and Cindy are going to cheat and force the answers. I really don't care. I'm feeling like so much pond scum anyway and I just want all this to be over.
After several preliminary questions, we start asking the hard questions. "Who will make Cindy happy?" No answer. We repeat the question. The pointer begins moving. M-I-K-E. I'm a little disappointed. Still, it's what I want. Asking more questions, all answers point toward Cindy's staying. Is the pointer being manipulated? I still don't know. Probably. So I ask, "Who will make me happy, for the rest of my life?" Movement. P-A-M. Pam? My sister's name is Pam. But nobody except me knows that. Besides...my sister? Not another Pam comes to mind. Oh, well. If they believe in this stuff, and it helps keep their marriage together, I'll play along. I leave for my motel at 2:00 a.m., drained.
That afternoon, Cindy comes to give me a ride to the airport. We hug. We kiss. She begins to unbutton my shirt. I want to. I can't. We both smile and decide it'll be best if we leave for the airport immediately. Volumes are spoken with our eyes. In the silence, both of us hold back tears. It feels like I'm the long-lost lover once again, only this time I'm leaving, to be lost forever. At the airport, Cindy cries incessantly. I cry occasionally. When it's time to board the plane we kiss one last time and say good-bye. The ride home will allow me time to reflect. I'm not proud of what I've done. Still, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. I lived, for a short time, on the edge.
During the weeks that pass, Cindy and I stay in contact over the phone. One night at about eleven she calls, crying. She says she's coming to California. The car is packed. A note for Mike hangs on the refrigerator. The plan is to wait until eleven-thirty to leave. Mike will be home around midnight. She'll be leaving the girls asleep in their room. There's nothing I can say or do to change her mind. Reluctantly I give her directions. She promises to call along the way. She never calls. The next day while I'm at work, Mike leaves a message on my answering machine. It's pretty nasty. I don't blame him...and I also don't call him back.
Later that night I receive a call. The caller says she's a friend of Cindy's and is very worried. She wants to know if Cindy is with me. Explaining that she won't tell anyone. She just needs to make sure Cindy is safe. Being Cindy's best friend, she assumes she must have told me about her. Her name is Helene. Hold on! Either Helene has come back from the dead, or Cindy's told a whopper. I tell Helene that Cindy called the night she left. However, I have no idea where she is now. Cindy never bothered calling me after she left. I did worry for a while. After a few weeks, however, I figured Cindy and Mike staged the whole thing so I wouldn't have any reason to call. This will make me go away. An end to the whole mess. I'm very happy to go along with the plan. Then one day I receive email from Cindy. Apparently she's met someone else on the computer. They "bonded" (her word) in an incredible way. Now she's living with him. Strangely enough, I'm hurt, but not surprised. She asks if I'll please call Mike, let him know she's all right. I do.
During my conversation with Mike, he seems very concerned. I explain what took place. He thanks me for calling, then apologizes for the message on the answering machine, remarking that he thinks he and the kids are better off now that Cindy has gone. He relates how Cindy had hidden hundreds of dollars' worth of unpaid bills in a drawer. Including, he says, a four-hundred-dollar phone bill. "Other men have been calling," he says. "All of them asking for Cindy." One, a sixteen-year-old boy, said she had promised to marry him. We share our disbelief.
A week later Cindy calls, saying she's sorry for treating me so badly. She wants to meet for lunch, so I ask, "What about the guy you're living with?" She replies, "I'm thinking of leaving." I say, "No, thanks." Instantly she quips, "Have a good life!" and hangs up.
That was the last I heard from her. I believe Cindy would have abandoned her family even if she had never met me, but I can't be sure. Maybe my living on the edge pushed her over. I don't know. I do regret my actions if they in any way prompted her to leave. That's something I'll have to live with, the rest of my life.
Several weeks before that final phone call, I met a beautiful woman. Her name? Pam. We've been dating now for about seven months. We're very much in love and I'm thinking there just might be something to that Ouija board. I tried to contact Mike, but his phone number has been changed and is no longer listed. As far as I know, Cindy is still living with her "cybermate" somewhere in Southern California. I still belong to America Online, but I'm no longer flirting in the chat rooms.
My advice to anyone wishing to engage in cyber-chat? Be careful. Those are real people on the receiving end of your IMs. They have real feelings and real families.
And don't believe everything you read on your screen.
*The names of some of the parties involved have been changed to protect their privacy.