“What we seek constantly in romantic love is not human love or human relationship alone; we also seek a religious experience, a vision of wholeness.”
~Robert A. Johnson
2:13 AM
A puttering engine whines down beach street on a frigid night. The sound of rusted struts and worn wheel bearings bouncing along frost heaves and pot holes. Headlights fluttering. Shadows of leafless winter limbs shifting and merging against the bedroom wall. He watches and listens—passively—without comprehension. Eyes half open, half shut.
An electric blanket covers him to the nostrils. Thermostat set to 60 F. A frugal man of limited means, he found this place at the dead end of Beach street, near the river’s edge, where it takes a sharp left and meets Willow avenue—another dead end and entrance to the old Jewish cemetery. He bought the property for a song. The street itself a hazard, with its heaves and holes, notorious for frozen fogs overflowing the river bank at night.
An anonymous chat, several hours earlier. She’d answered his Reddit post; an anonymous stranger. He’d baited the invitation with homemade hot chocolate on a frigid night, marshmallows too. Sex on the mind, but unstated.
2:14 AM
He awakens with a shudder, hearing the squeal of brake pads, the skid of rubber on ice. The vehicle idles outside. A Christian melody plays on the car radio, muffled, but only feet away, on Willow avenue, near the old Jewish cemetery.
He’s got a talent for connecting sounds with location: lawn mowers, vehicles, noisy kids playing, migrating blackbirds, raindrops; the latitude and longitude of every sound, every nuance of sound on Beach street and Willow. A side effect of paranoia…always looking over his shoulder, memories of debt collectors, interventions, angry husbands raging over texts and tweets.
Several rings: Unknown number
“HELLO”
“Hey, is this Charlie?”
“Hi, yes, Sarah?”
“Yep, it is me. I’m near a Hebrew cemetery. Did I miss Beach street? No street signs around here.”
“No, you’re close. You passed a small house on your left, near the corner, before taking the left on Willow: no sign there either.”
“You live there?”
“Yeah, a shithole, should’ve told ya. The old cemetery keeper’s home.”
“A home is a home, Charlie.”
“If you’re creeped out, you don’t need to stay. No hard feelings.”
“Can I get my hot chocolate to go?” she says with a short giggle.
2:17 AM
“Charlie, still there?”
“Sure, you can get it to go, the drive-thru is in the back. Nobody stays, can’t ever get them through my door. As I said, don’t worry about it. At least you showed up, thank you for that.” His vocal chords having squeezed together into a tight monotone pitch, the prelude to tears.
“I’m kidding, Charlie. Sorry for being so late or early. I had cleanup duty tonight, closed up the place. So, point the way to you, sir.”
She has a professional sounding demeanor, but friendly, like she’s about to sell some life insurance. They’d not chatted long earlier, when she first responded, maybe 20 minutes or so. She’d asked for clarifications regarding his post.
What did he want?
What kind of dysfunction?
Marital status?
Has he done this before? Why now?
He responded in summary form without being specific. Nobody wants online memoirs anymore, but getting to the point matters to women. The next guy is waiting his turn. Make an impression—3 minutes or 280 characters—with a good one-liner, or go to the back of the line. Try again some other time. Use a different name and approach. Yeah, he knew the drill, the same old same old.
She’d sent a photo, asked if he was okay with her appearance. He approved, but not believing she’d show up. And she said, “Work is calling me, Charlie. I will drop by after work, but I can’t give you an exact time. Leave me the directions. My name is Sarah.”
That was 5 hours ago, 9:18 PM.
2:18 AM
He peeks through the bathroom window, through the clearing of trees to Willow, where the idling and music are coming from.
“Sarah, is that your blue Mazda with all the Jesus stickers?”
“Does that bother you, Charlie? You’re not an atheist, are you? I can’t…you know…not with a nonbeliever.”
“You won’t drink hot chocolate with an atheist?”
She laughs heartily: “Come on Charlie…keep your phone on.”
“Turn around and pull into my driveway. It is muddy, but maybe solid by now…sorry for that. The door is unlocked. I’m in the bedroom. Be careful, I dimmed the lights. Thank you for this. My first time doing this kind of thing. Yeah, I’m circumcised, but I’m a nonpracticing Jew, if any of that matters. I believe in God. Please don’t think the Jewish cemetery has anything to do with anything. It just happened to be here, when I moved here. Depressed the property value, along with the frozen fog banks, river flooding, and mosquitoes—big, blood sucking buggers. Made it affordable for me.”
2:20 AM
The Mazda revs up over the phone. Transmission in reverse and then forward. Turning right, her palms hand over hand, a slapping sound, soft but determined. Her clanking bracelets in motion along with more shadows on the wall, jostling for position, seeking equilibrium. Brakes squealing again, coming to an abrupt stop. Emergency brake tugged north, locked into place. A few fleeting texts and the click of the camera…a concerned friend maybe?
His first hookup. He’s excited, but puzzled. A beautiful, 40-something woman with hip length, long blond hair and sky blue eyes—like looking into heaven—meeting a 70 year old stranger with no hair, deadened eyes, and lust in his loins—his last call to life.
“Come on Charlie, come greet me outside.”
“You may change your mind when you see me standing upright. I’m all twisted and old. I didn’t send you a pic for this reason. This is why I’ve kept the place dark.”
“Charlie, I’m not here to judge your appearance. God loves all of us, broken or otherwise.”
“God has nothing to do with this! Let me put on some pants. Hold on a few minutes, please.”
“Did you read my profile, Charlie?”
“No”
“I’m the minister of the church down the street. I came here to pray with you and for them. You sounded very sad, despondent.”
“What? You gotta be kidding me. I wanted sex, not a pity party! How’d you know about me?” he says angrily.
“Social media, Charlie. It’s all out there. You shared your pain online, called out to the Lord several times, seeking solace from him. What do you really want? Is it really sex?”
Muffled sobs transform into a wailing cry, and then back to sobs…
“My family is in the cemetery, all of them. I’m completely alone and old and ugly. I was craving human touch. I’m sorry for this. I didn’t think anyone would ever show up.”
“How about the hot chocolate, Charlie? We will see what God has planned for us tonight,” she says in a soft, tender voice.”
© 2022 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Notes from David 