Love In The Time Of Apps (11 page)

At Gramercy Tavern, he was told by the bartender that no one at the restaurant had seen Sophie since the night she was with him. The nightclub in Greenwich Village had closed down to make way for a 21
^st
century post-modern glass apartment house designed by a famous architect who promised that it would be “iconic.” The receptionist at her law firm said that Sophie resigned, even though the Judge before whom she appeared only gave her a reprimand. She heard that Sophie was so ashamed by what had happened to her that she left the country. The woman had no idea if Sophie would ever return.

As he went through his daily routine at work, every time the phone rang or the door of his office opened unexpectedly Goodwin half expected and hoped it was Sophie, only to be disappointed, but not surprised, that the caller or entrant was someone else. His only tangible reminder of Sophie was the photograph from the Forties.

For weeks following Sophie’s disappearance, Goodwin was a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t sleep, didn’t care about eating, and often just stared out into space. For a short while, he saw a therapist who did in fact help and told Goodwin that he was suffering from PTRSS, “Post Traumatic Romance Stress Syndrome.”

At his lowest point, he wondered if he was going to be like Florentino Ariza in Marquez’ great novel and would have to wait a half a century
before reuniting with Sophie. That thought provoked a disturbing scenario: He is now over 100 years old and Sophie is 94. He is ready to give up when he sees her photo on Facebook with the notation “one mutual friend who is still alive.” They meet. He is shocked to learn that for the last ten years Sophie has been living in the same independent living facility as he and just one floor above him. This tragic failure to meet, he learns, is due to their different meal schedules. Once alone, they make love. He says, “Was it as good for you as me? She replies “Was what good?” and he says, “I can’t remember.”

After a number of months, Goodwin appeared to gain control of his emotions. He and his three cronies were having lunch on the large outdoor dining patio of their country club. It was one of those perfect days: deep blue sky, virtually no humidity, low 70s, and just a wisp of cool wind.

Goodwin called these kinds of days “optimistic days.” He had developed a whole repertoire of names for days. Thus, if the day were overcast with high humidity, he would call it a “pessimistic day.” A day where the weather changed drastically was “a schizophrenic day.” A day filled with fog was “a dementia day” because you’re always in a fog. The typecasting of days into different psychological states became very popular at the club. People would often ask Goodwin “What kind of day today?” hoping to provoke a clever response.

On this optimistic day, the mood of the foursome was subdued, but upbeat. Goodwin was regaling them with his tale of Sophie, a story which provoked shaking heads, smiles, observations and some laughter, even from Goodwin, a sure sign that he appeared to be coming out of his loss of Sophie funk.

“So tell me, Philip,” Kass asked, “what did you learn from your little adventure with Sophie?

“I guess that over time bad experiences sometimes become good experiences if you learn from them.” Goodwin, who was both introspective and sensible, had actually thought about this question and had sought to take something positive away from his brief episode with Sophie.

He added, “Well, one good thing is that I realize that there are probably many wonderful single and hopefully sane women with whom I could have a serious relationship. The inconvenience caused by Sheila’s departure, is just that, an inconvenience and nothing more. Long term I know I would be far better off and happier without her. In fairness, Sheila is better off without me.”

“Anything else?” Graves asked.

“I guess it’s this: living well might not the best revenge for me, but choosing well just might be.” Then, holding up the photo of him and Sophie, he said, “And, at least I have a memento of me and Sophie.” Still disbelieving that this was indeed Goodwin, his trio of friends said in unison and sarcastically, “Yeah. Right.”

In that mellow moment, Goodwin couldn’t imagine that the next time he saw Sophie, months later, it would be on a talk show where she would reveal the existence of a video, secured from Bloomingdales’ security camera, of their passionate encounter in Heidi Fleiss’ bedroom.

Part Three

The Host-Pital

The Fashionable Policeman

F
ive months had passed since Sheila had left Goodwin. For the most part, his life had normalized. He returned to Harborside, played golf with friends, and even went on a date with a woman who his friends assured him had the necessary three s’ for a “man in his position.” She was sensible, sane, and safe and, Goodwin added, though he never called her a second time, a lovely woman.

In the days immediately following Sheila’s departure, there were the usual rounds of condolence calls from friends and from a few desperate divorcees whom he did not know and all of whom began the conversation with, “You don’t know me but…” There was also a rash of solicitations via email from a flock of dating services. “How do they know these things?” Goodwin wondered. (The answer to his question was that they were all Pragat’s customers) Goodwin also experienced his first awkward and what he thought strange encounter with Sheila.

“How’s Sydney?”

“Not too well thanks to you” she replied icily. “Thanks
to you
he’s developed an extreme case of agoraphobia. He won’t step out of the house.”

“Thanks to me? Why thanks to me? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“So educate me.”

“Your email wish that he die a horrible death. I’ve sent it to all of our friends and they agree that it was an awful, evil, act.”

Before Goodwin could reply or ask a cause and effect question, the conversation ended with Sheila turning her back on him and driving off on her golf cart. Dumbfounded, he found himself saying as she pulled away, “As if I care.” As soon as she was gone, however, he checked his PPR via an App that Pragat sold for two dollars. It had dropped a half a point. “That damn email,” he thought.

In ways Goodwin actually liked living alone. Above all, he enjoyed his newly found freedom to do anything he wanted. First on his emancipation agenda was the purchase of a Super RX Digital Remote Control to assuage his grief over Mr. Remotee’s untimely passing at the hands of Sheila and aptly named it “Mr. Remotee Two.” It wasn’t that Sheila could exercise veto power on this type of purchase. It was just that whenever he made a purchase without her prior approval there followed a critical editorial harangue when he brought the item in question home. He could now purchase, eat, and see (movies and shows, especially comedies) whatever he wanted.

Exercising his newly found freedom, Goodwin sat on a recently purchased maroon, faux leather, Barker Lounge recliner. It was a piece of furniture he had always wanted, but because Sheila erroneously equated Barker Lounge with déclassé and vehemently objected to any suggestion that this item of furniture enter their house, it remained a purchase he never made. Now he was part of a happy trio: Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Barker, and Mr. Remotee who, in Goodwin’s hands, was changing channels at the speed of light. Given the severe storm that raged outside, Goodwin thought that hunkering down in front of his new fifty inch television set was a perfect course of action.

At the same time, Sheila was “hunkering up.” Less than a half a mile from her former home, she was driving to Vogue, a local shopping Mecca for the fashion conscious of Grace Harbor, to attend an event booked as the “Sale of the Year,” even though the sale occurred twice a year. Despite weather advisories of extremely severe thunderstorms, confirmed by ominous grey to black skies, significant wind gusts, large hailstones pummeling her car, the loud rumbling of thunder with an occasional distant flash, and warnings by local officials that those living on the North Shore of Long Island should stay in their houses,
Sheila braved the elements. The more she drove, however, the greater her apprehension. Fallen branches littered her route causing her to swerve from left to right. At one point she swerved so hard that the passenger side of the car lifted from the ground. A huge bolt of lightning slammed down no more than 20 yards in front of her. It was at that moment that Sheila did a quick risk-benefit evaluation. Does she continue this perilous journey and risk potential injury or even death or does she turn around and miss the sale of the year? The answer was easy. She pushed on.

When Sheila arrived at Vogue it was filled to capacity with active and aggressive shoppers. Whenever lightning crashed close by with an accompanying boom of thunder, the shoppers, like startled meerkats, huddled together, fell silent for a moment, looked around quickly and then resumed their shopping chatter. Within seconds, Sheila saw the perfect dress she was looking for and simultaneously spied a woman who eyed the same garment. It was no contest, however. With the speed and agility of a cheetah, Sheila arrived at her fashion prey; grabbed it, entered Vogue’s large communal dressing room and moments later had her rendezvous with the Sheila Bolt.

There was no way that Goodwin could have known that the loud crash of thunder that temporarily jostled him out of his light, television induced, sleep and the subsequent wail of sirens had anything to do with Sheila. His primary interest was to drift off again. Goodwin closed his eyes and was bathing in the semi-conscious moments one has just before falling asleep, where the mind knows that sleep is coming, but is still capable of coherent, pleasant, thought. In this happy and secure state, he was having an erotic remembrance about his one night with Sophie.

His thoughts, light years from Sheila, were occupied by Sophie’s sensuous breasts, supple and perfect skin, the delectable taste of Sophie’s erogenous zones, the texture of her pubic hair, the aroma of her heady perfume, and the sound of a duet of heavy panting. His one night of making love to Sophie was so extraordinary and different than anything he had experienced with Sheila that midst heaves and
sighs Goodwin had gasped: “So this is what sex is!” He didn’t intend it as a joke.

At the crescendo of his reverie, the imagery was so real and indelible that it didn’t feel like a recollection at all, but more like the reliving or witnessing of an actual event. They had just finished making love and he was positioned slightly above her. Both were breathless, as if they had just dashed up several flights of stairs. Sophie’s skin glistened. She had the look of someone intoxicated by a sensation of pure ecstasy. Goodwin’s total focus was on her. The universe outside of their bed did not exist for him. She reached up and placed her hand behind Goodwin’s neck, pulled down, kissed him open-mouthed and moaned in a throaty whisper, “Again.” Goodwin said to her, and meant it, “I love you.” Later, when he reflected on the moment, Goodwin noted that it was the only time in his life that he experienced complete and unequivocal rapture.

He wanted to hold on to his moment with Sophie, but it kept getting punctuated by the persistent ringing of his doorbell, programmed to chime the theme from the
Bridge on the River Kwai
. Though he attempted to shut out the unrelenting “dada, da da da da da da” and to press back into his remembrance, he was unsuccessful. Sophie’s faced morphed into that of Alec Guinness, the star of the movie, beads of sweat on his face, a slightly deranged look in his eyes, exhorting his fellow imprisoned soldiers with “Be happy in your work.” Goodwin blinked back to reality.

The man at his door looked like an advertisement for GQ Magazine. He was dressed elegantly in a Zegna sport jacket and slacks, Yves St. Laurent shirt and tie, and very expensive Ferragamo suede loafers. His lapel sported a small gold pin comprised of intertwining “GHP,” letters that stood for “Grace Harbor Police.”

While the manner of dress of the police officer might seem a bit unconventional, sartorial splendor was the norm for law enforcement personnel in Grace Harbor. Once thousands of acres of potato fields, the town was first settled by a small group of Manhattan fashionistas whose children could not get into any private schools in Manhattan. Looking to live near their own kind, other fashion types, that is,
designers, clothiers, and those in the textile business, soon took up residence in Grace Harbor. Given the make-up of the citizens of the town, fashion was taken very seriously.

Pound for pound, Grace Harbor has more people involved in the fashion industry than any other place in the country. Its public park, one that is graced by statues of Coco Channel, Donna Karen and Calvin Klein, evidences the town’s unique and total commitment to fashion.
Fashionpedia
points out that Grace Harbor is the place where the trend of using designer headstones began. It was not long before headstones with LV, Gucci and Polo logos, as well as other designers’ logos, began to populate local cemeteries. Unfortunately, because of the great recession of 2007 many citizens of Grace Harbor had to cut back, which accounts for the appearance of Wal-Mart and Target logo headstones.

Had the lightning event occurred 10 years earlier, Goodwin would have been greeted by a gruff, “Are you Mr. Philip Goodwin, the husband of the woman just struck by lightning and in a coma at Mercy Hospital?” By the time of the Sheila Bolt, however, the town’s police force had taken extensive training at the Dale Carnegie Institute For Interpersonal Skills. Due to criticism levied at members of the force for aloofness and bad curbside manner, the single most important goal of the course was to have all members of the force “convey warmth.” The officer addressing Goodwin might have been the star student of the course, possibly an instructor.

“Philip, hi!” he said across the threshold of Goodwin’s half opened door. “I’m police officer Ronald Durksen, but please call me Ronnie.” With that Durksen held up his police credentials that included his name, the police logo, his badge number, rank, and “PPR 24.”