Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (12 page)

“Define what ‘love’ means.”

“How old are you?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Can’t you answer a question without asking one?”

With that, she shot up in her chair and stuffed her face. I tried telling jokes and eventually got her to lighten up. When the check came, she insisted on paying half, and proclaimed:

“This isn’t right.”

“What isn’t right?”

“You’re not who I thought you were. This is all wrong.”

I was baffled. What was wrong? Did I smell? Food in my teeth? I hadn’t blacked out, so I wasn’t engaging in sleep-groping.

“It’s the alcohol. We should not have ingested it. It’s obscuring everything.”

“We had a glass each.”

“But we didn’t drink the night we met…and it was so magical.”

I was drunk off my ass the night we met, but I wasn’t going to drop that nugget.

She stormed out of the restaurant.

***

The next day, I left her a voicemail. “Felice, this is Rufus. I really enjoyed dinner last night and hope you made it home safely. On a corny note, I can't get the house song ‘What Is Love?’ out of my mind given our conversation last night (which was a tremendous amount of food for thought). Well, take care.”

She picked up the phone. “Rufus?'

“Oh, hi.”

“Read
A Room with a View
and you will find love there. Indefinable, but felt strongly.”

“I will, but can you tell me?”

“It resembles lust, arrival, complete understanding, emotional faith, comfort, and exhaling, and when it does come, you will know it. It shall be extraordinary.”

“Sounds good.”

“It has happened to me but once in my life.”

With me?

“Then it went away.”

Guess not.

“But I was only too happy to experience it.”

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“What is love?”

“The question is useless if you need to ask—that means you have never experienced it yet.”

She hung up.

I thought that was that, until I she sent me an invitation to a benefit. Always eager to play diplomat, I RSVPed and received the following text from Felice:

“I'm honored that you are attending and that I have the chance to hear more about your ideas as your friend. I have very few of them, just supporters! (So it is nice to make them!) XOXX.”

Enos tripped as much as I did.

“What is with the ‘hear more about your ideas as your friend’? Is she trying to say she just wants to be friends? If so, that was a clumsy way of putting it.”
 

“But that’s just it. I didn't ask her for a date or her hand in marriage. I just meant to acknowledge her invite (which requires a $40 donation) and to note that something we spoke about actually had some type of resonance.”

“Fuck that shit”

“I gotta check her funky ass. How about: 'Thanks for the good word. It's baffling to me that with the amount of fantastic work that you do that you don't have more friends. It has been noted, oftentimes, that those who engage in charitable lives are fated to suffer loneliness. I've been fortunate to avoid that fate.'”

 
Enos shrugged. “The last sentence is a punch to the gut. Maybe a pinprick to the ego would work better. An alternative approach: say that you take friendship very seriously, and that you guys are still some ways from being ‘friends.’ Need trust, experiences, values, a better sense of a person, etc. Then note that you had many good friends that you have cultivated over time. The point is that she was being presumptuous to think you wanted a date when you do not even consider her a friend.”

I loved it:

“Thanks for the good word. It's baffling to me that with the amount of fantastic work that you do that you don't have more friends. It has been noted, oftentimes, that those who engage in charitable lifestyles are fated to suffer loneliness. I've been fortunate to have many good friends I've cultivated over time, since it takes time to develop trust, shared experience, and to truly understand a person.
 

“That being said, it's a bit premature to define our brief interaction (a dinner and a few emails) as something as strong as friendship, when I really haven't known you that long. Whether I will or I won’t, well, I guess that's a function of fate.”

I was geeked. Text sent. I kind of wanted a response, but would’ve been content with none.
 

Soon afterward, I received it.

“I understand, but I am different. Feelings are instant. Maybe that's the Victorian poet in me. A time when things were simple: smiling, laughing, trusting, becoming friends, or falling in love. I am one of those old souls, and as a result have friends that I know instantly, and they know me instantly. For me, the time to know someone, it does not make a difference. You either know their soul or you don't. But a conversation for another day.”

I cringed. “‘A bit of the Victorian poet in me’?”

Enos sucked his teeth. “Maybe the spooge of a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Victorian is stuck in her cooter…”

“Like she’s European or some shit.”

“Or maybe she fucked a Victorian corpse and the tip is still lodged in her—”
 

“She loves the Victorian era?”

“Then again, the Victorian era ended in 1901, so he’s not necessarily ancient…”

“The racist-ass Victorian era?”

“…but the guy would have to have been an adult in that era…”

“I’d love to see how they would’ve treated her black ass in Victorian Europe.”

“Still, an old dick is an old dick.”

My hatred turned into curiosity. I wanted to find out what made her tick. So I called and asked her about being a Victorian poet. Specifically, what was it about things Victorian that appealed to her.

She replied, “The sense of calm in the eye of the storm, or perhaps restraint. The décor and the art of life. I guess it's more with all things British, perhaps? I know it sounds absolutely strange, but I just finished
A Room with a View
, by Forster, beautiful novel.”

“It’s funny you said that, Felice. Some coworkers were talking a few days ago about how we end up reading some books as opposed to others (friends, a particular writer, mood) and envisioning where we would fit in if we were in the story.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and it leads me to ask you what is the trail that led you to read
A Room with a View
, and how do you think you'd fit in if you woke up tomorrow morning in the book?”

“Well, definitely, I see myself in Florence, being courted by a sensitive, mysterious, amazing man, who only has eyes for me!”
 

“Really…”

“I think I definitely have aspects of Lucy in me, and the men I fall for are a hundred percent George Emerson. Quiet, dignified, not morally ambiguous, and clear-sighted on goals, creative, etc. I love family, so I loved reading about her family and community's interplay with her life, etc. Interesting, my friend.”

I did some Googling and found out all of her references, George, Lucy, and Florence, were from
A
Room with a View.
And they weren’t Victorian at all. They were Edwardian. Finally, I had found the source of the evil. Schools ban impressionable youth from reading
Catcher in the Rye
, but I’d suggest a ban of Forster. This could not stand! I thought that my inquiry would be simple, but now I realized that I had to go deep cover.
 

I had to act as if I was a fellow fan.

I read a few research papers on the book and found a site that had a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. Armed with the knowledge of this vile necronomicon, I was ready for battle.
 

I texted, “I finished
A Room with a View
yesterday and I don't know where to begin. The points raised (self-actualization, happiness, love, redemption, judgment, the fallacy of the British ‘stiff upper lip,’ the Augustinian fear/hatred of the flesh, and so much more) deserve real interaction that email simply cannot facilitate. I'm fascinated by the interaction/tension between your views/life experience and the book. It's as if you've written an epilogue and possible sequels I haven't read.

Take care,

George. I mean, Rufus.”

She texted, “You moved me that you were moved as much as I was. Why did we take so long to read it?”

I wished I never had. “Right.”

“I was so upset when it ended. I chanted, 'Love conquers all.'”

I couldn’t recall the last time I’d chanted anything.
 

She wrote, “How about Union Square Park with the rest of the lovers?”

The strange this was, after reading the book, a lot of things she’d spoken about just jelled. I had an overwhelming sense of clarity and a greater feeling of curiosity and intrigue about her perspective/experience. She no longer became a test subject.
 

She arrived at Union Square a half-hour after we were supposed to meet. We strolled to yet another New York street fair and she spoke about her family and how burdened she felt by her job.
 

“I’m tired, and old.”

“You’re what? Forty…”

“Doesn’t matter. I feel burned out.”

“Maybe it’s time to move on to something else.”

“I don’t know.”

“You like singing, so why not follow that, like your brother?”

“I can’t, dear friend. Lives depend on me and I must answer the call.”

“Maybe you need to take a break.”

“And do what?”

“Go out on dates. This city’s filled with guys who’d love to—”

“I don’t date. Not since…”

It was turning into a soap opera.

“I once knew love, but my heart. My heart, it was broken beyond repair.”

“You’re still young. I’m sure that—”

“I’m an old maid.”

“You’re forty—”

“I’m old and haggard. I hope someday soon I will wake up and I will no longer have a heavy heart, a broken one. How does that happen? Is there a magic potion? Can one ever heal? Can one ever get over something like this? I am not sure.”

“Felice…”

“If I were George, which perhaps I am, I will never get over it, and descend into darkness, which is where I am. But his is a noble defeat which he is willing to accept without the easy way out, without avoiding the pain, and the suffering of a great loss, which makes him the better person.”

I was dumbstruck.

“Cecil is easily cured. I am not Cecil. Lucy is clueless as to her pain, which says much about Forster's way of looking at women. I am much more a man in Forster's view than a woman, which I like.”

Now I was scared.

“I truly enjoy your company, and think you are one of the most interesting and articulate people I have ever met. I hope we can continue the journey of friendship.”

She kissed my cheek and ran for a cab. Crazy.

I didn’t know what to do. So I slept on it, looked at some of the articles online involving
A Room with a View
, and wrote:

“Felice,

Every moment we live is a chance to change our lives for the better or worse. In other words, we live in a constant state of possibility. The pain you feel is connected to a past trauma, and is impeding your ability to embrace unknown joy. I find myself enlivened more by the wonder of the unknown than the settled pain of my past.

Remember what Mr. Emerson said, ‘Passion is sanity.’

To remove passion from your life puts you deeper in the darkness, where ‘Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed.’ To fight the dark, we need warmth.

Work is not a substitute for warmth. Companionship is what is crucial to proving that we are not only capable of loving, but that we deserve to be loved.

Rufus”

The next day, I received an email from Felice.

“Your soul is beautiful, Rufus. Fate has brought us together.”

She sounded like Enos now.
 

She wrote, “Maybe we can write a screenplay together?”

I felt sorry for her. Yes, she was a weirdo, but if naughty girls need love too, so do weirdoes. Especially fine weirdoes.
 

Her benefit was in a week, but I had a conference in DC a few days before. I went back home, looking forward to seeing her.
 

After a few days, I came back to NY. I plunked down $150 for my ticket and went to the benefit. Before the show began, I saw her. The first thought that entered my mind:

“She’s phony.”

Suddenly, the scales were lifted from my eyes. I then began to watch her in action. From her dress to the way with which she held her glass, everything was affected. I sat through the performance, in the back, and it was dreadful. At the end, I tried to sneak out, but thought better of it. I walked up to her.

“Felice?”

“Rufus? Thanks for coming! What did you think of the show?”

“To watch and think you know something, only to realize you’re only deceiving yourself…”

“Eye opening, isn’t it?”

“Humbling. To realize how much time we waste on such things.”

She gave me a faux kiss on the cheek and made her way through to the actors. I walked out of the Edwardian era and came back to the twenty-first century.

49

I WAS BURNED
out from all my failed dating attempts. I spent so much time surfing the Krueller intranet, looking at photos and profiles, having hope for a match, only to get nothing. I was running out of time. And the prospect of tailoring specific emails to all Krueller partners (and senior associates) over the world wouldn't work.

I needed to clear my mind and work on my game, so I went online and surfed some dating websites.

And saw one woman with
photos that suggested she was really relaxed. Like a surfer girl, at least what they look like in the movies. She reminded me of Bridget Fonda in
Jackie Brown
.

Fortunately, she looked just as good in person as she did online. I guess she liked how I looked too, because she broke out a big grin when I saw her and said, “Sunshine?”

“Rufus?”
 

I nodded. She gave the aforementioned grin and a big hug. I could feel her breasts press up against my chest.