I didn't feel disparaged until I received Tennis Pro's voice message.
I was sitting in Dulles airport, awaiting a late connection to La Guardia when I noted the message on my phone. I had taken less than forty-eight hours to zip down to Melbourne, Florida, flying in and out of Orlando. Why the connection (even though Jet Blue has become less the airline of choice these days)? Because I opted to use some of my United Miles, and United does not fly direct from NYC to Florida, at least not often.
No. As it turned out, the flight crew down had mucked with the on-board coffeemaker, and it took almost an hour either to fix the pot, or file the necessary paperwork. The coffeemaker.
I was nearly asleep in my seat as it was, since I had risen at six a.m. to take a seventy-five dollar cab from Melbourne to the Orlando airport. The Jamaican driver told me that he raised goats, but not before he held forth that homosexuality was not normal, that gay men preyed upon boys to turn them, that a man's penis does not belong in another man's rectum. That last bit is verbatim.
I couldn't depart The Sunshine State fast enough. I'm sure Anita Bryant would have been oh-so happy. Glory-be. Her legacy thrives.
Back to TP's voice message. Here are the words:
"I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed having you down. I know it's probably not, um, who knows, not exactly what you had in mind, but I enjoyed your visit. And that's it. It was all fun. Kind of short, though. It was a little too short. So you are always welcome here, and hopefully you'll come back and see me again. Ciao."
My first thought was this: How many ways can I tell you to have a nice day? Right. Ciao.
How did all this come about, I wondered. True, TP and I remained in telephone contact since last September. And true, I found the conversations enjoyable, most times laugh-out-loud funny.
As this winter hit its sub-freezing stride, I felt like a shut-in. I've taken to calling the five or so extra pounds, my winter pelt. I'm wearing layers of clothing, my nose, finger tips and toes perpetually cold.
TP suggested more than once that I come down to visit him, and as the temperature hovered around 25-degrees Fahrenheit for weeks on end, I made the decision to hop south. A flash-extremity-warm-up.
Truth be told, I am not a fan of Florida. I've been many times over more than two decades: Tallahassee, Gainesville, Orlando, Tampa, St. Petersburg, West Palm Beach, Jupiter, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami. Heck, nearly everything I had was stolen out of a rental car in South Beach some twenty years ago. I can be such a snob, but after that, I've not cared for the general population that inhabits or frequents that state.
It had been years, and I figured that TP, a born-and-raised Melbourne native, and one entertaining fellow, would offer a couple of days' respite.
Our summer fling has offered diverting, memories (heck, summer flings have built-in expiration dates). However, I haven't been feeling particularly sexual - my dream-state has been very active this year so far, hurrah - and I expected to be reserved in that sense. I am aware that TP has regular assignations with more than one woman in his home town. He conducts private tennis lessons on his carefully-groomed clay home court. Yes, his home, with its pool and spa, and separate separate guest room(s).
I made it plain that I did not want to get in the way, be underfoot, that I would be content to rent a car, do my own thing...
Nope. TP sounded very enthusiastic about my visit, said he would fetch me from the Orlando, and that we would go down to Palm Beach the next day. I comprehend now that he wanted to show me some highlight places in the story of his life.
Which was fine. Conversation was easy. Kicking back and inhaling is a surefire way to relax. I made no physical move, nor did he. at the end of the first night, we turned in. I took the guest room.
The next morning, we drove south. What can I say about Palm Beach? The median age seems to be about sixty years old. Most of the men were attired in pleated-front, knee-length shorts, polo shirts, and penny loafers without socks. Um fellows, the Reagan era was twenty years ago, y'all. The women were dressed in various iterations of Lilly Pulitzer.
I cuffed-up my jeans, and tried to break in a new pair of clunky Michael Kors sandals (blisters, natch). Attired thus, with a simple, "shrunk" tee-shirt and Longchamps handbag, I felt more stylish than anyone I saw (alas, my Manhattan snobbery).
Worth Avenue's line-up of luxury-brand stores are versions of the same luxury-brand stores here in the city. Generally, however, I did like the older Spanish-Mediterranean architecture. The Breakers is a lovely building - the antique furniture, carpets, tapestries, and chandeliers are gorgeous, no argument. I did like The Seafood Bar, the actual bar, which housed tiny, living sea creatures. That was cool.
The chock-a-block mansions that line the oceanfront avenue would be obliterated if struck full-force by a hurricane, Saffir-Simpson Level Five. And they would most likely be rebuilt by their wealthy owners.
I did wiggle my toes in the sand. The sea was a deep turquoise, different from the steel blue I'm used to.
On the return drive to Melbourne, two sightings of local fauna intrigued me very much. Along the Interstate, TP pointed out a flock of wild turkeys and a family of wild pigs (!). Cool, that.
Once back at his home, I sensed the unspoken awkwardness between TP and me. And I lacked the inclination to discuss anything other than trivial amusements. We stayed up too late that second evening - I had to be up and gone to catch my return flight. Did he make a feeble attempt at intimacy? Maybe he did, but when he bid me a good night, I went off to the guest room. Again. (I learned last summer that he is not the sort of person with whom one actually sleeps.)
It has been a while, but a nasty pit in my stomach started to roil. The old separation anxiety. I lay still and took several deep breaths. I tried to think back, recall other times in my life when I felt the same. I wondered, should I have organized a longer trip? Was I missing out on something? I thought of some of the men in my past, some who left me, some whom I left, and realized that my internal upheaval was trivial. I gradually grew calm, but sleep was fitful.
A thought entered my mind, in the form of a question, "Why not me?' Indeed, why not. Why not me? Why would I put myself in a situation that is fruitless, and therefore safe? When will I allow myself to be open, when will I allow myself to venture a significant person into my life?
As for TP's voice message, or the conversation we had afterward, I wondered a bit more. I have known men who have claimed that they want (need?) me to be in their lives (somehow). It's almost as if my friendship, once given, serves to validate them. I could be wrong of course, but if I'm not, I wonder why that should matter. I don't flatter myself that I am so special. I know I can be a good friend, the best kind of good friend, in fact. Sometimes, though, it feels as though I allow such affection to be co-opted and used. Sometimes, it seems as though I get so little in return. Is TP another of this kind? Would it be such a stretch to imagine it to be so?
I was taught once upon a time, to pay attention to that "used" feeling. When I was a child, I was raised to expect cake, and what I got were crumbs. I was admonished, I was supposed to believe that the crumbs were the cake. Much later, I've come to understand the difference. I have to remind myself that I am worth more. It's difficult. I'm better at it today than I was some ten years ago.
Will I ever make a return trip to see TP? I cannot say.
In this meaningless world, where chance and probability are physical law, all I can do is pay attention and do my best - the hardest and most rewarding endeavor - every day of my life.
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