One of my father's crudest friends had a saying that he reserved for men he thought were losers with the women. He would say, "That guy couldn't get laid in a whore house with a pocket full of hundred dollar bills." I never thought about that much; I figured I was doing alright with the ladies until I turned forty. Then it dawned on me, I had never had one that truly cared about me. Through my blue collar hard-working, long-hour days, I had a long string who abused my trust, used me and made me pay too much for the attention I got from them. My first screen play got accepted and at my first cocktail party a lovely took my breath away and destroyed what was left of the pedestal my mother had helped be build for women. "You can take me home and fuck me all night, if you put in a good word with the producer of the movie. Just tell him I would be perfect for the part."
The word was barely out that my story had been picked up by a major studio. There wasn't even any word on the street about the story line, setting or characters. Whatever the beauty was on, she had trouble navigating in a straight line. I had not told her "No" but she moved on with her offer and I saw her leave with another "nobody," twenty minutes later. My hopeful new agent watched me view her departure, "Once your mystery hits the screen, you can have a dozen like that lined up outside your door."
That was six years ago; he was right but they were not what I wanted.
Luckily, the movie goers were ready for character stories like "L.A. Confidential" and "China Town." Some great casting director picked an unknown, understated smart-ass, Bogart-like actor and within a month of the movie's premier, I was under contract for two sequels.
I retired to the same nice house I had built for myself when I was a lowly contractor. The more success that came my way the more I stayed at home, prowled the internet for ideas and pen pals. I wrote porn for diversion, fished to get outside and dreamed of hot women who were at heart like the 1960's TV moms I grew up watching. My mind seemed to be creating more and more flawed characters that the public clamored for. I was lonely and getting depressed but couldn't imagine ever finding a woman who really cared about me. I refused to look. My "agent," who was now called my "publicist," took great liberties in building a persona for me that was stranger than my characters. To the public, I was a cross of Howard Hughes, Mickey Spillane and Jack the Ripper. My readers accepted that I had to maintain a low profile or I would be locked away in some "Cuckoo's Nest."
My output was surprising even me. I could maintain it, if I could find a good proofreader and someone who was learned enough to tell me when I had missed the mark with a character, idea or believability. Slowly, I worked my way down the lists of other misfits that the editors condescendingly sent me. I never have figured out what editors do.
On the bottom of one list were a few scribbled-in names that were obviously afterthoughts. I got intelligent replies to several emails from "Phyllis." She agreed to scan one of my story idea sheets and give me her opinions. She corrected how one of my characters was tested for HIV; she challenged how much power an electric car would need if "cold fusion" proved possible in a sci-fi story; she ripped me a new one for not knowing my way around Paris and she suggested I change the caliber of a Smith and Wesson revolver because S&W was just starting in that caliber when my story was set and my character definitely could not afford a new pistol. I imagined her to be a six foot tall Amazon, genius who knew everything and was supremely confident.
We worked together on a mystery that was due under contract in three months. Her responses were quick; her ideas worth entertaining; she was well read and a good speller, which I am not. She was not expensive and I started to rely on her editing and didn't argue much when she suggested that paragraphs be reordered.
Several times I asked if we could meet and work together for a few days in person. I believed if we got to know each other our exchanges would be more brisk without so much consideration for bruised feelings. She fended off every such request.
A military history magazine with limited distribution asked if I would rework some of my early Viet Nam experiences. I wasn't up to that. I sent them to Phyllis and asked her if she wanted to try. She must have stayed up all night, in the morning her reply was to the point. "Wrong outlet. You have a lot of pain and angst in your recollections -- a lot of personal loss in the midst of too little success. Your good guys and bad guys get cloudy. Definitely not the John Wayne stuff this magazine wants."
"I knew something did not fit. I think you nailed it. The articles sounded like a nice diversion. I had better stick to my short porn stories for diversion. It is much safer."
"I didn't know you wrote porn. Give me some leads to find your work."
That sounded more like an order. I was dead tired, lonely and half lit, so I answered without thinking. I didn't hear from Phyllis for a few days even though I filled her emails every day with attachments for a sci-fi screen play that could be made cheaply by a smaller studio because it was a character study more than a super-expensive special effects story.
I tried IM to get a rise out of her, "Where did you go?"
"Depressed and thinking."
"Had hoped my work was not that bad. Or was it my porn that depressed you?"
No answer. I went to bed and took the next day off to try and prove I was as smart as a trout. I wasn't.
I had a day old email from Phyllis. "I believe you are missing your best talent when you write. The feelings imbedded in your porn show that you could push the mystery genre beyond the "high camp," "tongue-in-cheek" and "slap-stick" styles you have been successful at emulating. If you want to try, we should meet."
We exchanged emails for a few days.
"Phyllis, I am intrigued but don't know if I can bare my soul that much in more serious work. I'll start by letting you see who I am." I attached my best picture of my thin, tanned, leathery skinned, sixty year old, tall body. "I don't think I'm handsome but I don't look bad compared to other men my age. I also included some personal data about the real me, instead of the fantasy on the book jackets."
Her answer was heart wrenching, "You will be disappointed in me, but this is my lot in life. Polio left my legs twisted and my body stunted. I don't see very well and I weigh 90 pounds." Her picture showed a woman with no make-up, trying to look plain, flat and figureless.
"Disappointed hell, I've been trying to get your talents in the same room with me for a year. I live in a quiet, often lonely world, I would love to hear a female voice and have some company for a few days or we can meet half way between us. I'm sure you have guessed that I live near Portland, Oregon."
"I'm in northern California. Best if I come to you - small apartment here. Is there a motel close to you?"
"I am sane, housebroken, civilized and a good cook. You are welcomed to one of the guest rooms in this big house (address attached, MapQuest for directions, Google for pictures); I'm on the edge of a small town with good restaurants and a Wal-Mart. What more could "My Lady" need? If you don't drive, I'll pick you up at the airport; just say when."
I did do some research behind her back, after she agreed to fly from Sacramento. I arranged for a four wheeled electric scooter like the one she was using in an old picture taken at a Christmas party. I lived on mostly flat land and the entire town was assessable, if she rode and I walked.
Oregon's weather was helpful. For the first two days, I showed her the town. She was delighted with the scooter and her weak legs needed it for any trip over twenty yards. We just got to know each other - cooking breakfast together, grilling hamburgers and eating out. She learned much more about me than I did about her. She heard my sorted experiences with women and why I no longer try; by the third evening the rain started; we decided to sit in front of the fireplace and drink a 5 liter box of Franzia White Zinfandel, while I pulled her life story out of her. It does not take much wine to get a ninety pound woman to open up. She had two BA degrees -- American Literature and English; she felt safest on a college campus. She lost her virginity in high school to a rape from her prom date. Since then, she had never dated or been married. She was thirty-five.
I was thinking too much and her speech slurred when she asked, "What are you thinking about?"
"I was wondering what you thought about my wild and often outrageous porn stories."
"I like them. The rough ones are exciting and scary."
"Why?"
