by Paul Goldstein

It was Friday afternoon, and I was still in the office. Later that night I had a date with a girl who filled in the dots in the "The Wall Street Journal" illustrations. Our last date went fairly well, but her clothing left something to the imagination. I don't want to say it was an ugly dress, but somewhere a '57 Desoto was missing seat covers. She was a stunner, though, and I was a bit nervous as I picked her up in my tan Volvo stationwagon. She had brought along her politically-correct sensibilities in a Louis Vuitton suitcase, which I stowed in the hatchback. Summer, for that was what they called her, didn't take it kindly when I told her with respect to commandeering the vehicle that, "You have to approach driving this machine like you approach women and dogs. They can sense fear. You've got to make like you were born to drive this baby," upon which she maced me. I hoped for better results on our second encounter.

Upon checking my answering machine for the twenty-second time that day, I discovered that my objective had finally been achieved; I'd alienated everyone I knew, there were no messages, trivial or otherwise. When the robotic voice of the Phonemate sarcastically informed me, "You have no messages," I retorted nastily, "Good," and hung up on the cretin.

I left the apartment building late, wet-haired, and bleeding from a wrestling match with a Bic disposable razor. As my doorman swung open the huge pane of glass with one hand and extended the other for a non-deductible donation, I told him, "Jose, I'm not rich, but let me say this: If there's anything you ever need, or anything I can ever do for you, just remember, you're asking the wrong guy. Whatever money I have, I'm keeping. Adios."

Summer was waiting in front of the Koo-Koo Karaoke Klub with a few of her friends, one of which had brought along her boyfriend, Frank, a meatcutter in the diamond district. After making small talk about what chuck could be with a little creativity, we all went in. Her friends headed straight for the bar and ordered a round of Long Island Iced Teas and mace refills. All night long they rebuffed the approaches of young men in cheap double-breasted suits of the John Gotti variety, with astonishing aplomb. The suitors lined up, some poisoned as scorpion breeders, still bellowing poorly arranged versions of You Light Up My Life and Born To Be Wild.

"Summer," one chromosome-deficient fop drooled, having just ingested a six-pack of Guinness through a pool pump, "Don't you remember me? You used to alphabetize my underwear in college." Complimented that someone had underlined her editorial prowess in front of her friends -- a gaggle of hormone-engorged book indexers -- Summer blushed, but then suddenly assumed the look of a puff adder. Before she could strike, I removed her from the club making quick apologies to her friends and to the bartender. Back out in the gelid New York City air, Summer suddenly kissed me with the passion of a medium-sized dustbuster and the breath of a postal worker late on a Wednesday evening. "Ah, now here we have something," I thought to myself.

Soon we were back at my apartment. I unlocked the Chapman lock, the three deadbolts, the combination lock, and detonated the bear trap. Three hours later, we were in. Summer made a quick evaluation of my living space, and sighed, "I like it." Good thing. I had worked long and hard to turn the rat hole into a padded love den, and I was glad I finally had occasion to open up the Brazilian wood futon. Summer was especially impressed with my collection of six-outlet power strips:

"Look how neatly all your electrical business is arranged," she mused in an accent that seemed to fall somewhere between Greenwich and Hoboken, "Mine at home is like a big bowl of linguini." "They're surge-protected," I bragged. "You're neat," she whispered, and kissed me on the side of the neck. We began to make out.

As we did, I thought back on several bad dates, one of which was particularly torturous. The girl, who was cute in a plain way, was very nice, but didn't have much to say. I became progressively more anxious with the dearth of conversation and nervously started to discuss random trivia. "You know, there's 12,000 miles of track in the New York City subway system," I told her confidentially. "That's enough track to go Prague and back three times." She yawned an excessively wide yawn at that point, exposing her braces and locking her jaws permanently agape. We spent the rest of the evening in the Emergency Room at St. Vincent's Hospital. At least we would have something to do besides talk to each other. The stares we received as we walked into the waiting room, however, her with her mouth wide open and locked, will haunt me the rest of my days.

The following morning I made Summer breakfast, pouring some Instant Western Omelette Eggbeaters into a blazing skillet. We exchanged plaintive glances in between runny jalapeno bites. "So what are we going to do today", Summer inquired as if our one night of glory entitled her to a lifetime of my company at the mall. "Well, actually, I've got some things to do," I said, hoping she"d wake up and smell whatever that smell was. "I...also...have to do my laundry," I continued. "Oh," she retorted, mildly effusing a sense of incredulity. "I also have to wash my hair," I added confidently. I gave Summer directions to the Path train and an MTA map and kissed her on the forehead. "See ya!" I shouted as she descended the eight flights of stairs that would bring her to street level.

I walked over to my friend Rob's apartment, where I was quizzed about the details of my foray with Summer in a manner that would have made Clarence Thomas blush. Of course, I complied, and detailed our mutual exchange of bodily fluids with an exactitude that was anything but reticent. As I spoke, Rob referred to both a copy of Grey"s Anatomy and a worn-out copy of Penthouse. As soon as my tale was over, he excused himself, making some nonsensical excuse about having to do his laundry, and ran out the door. As I turned the corner I saw him heading into a local video store.

When I got home I spoke into the security intercom, which immediately recognized my voiceprint and unlocked the front door. I rolled back several yards of barbwire, and made sure the electric fence switch was in the off position before I touched the brass doorknob. Six hours later, I was in. I immediately checked my messages.

"Hello. You have three messages," the Phonemate said, matter of factly. "Not very interesting, either."

"What?, I asked, shocked, moving closer to the Phonemate.

"You Don't get very interesting messages, do you?," the sarcastic electronic notetaker taunted.

"Listen, you overpriced piece of plastic, shut up before I introduce your datestamp to your tollsaver," I spat, hardly believing my feelings of rage toward my old friend.

"Ooh, I'm shakin," retorted the Phonemate, calling my bluff, outdone even by my own consumer electronics.

I tried to shake off the numbing sting my ego was experiencing and decided to hightail it over to Summer's apartment. My luck was no better there. whereas I was looking forward to a pleasant conversation and perhaps some sort of activity that would include mutual excitation to the point of spontaneous combustion, Summer had other plans.

"Look," Summer said. “It's been three weeks. I need to know where we stand. Are we lovers, friends, what? We can't go on like this. All we do is order in Chinese food, have sex, and watch movies."

"So what are you saying?" I asked.

I was dismayed that it had come down to this, that I had been lured into the "Where Do We Stand?" conversation, entrapped in a dialogue centered around poorly-constructed and grammatically defunct questions like,

"What do you see me as?"

Of course, there was no right answer to any of these questions, which if diagrammed, would resemble two divergently growing walnut trees. Not answering these questions, however, was completely unacceptable to the woman, any answer given would be wrong, the posited query a thinly veiled ruse for the real and more direct inquiry,

"When will you finally ask me to marry you, you using, irresponsible, self-deluded sloth?"

All I would have to do to answer this trick question was define the status of our relationship in some sort of neat terms. But it wasn't all that simple. Sure, with Summer, I was happier than a Republican in Connecticut, but there was no way I was getting married. I mean, Summer was great, but the rest of my life?

I firmly believed at the very core of my being that there would be others, that I could, in fact, do better, that this was one in a series of many small to medium-sized relationships that would carry me along until I met my soulmate, that one person who understood me better than anyone else in the whole world, that could help me grow spiritually, that would never dream of asking me to drive her to Fortunoff's or help her brother move. She was out there, I knew it. As these thoughts rushed all through my brain I hadn't noticed Summer, who'd walked away and locked herself in the dumbwaiter. After calling every locksmith in town, I finally was able to extract her with a circular saw and a dish of Baby Ruths. I put her to bed and went home.

Upon vaulting my garden wall with a lance I had saved from an old job working as a waiter in a Medieval theme park, I flew into my back window and headed straight for the machine to look for signs of my waning popularity. I hit the play button. I had three messages. Two from my mother who was just calling to say she was dying, and a third from a friend who was upset that I'd changed my subscription from Newsday to the Post without informing him. As the third message ended the Phonemate informed me plainly,

"That was your last message."

"Ever?," I prompted.

But the 2000 was not playing along. "You say that with some degree of finality," I tried again, giving the Phonemate a second chance for good digital counterpunch. But no use, I had offended him beyond return. And like all worthwhile insults, there was no way of putting the toothpaste back in the tube.

So it went for weeks, machine ignoring master, until Summer called and left this message:

"Hi, I'm pregnant. Call me."

There are few messages that get an immediate response from me. This is one. I swallowed an entire bottle of Cherry Rolaids with a tall glass of Absolut Citron, and waited two seconds for the top of my head to unscrew involuntarily counterclockwise, and then screw back on, firmly, clockwise.

I dialed the number.

"Lance?" she asked, not recognizing the voice of the farmer who'd sown the seed of love in her cute, fertile womb. "No," I said, somewhat worried by the mistake, remembering that Lance was an old boyfriend who paid visits of a random sort to my beloved. I guess, like anyone blinded by lust, I chose to ignore the presence of his Hyundai in front of her apartment at three in the morning, as well as the two writhing shadows behind Summer's pleated louvres. I did not feel threatened, however, as I had once actually had a conversation with Lance, and for a thirty-three year old, he projected the maturity of a Romper Room contract player. His voice was a combination of the dog on the Bugs Bunny cartoons who asks, "Which way did he go, George?," and the press secretary for Act Up. It was a a sing song kind of a thing that combined a Franki Valli helium-ingested falsetto with a lisp that recalled a young Dick York.

"Summer," I said, "Listen. It can't be me. We're always very careful -- what, with the immersions in 360 degree water followed by the spermicidal jelly rubdowns, your diaphragm, my two industrial strength condoms, one ribbed, one not, just like you like it, and our not actually being in the same room during the act..."

She burst out crying, her chest heaving like a three-year-old who'd just seen her favorite redcap take that long swim down the ol' Tidy Bowl canal.

I hightailed it over to her apartment with a jug of Gallo blush and an old bottle of Valium I keep around for special occasions. When I walked in the door, Summer was spread out on the floor as prone as Mike Tyson in a Buster Douglas rematch, a pool of tears spread out beneath her designer sundress. I held her while she wept, making a series of baby noises, which I recorded and later submitted to the editors of the National Geographic. One gallon of wine later and she was once again seeing the world through Rosé colored glasses. She admitted that the baby couldn't be mine, and that she wasn't actually sure it was hers either. The finger of blame seemed to rest now squarely on Lance, who had become so depressed with the news of his fatherhood, he was admitted to a local hospital and immediately threaded up with an I.V. full of Prozac and chocolate milk. When Summer calmed down she begged me to drive her the twenty miles to the hospital to see Lance. I capitulated, willing to help out at this point in any way I could. When I left, Summer was still waiting for her faithful impregnator to emerge from a trance that had been accidentally induced while under hypnosis, during which, he'd actually channeled Thurmon Munson for a full 14 seconds.

When I got home, I dematerialized briefly, reappearing in my bedroom. I checked my messages. Rob had called to tell me about a party that was being thrown by some friends, a group of strippers who had pooled their money and opened up a furniture store. It was strictly a B.Y.O.B. affair, but I, eager to take advantage of any situation that involved liquor, nude dancers, and a sectional couch, decided to take the trip cross town.

I spat in Jose's face as he opened the cab door for me, and he thanked me as I handed him a five peso note. The cab ride over to the party was one of those transcendental New York experiences that only the initiated and rent controlled experience. A philosophy major at Columbia, the Turkish cab driver spoke eloquently about George Santayana, the philosopher that asserted that there was no difference between imagination and real experience, and that, in fact, in some ways, The Imaginative Model, as he called it, won out over the real thing. This explained, he said, many artists' distaste for human interaction and "real experience," and that while to the outside world their behavior seemed isolationary, in reality, it provided them with a completely engaged spiritual life that was far more vivid than the mundane quality of what he called "the horror of everyday living." As I left the cab with a new bounce in my step, the savvy hack handed me the data to support all his positions, much of which quantified the levels of seratonin in the brain during real and imaginary experiences (imaginary experience, of course, won out by a long shot, which just goes to show you that if you had to, you could make empirical data support Dolly Parton).

It's been three months since the night of the party, and I must say I've come a long way since Summer. I realized that what I needed much more than brainy conversation was affection and companionship, and as life's little puzzle pieces began to put themselves together for me as they sometimes begin to do, I realized how happy I was for the first time in a long time.

Now I'm seeing someone new. She's really nice. She's a dancer I met the night of the party. Her name is Va Va Vavoom, and she's totally hot, and has a great personality. She usually works nights, so we don't get to see a lot of each other, but I've given her the key to my apartment, so that when she gets home from work, at five in the morning, she can let herself in. You haven't lived until you've had Va Va crawl into bed with you naked in the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun begins to creep through the barred security gate over your window. She says that she wants to go to medical school and she's saving her money. I'm one hundred percent behind her. She says she doesn't care that I'm on unemployment and our only form of entertainment is renting movies and playing Battleship, because she says she loves me for me. It's so rare to find that. I feel lucky.

As for the Phonemate, well, witness for yourself, the incident that finally ended my relationship with that particularly troublesome piece of polymer. Since the incident involved them both, I'll lay it out here for you as it happened. It was in the middle of a particularly sordid argument between myself and Summer in the dead of Fall...

At rise, Summer is questioning me with the gentility of an S.S. Officer on the second day of Purim.

SUMMER: Where have you been for the last hour?

ME: I went shopping. I bought some basil, a bottle of Diet Coke, and a Pez refill.

SUMMER: A pity you didn't stop at that new dance club that opened up down the block. It would have saved you phoning...

ME: Are you suggesting there are Chinese doings (chinoiseries) between me and some other chick?

SUMMER: If the shoe fits...

ME: Why I--

SUMMER: At last I understand it! I comprehend everything now -- your feigned solicitude, the phony terms of endearment, the delicacies you forced on me, laden, I daresay, with arsenic--

ME: Hey babe, if you can't stand the heat, vacate the cooking quarters.

PHONEMATE: Attaboy! You tell her!

Summer glares at the machine viciously and I yank open the door, where Lance is standing with a dozen red roses and a half-smile.

LANCE: Is Summer here?

PHONEMATE: See for yourself.

LANCE (ogling lasciviously): She is something.

ME: Who asked for your opinion

LANCE: (falsetto, lisping): I offer it gratuitously. One needn’t be a connoisseur of fine china to appreciate a striking dish. No wonder you have such a big chip on your shoulder.

ME: Hey bud, cut to the chase. I'm losing patience here faster than a G.P. under the Clinton health plan.

LANCE: Forgive me. I'm Lance LeFleur, artificial intelligence electronics engineer at Lutsky Electronics in Flushing, Queens. (Lance weeps briefly, then regains his composure) Did you, by any chance, purchase one of our Phonemate series 2000's within the past eight months?

SUMMER (pointing to the Phonemate): There it is, that little son of a bitch! (Pointing to me) He's never been the same since he bought it, this one. Lance, are you here to see me, or to engage in customer relations?!

LANCE: Not now, sweety, this is business.

SUMMER: And don't call me sweety!#@$%&*!

PHONEMATE: Yeah, Lance.

SUMMER: Shut up, you cheap, outmoded digital reproduction of the human voice! You sure you're not analog?

PHONEMATE: Hey!

ME (to machine): Calm down, they'll be gone soon.

LANCE: Ah, poor little 2000. Thank heavens we've succeeded in tracking you, the last one, down at last. My dear friends, you see before you a stupefying instance of vengeance gone mad.

SUMMER: Okay, Lance, I'm stumped. Educate me.

LANCE: Sure, my little pumpkin puss!

SUMMER: Don't you ever call me that!

LANCE: Sorry, mon amie. You see, folks, a worker in our employ, another engineer, deranged by what he conceived to be unjust treatment, implanted in this unit an odious device, a digital chatchka to cast foul aspersions and calumnies on the user. The resultant wave of murder, divorce, and domestic violence has well nigh ruined Lutsky Inc. (Begins weeping again, this time uncontrollably) If I Don't straighten out this mess, my father has threatened to finally fire me. I'll have to go back to hulling chestnuts for Mother!

ALL AT ONCE: We understand.

LANCE (clears throat): In any case, such was the havoc wrought by the instrument, that we posted a goodly reward for its return. Once you turn the culprit over to me, I have a check in my bag for you for one hundred thousand French francs. My two burly assistants, who have just entered behind me, will insure that it afflicts society no more.

(His assistants unplug the Phonemate 2000, stifling its protestations, then carrying it off.)

ME: Wow, look at all these French francs. Now I'll be able to pay off my credit cards and not feel so bad about the Pizza Hut franchise in Chernobyl, the Bosnian airline stock, or the time sharing condo in Waco...

LANCE (falsetto, sing-song): It would seem my business here is finished. I thank you sir, for your civility, and for bailing me out of a truly funky mess.

ME: However I can help.

SUMMER: Lance, will you call me

LANCE: Yes, honey truffle. When shall I call

SUMMER: Once before you leave to work, once when you get to work. Once before lunch, once during lunch, and once after lunch. Once before you leave work to home. Once when you get home. Once from the bathroom, twice during dinner, and, of course, once more just before you go to sleep or have a particularly good dream. I think that about covers it.

LANCE: My dear, if my father responds to my victory today the way I think he will, I'll be able to whisk you away to any part of Queens you desire.

ME: Sure, dangle Queens in front of her.

LANCE: What do you say, leaky nose?

SUMMER: Queens?!-- Hyphenated addresses -- The tennis stadium -- Claire Schulman -- Oh, take me!

Lance exits with Summer and I, completely worn out by the episode, retire to bed where I sleep for three consecutive days and nights. The Phonemate 2000, no longer present to answer my calls, leaves a stunning hole in my social life, and I am forced to answer all my own calls, actually having to leave the phone off the hook when I Don't want to be disturbed, as is the case now as I drift off to sleep, perchance to dream...