off your course until the wind finally dies down. Then realizing you do know: you’re lost.
“The letters aren’t personal to me. They are anything but. I don’t give them half as much though as you’re giving them. I’m not describing what it feels like for me to kiss someone, or touch someone or make love to them. You’re making a lot of incorrect assumptions.”
“You’re angry?”
“Of course I am.”
“Capturing an emotion. Violent or passionate. Isn’t that the goal of an artist?”
I took another sip of what was left of my coffee. He had me all mixed up. So it had been a compliment. “I’m not making art. The stories are just a job.”
“Right,” he said, making it completely clear that having upset me pleased him in some way. “While I waited for you the other day, after you walked out of your office, I read a few more of the letters.”
I felt my cheeks get hot wondering which ones. Using my forefinger, I pressed down on one chocolate chip that was left on the plate and brought it to my mouth, letting it liquefy and savoring its intense flavor.
Before I figured out how to respond, he said: “Since what’s in the letters isn’t what you feel, but what your clients feel, your clients are all, amazingly, very sensitive and sensual and able to communicate with you awfully well.” His voice was complicated, the way the chocolate was both sweet and a little bitter at the same time. So mixed in with the sarcasm, I heard the shadow of his disbelief and concern for me.
I’d never wondered before if the people who read the sample letters thought that the fantasies, emotions, and feelings I described belonged to me. I had assumed everyone knew they were fictive dreams created to satisfy my clients’ needs, to express their emotions and desires. Why didn’t Gideon understand that? Why was he judging me against the words and trying to fit make us fit together?
“Okay,” he said, his word ending the exchange. “You’re a modern day Cyrano. Only without the nose. Have I got it right now?”
Finally, I laughed.
“What do you charge?” His seemed resigned, as if he hadn’t been sure before and then once he’d made the connection between what I did and Edmund Rostand’s 19th century play something had been settled for him.
“Fifty dollars to customize an existing letter or story to–”
“Originals,” he interrupted.
“Four hundred and fifty dollars. A hundred less if the customer only wants the words and not the collage.”
“Any discount for more than one?”
“No, sorry.”
“Accommodating, aren’t you?”
“It takes me the same amount of time no matter how many letters someone wants. Each is original.”
I wasn’t doing my best selling job. Clearly I was ambivalent about him hiring me. He was too present. Too intense. Besides, I was having a hard time believing that he wanted to hire me. He seemed too self-possessed to ask anyone to write a word for him.
He stood. “Thanks for answering all my questions. It’s all very interesting.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got an appointment that I’m going to be late for. So I’m sorry but I’m going to run.”
“Thanks for the cookie.”
He smiled and shook his head, making it clear the thanks weren’t necessary. “I might want to hire you,” he added.
I nodded but I was surprised. Something about him made me doubt he would.
As if he’d heard the question I hadn’t asked but only thought, he said: “I know my own talents. What you do isn’t one of them.”
As I watched him walk out of the store, noticing how his shoulders sloped and how lazy his walk was despite his having somewhere to go, I wondered about him.
How had he wound up there at the exact time I’d been there? Did he work in this neighborhood and had come for coffee himself and seen me there? Or had he gone to Ephemera, asked for me, and someone told him where I was? And who would have done that?
It could be another coincidence. Like our
“The letters aren’t personal to me. They are anything but. I don’t give them half as much though as you’re giving them. I’m not describing what it feels like for me to kiss someone, or touch someone or make love to them. You’re making a lot of incorrect assumptions.”
“You’re angry?”
“Of course I am.”
“Capturing an emotion. Violent or passionate. Isn’t that the goal of an artist?”
I took another sip of what was left of my coffee. He had me all mixed up. So it had been a compliment. “I’m not making art. The stories are just a job.”
“Right,” he said, making it completely clear that having upset me pleased him in some way. “While I waited for you the other day, after you walked out of your office, I read a few more of the letters.”
I felt my cheeks get hot wondering which ones. Using my forefinger, I pressed down on one chocolate chip that was left on the plate and brought it to my mouth, letting it liquefy and savoring its intense flavor.
Before I figured out how to respond, he said: “Since what’s in the letters isn’t what you feel, but what your clients feel, your clients are all, amazingly, very sensitive and sensual and able to communicate with you awfully well.” His voice was complicated, the way the chocolate was both sweet and a little bitter at the same time. So mixed in with the sarcasm, I heard the shadow of his disbelief and concern for me.
I’d never wondered before if the people who read the sample letters thought that the fantasies, emotions, and feelings I described belonged to me. I had assumed everyone knew they were fictive dreams created to satisfy my clients’ needs, to express their emotions and desires. Why didn’t Gideon understand that? Why was he judging me against the words and trying to fit make us fit together?
“Okay,” he said, his word ending the exchange. “You’re a modern day Cyrano. Only without the nose. Have I got it right now?”
Finally, I laughed.
“What do you charge?” His seemed resigned, as if he hadn’t been sure before and then once he’d made the connection between what I did and Edmund Rostand’s 19th century play something had been settled for him.
“Fifty dollars to customize an existing letter or story to–”
“Originals,” he interrupted.
“Four hundred and fifty dollars. A hundred less if the customer only wants the words and not the collage.”
“Any discount for more than one?”
“No, sorry.”
“Accommodating, aren’t you?”
“It takes me the same amount of time no matter how many letters someone wants. Each is original.”
I wasn’t doing my best selling job. Clearly I was ambivalent about him hiring me. He was too present. Too intense. Besides, I was having a hard time believing that he wanted to hire me. He seemed too self-possessed to ask anyone to write a word for him.
He stood. “Thanks for answering all my questions. It’s all very interesting.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got an appointment that I’m going to be late for. So I’m sorry but I’m going to run.”
“Thanks for the cookie.”
He smiled and shook his head, making it clear the thanks weren’t necessary. “I might want to hire you,” he added.
I nodded but I was surprised. Something about him made me doubt he would.
As if he’d heard the question I hadn’t asked but only thought, he said: “I know my own talents. What you do isn’t one of them.”
As I watched him walk out of the store, noticing how his shoulders sloped and how lazy his walk was despite his having somewhere to go, I wondered about him.
How had he wound up there at the exact time I’d been there? Did he work in this neighborhood and had come for coffee himself and seen me there? Or had he gone to Ephemera, asked for me, and someone told him where I was? And who would have done that?
It could be another coincidence. Like our
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