Getting the Message

I've always believed in waiting at least five minutes before falling in love with a woman, but in her case, I knew I'd have to make an exception. Who can explain these things? I wanted to marry her. I wanted to give her world-famous children, build her a home in the meadow, donate my kidneys to her parents, carve her visage in the Rock of Gibraltar with my teeth, climb into a clothes dryer full of razor blades just to be near her dirty laundry. She had northern lakes for eyes, full Cupid's-bow lips, a smile that could turn ball bearings to butter, palomino hair, an elegant neck, outstanding breasts, a real darling little pooter, so tight you could mill wheat with it, gams that made a ballerina's legs look like turkey wattles, and there was something in the way she carried herself that suggested royalty, the confidence of a princess, the power of a gypsy dancer--in short, I thought she was real cute. I had to meet her.

There was a problem. She had an escort, a date. He was a nothing, a mannequin, a monodimensional cartoon of a man, a contrived zombie, hollow, probably a doctor or a lawyer with a Jaguar parked outside and a nice house somewhere and, OK, somewhat handsome, I suppose. But when she looked my way and our eyes met, briefly, I swear that for the first and only time in my life, I had a psychic experience, an ESP message as clear as a bell. I (continued on page 151) Getting the Message (continued from page 112) heard her say simply, "Help me."

Help me.

I've never been one of those people who refuse to get involved. I asked the bartender if he knew who she was. He gave me the once-over, determining if I was an all-right kind of guy, which I am, and then he nodded. In affairs of the heart, chance encounters such as this, a good bartender is a liaison, an advisor; and this was a good bartender. He said he thought her name was Whitney. Was she a model, I had to know, a movie star, a goddess--was she real? He smiled and said she was real--he believed she worked in an office.

"There has to be a way," I said to myself. I make my living writing persuasive copy, persuading people to buy things, using words. And there had to be a means of getting the words to her, if fate were all it was cracked up to be, and it had to be destiny that brought us together. I never do anything unless it's inevitable, and this was.

I took a pen and wrote a note on a cocktail napkin. I got the barmaid to take it to her, explaining that she shouldn't let the blonde's companion see the note or it would ruin the surprise. The note said:

You may be unaware of this, but the man you're with is a clone. do nothing suspicious. I'm from the future, and I know these things. Meet me outside the rest rooms in ten minutes. Trust me. I work for the Xyglin League of Planets, the FBI, the CIA, the Harvard Alumni Association and the Love Boat show.

A Friend

The barmaid believed in love and was a willing messenger. She slipped my note under a blank second napkin, with just a corner of my handwriting exposed. My heart raced. Would the blonde laugh? Would she tell the goon she was with? Would he come over and beat the crap out of me? He was built like a Percheron, though he didn't look nearly as bright. I'm small and have a bum knee--I could neither flee nor fight. I was putting my life in her hands. That's how much I believed in her.

She discreetly read the note. She chuckled to herself when she was done. The lummox asked her what was so funny, and I read her lips, telling him, "Never mind." It could hardly have gone better.

"If you don't mind my nosing in," the bartender said, "what'd your note say?" I told him.

"Writing notes on cocktail napkins is an art form," I said. "I've been doing it since I was five. I should write a how-to book. I'd make a fortune."

I boast to bartenders. So what? They expect it. They're disappointed if you don't.

"Watch this," I said. I took another napkin from the stack and wrote:

Actually, I am a medical student from a prestigious nearby university. I couldn't help noticing that your boyfriend is a carrier of bubonic plague. I would be happy to give you an examination. This is not a come-on--my main concern is for humanity. Meet me outside in five minutes.

A Friend

"Not bad," the bartender said. "Try it." He called the barmaid over and told her to deliver my billet-doux, as covertly as before, to the blonde. Whitney read the second note, holding it under the table, out of view from the clodhopper, smiled, crushed the note in her hand and stuffed it behind her in the booth. She looked around the room, while her date rambled on, analyzing the commodities market, reciting the phone book--whatever it was. I could see he was boring her to tears.

"See that?" I said. "She's dying to meet me--she can't stand not knowing who it is."

"Who what is?" the man on the barstool next to me asked.

"The blonde over there," I told him. "She's been giving me the eye ever since she walked in."

"She's gorgeous," he said. I grabbed another napkin.

"Now I let her know which of us hunks is me," I said.

Actually, do you see the well-dressed, handsome, wealthy-looking man at the bar? He's my bodyguard. I'm the guy on his left. I have to dress this way to throw off suspicion. Whatever he might have told you, the man you're with is a hit man for the Mafia, and he's after me. He always takes a woman with him when he makes his contracts. Do nothing.

In 30 seconds, I'm going to walk out the door. Follow me--your life could depend on it. My bodyguard will detain your date long enough for us to get away. I'll explain everything.

A Friend

This time, Whitney laughed out loud. Again, the doofus with her asked what was so funny, and again, she told him it was nothing. She looked straight at me. I smiled my top-of-the-line designer smile, the one I save for special occasions. I was scoring points like Dr. J one on one with Mickey Rooney.

"That got her attention," the guy next to me said.

"Give me a break," I said. "She wants me and she wants me bad."

"So go over there," the bartender said.

"The trick is to get them to meet you somewhere," I said. "If the guy she's with should happen to be some rich husband, then we're going to need his money to fly off to St.-Tropez. Trust me; I know what I'm doing." The bartender handed me another napkin.

"Make your next move, Ace," he said. I love it when bartenders call me Ace.

I considered. I could tell her that two policemen had just asked me if I knew who her companion was, that she didn't look to me like the type to get involved with drugs, though her date did, and that if she wanted to avoid going to jail, she could meet me by the pay phone and we could duck out back. Nothing is more romantic to a woman than the idea of being a fugitive on the lam with someone. Even so, I sensed it was time to get serious.

All kidding aside, there's no time to explain, but the wife of the man you're with just went into the ladies' room, honest. If you want to avoid an ugly scene, pretend you left something in the car, and I'll meet you in the parking lot. I can give you a lift home if you need one.

A Friend

"What do you think?" I said, showing it to the bartender first.

"Definitely a winner," he said.

"Go for it," the man beside me said.

This time, my beautiful blonde read my missive, closed her eyes, shook her head, perhaps blushing--it was too dark to tell--then looked at me as if to say I should be ashamed of myself. I looked at her as if to say, "I should be, I know, but I'm not."

"I believe she's definitely warming to you," the guy next to me opined.

"Why shouldn't she?" I said. "Now I bring out the big gun."

"What's that?" the bartender asked.

"Sincerity," I said. "Someone asked Laurence Olivier what the secret to great acting was, and he said, 'Sincerity--once you can fake that, the rest is easy.'"

I wrote my last note carefully, measuring my words. I was taking my best shot, shooting the moon, betting my wad, all my eggs, in for a penny, and the fate of the nations hung in the balance.

Dear Whitney,

All kidding truly aside, I have to meet you. I don't know why, but I felt sincerely, profoundly moved the minute you walked in. Beneath this obnoxious-joker mask is a nice guy who would like a little time with you to express himself. I never believed in magic before, but then, I don't believe how attracted to you I feel, either. How can I see you? What should I do? I have no choice but to put it in your hands.

Tom at the bar

"If this works, that's not the only place I'll be putting it in," I told my new buddies, my allies in this endeavor. My friends wanted to know what my final note said. "I hate to disappoint you, boys," I said, "but this one is personal."

Again, my heart raced. To add to the drama, just as the barmaid delivered my note, the palooka, the only obstacle between me and the girl of my dreams, rose and went to the cigarette machine. Whitney read my message and looked at me appraisingly. Clearly, she knew she was making an important decision. Then she took a pen from her purse and wrote something on her own cocktail napkin. Just when I thought my heart could pound no harder, it jumped into double time. Whitney gestured to our go-between and handed her the reply, pointing at me. The barmaid laid the napkin, words down, on the mahogany before me. Both the bartender and the guy next to me leaned toward me.

"Do you mind?" I said. "This could be extremely private."

I lifted the napkin as though it were my last hole card and I'd just bet the farm, slowly, letter by letter, word by word, until its contents were revealed to me. It said:

All kidding aside, really, Tom at the bar:

Whitney

"See ya later, boys," I said, slapping a ten-dollar bill onto the bar. "Keep the change."

"Going somewhere?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah, she's meeting me," I said, "back at my karate studio, where I teach. Plus, I left my pit bull in the car, and he's probably dying to get out." I left in a hurry. I didn't stop for a block and a half. I had to ask myself, had it been the truth? Or had I simply been bested, beaten at my own game? If it wasn't one kind of truth, it was definitely another. I've always believed life is too short and too precious to worry about the difference. Cut your losses and go home. That's what I've always said.

"In affairs of the heart, a good bartender is a liaison, an advisor; and this was a good bartender."