Maybe you remember me. It's okay if you don't. We met last year: a Sunday afternoon in early April, on the train from New York to DC. You sat near the front of the Quiet Car, by the window. By the time I boarded, it was one of the only open seats left. You indicated no one was sitting there, and did not seem at all alarmed when I collapsed shoulder-hauls of duffel bag and camera bag and giant purse and a plastic shopper of extra shit I could not manage to cram into my suitcase onto the seat next to you, then rustled through it all for ten minutes until I found what I was looking for and settled the fuck down.
I was about halfway through Anthony Doerr's 'Memory Wall'. There are those among us who feel very strongly about Mr. Doerr's stories. Specifically, we feel like 'keep small-talking at me while I'm in one of his worlds and I will fucking cut you.' I'm one of those people.
You did seem like a legitimately nice guy, what with the nice questions and the offering to get me something from the cafe car every time you got up. Even though I declined (politely, the manners don't waver easily, trust), and I tried to really shut it down by getting my own wine at one point, I still appreciated that you brought me back a water and a bag of pita chips. I am human. Pita chips are always nice.
So James, thank you for your lovely manners - buying a girl a water is actually quite chivalrous. Rare when a man meets a woman and doesn't immediately encourage her to drink. I was about to start drinking, but you couldn't have known that. I also wanted to thank you for the book recommendation. And apologize, a little.
When you noticed what I was reading, you made a thoughtful comment and mentioned you worked for...the publisher? I don't know, so sorry, I was straight-up half-listening to you. There's this thing, about being a woman travelling alone: creepy dudes are always out there, waiting to mack on you. And the best way to deal with this is by being totally aloof and writing in your beat-to-shit journal or like, crying over short stories or something that makes you look kind of too-intense and crazy. It's like - if you're a raccoon trying to make it through a field of coyotes, sometimes your best ploy is to pretend like you have rabies or some shit. Walk right through that coyote field in broad daylight wearing something insane. Coyote's be like 'woah, why is that raccoon out in the daylight wearing a long t-shirt and rain boots? Raccoons are nocturnal, bro! That rac's got the R for sure.' And the other coyotes are all 'Word. Leave that crazy ass alone. Also, we congregate in fields now? A whole field of coyotes? This is threatening as shit.'
Anyways. It had been a long week, and I was in Rabid Raccoon mode. It's a self-preservation thing. But my interest in self-preservation does not eclipse my interest in book recommendations, so when you mentioned Karen Russel's novel 'Swamplandia!' I asked you to write it down. And you did. And I ignored you for the rest of the trip, aside from exchanging a giggle over the old man being MAD DRACONIAN about the Quiet Car rules. You got off at the stop before Union Station. That must be someplace in Maryland. After you left, and said something lovely about meeting me, the woman across the aisle asked me if I knew you. I said no, and she proceeded to recap everything you'd done to her seat-mate, who'd boarded the train in Baltimore, closing with "I've never seen anyone be so nice." Then I kind of felt like a dick.
'Swamplandia!' followed me around for the next year. We must have met right before it's release, and Ms. Russell got mad press all through 2011. I kept running across it, and I kept not buying it. A book and I need to have a moment. I need to feel something, or find it someplace random, I don't know. I buy books compulsively, so I've set up really vague criteria that prevents me from buying too many, and allows a purchase when I really want it.
A few weeks ago - it had been almost exactly a year - I was in New York again, killing time between site visits when I wandered into the Strand. And there it was, a half-off Staff Pick, paperback and everything. I wasn't convinced - I carried it around the store to see if we bonded, like I do with a dress I'm not 100% sure about. Next thing I knew, I'd lost 75 minutes in there, and I just had to commit to whatever was in my arms and cash out.
I forgot all about it until I unpacked back in DC. I didn't start reading it until last week. And...I tore through it in like, two days. That book was so amazing, James, thank you! I did love it! Exactly as much as you told me I would! And it's made me think about you, a little. I probably should have been nicer. I probably shouldn't treat everyone like they're part of a band of highly organized coyotes trying to maul my face off. I should probably be open and accepting and engaging, because there's all this love in my heart, and I should remember that people can enrich my life in myriad unexpected ways.
But really, James, fuck it. Whatever. It's fine. Because maybe if I'd talked to you, really talked to you, we would have become the best of friends, and you'd be a real and trusted source of perspective and love in my life. Or, maybe, you'd be one of those guys who texts me at 11.00 on Sunday night all 'what are you up to?' and I'm like 'Listening to New Edition and GChatting with D in my sweatpants, why?' and you, terrifyingly, respond 'I'm outside your apartment...I was in the neighborhood for a completely bullshit reason, because no one is ever in this neighborhood, but want to hang out?' and then we have to walk through why drop-bys are unacceptable, and no, the fact that you're 'already here' doesn't invalidate that. Ever. No. You have to go home. Unless...wait. Did you bring anything cool? Like a really fancy brownie with ganache from one of those pretty yuppie bakeries I pretend to hate? Season Two of the Sopranos? Xanax? Chai? Seriously, you didn't bring anything cool? Go home. And then I ignore your texts for two months, and you leave these really mean 2am voicemails about what a bitch I am. For not abandoning an evening of looking at pictures of crazy unicorn dresses on the internets with Miss D for your rude ass. It is Sunday goddamn night, bitch, please, the Amazing Race is on.
And then everything's awful.
This way, I write you a sort-of nice letter on my insane blog and thank you for bringing this amazing book into my life, and I'm totally going to read her short story collection now, too. See, James? Aren't you glad I didn't give you my number? We could have done this in person.
Seriously, though, everyone. Read 'Swamplandia!'
