PB1970

PB1970

Paul Benson was 28 in 1998 when he got his first email address.  He was up late at his sister’s house drinking with her husband after a Saturday barbeque.  Their mother and the other guests had left a few hours earlier, and his sister Marie had stayed up a bit longer talking with them, distractedly, and occasionally getting up to clean bottles and plates from various perches in the house.  Eventually her husband Jason noticed she had been gone from the living room for a dubious stretch and found her leaning, eyes closed, motionless against the refrigerator, a half-empty heineken bottle in her hand.  He helped her to bed, drank what was left in the bottle and cracked two more before he went back to Paul on the couch.  He’d been eager to show Paul his new computer all evening, but had to wait out Marie. 

He grabbed one of the folding chairs positioned around the living room and placed it next to the one at his computer desk and turned to Paul.  “All right.  Let’s check this out,” he said in a bold whisper, with a quick glance at the carpeted stairway.

Paul was no Luddite, but he really had no use for a computer.  (It would be almost ten years before he got one and that would be rendered useless by a smartphone soon after.)  He worked as a landscaper since high school and had just started his own business a year and a half prior.  He had his own truck and a trailer and more than enough business, so much he needed to hire sometimes as many as three dirt-humpers for certain jobs.  He worked long hard days, often went to the local sports bar for burgers and beer, and went to bed before getting up at six the next morning.  He barely watched television and, as he saw it, had no time to “dick around on a computer.”

He was drunkenly impressed, though, as Paul energetically acted as his Virgil and guided him through the circles of late 1990’s internet smut.  There were so many pictures and websites, message boards and listservs, chat lists, list chats, site lists: he had no idea what Jason was talking about and really didn’t care.  But he liked Jason a lot and they had beer and lots of pictures of naked women, so he took his tour, often laughing at his brother-in-law’s absurd enthusiasm.

“If I was single like you are, man, I would clean up on here.”

“What do you mean?  I gotta piss.”  Paul started to get up.

“Wait!  I’m telling you, man.  On here, there’s like thousands.  They post pictures and shit and you can fuck’em.”

Paul let out a laugh and rose. “I don’t even got a fucking computer.  I ain’t gettin’ one either.  I gotta piss.”

He weaved slightly back and forth over the toilet, noticing the dried toothpaste stains on the sink and faucet, his sister’s hair entwining her round brush, the sweetness of the plug-in air freshener.  He wadded some toilet paper from the roll and carefully wiped away the drips he left on the seat, threw it into the bowl and flushed.  He went into the kitchen and took a few more bottles from the refrigerator, but paused to peel back some aluminum foil from a baking dish on the counter.  Marie’s special, the six-cheese-mac-and-cheese, was room temperature and wonderful as he forked away a nice crispy corner and shoveled it into his mouth.  When he got back, Jason was hunched over the keyboard and staring at the screen.

“What do you want as your email username?” he said, still staring straight ahead. 

“What?  No.”

“I’m telling you, man.  It’s easy.  I can do it right…”

“No.  I don’t need an email,” Paul interrupted.  “I don’t have a computer and this is cool and all, but I really don’t give a shit.  I don’t want one and I’ll never use it.”

“Listen.  You never have to use it.  I’ll just set it up for you and if you ever want to, you can.  You will thank me.  Believe me, you will.” 

Paul hesitated.

“You will thank me.”

“Ah, what the hell.”

When Paul acquiesced and dropped into the metal folding chair, he half-listened to the email tutorial he was given.  When it came time to choose a name, Jason explained that most people used some form of their initials and birth year to be recognized and remembered by those who know them, but not their full names.  Usually, they used a kind of code name.  “Especially, if you use this on message boards and shit, you don’t want your real name out there,” he explained.  They ran through possibilities and had a good laugh.  He really liked Jason a lot.  It was a good night and although Paul knew he would never use it, he wrote down the email and password on the back of a business card in his wallet, the card where he kept important numbers such as his ATM password.

Two years later, Paul had grown in several respects.  His business had grown so well, he had to turn away work.  He landed several contracts with businesses, including 15 acres around a medium-sized mall, and hired two full timers who did most of the physical labor.  For larger jobs, he’d get some temporary dirt-humpers to help out his boys.  He spent most of his time supervising, meeting potential clients and giving estimates.  His bank account had grown.  In a little more than twelve months, he had quadrupled his income, took out a loan on a new truck, and was in the process of purchasing an A-frame house just a half mile from a lake.  Also, he had grown physically, from a lean but strong slope-shouldered boy in his twenties to a confident man beginning his thirties.  Less physically dirty and tired from his days, he started to care more about his appearance.  He kept his hair cut, bought nicer clothes.  He even started wearing a gold chain around his neck when he went to meet important clients or a bar on weekend nights.

The small city he lived near began to show small signs of growth as well, when the owners of his favorite sports bar took a chance and opened an Irish pub in a downtown that had seen nothing new for years.  It was a success, so crowded and busy that when another new place sprang up in a rehabilitated firehouse, he was quick to make that place his own.  He was not alone in his thinking since the parking lot and side streets would be crowded with shiny pickup trucks every Friday by 4:30. 

A lot of men, mostly contractors, would crowd around the bar with booming voices and broad, yet controlled gestures.  Most of their shoulders were back as they nodded knowingly during conversations.  Two different sports channels were on televisions at either end of the bar, while a third was on the back wall running 24 hour news.  The bar was stocked with several pretty bartenders in their twenties and a few in their thirties.  They were very good at smiling through stupidity and had incredible endurance being called by name from the patrons, Paul thought.  He was also amazed how the bartenders knew many of the patrons’ names.  Although he himself enjoyed looking at them and their pleasant attention, he didn’t like the way the other men, guys in their forties and fifties, would simultaneously condescend and flirt with the bartenders and waitresses.  These guys had wives and kids, for sure.  Regardless of these minor annoyances, Paul would be there early every Friday, securing himself a spot at the bar, socializing, watching a muted game on television, and enjoying the scene as the place filled up with a happy hour crowd loaded with pretty women.

One Friday, he saw in the mirror a woman standing behind him trying to get to the bar.  He turned and moved his chair over to make some space for her and apologized.  Just then, the bartender looked at him to see if he needed anything and he motioned to the woman behind him.  She nodded to him politely and ordered a gin and tonic.  He smelled a light oakmoss perfume, much lighter than the occasionally heavy bouts of cologne he was used to in that establishment, and had a sense she was beautiful.  He noticed first her slender fingers and lightly manicured nails with a nude polish, on her wrist a classy, loose band.  They turned to each other and smiled and he immediately felt his life was going to get even better than it had been over the past year.  When she got her drink they exchanged another polite smile and she left to a tall table, joining two other women. 

He stayed in his spot for the next half hour, pretending to watch a Yankees/Boston game, but taking every chance to look at her.  She was chatting with her friends, and here and there, a random man would wander over to them.  At one point, an old acquaintance from Paul’s high school sat down next to him.  The guy was now an electrician and kept trying to buy him a shot of Jagermeister while complaining about health insurance.  While they sat and talked, Paul kept watching the woman with her friends in the mirror.  When the electrician was paying his bill, he added on a shot for Paul, gave him a hug and left, trudging towards the rear door.  The bartender brought the glass to Paul and she said, “What can I get you, honey?”  He was confused for a second, then realized she was speaking to the woman who had returned to his left. 

“Another gin and tonic, please.”

Her eyes were a lively, smart blue, and he thought, immediately, she had that kind kind of face, a face so friendly it’s familiar before you’ve met it.  She turned to him and they both smiled again, although this smile was longer and more sustained than polite.  When she got her drink and paid this time, she didn’t leave and he had the same feeling as before.  Without wasting any time he turned to her and said, “How’s it going tonight?” and they started talking.  After the initial, awkward pleasantries, they asked about each other’s work and then eventually their names.  Strangely, her name was Marie, just like his sister.  Then, they spoke on where they were from, along with some talk about television shows.

She was lovely.  She was smart and very quickly began teasing him here and there with an unearned familiarity that showed her confidence, but was so endearing he felt intoxicated by it.  He had been drinking beer for a while and that shot certainly affected him, but he felt elated at the ease of their progressing conversation.  She seemed a few years older than him and she worked in real estate.  She did mostly commercial work, but still dabbled in residential.  Her hair was expensive, he knew that, but had no other way of articulating it to himself, the same as her smart skirt and cream-colored blouse.  And she was interested in him?  Everything felt so right.

He’d had girlfriends, in the past, for about six months a piece, but they all wanted marriage and he had no interest in that.  He felt too young for a family and worked so much.  He knew then, though, this woman Marie was one for whom he had been waiting.  He needed to get her number and see her again.  He’d be careful and not push her to get together that night, she was there with her friends, even though they’d been ignored for a half hour.  He was doing so well, it was so natural, he did not want to screw it up.

Soon, one of the two friends came over to Marie and asked if she minded leaving, since the other two had to move on.  The friend smiled at Paul and they exchanged polite greetings.  Marie said she’d be over in a minute and the friend left.  Marie turned back to Paul and looked him full in the face.

“You know, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I need someone reliable to prep and maintain a lot of the properties I am selling.  A lot of the time owners let the commercials go into neglect and that’s why they’re selling, so we always need a good landscaper to do some cleanup and spruce them up for sale.  What do you think?  Interested?”

He smelled light oakmoss, felt it was emanating from the dark waves in her blond hair.  Now he could get her number…

“Sure, can I have your number?”

She stopped with a sly look in her eyes; that teasing familiarity had evolved into flirtation.  “You think I’m going to just give out my number to some random landscaper in a bar?”

He had never been clever and his cleverness had been dulled by the alcohol, but even more by her beauty and cleverness.  “Uh, well isn’t this more like business?

She considered.  “Okay.  If this is business, let’s do business.”  She put her hand gently on his forearm.  “I’ll send you some pictures of a property I have now, and you send me back a list of what you would do to it with an estimate.  How’s that?”  She looked him in the eyes again with that lovely smile and removed her hand.

“Sure.”

She reached deftly into her handbag, which he hadn’t even noticed was on her arm, and produced a small notebook and pen.  “What’s your email address?”  He thought, paused, and she said, “You don’t have one?”

“No, I do,” he quickly responded.  Buying himself a second, he said, “I just don’t use it that often.”  He had never used it and didn’t plan on it.  While he was pulling his wallet from his back pocket, she laughed. 

“You don’t know it?”

“I told you, I rarely use it, but I will now,” he said nervously, remembering it was a stupid name, stupid enough, but the whole internet thing was stupid, and she’d probably laugh when she saw it. And as he issued his important numbers card, he realized she wouldn’t laugh.

“Wait, can I give you a business card?”

“Does it have your email address?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well give me the card and I’ll write it on there.”

He handed her a fresh card.

“What’s the address?”

“This is a really stupid email name. And, as I said, I never use it.  My friend set up the account.”  He gave a nervous chuckle and handed her the important numbers card.

“Pussy blaster 1970 at yahoo dot com?  Really?”  He looked at her and chuckled again.  “That’s funny,” she said, but was no longer smiling.

She left with her friends and even though he checked that email for three months, every time he was at Marie and Jason’s, he never heard from her or saw her again.  

Draft 2/19