FRESH YARN presents: Sleepless in JFK... by Lori Gottlieb

FRESH YARN presents:

Sleepless in JFK
By Lori Gottlieb

Most people read the New Yorker for the articles, but I used to read it for photos on the contributors' page. I had a thing for neurotic east coast intellectual writer types, but since I lived in the land of laid-back actor-slash-model-slash-surfer dudes, I scoped out guys whose bylines appeared in the pages of the New Yorker, Harper's, and the American Scholar.

I kept the issues by my bed, and used them the way men use Playboy and Victoria's Secret catalogues.

But one week's issue stood out. When I flipped past the table of contents to the contributors' page, all the blood drained from my head. There, staring out from a fuzzy black-and-white photo the size of a postage stamp, was none other than my soul mate. (To protect his privacy, I'll call him Hot Nerdy Writer Guy.)

Hot Nerdy wasn't just another smarty-pants writer to whack off to. He was no mere Paul Simms, Andy Borowitz, or Malcolm Gladwell.

Hot Nerdy was The One.

I knew this because the blood that had drained from my head wasn't just pooling in my pelvis -- it was circling around my heart. Not only did Hot Nerdy look exactly like my hipster-nebbishy fantasy, but I could tell from the intense look in his eyes and the frown on his face that he was thoughtful and sensitive, in that mildly depressed but highly functional way. Totally hot! Plus, his article was about a rehab clinic where his ex-girlfriend's sister lived after becoming HIV-positive from heroin addiction. My freak show of a family would seem normal by comparison.

I wrote a letter to Hot Nerdy, care of the New Yorker. But I didn't send the typical I'm-a-fan-of-your-writing note. After all, if we were soul mates, I needed to convey our deep, authentic connection.

So I lied. I made up a completely bogus story about having met him in the airport in New York several years earlier, where we'd talked about Kafka and laughed about the beat-up leather bag that made him stoop over to one side as he disappeared into the gate. I said that when I saw his photo on the contributors' page, I was pretty sure he was the guy from the airport. I asked him to let me know either way. I figured that with a nostalgic story like that, he'd respond to say he's not that guy, but then we'd chuckle about the "misunderstanding" and ... if the fantasy went as planned, he'd ask me out.

A week passed, and I didn't hear back. I waited two weeks, three weeks -- nothing. Which could only mean one thing: Hot Nerdy wasn't my soul mate. I mean, soul mates don't ignore your letters, do they?

Four months later, I was on the phone trying to track down the cable guy who was two days late when my call-waiting beeped in.

"Is this Lori?" a man asked when I picked up the phone.

"Yes, who's this?"

"I'm the guy!" he replied.

"It's about time," I huffed. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear from you?"

"I know, I'm sorry," he said. "But I'm calling you now."

"When can you get here?" I asked.

"Well, I'm in New York…"

"Wait, you're not the cable guy?" I asked.

"No, I'm the guy from the airport. I can't believe you remembered me!"

I froze, trying to make sense of this. Not only was I talking to Hot Nerdy, but he was calling to say that he remembered an encounter that never happened! Had he met some other girl in the airport years ago, pined after her, and now confused me with her? Or was he screwing with me, in the way that assholes -- or worse, freaks -- do? Then again, I sent a stranger a fake story in order to get him to call and ask me out on a date. What kind of freak did that make me? I considered it a freak tie and played along.

"Oh, wow," I said. "So, you remembered it, too?"

He said he did. He said he was glad to get my letter. He said he was coming to L.A. to do a story about trendy hotels. He said he wanted to see me. He said something about "fate."

But if fate existed, this had to be a cosmic joke: I was leaving for New York for work, he was coming to L.A. for work, and we would miss each other completely.

Or would we? I was to return to Los Angeles on Thursday at 11:45, on the same airline that was taking him back to New York an hour later, at 12:45.

"That's incredible!" he said. "What are the odds that we would both be in an airport, in the same terminal, at the same time, again?"

Again?!

We planned to meet between flights.

But just as the best romantic comedies provide obstacles for their protagonists, the best-laid plans rarely come to fruition without a hitch. After all, Tom and Meg almost missed each other atop the Empire State Building. So when I needed to change my fated flight and return a day early, I called him in L.A. and we arranged to meet for a drink at his hotel. He said he was bummed it wouldn't be at the airport -- "like before." I decided to tell him the truth the second I got there. After all, I couldn't keep lying to my soul mate, could I?

Unless, of course, he wasn't my soul mate. I stared at him as we sat by the pool at Sky Bar. He didn't look anything like the picture on the contributors' page. Soul mates aren't people you're not attracted to, right? Plus, he was sharing some pretty inappropriate information. Soul mates don't tell you on your first date about their ex-girlfriend problems, do they? And then there was his fond memory of our Kafka discussion at the airport -- the fake Kafka discussion that I'd made up. Soul mates don't fuck with your mind, do they?

The bar closed at 1:00 a.m., so he invited me up to his room. I went. Not to sleep with him, but to find out why he was going along with my phony letter. He had a deluxe suite, and he sat next to me on the Herman Miller sofa. The week before, I'd fantasized about being this close to Hot Nerdy, our shoulders touching, our faces inches apart, his sweat dotting the collar of his button-down. But now, as he seduced me with what must be typical New Yorker writer topics -- his mother, his therapist, his friendship with Cynthia Ozick -- I had to end the charade. And I figured the only way to get him to come clean would be if I came clean first.

Then again, I didn't want to appear like a complete nut job.

So I started off tentatively. "You know," I whispered, a mere inch from his ear. "Now that I've seen you, I don't think you're the guy I was thinking of when I wrote that letter."

"No, it was me," he said emphatically.

"Well," I plowed on. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't you. I mean, I know it wasn't."

"It was," Hot Nerdy said. "I remember."

As a test, I asked what he remembered. He repeated the details from my letter -- the ones I'd made up. Then he added a few of his own -- the journal I was writing in, my confusion about what to do with my life. But these could apply to anyone. It's like asking a psychic about your past: You've got some unfinished business with an ex. You've suffered a great loss. Who hasn't? Still, I tried giving him the benefit of the doubt.

"Is it possible you met some other girl in the airport years ago, and you think I'm her?"

"No," he insisted. "It was you."

I couldn't take it any longer. "It wasn't me!" I blurted out. "Because everything I wrote in that letter? It never happened! I made it up so I could meet you, okay? It's all a lie!"

Pause.

Silence.

Silence, silence, pause.

Hot Nerdy looked at me as if I were insane. His eyes bugged out a little, and he smiled placidly the way one smiles at a mental patient. I knew telling him would ruin everything, but at this point, it didn't matter. He wasn't my soul mate. Soul mates don't remember encounters with you that never happened, do they?

"Well, it happened," Hot Nerdy said, putting his arm around me. "Maybe you thought you made it up, when actually it just came into your consciousness. Haven't you heard of recovered memory syndrome?"

I hadn't, but I had heard of déjà vu syndrome: meeting another interesting guy who turned out to be a freak. I said I had to leave. At the door, he asked if he could kiss me. I gave him my cheek. He gave me his card. I went home, crawled into bed, and masturbated to some other guy's picture in the New Yorker. A guy I knew I would never, ever send a phony letter to.

Soon I forgot all about Hot Nerdy and soon after that the New Yorker stopped running photos on their contributors' page. A few weeks ago, though, I had dinner plans with a friend when she asked if she could bring someone else along -- a woman who had the same last name as Hot Nerdy.

"You may know her brother, the journalist," my friend said. I paused a second too long. "What?" she asked, "Did you date him or something?"

"No," I said. "I really don't even know him." I was about to tell my friend about our encounter -- the picture, the letter, the meeting, the mind-game -- but then I decided against it. Because if it ever gets back to Hot Nerdy, he'll probably say I'm making the whole thing up. He'll probably say it never happened.

And I, of course, will insist that it did.