CHRISTINE

I met Christine Cookson soon after she had arrived in NYC from Boston.   She did not have any friends in the city, save one, her room mate.   I remember it like it was yesterday;  there was this beautiful young woman sitting at the bar in the restaurant where I worked as bartender talking to a man in a suit, a young man, who could have been her boyfriend.  I was aware that the conversation was not a warm, happy one.  After a time, he left.  I don't think they kissed.    She remained at the bar to speak to the manager about the possibility of working there.  She and I began to chat.  I sensed her anxiety and tried to put her at ease.    We hit it off right away.   I made her laugh, which, she later told me, made her feel much less anxious, lonely, and fearful of moving to a strange new town.    I introduced her to several of the waitresses.  We exchanged phone numbers.

She was, of course, an aspiring actress/singer/dancer.   I offered myself as pianist/accompanist/vocal coach to her.  She happily accepted my services.    In fact, I helped her prepare for an important audition.    Her voice was sweet and very pleasant but not nearly strong enough for Broadway.    But she was quite beautiful, a tall, fair blond, with bright, very opulent blue eyes and a magical smile.   Wow.   She was not thin, but not heavy either.   Curved just perfectly in fact.

After the audition, at which I was her accompanist she ran out of the room and threw her hands around my neck.  It was our first physical contact.    I was thrilled.   I hugged her back, and she thanked me for being such a good friend.    Later that night, while I was at work, during the busiest part of the night, I received a phone call.   It was from Christine.   She said she just had to call and tell me how wonderful I was, and how lucky she thought she was to have met me.   It sounded like she was about to cry.   "Joe," she said, "you are a wonderful person.  I'm so happy I met you."

It wasn't long after that that we took the relationship up a notch to physical intimacy.   It completed what I thought was the initial phase of a budding romance.   Weeks past, we saw plays, dined out together, exchanged back rubs, talked, walked, all the things young people in love do.  Oops.  Did I say, "in love"?  Funny, but I was sure she loved me, or was "in love," with me.  I'm not sure I quite was "in love," with her at that point, but it was certainly going in that direction.   I found myself more and more smitten by her every day.  Until, one day, I felt as if I truly did love her.   How could I not?    Her charm and beauty and her obvious feelings for me were irresistible.

I had her over for dinner one Sunday afternoon with my friends Steve and his sister, Julie.   We were seated around the table when I became quite serious.   I said, "Christine, there is something I have to tell you."   Everyone went silent.  Christine looked concerned.   "You see," I continued, "Steven and Julie. . . are Jews."

After three seconds of silence the three idiots burst into laughter.  Julie always loved my sense of humor, sick as it was, but now, so did Christine.  We had a blast and I cooked a wonderful meal.

Weeks passed.

I purchased tickets to, "Cloud 9" playing at the Theatre DeLys, (now the Lucille Lortel).   Afterward it was dinner and jazz by candlelight at Knickerbockers on 9th and University.  It was truly the most romantic evening of my life.

That night, we made love like we never had before.    Clearly we were at another level of intimacy in the relationship.   I had never seen her so responsive and "combustible."  Of course, I was highly skilled in the art of love-making.  Or so I liked to believe.   But that night. . . oh, that night was unforgettable.  And all the silly clichés were proven true: the earth did move, and we did hear the angels sing, the heavens, did, indeed, open up before us, and we did behold Love, the Universe, and ourselves, together, embraced by each others arms and that mysterious, infinite Joy that powers the cosmos. 

O! Divine Rapture!  O! Celestial bliss!   Venus and Apollo danced before us!   And we were drunk with love.

I know, cornball funny now.   But then, that night, that night, as God as my witness. . . that is how special that night was.

The following day I called.   The following day, mind you, I called her at home.   Remember this was the days before cell phones).

"Sorry," her room mate said.   "Is this Joe?"

"Yes."

"Sorry," she said again. Long pause.  "Uh, Christine is not here."

There are moments of lucidity, of blinding flashing clarity, in which one somehow connects to some universal force and the mind know things it should not possibly know.  This was such a moment because at that moment a strong chill went up my spine, just like they say, and I knew --  I knew --   I would never see or speak to Christine again.   I did not reason it out, there was nothing in what her room mate said.  I knew it.   There was nothing to reason out.

"Um, do you know when she'll be back?"

"Um. . . no. . . "

"I'll call back later then," I said, pretending to believe that there was still  hope.  Trying desperately to fool myself. 

"Well, you see Joe, she's gone to Boston."

"Boston?"

"Yes."

"Well, when will she be coming back?"

"I don't know.... I don't . . .   Joe, I don't think she is coming back.   Look, I've got to go."  And she hung up.

Well, she didn't need to say anymore.   I knew it already.   Why did she leave?   Does it matter?  It didn't seem to matter at that time.  I already knew what I had to know.  She was gone and was never coming back.

Do I go after her?   Do I call her in Boston?   Do I fight the good fight and demand an explanation?  Justice? 

Why bother?   She had already hurt me so badly, so deeply.  Why make myself vulnerable to more just for some foolish sense of satisfaction or pride.   No.  If the bitch didn't have the integrity  to tell me she was leaving or why she had to leave, then fuck her, I thought.   (My first lesson in the lack of personal  integrity of females). 

And so, as best I could, I began to let her go.   My heart shattered, I vowed not to become cynical or bitter. Yes, I vowed to recover and move on.   I vowed -- in vain. 

* * *

There is still a hole in my heart, a dull ache, now, all these years later, a gift of dear Christine.   I wonder how she is and if she ever think of me.  Please, if there is a God in heaven, let her once or twice remember me and smile.   Not for what she did or what happened but for how she said I made her feel when she first arrived in New York., even if it was but for the briefest of moments.    Let her remember that and smile.  Dear Lord, give me that!

* * * 

Now and then I feel sure that I've seen her, that I've caught a glimpse of her;  that she is in some crowd at a theater, or in a restaurant.  Or getting off a bus, there!  It is her!  I run, and tap her on the shoulder.   "Christine?" 

But it is never her.    

Yet I know she is out there, somewhere.  So I walk the streets of the city and look for her.   Often late at night, in the rain, or freezing wind,  any and all kinds of weather, because I know she is out there, I look for her.  She is out there, somewhere in the darkness, so I look for her in the darkness.   In the knowing and sacred darkness.