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She refused, and for the next week I wouldn't answer her calls. One time I even asked a girl I met at one of the Found readings for details of what happens on the visit to the gynecologist, then asked Nicole the same thing. "They come at you with that speculum—it's like a medieval torture device." I pressed her to continue, but she wasn't going to pay these games with me. Ten out of ten male friends I polled had no idea what that was. Sometimes we'd talk for half an hour before phone sex.
Out in my van after a long night in Phoenix or Des Moines, I'd be lonely, drunk, and depressed, and tell her about my problems.
She called me randomly one night in a Texas hotel room, and she wanted to have phone sex. In retrospect, maybe not the best move Late one cold, wet November night a couple of years ago, maybe 3 a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table besides me jangled to life. Nobody knew I was there; I'd arrived only an hour earlier.
A year later, Nicole and I decided to meet face-to-face.
For the most part, I stopped answering Nicole's calls.
I was busy, and I was dating real girls—real in that they were in the flesh in front of me, and real in that they were unquestionably biological girls.
It had to be the old Pakistani guy down in the motel office, I figured, or else my little brother, Peter, whom I was traveling with; he'd gone out walking down the service road, looking for better reception on his cellie so he could call his girlfriend. "There was a stirring in my gray mesh basketball shorts with the three thin white stripes down each side. "A few months earlier, in May 2004, I'd published a book called Found and hit the road with Peter for an eight-month, 136-city tour.
After the third ring, I picked up."I'm Nicole." I could hear the push of her breath on the other end of the line, as though her mouth was pressed close to the receiver. Nicole explained that she'd hit the bars all night with her friends, and that now they were drunk and passed out and she was bored. "I want to tell you what we would do."I'd never had phone sex before. " I was about to hang up, but then, remembering our little moment a few hours before, I softened. At each event, I read from my book and Peter played guitar and sang.
I got a little freaked out—was this a guy I'd been talking to? Still, she seemed like a girl—there'd been a few times when I thought I'd heard her real voice, times when she laughed, times when she moaned. Houston, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Tampa—Nicole and I skittered across the South; it was like Badlands for the new millennium (less killing, more "anytime minutes").
All the funny and sad stories she'd told me about working at the nursing home flooded my mind, along with her reminiscences of her mom, and I got the urge to track her down and meet her, find out who the fuck she was. I pulled into the parking lot at eight; this was one of those grim, anonymous commercial strips where Americans carry out their ordinary lives that appear on MSNBC after, say, a sniper shooting or a child abduction. He ordered a Long Island iced tea; I ordered two whiskeys. Each steamy moment Nicole and I had shared over the phone flickered through my mind like a porno on fast-forward.
I knew she might be 400 pounds or my grandma's age, or a guy, but there was also a possibility that she was, well, hot. Nicole knew what I looked like—I'd directed her to my picture on the Found Web site—but I had no idea whom to be looking for other than somebody sitting alone. ""Actually, I'm looking for a friend." I walked past her into the restaurant. "At another table, sitting by himself and halfheartedly watching the game, was a skinny Eminem-looking kid in a white Spurs hoodie who couldn't have been out of high school. Then I saw her, perched on a red stool at the bar, toying with her cell phone—a curvy Latina maybe 24 years old. But now, in each frame, I had to replace Fiona Apple with this—HOLY FUCK! What kind of deranged motherfucker pulls stunts like this?
Inevitably, one of their new beaus calls back to say, "Hey man, I got your message.
Emilie's down in Chile for two weeks, but you sounded really down…. Listen, this is gonna sound crazy, but okay, I've been doing some thinking, and what I think is, I think we should meet. I'll come down to Austin or Waco or wherever you live.