Missed Connections

Chapter 1

Craig's Listed

Do you still remember me? I only wish I'd really known you, with a face and a name instead of your soul poured out in print on a stark white background. I wish I could tell you that every time I see the number 444 I think of you, as I quickly learned to bypass the name of your alter ego, typing in your user number instead. But it's been twenty years—twenty years! A whole lifetime has passed since I would sit in front of the screen and hope for a note from you, or type one of my own. I recall how we would exchange fantasies of romance, sex, need, and desire, peppered with tiny tidbits of real life. I often wondered how much of you was a figment of your imagination, and how much was real. Too good to be true I told myself; no one could be that perfect. Don't spoil the dream with reality.

So I'm writing this as a letter to what might have been. If there's a chance you are reading this and you do remember me, please write back. Do you remember me when I was young and naive, and my head was filled with questions and conflicts? Do you remember me, back when I was still single and pretty, and bold enough to dream in color—what colors! The blues of despair and the crimson of lust, and the vivid orange of joy, and the violet of a first kiss under a sunset sky. Did you love me? Maybe just a little... you can admit it now, I won't tell. I loved you—that bittersweet, unrequited feeling that knows better than to hope for more, but can't help but long for the unattainable. Mention one of our screen names so that I'll know for sure it's you.

The letter appeared on Craig's List. Just one missive among the multitudes of missed connections and opportunities people posted in the personal's section: Finnigan's on Saturday at about ten thirty, I was the tall, man in the cowboy hat and you were the hottest blond in the place. You knew all the words to Radar Love and I was too overwhelmed with your presence to get your number after you rocked my world on the dance floor. Your first name is Sheryl, and my name is Matt. Remind me of what you were wearing so I'll know it's you.

They all had one thing in common; they were all people who were desperate to meet someone who touched their lives for a few moments and left them breathless.

I was the woman in line at the Quick Mart, and you were the man in front of me. You had two cases of Coors and a bag of chips. We talked while the clerk checked your I.D. since you didn't look 30, even though your license said you were. You had the nicest blue eyes, and a great smile. You asked me to your party, but I never could find your place. Tell me what else you bought so I'll know it's you.

Her letter posted on a Friday in the middle of June. By Sunday, Tally had one hundred and thirty-nine responses, and only twenty-two were from dating services and professionals who were trying to drum up business. Over a hundred were lonely men—some who were trying to snow her into thinking he was her long lost pen pal, and some who admitted they liked what she'd written, and would she send them a photo. There were two from women who thought she might be interested, and five were hoping to convince her that Jesus would save her from her sin and loneliness.

Tally sifted through the replies and easily discounted twenty more as too young, or too illiterate to be the enigma she'd written to all those years before. One of the things she'd loved about 444 was the way he wrote. Of course since he'd claimed to be a writer, she would have expected no less. But his word choices were always so unique, painting pictures of a renaissance man who danced and played piano, but also studied an unusual style of martial arts. All of which could have been made up, but his words were what made him special. He had perfect spelling and grammar, and his participles never dangled. He never used slang or abbreviations and he used specific details in his fantasies, giving the name of the wine he'd serve and telling who'd written the piano piece he was playing.

It was his words that lead her down the path of an online romance. It was a meeting of the minds, where she was wined, and dined, and whirled on the dance floor, before she timidly agreed to spend the night with her mystery man. His amazing words had her eyes savoring each and every syllable of their simulated encounter. So compelling were his sentences, she eagerly wrote back her every response to his charms. Limited as they were by the primitive electronic media of the time, the encounter took days. For days she thought of him and what he would do next. How would he respond to her fantasy creation slipping into the shower with him? How long would he draw it out before he finally took the final step and consummated their textual tryst?

Of course nothing was real. They'd never even tried to set up an actual meeting, or even a phone call. Who had suggested the complete anonymity? She thought it must have been her since she had a boyfriend at the time. Though it wasn't serious, it was enough to keep her from pursuing 444 in a more tangible way. She had no idea how the words on the screen had been able to capture a piece of her in a way that a flesh and blood man couldn't. So twenty years, two marriages and one child later she posted her letter.

She wasn't sure what she was trying to accomplish with the ad, but she did feel a spark of expectation as she clicked on each response. Of course there was the original premise, that she was doing it for her job, but truly the idea that she would be able to submit an article on her experiences was a pretty small excuse. Most of the pieces she wrote were light human interest stories that were great space fillers for the magazines and newspapers that helped her pay the bills. Her son, Ethan was fifteen, and his father, Brian paid most of his expenses, even though he lived with her all but two weeks out of the summer. She'd been divorced from him for six years, and his job as a pilot kept him away too often to watch over an active teenager.

Writing was only her second job. She was first a full time daycare teacher. The hours were good, but the pay was barely enough to support herself, hence the writing. She lived in a small condo in Cary, North Carolina and did her best to live within her means. If she was honest with herself, the ad she placed was a response to her loneliness, more than research for any article. Men weren't beating down her door, and usually at the end of the day she was too tired to go out and find them. Not to mention, she was a bit older than the average single woman hanging out in the clubs.

She came up with a bit of a form letter to reply to the messages. She sent it along with a fairly decent picture of herself that was only five years out of date. It might be deceptive if she was five years old instead of an infant, but considering it was merely the difference between thirty-five and forty, she didn't think it was so bad.

Her letter was simple: Dear connection, I know from your reply that you are not the one I was writing to, but still I appreciate your response. I know there is a certain amount of desperation in reading or writing these ads. But I'm going to label it as optimism, and ask if you'd like to carry this connection a step further. Any reply should include honest information.

By Wednesday she'd heard back from forty different men! She cut half out of the running since they were clearly looking for a hook-up, and two men had even sent nude photos. Okay, so one wasn't half bad, but the other was just... ew! She wanted to systematically narrow her choices, but there was clearly one that had caught her attention. Carl sounded honest and sincere, even though he might be a bit too old. His response was sweet: "Optimistic! Thank you so much for putting a positive spin on my seedy little pastime. I confess I sift through the ads on occasion, looking for someone with the intelligence to light a spark of interest. It's been quite some time since anyone caught my attention the way you have. Your photo is tasteful, and I have always liked blonds. What would you consider the 'next step?' I am interested." His photo showed a gentleman in a suit and tie, with salt and pepper hair.

She wrote back: Optimistic Carl, I'm pleased to hear from you again. I would like to talk with you on the phone to get a better idea of who you are away from your computer. Perhaps if we like what we hear, we can arrange to meet. She was very nervous as she left her cell phone number, along with the best times to call.

It was six when the call came. She and Ethan had already finished dinner, and he'd taken his skateboard to the park. With the dishwasher humming in the background she took the call, noting the unfamiliar number.

"Hello, this is Optimistic Carl. I'm hoping I have the right number, is this Too Late T.?" She smiled at how ridiculous her screen name sounded when spoken aloud.

"Hi Carl, you have the right number. Tell me, is Carl your real name?" He sounded good on the phone, with a very masculine sounding voice. She'd already lowered her voice to sound sexy and flirtatious, feeling a little naughty, but liking it.

"Yes. Unfortunately I'm not very creative when it comes to screen names. Besides it's not like I have to worry about someone tracking me down through my first name, and even if they did I'd just have to set 'em straight in person." His gentle laugh made her glad he'd called. "I take it T. isn't your real name; do you feel like sharing?"

"Well, I do feel like sharing, but for the sake of being smart I'd rather stick to T. a little longer. My name is distinctive and too easy to look up."

"Now I am intrigued. I guess that means you're not a Terry or Tanya?" Again that warm laughter.

"Not even close. Um... Carl, before you get too carried away with guessing, what can you tell me about yourself? You know, Name, Rank, and Serial Number...?"

"Well, since you put it so sweetly, darlin. As you might guess, I'm a southern boy. I grew up in Cumberland County, and I moved to the area about fifteen years ago to work out at RTP. I've got a daughter who's a senior at UNC, and a married son who's due to make me a grandpa next month. I'm looking forward to retirement, so I can spend more time at the cabin I've got over near Asheville.

"That's strange, most people here like to retire to the beach. Why the mountains?"

His soft chuckle told her he liked to laugh. "I've always liked the mountains better than the beach. I love the outdoors, but I don't like sand in my shoes—or anyplace else for that matter. I like getting snowed in more than chased out by hurricanes. I like to hike in the woods, fish in the lake, and snuggle beside a fire."

"That sounds beautiful. Well, all except for the part about fishing."

"Aw come on now, just when I thought we had a meeting of the minds. You don't like to fish?" He was laughing now, and she held the phone closer to her ear.

"Um... no. I like to eat fish, but I can't say I want to catch them."

"Well, hon. Why don't you let me take you to dinner? I know a really good place that serves up some great Calabash seafood, and hush-puppies that just make your mouth water." Whoa that was quick. Optimistic was opportunistic as well.

"You sure move fast, Carl. You know these days a girl's gotta be careful. How do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't." He laughed. "How do I know I can trust you for that matter? I'm old enough I'm willing to take a few risks. Besides, I eat dinner with strangers all the time, I just don't offer to pick up the check."

"Good point. So, what do you have in mind, Carl?" She felt nervous again as she went from a casual chat, to setting up a date with him.

"Well Sweetie, if you like seafood, I can meet you at my favorite place—tomorrow night would be great. Unless you need to wait for a background check before you decide." His teasing laughter pulled her in.

"Okay Carl, I'd love to have dinner with you, but give me one condition, don't call me Sweetie."

He laughed. "Aw Sug., you didn't leave me much choice, you still haven't told me your name. How about honey, sugar, darlin, baby, or dear?" Normally when a man used those names with her it was irritating, but he was clearly flirting with her.

"It's Tally. My name is Tally."

"Well Tally, that's not so bad. I was expecting something like Tyrannosaurus or Tippecanoe. Tally's kind of pretty; I like it."

"It's short for Tallahassee." Here it comes, she thought. Still his laughter was one of the things she was beginning to like about him.

"Tallahassee Lassie—woo! I would have loved to have met your mother. Are you a Florida girl?"

"You know, that's the worst thing about my name. I've never been to Florida in my life—it's that song. Mom heard it on the radio while she was pregnant and she said that's the first time she felt me move, and it stuck with her."

"Tallahassee... how about we meet tomorrow at six?" He gave her the name and location of the restaurant, and she agreed to meet him there. When she hung up she was both hopeful and scared to death. So, this is what it feels like to post yourself online like a used couch, she thought. He's close to retirement; that's too old for me she thought. But his voice, and his laughter was so warm and inviting, and it was only dinner, right?

A/N: This is not the novel I planned to write, but it's the one that wanted to be written. I might just post a second story to run along with this one, and see which one gets more attention.