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here is not the answer
04/12/2007 = 04:40 AM

Last night, during one of the restless fifteen-minute naps that pass for a full-night's sleep in my world, I dreamt of a hotel I worked in, nearly seventeen years ago.

The dream itself was of no real consequence, but I dream of being back at that job whenever I am feeling guilty in my waking life, and here is why.

It was a pretty good job in the sense that I learned a lot, and that I proved myself sufficiently competent to be promoted pretty quickly. I was nineteen — not only their youngest supervisor, but their youngest employee. (Next youngest was a housekeeper who was twenty-three.)

I was kind of miserable.

The work was hard, and in that industry at that time, barhopping after your shift was the trendy and expedient means of unwinding and de-stressing. My own social life basically consisted of being perky at the front desk, cracking jokes in the break room, and going home and trying to write something meaningful and readable (and longhand, as I didn't have my own computer in those days), knowing that everyone else (including my of-age roommates) was out having a fun time without me.

Angstypants, party of one.

That summer, our hotel was one of several local establishments hosting guests for a month-long church function. One of the families in town consisted of a couple in their early thirties and a girl they'd hired to babysit their infant daughter while they were at church during the day.

I may as well refer to this girl by her name, Tina, as it's a fairly common name and I've long since forgotten her last name anyway. The baby's name was Sara.

Sara was ten months old and cute as a button.

Her parents dressed her in Baby Gap and she had some pretty kicking toys and things, plus they could take a month off their jobs for church, including hiring (and paying room and board for) a full-time babysitter, so I'm drawing the conclusion that they were at least a little bit well-to-do. If I'm mistaken, at least it's an honest mistake.

Tina was about my age; maybe a little older. She didn't seem particularly bright, but she was sweet, and the baby adored her, which was all that really mattered.

Other than looking after the baby, Tina really had nothing to do all day. Books didn't interest her, and the hotel got only limited television programming (we were not in a zone where, at the time, we could be wired for cable; we had network television and got HBO via satellite, and that was it).

She could stay in the room, but there was no vehicle for her to take the baby out in (they had flown in, and the parents rode to church every day in our hotel van with the other church-group guests).

I arranged, whenever possible, to have the van driver take her to the park or the mall, but she would then have to call us via pay phone (this was before everyone had a cell phone) and wait for the driver to come pick her up, or pay for a cab if my driver was out on another fare.

If the lobby was pretty empty, I would call the room and encourage her to bring Sara down for a visit.

Obviously, before our regular check-out times, there would be too much corporate traffic — frightening and noisy to a tiny kid and unprofessional for our regular clients to have toys, Little Golden Books, and drool-soaked Binkies and woobies sitting next to their $500 briefcases and $700 wool trenchcoats ...

... but early afternoon, when everyone was at work, it was a fun change to have someone my own age to talk to, and a cute baby to play with, between paperwork and phone calls.

Tina and I became friends, after a fashion.

She couldn't understand why I was such a voracious reader, and she really sort of felt I was a sinner, because I was Jewish, I smoked cigarettes, and I was not a virgin.

Mom, the statute of limitations is up on that one. Leave it alone.

For my part, I couldn't fathom why she was so bored. Granted, there were only about fifteen television channels, but one of them was PBS and we also had HBO. I used to come in on my days off to watch movies, since we didn't have HBO at home. (As long as you were in an unsellable room, didn't bring any outside guests, and cleaned up after yourself, this was permitted in those days.)

We had newspapers and radios. Within walking distance, even with a baby in a stroller, one could get to the Post Road and go to Strawberries. Even if you had no money for cassettes or CDs, you could listen to music on the headphones.

I thought she was a dim bulb and she thought I was a nerdy heathen.

We had, really, nothing in common other than our ages, and the fact that we both loved the hell (if you'll pardon the expression) out of that baby. Sara was just a little butterball of sunshine and you couldn't NOT love her, drooliness notwithstanding.

So Tina and I found enough to talk about that we became friends.

When the church function wrapped up and everyone was leaving to go back to their secular lives, Tina and I exchanged addresses and promised to write to one another.

It was seventeen years ago. In those days, you wrote to each other on pieces of paper or notecards, and you snail-mailed your news to each other. It was called being a pen-pal. Some of you might remember the concept. Most of you are probably laughing at me or scratching your heads in bewilderment. Shut up.

Oddly, Tina was the one who suggested this, not I. I wouldn't have thought she'd be interested in reading letters, let alone writing them.

On the other hand, you've probably guessed that I was the sort of person who could rock penpality hardcore.

About a week later, I wrote Tina a letter. It wasn't long: just a cute notecard, filled inside and back with my nice, neat, round handwriting that I can't do anymore, consisting of the sort of silly news and brain-confetti that you can get here, now, without my licking a stamp. (You had to moisten the backs of stamps in those days, to activate the adhesive. Shut up.)

A month or so after I mailed my note to Tina, she replied, if you can call it that, by sending me a religious tract with the only handwriting on it being: Here is the answer.

If her name hadn't been on the outside of the envelope, I might not even have known whom it was from.

My feelings were a little hurt. I had tried not to write anything that would offend her, and here she was, either trying to convert me or getting out of having to write anything.

Whatever.

I waited a couple of weeks to cool down, then I wrote back, carefully.

I thanked Tina for the tract.

Yes, I did.

I told her I had read it and had found it very interesting (which was true. It's always interesting to read text so blatantly closed-minded, bigoted, and intolerant. You'll be furious when you're done reading, but you won't be bored).

Then, I asked her to write back and tell me what she thought of the tract. I also asked her to tell me how Sara was doing, and I told her I missed talking to her and she could write to me about anything she liked.

I put in a few more bits of silly news and brain-confetti, enclosed a print of a snapshot someone had taken of me counting the till at the front desk (with a film camera; shut up), signed the card, and mailed it.

A month or so later, she replied.

A different address on the outside of the envelope.

Paper inside the envelope, with writing on it. A lot of writing, nearly illegible (shit, it was nearly illiterate), and badly spelled, but you know me — if the content is good enough, I can love anything, no matter how appallingly it's presented.

You go try to love on this, though.

Tina was living with a guy. He was ten years older than us.

She was sucking him off on a regular basis, but since she hadn't "given herself to him," as she put it, she wasn't sinning.

Although she hadn't been to church since she met him.

She was in love.

She had shown him the picture of me, and told me he said I was really hot.

Her parents had kicked her out.

She hadn't had any contact with Sara or Sara's family since the trip.

Her new love smoked cigarettes, and she had started smoking too, but she didn't do coke like he did.

He wanted to know if I would send her twenty dollars to help out with groceries.

She really loved him. He took good care of her.

Could I send the twenty dollars fast? (Not a check.)

I put that ridiculous tract into an envelope and mailed it back to her. Here is the answer.

I never heard from her again. I have no idea what happened to her, what happened to Sara, nothing.

At the time, I justified my reply by telling myself that she was just trying to use me, that she wasn't really a friend.

But was I really a friend to her? Sending her back that tract instead of writing, "You little fool, get the hell out of that situation and go home."

I flaked out on her, far more than she flaked out on me.

I failed her.

I failed myself.

If Tina is still alive, she's probably forgotten all about me. But I haven't forgotten her.

Or Sara, who'd be about eighteen by now.

If I do nothing else worthwhile with my life, I just hope I never fail someone like that again.

Yes, I know it doesn't mean anything, and I also know I don't stand a chance against icanhascheezburgers, but it was an honor just being nominated and things.

Tags: life

drinking: aquafina
listening to: Grand Funk Railroad, Locomotion
looking for: balance. and maybe something to eat, other than food for thought.