Travels with Leslie

Wine Coolers

Poster Note: I didn’t write this. This was written by a person by the name of Leslie Meek, whom I met on CompuServe in 1993. She was there looking for answers to the breakup of her recent relationship while traveling the US looking for herself. We became great friends but we lost contact in the late 1990s.

She wrote Travels with Leslie (not complete) and posted it on a Bulletin Board System (BBS) run by her employer, Doug Quirmbach, the owner of Crackpot of California*, and was also published in a few e-magazines. I asked and was given permission to post/publish them back then. So I believe it’s ok for me to publish them here.

I hope, by publishing them here, people will have a renewed interest in her and her stories, and maybe by an off chance, we will reconnect again. I miss her dearly.

On a side note, Leslie studied journalism at California State University Northridge, and she worked as an investigative journalist before taking up a job as a traveling salesperson with Crackpot of California, which sold silk flowers door to door. You may say some of the insights and nuances in her writing came from that journalism training. She is extremely intelligent and very compassionate, but as we all know, intelligence can’t solve heartaches.

*Although the name of the company Leslie worked for is called Crackpot of California. The company was based out of Warrensburg, Missouri which, incidentally, has an official historic dog named Old Drum.

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Friday, August 25, 1993

CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- Jimmy talked.  I listened, wondering if the sparks igniting inside me were the kindling of passion or faint beginnings of a fever.

"You got to understand there's only two types of people in this world, Leslie.  Givers and takers.  From what you have told me, your former boyfriend was a taker."

I didn't know if I should run off to gather firewood or pills; I just wanted time alone to weigh his words and find meaning behind the attraction before it became fatal.

"You've got to learn two things," Jimmy said.  "How to say 'no' and how to be a taker."

I don't know if it's my gender or my age, but I can turn just about any man into a preacher.  They have plenty of fatherly advice until they get to know me.  We had talked for hours in the parking lot of the motel, but I had told him just enough about me to tread water.

"He just didn't give a damn about you or anyone else," Jimmy continued.  "He just wanted that next drink and drunks need nursemaids."

He took a swig of his wine cooler.  Those damn, expressive eyes waited for an answer.  I hesitated then tried to explain.

"We took care of each other.  We shared.  The drinking just built up a wall between us.  I saw less and less of who he was inside," I said.

"Loyal Leslie," he said softly, shaking his head.  "Well, what are you looking for now?  How will it be better next time around?"

"Incredible as it may seem to you, women can...in fact they often do... live without a man sometimes," I said.

He sighed and looked back out at the ocean.  I smiled inwardly, relishing in his momentary discomfort.  He finally seemed to be stumbling a little in the conversation.  My delight was short lived, however.

"I've given you no reason to be cruel," he said.

"You're right.  I'm sorry.  I'm still kinda' rocking from that relationship.  I don't have many answers."

"Sitting alone in a motel room all night is an answer?"

"Yep.  Big time.  Computer sex is safe.  No strings."

I watched him as I spoke, hoping that shock and a tainted image would keep me afloat in the dialog.

He looked down at his animated hands and then brought them to his face, rubbing his temples.  He buried his face in his hands.  Then he started laughing.

"You wouldn't understand," I said.

"You modem in to an adult bulletin board!"  He had a deep, throaty laugh.  "A live chat board?"

"Oh, so you know all about Bbs's too, huh?"

"Enough."

"I discovered it as a way of getting back at my ex-boyfriend -- a way of cheating without repercussions," I explained.  "Then...well, it became more.  Something else."

"How could you be cheating on him if you had already left him?" He asked seriously.

That shocked me.  I forgot momentarily my role in the conversation, lost in the cascading images the question had set loose in my mind.  I had to shuffle through them for the answer and still none came.

"To me, it still feels like cheating," I heard myself saying.  "And I could never actually go out and sleep with strangers.  But the people on the screen...well, they became  friends.  Good friends I like to keep in touch with."

"You fell in love with their words.  Let's see, a giver among takers.  Loyal and a lover of words.  You fascinate me, Leslie.  What kind of stuff do you write?"

"I never said anything about writing!" I snapped.

"I know."

"What gives here.  You get some kind of kick out of  showing me you know stuff about me?  First, those damn flowers...."

"I've watched writers, I know writers.  I didn't know if you were one until just now.  It was a gamble," he said with that half smile on his face.

"And my room number...my routine.  The walks on the beach.  The boat trip.  And today...how did you know it was my birthday?"

"Just another bet...."

"You pried that out of the motel clerk, didn't you?  What right do you have to...."

"Nope."

I stared at him and he stared back, his caressing eyes riveted to mine.  His expression lacked the look of conquest or superiority that I was looking for.  Instead, his eyes radiated a powdered confidence mixed with other signals I couldn't pull out.

"Nope, I just bet old Abe that you weren't a day over 18.  He had to show me your driver's license to collect his winnings," he said, smiling.

"Cute.  The old man at the marina.  Well, he told me about your little escapades to Vegas.  What about your business with these fishing boats?  Do you gamble with those  people's livelihood too?"

"Would you like to go to Las Vegas?  Fun place."

Our conversation had been poured and mixed in chapters punctuated by the two trips he had made for more coolers.  I had some time in his absence to digest the blocks of information he had told me about himself.  I had even been able to isolate and catalog a couple of his faults -- a hobby of mine.  But I had not been able to discover anything that justified the attraction I felt toward him.

"Let me tell you what I notice watching writers, Leslie.  First, they're always recording what happens around them.  Like the hard disk on your computer, they store everything for later use."

"So, you see I'm a taker afterall."

"Writers like to throw themselves into situations that are over their head.  And third, writers are not content to suffer alone.  Does it turn you on to make your readers cry?"

"How did you know I was in the van?"

"It wasn't parked in your stall.  I asked myself, 'why would it be out here?'"   The rest was..."

"A gamble."

"Exactly.  Anyway, writers seem to need reasons for everything other people do," he said, flinging the words around with those hands.  "So they make up the reasons later."

"Really?"

"They can't enjoy the moment when it happens because they are so hung up on describing it later."

Jimmy suddenly stood up.  He picked up the roses and the chair and set them down -- the flowers on the van floor next to me and the chair directly in front of me.  He slipped into the chair.

"And you know what?  The best part of people is the part that makes them do things without any reason," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Leslie, I'm going to Las Vegas tomorrow.  Do you want to go?"

Somehow a giggle from deep inside me bypassed my mind and got loose.  Then all my defenses collapsed and I began to laugh.

"You can drive your own van and we'll caravan," he said.

I laughed harder, and finding the laughter itself funny, began to howl.

"You can get your own room."

I laughed hysterically.  Tears came to my eyes and my body shook.  After an appropriate and dignified pause, Jimmy joined in.  It was music to my ears and throat -- a chorus that went on and on and on.

"Well?" He asked after we had gained our composure.

"Do you know how long it's been since I laughed like that, Jimmy?"

"Will you go with me?"

"You know I can't," I said.  "But geeez, nice try."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Jimmy."

"Will you be here when I get back?"  He asked.

"Probably not. But you knew that too."

"I guess I did."

Abruptly he stood up and, without thinking, I rose to stand in front of him.  We stood staring into each others eyes.  His hands hung limp and motionless at his sides.  The tears that I shed in laughter now stung.  His expressive eyes looked up at my hair then coasted down, surveying my face.  When his eyes fixed on my lips he hesitated.  I backed up and sat down.

"I still love him, Jimmy."

"I know."

Then he turned and walked away.