No Reply

Years ago, I was involved in producing plays at a small theater in Pasadena. In that context, I met Jay, who was the theater critic for a local paper. Jay was alienated from his family, and therefore had written under a series of pseudonyms, until he finally had his name legally changed. He wanted to quit, and I wanted write, so he arranged for me to take his place.

We became lovers, although we were never really in love. The old building where he lived had once been a hotel, the abandoned front desk with it wall of message cubbyholes still in place on the ground floor. The rooms had been converted to "studio" apartments with the addition of little kitchenettes. I never asked him if he owned the furniture or if it was included.

I tried to spend the night there, but his bed was too narrow and the neighbors were too noisy. He didn't like to stay over at my place because he didn't have a car.

A year went by. He quietly reconnected with his old girlfriend, and I, a bit less quietly, started seeing other people. There was no drama, no argument, no need to collect personal items from each other's apartments. We hadn't even left toothbrushes.

A few weeks later, he sent me a postcard asking me to call. I called, but the phone just rang and rang. Jay had no answering machine, he was out a lot, and he never answered the phone if he had company.

Sometimes something reminds me of him, and I wonder what it was he wanted to say to me.