Photo by Cindy Ho

Three of the strangest things

I am a narrative opportunist. I am the person who, in my early twenties, lived in a vegetarian group home with twenty-six cats, two painters, and a middle-aged man with long red hair who liked to discuss string theory and not wear pants — not because I wanted to be there, but because I knew it would make for a good story.

That’s why, when introduced to a man named Marmaduke, I let him ask me out. I am absolutely certain that, had his name been Jim, or Mike, or David, I would have said no. I had to, for the sake of story. How many times do you meet someone named Marmaduke?

I met him in Bryant Park, having taken a train in from just outside Manhattan. “You are my queen,” he told me, by way of greeting. “Um. Okay,” I fumbled. “Should we get something to drink?”

He suggested, instead, that we spend the summer evening walking around. Bryant Park is not large, and so to avoid walking in circles, he began a strange variation on Musical Chairs. The new, unimproved rendering of the game went like this: We sat on a bench. He tried to lick my ear. I jumped to my feet and started walking again. He followed, then sat when we arrived at the next bench. There, the same thing happened. He remained hopeful that I would permit the lollipop treatment; I remained hopeful that he would cut it out.
 
As we did so, Marmaduke, who was born in Morocco, made a valiant but misguided effort at romance. He spoke to me primarily in French: a language of romance. A language of sex. A language this girl didn't and does not understand unless we’re singing “Frere Jacques.” And perhaps it was for the best that I couldn't understand most of what he was saying. Because when he did begin to speak English again, he suggested that I move in with him and his cousin.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I live somewhere already, and it’s pretty nice. All my stuff is there.”

“You are too far away,” he said. “If you move in with us, we can be together always.” And seeing the look in his eyes, a switch flipped in my mind — the evening officially shifted from awkwardly entertaining to something much darker. He meant it. We'd known each other for two hours, and spent significantly less than that speaking the same language. 

“I should go,” I said. “The last train leaves soon.” A lie. It wasn't yet ten o’clock.

“Before you do, I have to give you something. Maybe you will come live with me after I give it to you.” Then Marmaduke reached into a plastic bag he was carrying and produced a combination of things that, years later, still baffles me. First, a foot-long sandwich dripping with meat. (I am a vegetarian, as I made clear in the pre-date phone call.) Second, a one-pound bag of Hershey’s chocolate chips. (I don’t know why.) And third, a Kinko’s folder that contained three paper copies of a poorly written love poem (beginning with the phrase “You are my Queen”) and two color copies of his drivers-license photo.

The combination of objects actually scared me — why the extra copies? Why a pound of chocolate chips? What did he expect we’d do together with these things? — and so I took the opportunity to get the hell out. I wasn't certain how to say goodbye or convince him not to follow me home, but I left. I gave the sandwich and chocolate to some homeless kids outside Grand Central, and tossed the drivers-license photos in a garbage bin on my way to the subway.

For some reason, I kept the poem. An artifact, a morsel of proof. For the sake of story.  — Jen Goldsmith

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