Years ago, when I was married to the wrong man, I fell madly in love with a guy who sold used books. He wasn’t my type, but he had a certain lanky, preppy appeal. We met when I wandered into his store in a run-down promenade. He was very attentive. He was especially pleased by my familiarity with John Barth. Later, he called me at home, although I hadn’t given him my phone number. It was on the check I wrote; it was a bold move on his part.

I liked bold moves. I agreed to meet him at the book store, and we sat down on a bench outside in the bright sunlight. He turned to me and moved some hair away from my eyes. “Tell me everything,”he said. It’s still the single most seductive line I’ve ever heard.

He really did want to know everything, so I told him. I was unhappily married, I was a weight-lifter, I liked to read. He asked me why my past relationships had failed, a surprise question. I had to think. Because I’m unlovable, I told him sadly.

His own life offered few clues about anything. He’d been in love once, with a girl he met in college. I guess she dumped him. He pronounced her name, Cecily, in a reverent tone. He was from a small town where people still talked about having “Jewish friends.”  His brother was some minor pro golfer. But he loved Elvis Costello, so that was something. And he had arctic blue eyes like a husky.

Somehow, I must have brought up the subject of herpes, which was considered a huge deal back then. He didn’t know anything about it, but now worried he might have it. He had a rash! Shit! I confided that I might be pregnant by an idiot from my gym. We felt as though the forces were against us, while at the same time, our meeting was Destiny.

I learned that if you want to fuck someone but can’t, things get highly charged in a hurry. We were miserable but we kissed like our lives depended on it. We waited for his test results. Meanwhile, I wasn’t pregnant.

He was witty and self-deprecating, with a deep sense of resentment about his shitty job and shitty prospects. Who knows what he really wanted. We were only 28 years old, but he acted like he’d already blown everything.

His herpes test came back negative. I was lying on the couch in his tiny apartment, with my feet in his lap. He had turned very serious. “Well, now we can deal with the literary aspects of this tragedy,” he said dramatically. Later on, I would give him a nickname: The Tragedy.

I wondered nervously what would happen if we had sex and it wasn’t good or I couldn’t come. “That won’t be a problem,” he said without a hint of arrogance. And it wasn’t. I taught him that menstruation wasn’t a hindrance. He taught me that he would never stop, unless I asked him to. Late one night, we went to the book shop and in the dark, we had sex by the paperback fiction.

The excuses I gave to my husband were ridiculous but he was willing to believe them. I didn’t feel guilty. I deserved to be happy. But I wasn’t. Adulterous sex is wonderful but coming back to real life is a grim business. I felt trapped and addicted to my lover. I still swooned when he touched me.

One day, The Tragedy told me over the phone that he was ending our affair. He had recently become a Christian. Sex with me was a sin, he realized, and he couldn’t go on as we were. It felt dirty, he said.

I drove around in a daze, feeling sure I was dreaming. How could someone turn on a dime? Isn’t dirty sex a good thing? I thought I could change his mind but he was firm. I went to the book shop to confront him and he was polite but cold.

It took me forever to find my footing again but eventually I did. I hated myself and vowed this would be my last affair. Time passed and I managed to conduct a platonic friendship with The Tragedy. He needed an assistant at the store and I jumped at the chance to work there.

For months, we worked together behind the counter, sharing our contempt for our customers and laughing at our private jokes. The whole time, I had to stop myself from putting my hands on him. One day I saw him in a huddle with a skanky girl who was missing a tooth and bought Harlequin Romance novels. I was badly shaken but had to suck it up. I acquired a huge book collection. I took home fairy tales to read to my child, oblivious to how much I’d shortchanged him.

Eventually, I split up with my husband. One day, either before or after, I can’t remember, I went to visit The Tragedy at his new apartment. Through the screen-door, I asked him what had happened between us. I still didn’t understand. It still felt like unfinished business.

“{Sisterwolf},” he said, staring me straight in the eye, “I still find you fascinating. But I was never in love with you.” He was matter-of-fact, like he was giving a weather report. He didn’t blink. I turned and left, devastated. Sure enough, I was unlovable. And I was haunted by his words forever, it felt like, until I forgot all about him.

But what is the internet if not a place to look for trouble, and what are old flames if not embers to poke, out of curiosity, vengeance, or a desire to change history?

I fucking love Werner Herzog. I love his  interviews  and panel discussions as much as I love his movies.   He is a master at articulating abstract ideas and finding absurdity and  allegory and pathos in almost every human endeavor. Max loved him too. He used to rent a couple of DVDs at a time and bring them over to watch together. We never got through the entire Herzog  catalogue, though. I will have to go on with that alone.

Today I came  across a writer, “Erik K.,” who knows how to get the most out of Werner. I’ve reprinted his post here but you can also read it at his blog   here. I love him and you will too.

~

A  diverting game to play while in miserable circumstances

Earlier this week I found myself in an extremely interior circle of hell. I speak of the Comcast Customer Service Center in Chicago, where I thought I was just stopping by to pick up some self-install equipment. This stopping-by turned into over an hour of queueing followed by one of the most angrymaking customer service interactions I’ve ever had. I resurrected my long-dormant yelp account just so I could  vent my spleen. Having gotten that out of my system, let me tell you about a fun game I play in situations where I might otherwise have a rage-out:

THE WERNER HERZOG GAME

Number of players: 1 (2 if you count imaginary-Werner-Herzog-in-your-head)

Prerequisite: Having seen one or more Werner Herzog documentaries (ideally late-period ones where the voiceovers approach a brilliant kind of self-parody)

How you play: Imagine Werner Herzog narrating your horrible experience. Allow his doomy-yet-weirdly-soothing Teutonic soliloquies to transmute your experience from one of mundane frustration, boredom, etc. to one of sublime terror, or one that exemplifies the murderousness of nature, or the pitilessness of the universe.

Some examples to get you started:

• “I believe the common denominator of this food court is not harmony, but chaos, hostility and murder.”
• “The blank stare of my oral hygienist bespeaks a terrifying malevolence. The scraping of her tartar pick is the nightmarish sound of cannibals whispering darkly.”
  
• “The post office is a place of pestilential despair, a primordial soup one wishes to crawl out of, if only to evolve to further Lessons of Darkness.”
  

Tip: If you’re having trouble channeling your inner Werner Herzog, imagine the person standing behind you in line, or jostling you on the overstuffed train car, or whatever, is Klaus Kinski, and he is trying to murder you. This always helps me get in the mood!