Original Love. J.J. Murray

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      I was so excited. “Is this Ebony Mills?”

      “Yes, who’s calling?”

      I couldn’t tell if it was Ebony or not since I was calling long distance. “Hi, this is Peter, Peter Underhill.”

      “Um, Peter who?”

      “Peter Underhill. From Huntington.”

      “From Huntington.” She had paused. “And you’re calling because…”

      “I want to see you.”

      “You do? Man, I don’t even know you.” Click.

      I haven’t called anyone named Ebony Mills since.

      And I’ve always been afraid to take the next step once I had a list of all those screen names: sending an e-mail.

      Until now.

      I reduce my search on AOL to all females in New York using “Ebony” somewhere in their screen names. That leaves me fifty or so in the state. I remove anyone not on Long Island—I can only hope she’s still here—and have forty-four e-mails to write. Yahoo only yields six more, so it’s an even fifty e-mails to send before I can sleep again.

      After adding all these Ebonys to a temporary address book so I can write one letter and shoot it off to the entire group, I freeze.

      I have no idea what to write.

      I have been writing my ass off all day, and I can’t write a few sentences in an e-mail to a group of perfect strangers—one who might be my Ebony. If I were Ebony, would I be offended if someone shot off an e-mail bomb like this to so many other people? I can’t get too specific. Ebony would be pissed if I shared our business with the world…but then again, I already sort of have done that with my novels. Hmm. Short and sweet, just keep it short and sweet. I type “In search of Ebony Mills” in the subject line.

      “Here goes nothing,” I say as I type:

      If you are Ebony Mills who once resided in Huntington (Huntington High class of 1981), please reply as soon as possible.

      If you are not this particular Ebony Mills, my sincerest apologies.

      Peter Rudolph Underhill

      I hesitate a long time before clicking on the “send e-mail” button, my hands as sweaty as the day I first held Ebony’s hand. What if all this is a waste of time? “Love is never a waste of time if it’s done right,” Toni says in Ashy. But am I doing this part right? “Boy,” Bonita says in The Devil to Pay, “there ain’t really a wrong way to make a move…so make it.”

      The little bell in the computer sounds, warning me that I’m about to be bounced off the Internet unless I do something.

      I click the “send e-mail” button. A moment later, “Your mail has been sent” appears on the screen.

      I clean out my in-box of all the junk mail, several trying to sell me Viagra at discount prices. I’m not that old yet. Then…I wait, watching to see if the little mailbox icon shows up on my screen.

      Nothing happens for half an hour. What time is it? Oh, it’s only 4:30. People aren’t home from work yet. I turn off the CD player and turn up the volume on the laptop so I can hear “You’ve got mail!” I only plan to relax a few moments on the couch, settling my head deeply into a throw pillow.

      And I promptly fall asleep.

      5

      I wake up yawning with the sunrise and casually look over at the laptop. It’s on sleep mode, the green light blinking. I reboot, set it automatically to sign on to AOL, and head to the bathroom to piss away half a gallon of Earl Grey.

      I know I’m setting the unofficial world’s record for longest piss when I hear, “You’ve got mail!”

      I race from the bathroom, my pants still unzipped, and click on the “get mail” button. I have twenty-seven messages!

      I double-click the first one:

      Fuck you! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

      I get seven versions of the above, five that say “kiss my ass,” one that says “kiss my black ass,” and thirteen messages that say one way or another: “No, I’m not Ebony Mills.” All are unsigned, and only one adds: “I hope you find her.”

      The last message is another “I’m not Ebony,” but it intrigues me:

      I may not be who you’re looking for, but I might know the Ebony you’ve been looking for. Write back!

      Destiny ([email protected])

      And say what? How much more information does she need to know? And why is someone named Destiny using “Ebony” in her screen name? I reply with:

      I knew Ebony Mills in Huntington from 1976-1981. We attended R.L. Simpson Junior High and Huntington High together. She used to live on Grace Lane, a couple blocks from where I lived on Preston Street.

      Peter

      I send the e-mail into cyberspace, then take a much-needed shower, leaving my dark hairs all over Henry’s tub. I’m only here to write, not to clean.

      When I get out, I look at a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and analyze what forty years can do to a body. More salt than pepper in my hair. Wrinkles winging from my eyes to my receding hairline. Ear hair. Zits I’ve never been able to outgrow on my forehead and chin. Pores as big as pencil points. Gray nose hairs I can’t trim fast enough with a pair of fingernail clippers. Hairy legs except for my naked knees and ankles where years of pants have erased their memory. The single hair on my chest that grows up to six inches long before I notice and pluck it. The hair that grows on top of my nose. My teeth a series of root canals, caps, and cavities. Rainbow veins wherever I look. Mysterious bruises that take months to heal. Freckles that become moles. Toes gnarled from hitting bedposts late at night, one missing a nail.

      I am not a pretty man.

      I borrow Henry’s white bathrobe and slippers—he must go through lots of bleach—and return to the laptop.

      No message yet.

      Reduced to drinking instant coffee, I wolf down several slices of white bread slathered with strawberry jam. I dial Henry’s office and leave a message for him to call me immediately. When I’m writing, I don’t like any interruptions, especially the phone. The TV has to be off, only seventies music playing to inspire me.

      “You’ve got mail!”

      Though it’s probably my daily headlines from the Times, I rush over anyway.

      But it’s from Destiny:

      I know your Ebony Mills! We used to work together. Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly where she is right now (sorry). She’s even unlisted in the phone book. I wish I could help you more!

      Since I think СКАЧАТЬ