He told them that he was worried because he didn’t have a secret “real” name or a secret wacko habit that only his soulmate could recognize. So what was he supposed to do?
Lynn replied, “You probably have one without realizing it. Everyone has secret quirks.”
“Well I don’t! All my quirks are visible.”
“Don’t worry, somehow it’ll happen,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.”
He was afraid it would not happen, afraid he would be discontent forever. It wasn’t fair. It drove him crazy, this trend, this craze of soulmates popping up. He started acting erratically.
He went around doing all sorts of weird takeoffs on what the two others had done. He invented various quirks for himself, and rituals, to see if his soulmate would recognize him. For example, he threw fistfuls of rose petals in the faces of women walking down the street, then watched for their reactions. When that didn’t work, he tried throwing Godiva chocolates up in the air and behind him while walking down crowded Fifth Avenue, and then he would turn around to see if a woman had been hit, or perhaps had even caught one, and seemed taken with him — his soulmate. But no. People were either brushing cocoa powder off themselves and looking annoyed, or looking at the ground in surprise where a chocolate truffle had landed. Since nothing good came of that plan, he engaged in his next one. He bought small diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and opals, and threw them lightly in women’s faces.
He also considered walking around with his rat, holding it out to women like a soulmate detector, to see if any of them were charmed. But what was the point — if petals, chocolates, and precious stones hadn’t worked, why would a rat? So he persevered with the pelting.
When Lynn, Roland, and Ray heard about what he was doing, they tried to explain to Alan that their own quirks were not manufactured.
And he said, “Well, I do have a natural quirk. I lightly stone women with beautiful little rocks. Why can’t you accept that’s my natural quirk?”
“You are crazed,” Ray said to him with concern.
“So I’m romantically doomed because I don’t have any hidden quirks, is that it?” He was having this conversation with them from jail, where he was being kept overnight after having finally been arrested for throwing stones.
Lynn brought her soulmate, Jim, to art openings and dinners and parties. When people asked him what he did, Lynn didn’t mind that he was a florist and that he said so. She was proud, in fact. He was so obviously charming and intelligent that being a florist only added appeal in her judgment. And her judgment was excellent.
Ray, Lynn, and Alan found a couple of nicknames for Roland’s girlfriend, Victoria. One of them was “the Translator,” because, as Lynn put it, “She translates this French asshole into a nice person.” They also nicknamed her “the Picker-Upper.”
The Translator saw what was great about Roland and enabled other people to see it, too. If Roland did or said something that seemed unappealing, she’d be able to explain why it was actually appealing, or she’d simply rephrase his obnoxious statement in a manner that made it convincingly pleasant. She never opposed. She skewed.
Roland often said about her, “She gets me.” He loved himself for loving her. A guy like him should normally never be evolved enough to be attracted to her, nor be attractive to her. She was smart. She was strong. She did not wear makeup. And she even had a touch of masculinity about her. She was a banker. He was intoxicated.
Alan gave up acquiring fake quirks. He tried to forget about romance and decided to redirect his attention toward small domestic matters, like cleaning his apartment and finally getting rid of his white easy chair. He put it out on the sidewalk for the garbage people to take during their next round. It was not an easy thing to do, emotionally. Since he had always identified with his chair, he almost felt as if he were putting himself out with the trash, throwing himself away. Sometimes a small sadness can distract us from a large sadness more effectively than a small joy can.
Hoping to distract himself from the small sadness, he went grocery shopping. On his way back, he saw a taxi parked near his white easy chair, and its driver was hauling his chair into the trunk with the help of a pretty girl. The girl was taking his chair. She found it desirable. Alan stood there with his plastic bags full of toilet paper and frozen dinners, looking at the spectacle. The girl was slapping dust off her hands. She turned and saw him. She held his gaze. She did not exactly smile, but had a pleasant expression nevertheless. And then she ducked into the cab, which drove off.
Alan wasn’t sure what hit him. Or rather, he felt as if something had almost hit him but had missed. He had just been handed, by fate, an opportunity to experience one of those magical romantic moments, and he had let it slip by. He could have approached the girl and told her she was holding his chair. Even if it hadn’t been his chair, it would have been a good line. But since it was his chair, it was an excellent line. That’s my chair. You like my chair. You are taking my chair. No one else wants or likes my chair. But you do. We have the same taste in chairs.
He went up to his apartment. He slammed the front door, went straight to his couch, and sat there, with his plastic bags, staring at the empty space that used to contain his white easy chair. He buried his face in his hands.
He should have told her that was his chair. Maybe she would have admired his taste.
A few days later, Roland and his soulmate the Translator, Victoria, were having dinner with Lynn, Alan, and Ray. Lynn’s soulmate hadn’t been free to join them, but was planning to meet up with them afterward.
Midway through the meal, Lynn was noticing how happy Roland seemed. A series of thought connections made her ask him if he’d ever gotten his refill. They’d all been meaning to ask him — especially Ray, with his curiosity disorder — but kept forgetting.
Roland was speechless, stunned that Lynn knew about his cyanide. Then he realized she didn’t know. He recalled telling them in the ocean that he wished he’d gotten a refill, to ease his oceanic suffering. That’s all he’d said — a refill — without specifying of what or in what, without mentioning cyanide or his locket.
He sighed with relief. “Yes, I did. But I’ve lost interest in that now.” He paused, wanting to appear as though he were changing topics. “Oh, by the way, look!” He opened his locket. Inside was a picture of Victoria.
They murmured with appreciation.
“What was in there before? You never did show us,” Alan said.
“None of your business.” Roland snapped his locket shut.
“Yes, your interest is much appreciated,” translated Victoria, “but men who treat love wonderfully seriously aren’t always ready to reveal the inside of their locket.”
Later in the meal, they touched lightly on their ocean experience. Victoria already knew the story from Roland.
Ray asked them if they all still regretted having committed their semisuicide.
They all nodded.
Ray said with frustration, “How can you guys continue to regret it, when in fact you have to admit it gave you one of your greatest pleasures in life?”
Roland scowled. “Which was what?”
“Coming out of the water,” Ray said.
“What kind of freak would come up with such ideas?” Roland said.
“It’s true, only mad geniuses come up with this sort of stuff,” Victoria reworded.
“Thank you,” said Ray, charmed.
“Victoria is incredible,” Alan said to Roland. “She not only picks up your droppings but wipes up your messes. You definitely don’t deserve her. I don’t know how you got so lucky. I’ll never be that lucky. I was almost lucky, the other day. For a second, I had a chance to meet this amazing girl in a very romantic way in the street, but I didn’t grab the opportunity, and now it’s lost.”