18. Bingo!

Julian read the latest installment of “Amy Tells All” as he sat on his couch, drink in hand. He glanced over at Dana, on her couch; furiously typing away on Facebook, drink half finished. His wife’s furrowed brow soon un-creased into a smile. Then, in another beat, she burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny, Dana?”
“Oh. It’s just this stupid asshole in the gardener’s going on about stuff he does in the winter months to keep from going stir crazy…”
Julian didn’t garden. He had a brown thumb, which was kind of a joke between them. He turned back to his laptop, and looked again at the last sentence of Amy’s post. He absentmindedly typed the name ‘Amy Lissa’ into that little Google window on the World Wide Web, and hit return. He had done this countless times before, caught in the web of a compulsion he thought was dubious, not only because it never bore fruit, but also because he questioned its ethics. This time, the search went differently. Now instead of the usual non-relevant Amys and Lissae, there was an entry for “Connections.” He clicked. Lo and behold, there was a familiar picture of the full throttle Amy, but above another woman’s name in the by-line. “Lana M. Andersen.” He looked at the post. With minor variations, such as the lack of any biblical references, it was identical to the one he’d seen on “Tells All.” Moreover, there was a place where a reader could comment. The text that had caught the crawler’s attention was in the bio, “You might enjoy her blog, ‘Amy Tells All.’”

Oh. My. God. Oh, his god had hit one out of the park for once.

His typing fingers flew into the text box where a comment could be posted. He wrote,
“Hi, Lana. I’m a follower of ‘Amy’ and have got to say, I find your writing most captivating. I’m teaching English Literature at a small college over here in Virginia, and your post on the ‘off duty Professor’ really cracked me up. Keep up the good work!”
Having typed this his fingers refused to hit send. He captured the text, pasted it elsewhere for possible drafting, and deleted it.

There was no possibility that Julian would muster the self-discipline to withhold some sort of comment. He hesitated because he did realize that by communicating with Amy/Lana, the experience he had had with the words alone, and the character that the words represented would change. He also hesitated because he wanted his approach to be the right approach. It was, for him a weighty matter. His fantasies had been invigorating and beautiful. He was reluctant to part with them in face of too much reality. He did not want to seem overly forward. He wanted his words in the comment box to be enthusiastic and professional. He wanted to convey respect.

His hesitation amounted to three days, during which he composed upwards of thirty drafts of a comment on an article in “Connections.” When he finally had something, he pasted it in. There was a slight hitch at this point. To comment, he had to join the Connections enterprise. “Connections’ was some sort of a local web zine that was part of a national franchise. This version of connections was the “Marietta Connection,” since Marietta was the town in the Parkersburg vicinity where the local doings were focused. There were Connections sites all over the country, but of course, Stephens City was unconnected. This, as it turned out, didn’t matter a rat’s ass. Furthermore, it was free. He joined. His text read:

“As a Professor of English, both off duty and on, I enjoy your work both here and on “Amy Tells All.” I shared the latter with my Literature 1 class, and they were delighted. You captivated them in a way the “Moby Dick” could not. You’re Amy-licious. Kudos.”
He felt this was suitably professional, enthusiastic, and suggestive of the fact of his knowledge of her content.

Having pasted it, he muttered nom mio ho rengay kio and hit send. Irrevocable.

Meanwhile, back in New York, the “Harper’s” editorial staff was meeting regarding content for the upcoming issue’s Readings segment. Ralph the intern had pigeonholed his supervisor, Genevieve, and showed her the “M Word” post in hard copy. For once, Genevieve didn’t yell at him. Instead, she laughed. After a few minutes, she was howling. The thing really hit her funny bone.
“Oh my. ‘Find your own G spot.’” This is delightful. I’ll pitch it! Thanks so much for this one, Ralph. We’re gonna make a useful team member of you yet!”
Ralph was beaming.
“If they give you a lot of static about it, tell them that it’s getting thousands of hits on Facebook. People are sharing this stuff like crazy. That means it’s got the youth vote.”
In the circle, it indeed met with some resistance. All of the men, and some of the women felt that it lacked “Harper’s” worthy gravitas. Genevieve shrugged.
“The intern that dug this up said it was viral on Facebook. If you want to sell some magazines, you might get something the under thirty set might care to read. For a change.”
“That’s a good point.”
“I say run it.”
“What have we got to lose.”
“Yeah. It’s not like it’s an essay. It’s something people are reading.”
“And,” said Genevieve, urging her pony along, “it’s darned funny. In my opinion.”
“So, do we have an email address for…”
“Amy. Amy Lissa.”
“That sounds like a pseudonym.”
“Yes, it does. Let me see what Ralph’s got…”
Ralph had nothing. He was embarrassed to find that Amy Lissa did not allow comments or contact on the blog. Did she even have a Facebook presence? It was not connected with that name, if she did. Damn. Ralph got yelled at again.

But Amy was working her way up. Amy was getting famous. There was a buzz like a buzz saw. She really had no clue.