The Deal

I sipped on strong coffee while Q gave me a glimpse into her recent history. She had just landed in Manhattan from California and would be here for another month or so before heading to Shanghai. 

“That is more places than I have been in a decade,” I said, feeling a little pathetic.

“It’s not about the number of places you go,” replied Q, “it is about how far you travel.”

I cocked my head and placed the coffee back down on the circular table between us. “Who said that,” I asked, “Yoda?”

“My father,” replied Q, again without acknowledging my attempt at humor.  

“Sounds like a bright guy,” I added.

“My parents always believed that the world would be my greatest teacher,” she explained. “I was never enrolled in a traditional academic setting.”

I shook my head, feeling envious. “I had some friends who were homeschooled,” I said, just to speak, “but they never left their farms in New Hampshire.”

“One man's garden is another’s footpath,” Q reflected. 

“Who said that?” I asked.

“My father. He never wanted to be away from me,” explained Q. “In fact, he took me everywhere that he possibly could. Even to this day.”

“So he is here now?”

“Oh, yes.”

I shuffled in my chair trying to make sense of this particular situation. “So you never went to college?” 

Q shook her head. “ My parents felt that I should meet people, rather than receive higher education.”   

“Meet people?” I repeated.

“Yes,” answered Q. “That I should meet a diverse group of people who could teach me things. He calls it the human connection.”

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked, doing my best to let envy transform into some kind of vicarious intrigue. 

“Doing what?” Q asked.

“This whole human connection thing,” I said, waving my hand in the air.

“Pretty much my whole life.”

I looked briefly at my worn-in Converses. “What exactly does your father do?” I inquired.

“He’s a scientist.” 

I raised my eyebrows, impressed, of course. I realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I was in a one-on-one meeting that wasn’t sexual. 

“A behavioral scientist,” she continued. “I still don’t understand everything he does, but he has several degrees.” 

She pointed towards a wall that I hadn’t really paid attention to. There it was, hanging proudly above a strange looking office plant. Bachelor of Science from Cambridge. Double-major in Anthropology and Linguistics. Masters Degree from Stanford in Biology. PhD from MIT in Molecular Biology. 

“Wow,” I said for the fourth time that morning. “I guess this is his office?”

“Technically the entire floor is. But yes, I’m going to use it for these meetings.” 

“So I’m not your only meeting?”

She searched for the right words. “You are my first of the day.” 

I put down my coffee and ironed out my pants. 

“So this is an interview?” I tried to make sense of it all.

As she thought for a moment, her eye color seemed to transform with the light in the room. “What happens next is your decision, Mr. Noble.”

Q’s lips raised into what seemed like a smile, and she looked directly at me. 

Remember, I thrive in awkward situations. Silent elevators. Inapproriate jokes. At 42, I’ve reconciled myself to a life of mediocrity and no grand ambitions. I am finally content. Still an optimist, but only because I need to amuse telemarketers selling ink cartridges. It’s my only savior and purpose. I won’t tell her this, yet, but laughter and love are my only angels in this godforsaken life.   

“I guess I don’t understand why I am here,” I confessed. 

“New York is filled with such diversity and energy, don’t you think?” Q asked.

I shook my head and was about to reply, but bit my tongue. 

“You know,” Q continued, “last week was the first time I’ve ever been to a comedy performance. I found it very interesting.”

I couldn't help but laugh a bit. 

“Did I say something funny?” asked Q.

Immediately, I felt bad. I sipped my coffee and decided to lay it all on the line. “So, let me get this straight. You want some comedy-cellar comedian to help you with the human connection.”

“I’m sure you find this all a bit strange,” replied Q.

“No,” I explained, “I’ve lived in this damn city for almost fifteen years. Strange is no stranger to me.” I searched for the right way to express it. “Let’s just call it special.”

There was a long pause and Q got up from her chair. She walked towards the wall with all the diplomas and watered a plant that had holes in the foliage.

“Monstera Obliqua,”said Q. “This one is from Peru.”

As she took a few steps back to the wooden desk, her gait seemed a bit off. Like Tinman before he was properly oiled.

“I’m sorry, she said. “But there are several things I need to explain. “First of all, I don’t expect you to say yes to any of this. Nor are you obligated under any circumstances to be here.”

I nodded.

“Secondly, you will be paid for your time. The lawyers told me that if you are interested, you’ll just have to read through these terms and conditions and sign where requested.” She pushed an electronic tablet towards the end of the desk.

“Third, I have medical conditions you should be aware of. As you can see, my walk is a bit awkward. I have an acute bone marrow condition.” She opened a silver medicine container with her initial engraved on it. “I take these pills to keep my joints loose. If I do not take these, I tend to get very stiff, and become rapidly immobile. It would cause me great pain.” 

She swallowed one without water.

“Lastly, our sessions cannot last longer than one hour per day. A side effect of this medicine is energy deficiency. In fact, it might even happen during one of our sessions – if, of course, you choose to stay. Don’t be alarmed. You can simply take your stuff and leave.”

“You mean you will fall asleep?” I asked. Q wasn’t screwing around in life, I realized.

“It is a rare genetic disease. Something that my father contracted during one of his anthropological excursions in Africa. It never left his bloodstream, and the impact it had on his offspring was this.” 

Q’s youth and vigor now made me a bit sad. Of course, I would have these sessions with her. She wouldn’t even need to pay me. The view itself was worth it – but there was something inside of Q that felt, well, desperate.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said. “And you shouldn’t worry. All considered, I live a very good life. I have been exposed to the lives of people all over the world. I have heard stories of immense and unimaginable struggle. Mine is negligible compared to most.” 

I could have etched her solemn face into a sculpture. She clearly felt great empathy and distress. Everything happening now felt like some out-of-body experience. I finished off the semi-cold coffee just to be sure of things.

“Life is full of misery and suffering,” I added, having no idea what I really wanted to say.

She lifted her gaze to meet mine and it was electric. “Tell me more. But only if you want.”

I had pretty much made up my mind.

“Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Noble. I will excuse myself.” 

She extended her hand towards mine and we shook. Her grip was an unusual one. Not strong-firm, rather a stiff-firm. I guess her condition extended to all parts of her body, even her finger tips. And then it occurred to me there was something else. It was like her voice, delicate. Yes, that’s what she was, I thought. Delicate.

“I hope to meet you again,” she said, straight-faced and professional. “Thank you for your time today.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “And please, call me Sam.”

She nodded, loosened her grip and slipped out of the room. “Okay, Sam.”

It was a dense legal document outlining the terms of an independent contract agreement with an entity called Qi Enterprises. I scrolled through the digital pages and didn’t even try to make sense of it. But I was shocked by one term: I would be paid $500 for each hour-long visit. I could choose how many days per week, and if I worked a full week I would get a $1,000 bonus. I couldn’t believe my luck. $3,500 per week would get me out of rent arrears. I could pay back my bar tab, which Daniele picked up, for the entire year. I could get new tires for my bike. Hell, I could get a new bike.

My mind raced like the airplanes just overhead. And Lady Liberty was still standing there, arm raised high. At that moment, I thought I actually loved New York City. Maybe even life. Was I getting back on track?