like me. I joined their group and we’ve been hiding out in spots ever since. Last week, we spent the evening on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. I know you can catalog all of the reasons that I should quit, and I want to. But the compulsion or obsession is almost overwhelming. And, if you haven’t been there, it’s impossible to comprehend.”
“Look, Sophie, I’ll get you the best psychiatrists money can buy. I love you. But I can’t have a relationship with someone who lives in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms.”
“How about Ethan Allan’s,” she responded trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll try, but have to do something with my group tonight; sort of the ultimate challenge for our group. You don’t want to know. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
“I don’t want to spend even one night without you.”
“I know. Just tonight. Then we’ll spend every night together. And if you see me in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms it will only be as a customer.”
“You’ve made me a very happy camper.”
“Me, too.”
The following morning Goodwin saw Sophie, but not in the way he had hoped. She and several others, characterized by one police officer as “sick kooks,” were the subject of major news stories. Police found Sophie and her cronies occupying several of the bedrooms of Gracie Mansion, the Mayor’s residence. She might have not been caught had the Mayor not returned unexpectedly from a vacation.
A few days later Goodwin read that Sophie was released on her own recognizance, but she never contacted him. Despite his misgivings he returned to Bloomingdales several nights later, but Sophie could not be found. The area theretofore devoted to the model rooms had been walled off after it was reported that these rooms were “home base” for the trespassers. Bloomingdales posted a large sign on the wall that read, “Closed For Renovations.”
At Gramercy Tavern, he was told by the bartender that no one at the restaurant had seen Sophie since the night she was with him. The nightclub in Greenwich Village had closed down to make way for a 21 st century post-modern glass apartment house designed by a famous architect who promised that it would be “iconic.” The receptionist at her law firm said that Sophie resigned, even though the Judge before whom she appeared only gave her a reprimand. She heard that Sophie was so ashamed by what had happened to her that she left the country. The woman had no idea if Sophie would ever return.
As he went through his daily routine at work, every time the phone rang or the door of his office opened unexpectedly Goodwin half expected and hoped it was Sophie, only to be disappointed, but not surprised, that the caller or entrant was someone else. His only tangible reminder of Sophie was the photograph from the Forties.
For weeks following Sophie’s disappearance, Goodwin was a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t sleep, didn’t care about eating, and often just stared out into space. For a short while, he saw a therapist who did in fact help and told Goodwin that he was suffering from PTRSS, “Post Traumatic Romance Stress Syndrome.”
At his lowest point, he wondered if he was going to be like Florentino Ariza in Marquez’ great novel and would have to wait a half a centurybefore reuniting with Sophie. That thought provoked a disturbing scenario: He is now over 100 years old and Sophie is 94. He is ready to give up when he sees her photo on Facebook with the notation “one mutual friend who is still alive.” They meet. He is shocked to learn that for the last ten years Sophie has been living in the same independent living facility as he and just one floor above him. This tragic failure to meet, he learns, is due to their different meal schedules. Once alone, they make love. He says, “Was it as good for you as me? She replies “Was what good?” and he says, “I can’t remember.”
After a number of months, Goodwin appeared to gain
“Look, Sophie, I’ll get you the best psychiatrists money can buy. I love you. But I can’t have a relationship with someone who lives in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms.”
“How about Ethan Allan’s,” she responded trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll try, but have to do something with my group tonight; sort of the ultimate challenge for our group. You don’t want to know. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
“I don’t want to spend even one night without you.”
“I know. Just tonight. Then we’ll spend every night together. And if you see me in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms it will only be as a customer.”
“You’ve made me a very happy camper.”
“Me, too.”
The following morning Goodwin saw Sophie, but not in the way he had hoped. She and several others, characterized by one police officer as “sick kooks,” were the subject of major news stories. Police found Sophie and her cronies occupying several of the bedrooms of Gracie Mansion, the Mayor’s residence. She might have not been caught had the Mayor not returned unexpectedly from a vacation.
A few days later Goodwin read that Sophie was released on her own recognizance, but she never contacted him. Despite his misgivings he returned to Bloomingdales several nights later, but Sophie could not be found. The area theretofore devoted to the model rooms had been walled off after it was reported that these rooms were “home base” for the trespassers. Bloomingdales posted a large sign on the wall that read, “Closed For Renovations.”
At Gramercy Tavern, he was told by the bartender that no one at the restaurant had seen Sophie since the night she was with him. The nightclub in Greenwich Village had closed down to make way for a 21 st century post-modern glass apartment house designed by a famous architect who promised that it would be “iconic.” The receptionist at her law firm said that Sophie resigned, even though the Judge before whom she appeared only gave her a reprimand. She heard that Sophie was so ashamed by what had happened to her that she left the country. The woman had no idea if Sophie would ever return.
As he went through his daily routine at work, every time the phone rang or the door of his office opened unexpectedly Goodwin half expected and hoped it was Sophie, only to be disappointed, but not surprised, that the caller or entrant was someone else. His only tangible reminder of Sophie was the photograph from the Forties.
For weeks following Sophie’s disappearance, Goodwin was a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t sleep, didn’t care about eating, and often just stared out into space. For a short while, he saw a therapist who did in fact help and told Goodwin that he was suffering from PTRSS, “Post Traumatic Romance Stress Syndrome.”
At his lowest point, he wondered if he was going to be like Florentino Ariza in Marquez’ great novel and would have to wait a half a centurybefore reuniting with Sophie. That thought provoked a disturbing scenario: He is now over 100 years old and Sophie is 94. He is ready to give up when he sees her photo on Facebook with the notation “one mutual friend who is still alive.” They meet. He is shocked to learn that for the last ten years Sophie has been living in the same independent living facility as he and just one floor above him. This tragic failure to meet, he learns, is due to their different meal schedules. Once alone, they make love. He says, “Was it as good for you as me? She replies “Was what good?” and he says, “I can’t remember.”
After a number of months, Goodwin appeared to gain
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