I telephone Rona Milliken at her offices. She sounds embarrassed for a moment and even then seems to have a little difficulty recalling me. “Oh, yes,” she says, “oh, yes. Look, I’m sorry that the piece didn’t run with your interview. There was a change in policy upstairs. I didn’t have anything to do with it. They decided they wanted to upgrade and have a look at the social issues in a quality way and they cut out almost all of the interviews. Listen, I have nothing to do with that at all.”
“I didn’t even know,” I say. “I never read the magazine. That’s okay.”
“Oh,” she says after a pause. “Oh, so it’s okay. That’s fine. Listen, I have to go out on a beat right away so if we could — ”
“Do you want to go out with me?”
“What’s that?”
“What’s so complicated? Do you want to go out with me? On a date? We can go to the theater or to dinner or both or neither or something and come back to my place or to yours. How about it?”
“I’m afraid not,” she says. “I’m engaged. I’m getting married in three weeks.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sure I wish you all happiness. We could still go out, though.”
“I see the man all the time. We have to make, like, arrangements. It’s going to be a pretty big wedding it turns out.”
“Well for God’s sake,” I say, “what am I supposed to do? I’ve got to go out! Don’t you have any consideration for me? Please, say you’ll go out.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I really am, but I think you’ve got the wrong idea entirely.”
I begin to rant into the phone. I tell her about my loneliness, my fear, my pain, my necessity, my desperate need to connect with a woman, my fear that all my contacts have disappeared and that I am losing control of myself. I talk floridly, passionately, and mix in one or two threats. After some time I understand that I am talking into an empty wire and she has hung up on me. That is probably all right because I am more than a little ashamed of myself and do not want to feel that anyone knows the extent of my vulnerability.