Call Me, Susan

The ad was in an old copy of The Village Voice she found while going through boxes in her attic. October 18, 1985. She thumbed through the issue, wondering why she saved it. Maybe a record review she particularly liked, maybe the article about AIDS she had meant to read but never got around to. She enjoyed leafing through the pages, looking at artifacts of her time as a young adult, memories of hanging out in the record store, of going to clubs to see new wave bands, of freedom.

She came upon the ad toward the back, just as she was about to shove the paper back into the box. call me, susan. i’m sorry, then a phone number, then i’ll wait forever. tom.

Her name was Susan, yes. But this wasn’t for her. She never dated anyone named Tom. She thought back to 1985, to the clubs and the record store, to the mall and college. She couldn’t remember a guy named Tom, but that didn’t stop her from fantasizing that she was that Susan, and Tom was a long lost love, doomed to pine away after a deep misunderstanding.

Susan picked up her phone and thought wistfully that, when this ad was published, there was no such thing as cell phones. and here she was, almost 40 years later, holding her smartphone like a talisman that would take her on a great adventure.

She knew the chance of that number still belonging to Tom was small. and even if Tom answered, she might be stirring up heartache for him. But she was a person who believed in signs, and she had been asking for signs that her life would become meaningful in her 60s. She thought going back to church might help, or volunteering at the food pantry, or attending a book group at the library. But none of those things brought her closer to finding a life partner to share her hopes and dreams with. There was a reason she unpacked this box. There was a reason she saved this copy of The Village Voice. There was a reason she saw that ad.

A gruff “yeah?” greeted her after one ring. Susan cleared her throat. She realized she had no idea what she was going to say. She hadn’t rehearsed or even thought about it.

“Tom?” she said as if she knew him. Keep it casual, she thought. Act like you’ve been here before.

“Who is this?” The man sounded agitated.

“It's Susan."

Silence.

“Hello?” She thought he’d hung up and was about to do the same when he coughed gently.

“This uhh…isn’t Tom. He hasn’t had this number since 1998. I got calls for him for a while and learned about him desperately seeking Susan, but I never thought Susan would call. Yet here you are.”

“Well, I'm Susan. but not that Susan." She explained about the ad she stumbled across. She couldn’t explain why she was compelled to call. Just a sign, she thought.

Another quick fantasy ran through her mind, this one about the gruff man turning out to be a single, lonely guy who had the same tastes and politics as her. She imagined them getting together, talking about everything under the sun, marveling about how they found each other.

“Well, that’s all well and good Susan. But if you’re not the Susan Tom was looking for, why did you bother calling?”

“I thought any Susan would do at this point.”

There was silence on the line, uncomfortable in length. She could hear him breathing.

“Ok then. I’m going to hang up. It was nice talking to you, sir.”

“Wait. Where are you from, Susan?"

“Port Washington. Long Island.” She had no idea why she blurted this to a man she didn’t know.

“I’m in Brooklyn,” he said.

Could this be her match? Did the gods of love lead her right into the arms of the man who would take care of her forever?

“Oh, not too far from me,” she said, and immediately regretted it.

“No, not at all. I haven't been on the island in ages.” Was this an opening, an invitation? Was she going to flirt with a complete stranger, this disembodied voice she knew nothing about? Susan was definitely the type to do this. She'd done enough date recruiting on the apps that this was second nature to her. But something about this one felt different. She could sense a tugging on the line, the feeling that he was reeling her in.

“What's your name?” She was being brazen and forward, and she didn’t care. She really felt that fate was doing all the work, leading her to this very place.

“You're not going to believe this. My name is Tom,” he adds, quickly. “But I'm not that Tom.”

“I wonder if the real Tom and Susan ever got together,” she said.

“Doesn't it make you think, though? What are the chances another Tom and Susan would have a conversation based on this ad?”

“Slim. I don't even know why I saved this copy of The Voice.”

Tom blurted, “Say why don’t we get together for a drink or two? Or coffee if you don’t drink? I think we owe it to the other Tom and Susan to sort of complete the circle.”

They talked ten more minutes before she agreed to meet him on the grounds that he would come to the island and meet her at her favorite local bar, where her neighbors would keep an eye on him. And her. They finalized the arrangements and Susan hung up, not sure what had just happened.

***

It’s Tuesday night and the bar is about a quarter full. She spots George the bartender, then Louis and Jess at the bar. Cam is playing pool, and there’s a small gathering of local lawyers at a long table. She’ll be safe, just in case Tom is a serial killer.

A stranger enters the bar and she knows immediately it’s Tom. He’s wearing an overcoat on this nasty night, his hair is wet, he’s wiping snow off his shoulders. She stands up so Tom can see the purple shirt she said she would be wearing. A look of relief crosses his face. He sidles up next to her at the bar.

“Susan,” he says, matter-of-factly, and offers his hand. Susan shakes it and says it’s nice to meet him, then her mind immediately goes to what are we going to talk about?

Tom leads the conversation. They have an unexpectedly easy talk about life on Long Island, about their favorite foods, about hockey, and TV shows they have in common. There’s no mention of what brought them together until Tom finally breaks that ice.

“I have to say I was a little disappointed when you said you aren’t that Susan from the personal ad.”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t know why she’s apologizing. It’s not her fault. But Tom is so nice, such a gentleman, and a great conversationalist. She feels bad that she didn’t lead him to solve a mystery.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Why?”

Tom pauses, then reaches for his wallet and digs into the crevices behind his credit cards.He pulls out a tattered newspaper clipping, smooths it out on the bar. and stares at it a second before beckoning Susan to look at it.

It’s the ad from The Village Voice. She says nothing for what feels like minutes.

“There is no Susan. Or there wasn’t. I put this ad in the Voice hoping someone would feel sorry for me and call my number. I tried dating ads. They didn’t work. I was going for the sympathy date. Again, I’m sorry. There’s no mystery to solve, there’s no real back story to go with this. There’s just me, Tom. And now you, Susan.”

Susan lets it all sink in. She feels set up. But then she thinks about serendipity. and lets the bad feelings slink away. She decides to see where this goes.

“I get it if you want to leave,” Tom says. He seems contrite, and she sees no point in making him feel bad.

She says, “Hey, do you want to order some food?”

He exhales and sits back down on the stool. “Sure. That would be great.” After the bartender hands them their menus, Tom turns toward her and says, “Susan, ,do you believe in fate?”

“I might.” She glances at the menu, then winks at him. “The nachos are really good here.”