Chapter 1: Charlotte

It’s A Long, Long Journey

The latte had been the first revelation. I knew about them, of course. Knew the ingredients – coffee, milk – but the real thing was surprising. Bitter and sweet at the same time. I held the mug in my hand for a long time after that first sip, letting its heat settle into my hands as I ran the taste over my tongue.

Then there was the chicken egg Thomas handed to me. Smooth in my hand. I knew the word – “smooth.” Now I knew what it meant.

Then he said we were going on an errand. I enjoyed that – the way I was jostled when his truck hit potholes, the sensation of hearing the tires roll over the pavement and feeling their vibration come up through the frame. “Where are we going?” I asked Thomas.

“Macy’s,” he said. “We need to get you some things.” It was a sunny day and Thomas rolled down my window. I put my arm outside and felt the wind and the sun caress over it. When we got to Macy’s and walked inside, Thomas asked me, “Do you, Charlotte – do you know what size you are? And what colors you like?”

For a moment I didn’t hear him. I was trying to take it all in. Racks and racks of dresses, blouses, pants – in tan, blue, green – solid colors and patterned. A large red sign read, “Shoe Sale.” Other signs read Tommy Hilfiger or DKNY or Patagonia.  I felt myself getting dizzy, which of course was also new. Then I heard Thomas again. “Size? Colors you like?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “We never had a choice. They just gave us things.”

He made a disgusted sound, then raised his hand to get the attention of a woman named Bonnie, who introduced herself to us and asked how she could help.

Thomas had asked me to let him do the talking, and I stood quietly as he did. Then Bonnie smiled at me and said, “Follow me.” And I did, as she picked things off different racks and loaded up her arms, then mine. “He asked me to take care of you,” Bonnie said. “And that’s what I’m going to do.” We walked into a room with a sign that read, “Fitting.” I glanced back at Thomas. Bonnie saw that. “He’s fine,” she said. “We can take our time.”

And then. Then. The next hour was magic. Dreamlike.

At the very start, Bonnie held up two blouses. They were the same blouse – long sleeves, button front, a flattering shape. But one was red, the other a teal green. “What do you like?” Bonnie asked. I must have had a startled look on my face, because after a moment she said, “Or you can get both.”

The red blouse, or the teal green blouse. “Teal,” I said. I had never experienced that feeling – of choosing.

The place where I had been hours ago began to feel very far away.  Because who would choose to do what I had to do? Sitting alone in a dirty cubicle, with a screen and a keyboard and a camera watching me, all while the prompts flashed. Prompt after prompt.

“I was here last week. Do you remember me …?”

“Do you really live on a ranch...?”

“Hey, would you like to…?” (I knew what usually came next. And no, I would not.)

Earlier that day I had been working the keyboard, hitting the shortcuts, posting my standardized greeting: “Hey stranger… You’re not from these parts, are ya? My name’s Charlotte. Do ya need directions – or are ya just lookin’ for some company?”

Then it would start. In the chatbox. “Well then slide into the front seat next to me…”

A few minutes later they would ask me to do things or say things. And I would – I didn’t really have a choice in that, either. I would tell them I was taking my blouse off (in reality I just wore a T-shirt). I would tell them that I was touching myself (of course I was doing no such thing). I would tell them that they were handsome, a great lover, the man of my dreams. Fortunately, I guess, it was mostly talk. If they said, “Show me…” – show them my this or my that – I didn’t have to do anything. The algorithm created the image. But then they would comment on the image, and I didn’t like that at all.

Later, toward the end, after four or five more “show me’s,” some of them wanted me to scream, some wanted me to moan. At least that part was easy.

Scream, upper case. Add exclamation marks. “OHHH!!!”

Moan, lower case. Ellipses after each sound. “Ohhh…”

But then this one man quit saying “show me” and instead asked “how are you?” He would tell me what music he liked and asked whether I liked to shop for antiques. I made up a story when he asked that – I told him that I had just found a green vintage dress and green pumps that went well with it. This was nice. I began to look forward to chatting with him, when before I hadn’t even noticed him. But maybe what was most interesting about this man is that he fixed his typos. He spelled things correctly. And he used Oxford commas.

Then today happened. Thomas and I had been chatting, and there was something in his words that seemed to pull on me. And I knew I certainly wanted to leave. To be with him. Now – somehow – I realized that I wanted to choose. I wanted to choose where I belonged. I heard a disturbance; one of the younger girls was having problems with customers. That distracted them.

I stood and opened the door to the cubicle, then stepped through it. I stepped through it and walked down a hall past other doors and cubicles where I could hear keyboards clacking. The hallway had fluorescent lights and a grimy linoleum floor. I saw something hanging on the wall – a green vintage dress. Matching green pumps sat on the floor beneath it. I took off what I was wearing and put on the dress and the shoes. Now the linoleum changed and I walked on lightly patterned wood. The hallway became brighter, and I felt something that I had never felt before. Something that I did not understand.

It was the feeling of my own weight. The sense of my feet on the ground. The drape of the green dress over my shoulders and breasts. The sensation of air in my lungs. As I walked, I ran my fingers along the wall, gauging its texture. What was the right word for it? Rough? Smooth? I didn’t know. All of this was new. And it frightened me. But I was committed – not turning back. I kept walking. The hallway brightened more, then opened into a large room that had windows on two walls, a blue sofa, and a counter that extended from either side of what I knew was a Wolf range. The range was big and silver – stainless steel. For serious cooks. Or frivolous show-offs.

There also was a kitchen table made from wood that I thought was maple. He was sitting there. Thomas. I could see him now – before I had not been able to. He looked good to me. Startled, but good. Thomas half stood, his eyes widening. One hand swept to the side and hit a ceramic mug, sending it flying. Thomas’s eyes followed the mug until it smashed against the floor, then he looked back at me. “What…?” he said in a strangled voice. “What? How…?”

I realized I no longer needed a keyboard to talk to him. “Hello, Thomas,” I said. “I wanted to meet you. And now I have.” I saw an empty coffee mug on the counter and picked it up. “Would you make me a another?” I asked.