"Thud," Went my Heart

A trip to Israel? I sent a quick reply to Amos saying of course, of course I would like to go to Israel! He emailed right back, saying that it was through the Canadian Pals of Israel Group (CPIG), and that he was on the board of directors. Once a year, he told me, they send a bunch of journalists to Israel, no conditions attached, to allow them to see the country through something different than the mainstream (i.e. anti-Israel) media lens. Sounded good to me.
"Are you sure," he asked, "that your bosses at the Daily Scum won’t mind?"
"They’re not my bosses," I answered. "I’m my boss!"
"Great!" he replied.
All of a sudden Amos and I were emailing again, our banter was back, the flirting was back. It went on and on for a few days. I learned, among other things, that the reason I was being asked so close to the departure date was that ToryToady#3 had been scheduled to go on the trip but had cancelled at the last minute for some kind of personal reason that Amos was unaware of. I knew Amos was unaware of what it was, because if he had known, he surely would have told me. He was telling me everything else. Completely indiscreet. Carrying on about Rebecca Chestnut, as per usual, proudly announcing that the Red Deer Report was working on a feature about her that would "completely embarrass" her, and so forth. Hmm. I wasn’t sure that was anything to be boasting about. Whatever. It wasn’t my magazine. Heck. They didn’t even want me to write for them. Or at least Colin, the editor there, didn’t.
What did it matter? Amos and I were talking, flirting, and I was going on a trip to Israel! Yayness. Everything was coming up roses.
Or so it seemed. Or so it seemed until June 22nd, 2005, a date I began -- thereafter -- to think of as "Black Wednesday." It was the day that Amos phoned me from Red Deer, for the first time. I was so flattered. I looked at the call display on my phone and saw "Red Deer Report" and my heart positively fluttered. Simply fluttered.
I picked up, trying to sound casual, trying to sound like I didn’t know who it was. "Jane?" said the voice I had been longing to hear, "It’s Amos! Amos Loewenstein."
"Oh hi," I said, feigning surprise. "How are you?"
"Good. I just called you up to bug you a little bit, joke around, you know."
"Sure!" I enthused.
The repartee began, the double entendres, the "fun" that Amos so loved...until about twenty minutes into the call (which must have been costing the Red Deer Report investors a fortune), when Amos abruptly said, "Oh, you should know Jane, that I’m not single."
Thud.
Shock.
"Oh? I thought you were divorced," I said, desperately trying to regroup.
"Well yes, but I’m involved in a relationship here in Red Deer."
Thud. The sound of my heart.
"Oh, that’s fine," I said, in faux-chipper tone.
"Well I just thought, I mean, we had what could have been considered a ‘date,’ you know, when I was in Toronto last."
"Oh no," I laughed, in faux-indifference tone. "I figured it was just a friendly night out! You know, with a bunch of friends. Charles Taylor, the ToryToadies..." I began stammering, trying to think of other "friends" who had been there. "...Polya Bratwurst..."
"Oh, okay, well, good then," said Amos.
"Yeah, cool."
Thud. My heart hitting the bottom of my stomach.
Rip. My heart being ripped out of my stomach.
Squish. Someone stepping on it.

WTF?

On June 5th, I replied to Amos’ succinct email with a decidedly non-succinct one of my own. I decided maybe he needed to be drawn out -- laughable, in retrospect. Amos was -- and is -- the King of Bombast, outgoing, energetic, aggressive, a never-shuts-up kind of a fella. There was nothing holding him back if he wanted to be forthcoming. So obviously, something was holding him back. But instead of facing up to that, and just leaving it, I sent him a gushy email. I referenced our conversation about the Seven Deadly Sins -- I said I had looked them up, as he and I had not been entirely sure that night if we had them right. I listed them and made a joke or two about gluttony and sloth. I decided that making one about lust would be too forward. I gushed (read: lied) about the Red Deer Report. I said it was great. I said Brit Balding was "awesome," that Kristi Morning was "refreshing" and so on. I drew on my considerable -- and almost entirely untapped -- wells of insincerity. I flattered and gushed and gushed and flattered and told him I had had "fun" too, and that I hoped he would call me next time he was in Toronto. My email went on and on. I hit "send," and hoped for a similar response.
I was disappointed. I got another short one. It read, "Jane, it’s fun [that word again] to see the list of deadly sins. Thanks for that. Glad you like the Report. Cheers, Amos." Huh? WTF? What? What was going on? Did I completely misread him when he was in Toronto? Or had I done something that turned him off?
I called my friend Camille and ran the whole saga by her -- the panel, the emails, the evening listening to Pierre-Marie O’Reilly talk about privatizing sidewalks, the flirting, the sins, the Tory toadies, Charles Taylor, Sassafraz, and so on.
"So," Camille asked, tentatively, "was that night a date?"
"Well that’s the thing," I said. "I don’t know. I thought it was, but...well, nothing happened. And now he’s all cold and weird."
"Men," sighed Camille.
"Exactly. So here’s what I think I should do. Not answer his email, right? I mean, he didn’t ask for a reply. And I don’t think he should be rewarded for such a cool reply, especially after my friendly, verbose, chipper, warm email, right?"
"Absolutely," said Camille. "Absolutely. Pull back, because he sure has."
So I didn’t answer. I left it. And it was hard. And everyday I checked my messages madly, and there was nothing from Amos. Nothing. Not a thing. I did google him though, and looked at pictures and articles. He was cute and smart, but he took a lot of grief and criticism from mainstream Canadian media. I tried to find stuff out about his divorce, by googling "Amos Loewenstein, divorce," but nothing about his divorce came up. A column he wrote about the Clintons came up, though, and one about the new pope. "Pope Nazi the First," as my mother calls him.
I had pretty much given up, and figured my "date" with Amos would just be another addition to the long list of odd, inexplicable experiences I had had with men. I mean, I knew I would run into him again -- Canada was small, Canadian media smaller and conservative Canadian media smaller still. And I assumed we would exchange cheerful "hellos" and all would be well and whatever had been there would be left unspoken. But still...it felt unfinished. And then, on June 13th, 2005, Amos replied to my email. Here is what his message said: "Dear Jane, Would you like to come on a fact-finding media trip to Israel from July 16th to 25th. If so, let me know quickly -- it’s a great opportunity. Hope to hear from you soon, and really hope you can come along. Cheers, Amos."
WTF?