Impersonal Attractions by Sarah Shankman

together. “It’s like Christmas! What if one of these is from someone standing right here?”
    “Well, he won’t know if you keep it down.”
    “I will too,” said Fred, leaning over from behind the bar. “Mine’s the one with all the dirty words.”
    “Scoot, Fred,” Annie said, waving him away. “I’m sure there’s much more creative filth here than you ever thought of.”
    “How do you want to do this?” Sam asked.
    “Just take half of them and then we’ll switch.”
    They were barely through the first letters when a man at Annie’s elbow interrupted. He was wearing a stockbroker suit, a stockbroker belt, stockbroker shoes, and a stockbroker haircut. But at his neck was a blue-and-red polka-dot bow tie and on his head was a cowboy hat.
    “Lemme buy you two pretty ladies a drink. I want to get to know you,” he slurred, listing to the left. “I been here and there since eleven today, when I read the board, decided the day was fucked, and I might as well be too.”
    “You said it, not me.” Sam laughed and they grabbed the letters and their drinks, and signaled to the hostess, who led them to a quiet table in the back. They both ordered Toots Burgers with jalapenos, cheese, and onions, and got serious about their reading.
    “This man’s married,” Sam announced.
    “Well, of course, some of them are going to be. It’s a game, silly. You see what you can get away with.”
    They resumed sipping and reading.
    “Two more married, Sam. Maybe they’re all going to be. This certainly isn’t what I was looking for.”
    “Who was just saying this was a game? Keep going.” Annie opened another one and laughed. “Listen to this. ‘If you turn out to be my ex-wife, please never tell me about this.’ Not bad-looking either.”
    Sam appraised his photograph as carefully as if she were buying mushrooms at $9.95 a pound.
    “Okay,” she ventured. “But I bet we’ll do better.”
    “Who’s this we ?”
    “Why, Annie, my dearest, my bosom, my heart, if you get more than any one woman can handle, don’t tell me you’re not going to share?”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Hmmmm.” Sam was distracted. “What about this? Says he looks like Gene Wilder. And see, he does. But who’s that woman with the boobs and the scarf? That’s tacky, sending a photo of yourself with another woman. But he’s tall enough. And forty-two.”
    “You know, I think we’re forgetting something very important here. These men are not really for me. Remember? The point was to find more people for the book.”
    “Yes, but are you going to throw him away if you find a gem? Come on, Annie, don’t spoil my fun.”
    “Okay… Listen to this. Is this Rich Right? One, two, three, no, four pages, single-spaced. Two of them are poetry. He’s done lots of drugs, has a heavy interest in sex—does that mean he likes fat women—and says he’s very good at it. Has a master’s in counseling and works as a…”
    “Therapist,” Sam filled in the blank.
    “You got it. He’s also included a little list here of the things he craves: water, food, warmth, food, love, affection, food, recognition, more food, more love, warm love, warm food, desserts, bagels, and a pinch to grow an inch. And I quote. What do you think?”
    “I think the man is hungry. And nuts.”
    There was a long silence from the other side of the table.
    Finally Sam looked up. Annie was staring at a letter and shaking her head in disbelief.
    “Let me guess,” said Sam. “Jeff Bridges. Beau Bridges. That young Australian, whatsisname, Gibson, Mel Gibson.”
    “This letter’s from Lloyd Andrews, the novelist.”
    “I’m giving you Jeff Bridges and you’re giving me back a novelist?”
    “Shut up. Remember, we were talking about him a couple of weeks ago, because I’d just finished his last book and you said you thought he lived in Bolinas. He lives here. On Telegraph Hill. And he answered my ad!” Annie gulped her Campari. “It’s fate. I’ve read every