How to Choose by Heather Bartlett

Don’t do it all at once. Break it apart. Break it down. Make smaller choices. One small choice: Yes or No.

“Are you lonely, Sweetheart?” No.

Push the button firmly so you can feel the click reverberate from fingertip to knuckle. While the system switches to the next recording, prepare yourself for the next choice. Straighten your spine and close your mouth. Close that mouth before you swallow dust, your mother used to say when she caught you lost in a book or memorizing numbers, your bottom jaw dangling from your cheeks.

Click your tongue to echo the start of a new recording.

“I’ve always wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.” She sounds like the taffeta skirt that Sally, the receptionist, wears on Mixer Mondays. No.

Click. “I was married before. My daughter says it’s time for me to date again. She says dads are supposed to want to know other people. I said I know enough, but here I am anyway. My wife died on a Sunday.” He sounds like a corduroy blazer with worn elbow patches. Maybe they’re iron-on patches. Maybe his wife used to do the ironing. Maybe she used to hang the blazer over her shoulders to feel its weight. Like Ex used to wear your socks and slide across the kitchen floor. Better than walking in your shoes, she would say.

Click.

The metal of the desk is oddly warm, but the back of the folding chair is cold, even through your sweater. In the middle of the desktop, the small buttons blink unevenly: blue for SAVE, red for NO. Someone has carved a heart under the blue button. The sharp etchings look more like scissors than a heart. The word love is carved in the back right corner, which someone has crossed out and written divorce underneath.

Lean forward, press your palms against the metal and arch your back like you’re leaning in for a kiss. Go ahead and offer your lips to the air. Maybe this is how the person before you chose.

Sit back again. Let the cool spread up your back and into your neck like goosebumps. Adjust your headset and turn up the volume. Close your eyes this time.

“What they don’t tell you is that once you speak into this recorder, your voice isn’t yours anymore.” When you were 11, you always sat next to Alice on the bus. You both lived toward the end of the long bus route. You both preferred listening to speaking. “It’s out there with you, whoever you are, in some generic room, where you’re supposed to decide if you want to fuck me based on my words.” You pulled your knees to your chests and your jackets over your heads. It doesn’t matter if it was you or if it was Alice, and you can’t really remember, but one of you started talking. Alice wanted to know what it must be like to be caressed. You wanted to know what it must be like to touch. “What do you hear? A woman you want to choose? Or are you already reaching for the red button?” When the bus turned onto Third Street, you pulled the jackets down and laughed as you passed the corner market, even though you were never sure what was funny.

Push the button. You said you’d listen to five today.

§

It’s been raining since you woke up, heavy, steady rain, the kind that makes you feel clean even before you shower. You’d planned to come tomorrow, but you like the sound of water dripping off your shoes onto the hard floor while you choose. Today is better.

Sally takes your umbrella and hands you the plastic In Use door tag. She offers you a cupcake left over from last night’s mixer. “I really wish you’d join us.” She tells you this every week. “Don’t you want to put faces to those voices?”

You’re in room 23 again today. The rain from your shoes leaks across the linoleum, trickling toward the back corner. Feel how wet your hair is when you put on the headset. Press the dampness into your scalp when you adjust it. My wet-headed stepchild, Ex used to call you. Wet hair has always calmed you. Your level of anxiety could be measured by the frequency of your showers. There were times that you showered 3 times a day just to keep from arguing. You can’t rinse it away, Ex would say. But you tried.

Someone has outlined the scissor-heart in permanent marker.

§

Let the connection begin with words. The commercial doesn’t show any images, just the text on the screen. Faint flute melody accompanies a voiceover that reminds you of the self help radio shows your mom listened to in the mornings: How to Be Your Best Self, How to Make Him Notice You, How to Choose You. She listened while making breakfast. I’m okay, you’re okay, she would repeat to herself and pat your head.

It’s time to choose Moore, Inc. The text fades into the dark blue screen.

Everyone is always talking about time. Time to date. Time to move on. Time to try again. Time for more.

“But it’s only 3:30.” Even when it’s not 3:30, this always feels like the appropriate response. On those first nights, when neither of you wanted to give in to sleep, Ex would nudge you – push her palm against your neck, bend her knee against your back, knead a toe into your calf. You would nudge back and ask what time it was. All night, it was 3:30.

§

The room always feels the same: empty. This is the point. To make you want to fill the space with words. With voices. With choices.

Use the space differently today. Sit on the desk and lean your back against the bare wall. Put your feet on the chair. Take your shoes off. When you were a kid, you always took your shoes off so your footprints wouldn’t give you away. In third grade, you didn’t want your mother to know that you let Billy kiss you on the playground when his friends weren’t looking. A pebble from your shoe might have given it away. In fourth grade, you didn’t want her to know that you didn’t go to the playground anymore.

From this angle, the scissor-heart looks like a raised eyebrow to the blinking button-eyes.

“How many of us will admit that we are here because we failed at doing it the right way?” He sounds like the college professor whose class you used to skip because it was at the same time as your roommate’s free period. The two of you would smoke pot in the bathroom and sometimes fuck in one of your twin beds before going to your British Authors survey class. Click.

“Maybe right now, I’m in the next room listening to your words.” Knock softly against the wall. No response.

When your feet get cold, it’s time to leave. Ex still has your favorite pair of wool socks. Remember to tell Sally you will not be attending the Mixer.

§

Moore, Inc. is hard to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for. The building sits back from the street, shielded by a row of overgrown shrubs. Look for mailbox #1985. The white letters are worn away; one of the ‘O’s is completely gone, leaving a faded ‘MO  RE’ on the blue mailbox to assure singles they’re in the right place. Follow the cement walkway.

The facility isn’t much to look at when you walk up to it. The two-story brick building is neither impressive nor intimidating. The blue awning barely provides any shade. Maybe that’s the point.

The door is glass. There is no buzzer. Walk in.

A dark haired woman is watching you from her desk across the room. She and the desk are the only things in the large, open lobby. She stands up and fluffs her hair, tucks a thumb into her back pocket. She trips a little when the heel of her red pump slides across the tile floor, but she catches herself. Pretend not to notice.

“Congratulations on choosing Moore.” You’re surprised her voice doesn’t echo off the hard walls. She hands you a clipboard and click pen. “I’m Sally.” She pats the edge of her desk as she walks back around to sit. “Just need some basic information to get you started.”

While you scribble your phone number and mailing address, Sally pulls a pack of silver disks from her desk drawer. While you check off boxes under Interested in and Interested in Hearing From, she taps a fingernail against the plastic cases. Click the pen and fasten it to the clipboard. Done.

As she leads you down the hallway, she hands you a blank disc and an instruction card. The laminate feels oily in your hand.

Don’t: Give your name or any personal details.

Do: Share your relationship philosophy with a potential mate.

Sally recognizes your open mouth as hesitation. “Just start with some words about what you’re looking for,” she says. Close your mouth.

Sally accidentally leaves the plastic Recording tag on the inside doorknob. Leave it. Take stock of the room now that you’re finally alone: clean walls, metal folding chair, metal desk, blue and red buttons, recorder and microphone. Insert the blank disc. Push Record. Start talking.

§

“I don’t believe in matchmaking. I don’t believe in this system. But I’ve come to accept that I need to try to work within it.” This one sounds young. Like a grad student who doesn’t have time to go out and find dates, but wants something. Something. This one sounds like you. When you were young and always nodded in recognition when someone quoted Aristotle’s Poetics, even though you didn’t know. When you wanted to know.

Click. The button is sticky today. Push it again to release it.

You push all my buttons, Ex would say while unbuttoning your shirt, now it’s my turn. It often started this way. So you wanted to talk about why she never called you back? Pushing buttons. You wanted to know who taped the note to the door? Pushing buttons. You wanted more? Pushing. Sometimes you didn’t mind, though. Sometimes you pushed just to get pushed back.

How many are you going to hear today? Tomorrow it might rain.

§

Today you’re going to listen to follow-up tapes from your SAVED list. “The rules are the same for follow-ups.” Sally is smiling and touching your arm. “If you still choose to save them, push the blue button.”

You can’t save me, Ex would say.

Thank Sally and close the door. Adjust your headset. Turn the volume down until you can’t make out what’s being said, then turn it up one notch. There are three to hear today.

One: “If you saved me, you must have heard something you like.” Remember his voice. You do like it. He sounds like the guitar riffs your neighbor plays before bed.  “Now you’re listening again for something more.” You’re going to want more, Ex would say, closing the door behind her. Click.

Two: “The instructions say not to reveal too much in these recordings.” He still sounds sad. This is what you like about him.

You thought Ex didn’t know about the cigarettes you kept under the empty flower pot. You would sit on the cement steps and smoke after she’d gone home. When confronted, you thought about lying, saying they were left from before you quit, you didn’t even know they were there. You thought about blaming someone else, the neighbor who plays the guitar. But you didn’t. You nodded. She didn’t bring it up again.

Click.

Three: This one starts with silence. This is what you remember. This is why you like her. She inhales sharply before speaking. “Yesterday I hiked to the top of the gorge. It took all morning, and when I got to the top, my heart was beating so loudly I couldn’t see.” You don’t see me, one of you would say. It didn’t matter if it was you or if it was Ex; one of you would always say it. “I started counting loose rocks until the waterfall came back into focus.” But no matter who said it, you were always first to apologize. “It looked smaller than it had from the bottom.”

§

Do: speak naturally and clearly.

Don’t: hold the microphone too close to your mouth.

Say something about looking for more.

No. Say you’re not looking for more.

Don’t hold the microphone so close to your mouth. Delete and start again.

§

Sally offers you a cupcake with extra sprinkles. The sprinkles are blue. The extras are in a clear plastic cup. She shakes them. “Maybe if you just came once.” That’s right; today is Tuesday. She has a sprinkle stuck to her shirt collar. Don’t tell her. “Maybe it’s better to look in a person’s eyes.”

Maybe it’s better this way, Ex said.

You were re-packing the box your mother had sent you. From the very start, you just never wanted to keep your shoes on, her note said. You wrapped the tiny sneakers in tissue paper and put them in last, on top of the purple blanket your mother had been knitting since before you even told her. The just-in-case-blanket. That’s what your mother called it. That’s why I chose purple, she said, it works either way. You taped up the box and carefully printed the return label with permanent maker.

It’s better this way, Ex said and wrapped her arms around herself. We didn’t have a choice, she said.

You shook the box as you picked it up.

§

Run your fingers over the scissor-heart. Feel the uneven edges of the etching. When you were thirteen, you started etching words into your skin. Rub your forearm where it once said yes, your inner thigh where it said and.

Put the headphones down. Let the recording play out without listening. Instead, search your pocket for something sharp enough to write with – a paperclip. Unfold it and scrape against the desk surface. It sounds like chalk. Press harder. Carefully carve a word into the metal. Keep the letters small and precise – c h o o s e.

Cross it out.

§

Do: remain anonymous.

Don’t: forget to be yourself.

§

I don’t know you. That was the first thing you said.

You make me nervous. That was the second.

Ex pulled her chair closer to yours. So close that your knees were touching. She probably asked what you wanted to know, but you couldn’t hear her. Your knees were touching. It was a Sunday.

On Sundays you drank mimosas and fucked in the shower. You ate whatever was leftover from the refrigerator, broken up into bite-sized pieces. Ex took smaller bites than you did.

You spread the newspaper across the bed and took turns reading the editorials. Sometimes you would read headlines out loud and use them to invent stories. SHOCK WAVE HITS COMMUNITY: You gave a slow account of tidal waves hitting the sustainable sand community you built at the beach with a curly haired child. Ex crafted a conspiracy about power lines and a shadow government.

When it got dark, she would hold out closed fists and say, Choose. One fist held the car key, the other was empty. If you chose the empty fist, she would take you by the wrist and lead you back to bed; sometimes she would spend the night. If you chose the car key, you spent the night alone.

On the last Sunday you bought champagne. This wasn’t supposed to be the last Sunday; it was supposed to have been the Sunday before, but on Friday you asked for another, just one more to say all the words you both needed to say. What words, Ex wanted to know. You wanted to know, too, you did. But really, you just wanted more.

The car was full with her life: repurposed wine boxes – Pinot Noir crossed out and replaced with KITCHEN in black marker, queen sized blankets in plastic garbage bags, clothes in stacked piles on the back seat, a shoe box of homemade mixed CDs on the front passenger seat. Only one box of books, you noticed. All anyone needs are the beat poets, anyway, she said.

You decided not to open the champagne. Take it, you said, and anchored the bottle between two stacks of jeans.

You make me nervous. That was the last thing she said.

You don’t know me. That was the last thing you said.

Heather Bartlett holds an MFA in poetry from Hunter College. Her recent work can be found in Barrow Street, Carolina Quarterly, Nimrod, Ninth Letter, PoemMemoirStory, and other journals. A lecturer in English at the State University of New York at Cortland, she lives, writes, and grades papers in Ithaca, NY.