Page 3 of Mr. North
Where are you from?New York, born and raised
Do you have any siblings?No
A nd then, the lying begins. Or at least I think he’s lying.
W hat do you do for work?Astronaut
Highest level of education?GED
Favorite country to travel to?Serbia
Where do you plan on being in 5 years?Dead
Religion?Scientologist
J eez, that one gives me pause…
And then, things take a more hostile turn.
W hat is your greatest fear ?None of your fucking business
Have you ever had to make a tough decision that has affected you and those around you?None of your fucking business
Who is your favorite fictional character and why?None of your fucking business
Favorite movie?None of your fucking business
Tell me three things you like about yourself:None of your fucking business
What are you passionate about?None of your fucking business
I could read on, but it would be pointless. There are three single sided pages of questions, and Raphael North’s response to each and every one of them is the same. He’s answered them in painstakingly neat, almost elegant handwriting. It’s not the rushed, slapdash cursive of someone rushing to finish filling out a form. It looks like he genuinely spent time forming every single word he recorded on the paper. At the end of the document, there’s a box that says, ‘Tell us about your ideal companion.’ Inside the box, there are three words: No fucking blondes.
Just as Thalia said, then. For some reason he really has a strong aversion to blondes. I lay my hands flat on top of the papers, and I think. He really did not want to fill out the questionnaire, obviously. By the looks of things, he really didn’t feel too comfortable with the picture, either.
Picking up the papers, I’m halfway through sliding them back into the envelope when I see black ink on the reverse of the final page.
L ook . I just want to play chess with an actual human being. Nothing weird. Nothing underhanded. Nothing intense or unpleasant for either of us.
S end me someone real .
T he last linescreams out at me from the page. I don’t know why, but it clangs around the inside of my head like a tolling bell. He wants someone real. What must it be like for someone like him, constantly under such immense pressure? Constantly avoiding the public eye? I imagine it would be quite lonely to be him, Park Avenue royalty, stuck in his tower, looking out over the city, so close and yet so far removed from everything going on at ground level. He must have been playing chess against his laptop for the longest time now that he just wants someone to engage in polite conversation while he kicks their ass.
I don’t know why, but the coarse, brusque response he wrote to Thalia’s frankly rote questions have made me like him somehow. The short message he’s written on the back of the paper has done more than that, though. In a strange, awkward way, it’s made me want to understand him.
I send Thalia a text, and my heart beats faster as I type the words.
M e : Okay. I’m intrigued. I suppose I can give it a shot.
She replies almost immediately.
T halia : I knew it! I KNEW you’d do it!
A nd then…
T halia : Good thing I already told him yes ;) He’s expecting you at 4 tomorrow. I’ve emailed you the instructions. Don’t be late. And don’t forget to let him win!
