Ten-Feet Tall and Bulletproof!

An arrangement that became a friendship, and maybe more

There are those who believe that you'll never know who your real friends are until tragedy strikes. But I was never one to consider such truths as valid until I was arrested in:the summer of 2004 for murder. At that time to suddenly see myself portrayed by the media as some sort of lying, scheming, womanizing pariah was a hard pill to swallow, even for me. Naturally, I understood then that the media's agenda is more often than not the same as the prosecution's: turn everything into a public relations opportunity by selling, as true, whatever happens to be the most likely narrative to achieve the desired outcome. But the hardest part about seeing myself portrayed in such a negative light was actually having to confront within myself whether or not what was being said was true. After all, I had lied in life, and maybe I had schemed—though, I would have called it "business optimization" or "maximizing returns"—for purposes of a résumé or a business plan, and without a doubt I had an active social calendar with more than few names on it. But was I bad person? It was an honest question because there was not a single individual in my business, social, or familial circles who didn't exhibit these very same traits to one extent or another. Which could either mean that I was surrounded by pariahs and was truthfully a "bad" person or, a one-sided narrative was being manufactured for the purpose of softening the prosecutorial playing field to my disadvantage for a trial where the game would be to pin a tail on a donkey—and, yes, I was the ass! And while I was considering the merits and virtues of my life I was told that I had a visit, and began to think that maybe the maxim on friendship was true.

Let's put it this way, if someone from the jail had come to my cell as a game show host and gave me ten chances to guess who my visitor was, the prize being my freedom, I would have lost. Because the woman sitting before me when I sat down in the visiting room was quite possibly the greatest experience of my life, and, that being said, I would never have expected her to even be aware of my predicament, much less travel across the country for a fifteen minute visit so as to appear there before me like an apparition from genie's bottle. And, yes, I did just label her, up until that very succinct point in my life, as my greatest experience: at least, as far as it is possible for one human being to experience another in a way that is mutually consensual and beneficial. That being said, she was also an enigma who could be as deadly as a pit viper or as generous and loving as a mother to her newborn child. And for the purpose of this piece, we'll call her Amelia.

I met Amelia in 2003, though it's probably more accurate to say that I was presented to Amelia; or, even more accurate to say that we were presented to each other by another remarkable person whose business it was to make these types of introductions. Those familiar with this time period of my life might go so far as to refer to Amelia as a prostitute, an escort, a call girl, or some other derogatory term describing someone who gives sexual gratification to another for payment. But anyone who had ever experienced the magnanimity of her presence would never use such a term, because in all actuality she was more like a geisha or, as I often referred to her in jest: my own personal genie in a bottle.

Allow me to explain how it was that such a person came into my life. About a month prior to our introduction I received a phone call from a woman who identified herself as Eva. It was an interesting phone call on many levels because, for one, she told me that someone had referred her to me and "vouched" for my discretion, but, she wouldn't tell me who it was. And, two, she claimed to have a proposition for me that, as she put it, "will change the very tapestry of your life."

I remember laughing when I heard her say that because it just seemed like the most absurd thing to say to someone. After all, what does "the tapestry of my life" even mean when coming from someone who has never even met me? I had heard all kinds of sales pitches in my life, and as someone who began my business career in finance I knew how to identify bullshit for what it was. But there was something about her voice, in that it didn't waiver or falter in any way that made me hesitate.

"All I'm proposing," she said, "is for the two of us to have dinner the next time you find yourself in New York. We'll enjoy each other's company, and if by the end of the evening you're not convinced, then, it will have been my mistake and I will offer you my most sincerest apology for having wasted your valuable time."

It turned out that I was already planning on being in NYC the following week on business, and something told me that she was already aware of that. My first thought was that I was on the receiving end of some kind of elaborate prank. But I also couldn't see how getting me to a restaurant in a city where I was already going to be could possibly serve as a punchline for said prank. And, I considered myself very astute at reading people, even through their voices over a phone call, and whoever this woman was, she didn't seem to be making a proposition in jest.

As I look back on the many episodes of my life there are certain unavoidable truths that stand apart from the rest as worthy of recognition. Painful truths about friendship, family, and love are always present and accounted for, but there are also certain truths about personal values, hopes, fears, and even the essence of life itself that are often overlooked. Some of these truths are overlooked because they're inconvenient truths—like having to confront certain character flaws—and the truth that I have most ignored throughout my life is that I don't make good choices when it comes to women.

In fact, my memory is incapable of recalling so many missteps, mistakes, migraines, and outright mega-flops that have been occasioned in my life because of my poor choices related to women. Then again, I can't even remember firsts in the realm of birthdays, goals in fútbol, concert recitals (yes, I played the violin), or even hearing from someone that they loved me. But I'm pretty sure that all of these events took place, despite my memory's unwillingness to retrieve them. Though, my memory isn't entirely uncooperative; for instance, I can easily recreate countless details about my first date (double date, actually): my papá asked out the mother of a girl I really liked when I was 6 years old and we went to a really nice restaurant, and after the date I was pulled into a closet and given my first kiss. There was also the two-part landmark event of learning how to ride a bicycle and catching my first fish. The former involved my abuelo running alongside me chanting sí se puede while I'm trying to navigate a u-turn and instead end up with my first dose of road-rash on my hands and knee; while the latter involved me holding on with dear life to a fishing rod while being pulled into a lake because I was too small to reel in my catch—I'm calling for my abuelo and he's running towards me yelling, "Hijo de la chingada, no la sueltes, mijo-o-o!" (I'll save you the indignity of the translation, because you undoubtedly get the picture.) My point being, if agreeing to have dinner with a complete stranger who was promising to change the "tapestry" of my life, rest assured that I was going to accept that offer.

For similar purposes of discretion we'll call this remarkable woman Eva. As promised, there was a handwritten message waiting for me at my hotel when I checked in. All it said was a time and a place without any name signed or even a contact number in case something came up. I laughed at her confidence, and laughed again at the fact that I was too intrigued to not show up, which she had to have known. I proceeded to ask the concierge if there was still only one Rainbow Room in the city, which he confirmed and that meant Manhattan's Rockefeller Center—talk about swinging for the fences!

I honestly can't recall if I've ever been more nervous to meet someone. I still couldn't tell you if I was walking into a prank, or perhaps even into something a little more sinister. All I knew was that when I gave my name to the maître de, I was told that "she's waiting for you at the bar and your table is ready whenever you are," and in that moment I was certain of two things: this was no prank; and, whatever she was selling I wasn't going to be able to afford it.

The bar was to my left and there was a pianist in the center of the room playing something reminiscent of Sinatra which seemed fitting for the occasion. The bar was full, but I knew exactly who Eva was as soon as we made eye contact. I had intuited from her voice that she was somewhat older than me, by at least twenty years, but the woman who was looking at me from the bar as though she knew exactly who I was, was not someone to be described as old. She was considerably older, yes, but she was… exquisite. Think of the Frenchman's wife from The Matrix Trilogy and you'll have an idea of what I'm talking about. Granted, I had overcome my fear of talking intelligibly to beautiful women in college, but as she walked towards me I couldn't have formed a coherent thought to save my life.

Eva greeted me affectionately, as though we were well acquainted, and almost immediately we were led to a private corner table with impressive views of the Manhattan skyline. She seemed as familiar with the restaurant as she was with me and took it upon herself, as the host, to order us cocktails (two Mojitos) and asked if they still had a particular Bordeaux that she had enjoyed there recently. She had a way of making time itself seem somehow slower and more deliberate, as though time demurred because she commanded it.

She controlled the conversation throughout the evening and there was no mention of what we were there to discuss until the dessert was placed before us. Surprisingly, when the subject was finally broached it was done so in a way that almost made it seem as though I had already agreed to whatever it was just by being present. By that time I had my suspicions, which were confirmed as truth as soon as she brought the conversation to a head.

"You understand what I do," she said.

"I think so, yes," I said. "But I would appreciate an explanation on the 'tapestries' if that's not too direct."

She smiled from behind her glass of wine. "Yes, of course, 'tapestries.'"

Eva proceeded to explain that I was a young man on the cusp of a very promising career. I was unhappily married, separated, and otherwise distracted by the countless options that presented themselves as female companionship in my life. I enjoyed the romantic aspect of dating, but loathed the maintenance aspect of sustaining meaningful relationships, not because I didn't care about other people, but because there simply were not enough hours in the day to be effective at both. I enjoyed beautiful women, yes, but if they weren't able to sustain a conversation I lost all interest. I appreciated sincerity, chastised drama, and generally despised dependency of any kind.

"And, in bed?" I asked as a gaffe.

"Generous," she said. "You're more concerned about her pleasure than your own. Which is a fault that you'll likely never correct."

Without a doubt Eva had studied my owners manual to the point of understanding me better than I understood myself. She understood that I perceived time lost as a constant opportunity cost. A cost that I couldn't overcome because I very much enjoyed being with women in all aspects of my life. But, every relationship was short lived and generally ended badly because most of the women I dated were looking for something more than a casual affair, which was all I could offer at that point in time.

"And the solution?" I asked.

"The solution," she began, "at least at this juncture of your life, is to surround yourself with the kind of companionship that doesn't drain away your life, but actually replenishes it. Instead of the daily dramas of who didn't call who first, or who didn't remember whose birthday, or 'you never seem to care about anyone but yourself,' you need to have someone there who is always an asset and never a liability."

"And this is what you offer?"

"Yes."

Ten days later I was back in the city. It goes without saying that I was sold, because it was more like being led to a water spigot after having walked across a desert. I was ten minutes early when I walked into the sushi restaurant where I was about to be introduced to Amelia. I was eagerly looking for the Frenchman's wife, and although she was seated at a table I didn't at first notice her. I did notice Amelia, however, even though I had never seen her photo. Maybe because she was looking right at me as soon as I walked in. Or, maybe because I so much wanted it to be her that the Universe had no choice but to grant me my wish.

I won't bother trying to convince you of her beauty. What would be the point of that? I'll just say that as I came to know her over the next several months she was assertive, but not aggressive; and didn't possess even an ounce of insecurity. Which made it possible to converse with her without ever offending her. Nothing anyone could say could offend her, which wasn't to say that she wasn't keen to what was being said, because she was. She was just one of those rare individuals who can win an argument without ever feeling the need to speak. And at the same time, to observe her in a social environment was like watching a predator in its natural habitat stalk her prey.

Our time together was limited because I wasn't living in the city, and when we were apart there was almost no communication. I admit, it was a difficult arrangement to accustom myself to. Mostly because I had such a good time with her that I was often distracted in my life. But then I came to realize that the point of our arrangement was to make me more effective, not less, and I began to embrace our time apart as the necessary element that made our time together so enjoyable.

Whenever I was in the city it was almost never a question of whether we would see one another. Her schedule was almost synchronized with my own and I always stayed with her at her apartment. There was one time when she was otherwise engaged out of the city, and even then she made her apartment available to me and then insisted that her friend accompany me to a local jazz venue where she herself had planned to accompany me. I had a good time with her friend, she was attentive, attractive, and friendly, but she just didn't have Amelia's wit or assertiveness.

I stayed away for about a month after that weekend. A friend who was aware of Amelia pointed out that she was more like a drug than anything else, and suggested that I put her aside for a moment. Which I did, but then she broke protocol and called me. She told me that a childhood friend had invited her to a family gathering in the Hamptons and she very much wanted me to be her "plus-one."

She could tell that I was hesitant, and then added, "This is off the books, I would just very much like for you to be there."

I agreed, which seemingly brought us to the next chapter of our relationship. When I arrived in the city the following week she had already rented a vehicle. We dined and departed the next morning before dawn to avoid the traffic. Which meant that we had some time to ourselves to talk. I wanted to know what I was walking into and why she had deviated from our established protocol.

"These people don't understand my life," she admitted. "They live in a self sustained fairy-tale that in all actuality doesn't exist."

"And you want them to accept you?"

"I don't care if they accept me," she said. "I just need to appear normal for a moment because otherwise the focus this weekend will be on me instead of where it needs to be, which is on my friend, who just received the kind of news that nobody should have to endure."

She explained that her best friend from childhood had just been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer that would claim her life in a short period of time. The friend knew about Amelia's life, and also understood that her family wouldn't be very accepting which was where I was to come into play. I was the plus-one that would seemingly help by momentarily legitimizing Amelia's life for the benefit of keeping the family's focus where it needed to be. And, as the weekend progressed, I learned more about Amelia than I ever thought I would.

She co-owned an art gallery. She graduated from Colombia with a degree in philosophy. And both of her parents were deceased. We slept together in one of the guest bedrooms and she expressed herself in a way that she had never done before. I won't say that she was more honest, because she was always sincere. But I will say that I saw her without any assertiveness or mask of any kind. Which didn't alter my opinion of her, it just allowed me to see her humanity in a way that I hadn't before seen. An observation that I commented on, which prompted her to give me some philosophical advice.

"Life is never easy and it will eventually take everything from us," she said while laying in my arms. "The best we can do is learn to be elastic, or maybe—"

Surprisingly, she seemed to be at loss for how to complete what she was saying, but I knew exactly what she was trying to say.

"Ten-feet tall and bulletproof," I said.

And suddenly she raised herself up and looked at me, almost as though she was seeing me for the first time. She said, "yes, I like that, ten-feet tall and bulletproof, that's exactly what life demands of us. Especially when life isn't fair. Don't ever forget."

"I won't."

"Promise me," she demanded as she drifted off to sleep. I felt her tears on my chest.

"I promise."

We stopped seeing each shortly after that weekend, and I can't even tell you exactly why. She just wasn't as available as she had been, and I eventually got distracted by other obligations. We would always send messages to one another, but I think our time together that last weekend in the Hamptons changed things for us. So it wasn't until she appeared before me as a visitor in jail that I saw her again. And, again, she wasn't her assertive self, because she was crying.

She asked me how I was holding up and I didn't exactly know how to answer. I wasn't exactly myself, either, and I couldn't bring myself to lie. So I just changed the subject and asked about her. But she wasn't there to tell me about herself.

"How are you?" she asked again. "Tell me."

"I'm in shock," I said. "I didn't see this coming and I absolutely should have."

"Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I did listen to you," I said. "I always listened to you, I just couldn't see that he—or anyone for that matter—would do something like this to me. I only ever wanted to help him."

"But he was never your friend and I told you that."

Amelia had met the man who would eventually blame me for his crime and bury me in prison for something I didn't do. We were in Vegas, her and I, and I introduced them. I excused myself, went to the restroom, and when I came back to the table she immediately pulled me aside and said, while pointing to Eloy, "he is not your friend!"

I never knew what was said between them, and it's quite possible that I never will. But she wasn't wrong, and I acknowledged as much as she sat there before me. I would have asked her what had been said between them, but our time was up.

She kissed her fingers and pressed them to the glass and said, "ten-feet tall and bulletproof, that's what you have to be now."