Previously: 0.1 Because of the Angels— Because in the beginning was the girl, hiding just out of plain sight
I have no recollection of anything else from that weekend.
Zero.
No idea where I went, who I saw, what we discussed, what we drank, who got wasted.
All a blank.
Except for Semoira. And this guy Harv. And looking for a phone book.
First, Harv.
Not only could I not believe what I had seen, I could not believe what I had done. That was not me, folks. Nothing in my upbringing, education or conditioning that could have explained who this guy was, and how he had just appeared out of nowhere. Like some kind of domestic terrorist. Radicalized online before there was even an online.
I, Harvey, respected authority, studied hard, worked harder, and enthusiastically complied with the feminist imperative in vogue on campus. Believing that being goood and pleasing everyone would get me what I wanted, including getting laid.
I was your perfect beta simp, and with a rolodex of friend zones to show for it.
Harv was basically unfucked from all of that. A kind of feral Alt-Self who lived by hind-brain alone, and dined on whatever prey got scared up when everyone else's eye was off the ball. He had quickly sized up the situation--guys up in the pilothouse with their guard down, guys down on deck with their pants down-- and made his move. He took the heat from middle management without explaining himself, then flipped them the bird and drove off with the prize all the alphas aboard were angling for.
Outgoing, decisive, commanding, charming, comfortable in his own skin, his own mental point of origin...
Textbook definition of toxic masculinity.
Like I said, folks: not me.
But if not me, who was this Harv from Yale? And where did he come from?
To the embarrassment even of the parents who had raised me to be Harvey, the forty-year old virgin from Swarthmore, I'd always been awkward and shy around women.
But Semoira was not just any woman.
I told you I had never seen her. Not completely true. Actually, I had, in that no-man's land between waking and sleeping, maybe two or three times a year over the past ten. I’d close my eyes and suddenly there she would be:
Standing among the lights, thoughts deep and honey-colored like the veil of hair parted to reveal eyes that see only your worth, a smile that wishes you only well, and lips that whisper things only for you to hear. She is dressed in something white, summery and sleeveless. To behold her is an unspeakable gift.
She sees me and beckons, but when I open my mouth something molten pours down my throat. I cannot speak, utter a sound, even move a muscle. Puzzled, she smiles again, now with words of teasing invitation I cannot hear, or even signal my distress as a great chasm opens between us, widening until she is stolen from my sight by a darkness far as tundra, and black as space.
That would bolt me awake, gasping for air, weeping in wonder and rage for a beauty I could only behold from afar but never hold. Outside would stretch a crystal clear nightscape of moon and stars so close you could touch them. Far down the valley, a light would go out, and I would pray that somewhere this angel really did exist, and someday, somehow I would find her.
See that girl enough times in your dreams, and trust me, you'll recognize her the second you see her. And know exactly what to do when she shows up.
Others will, too. Like knowing when to let bad deeds go unpunished.
I returned to the Island to find I still had a job.
On the same 10-7 swing shift that would be unofficially named in my honor the following summer. And to find Semoira's mother had contacted the ferry owners to thank everyone for their grace and heroism. And to deliver a huge coffee cake for the whole crew.
Word had gotten around town as well. There had been a lot of positive comments--particularly from females. We were a transportation company with compassion. The crew razzed me, but it was all in good fun--- they would have killed to be in my shoes, and they knew it. And me 'n' the Cap? We were now best friends.
Still are.
Yes, others will figure out what happened, even if you forget and lapse back into Clark Kent mode as Harvey the Intimidated.
Speaking of that guy, it's a wonder I didn't drive off the road, or cause a major accident that weekend. I kept looking down at my hands to make sure they were still there. Those hands had held her, but not in a dream. Blinking these eyes that had beheld her, and in the flesh. Straining these ears for one last echo of her voice telling me things I could never have imagined applying to angels-- name, address, college, employer, dog's name…
Semoira.
Wow.
You really do exist!
But did she still exist?
Had she stepped angelically into my world, only to vanish back across that endless dark gulf forever fixed between us?
I drove back from Hyannis through a pouring rain I barely noticed because her face filled my mind and windshield.
I needed a phone book.
Those were the days of glorious freedom before the Internet was invented, and mobile devices without wheels were from a yet-to-be recorded future.
There was nothing in the county phone books . Were they were unlisted? Or maybe county books didn't include summer residents? Maybe just the year-rounders? I was wild between despair and maybe.
I got back on Island, and drove as slowly as I could past the address she had given me— red car in the driveway… lights on in the house… gooood sign! I floored it back to the bungalow I was caretaking that summer for rent. The guests had gone, leaving the house locked, and me without my key.
Fuck.
I could either break in by night or snake in by day. I drove back downtown, instead. Eustabee’s was the only place open. I went in, bought a beer, and asked the bartender for a phonebook. I found the K's. Then the Kings. Then G King at 98 Ferry Road... and there, the magic number—the seven-digit key to the Kingdom of Her Heaven.
I crossed myself, left a bill on the bar and dashed across the street to the hotel where there would be a less-public public phone booth, closed myself in, and dropped a dime.
Hello? A high-toned Englishwoman picked up.
Uhh...hello… yes… Is Semoira there? was all I could manage in a voice that must have sounded both strangled and menacing.
May I say who is calling?
I took a deep breath. It's Harvey.... from the ferry.
Harvey from the ferry, she repeated slowly, as if I were a new form of life.
Yes, I confessed helplessly. Harvey--Harvey from the ferry!
All right, then.
She covered up the phone and started yelling muffled names and imperatives I couldn't make out. Then suddenly--
Hello? it was Semoira, voice bright and expectant, of a girl had not lost her dog, and with endless possibility of summer before her. She existed… but for someone else?
My head began to pound furiously. My throat could make only a dull, clicking sound.
Hello? Hello? she sounded far away, and the phone booth suddenly felt like a coffin closing about me. No no no not now! I threw myself wildly against its walls, until I banged my head against glass and felt a crack.
Hello? Is everything all right? Are you okay?
S-S-Semoira, it's me--H-Harvey! I finally sputtered, clinging to the receiver like a drowning man. We met on the f-ferry. Last Friday. Remember?
Harv! she cried happily, Is it you? Is it? Don't be silly! Of course I remember! I've told my mom and my brother and my sister all about you!
Then a muffled Shhh! Mom! It's HIM! Tell the twins to go in the other room!
Then—Harv, are you still there? I'm back. A little noisy here, sorry. Hey, I forgot to give you my phone number. Did you get the card I left for you at the office? How did you find me? Harv, how are you? What have you been doing?
Then she proceeded to answer all her own questions, tell me everywhere she'd gone and everything she'd done that weekend. And then—
We're going out, right? I'm off Wednesday. But if that doesn't work I can swap with someone. Are you available?
That totally tripped the breaker on Harvey's capacity for response. He went dead.
Harv? Harv? Hello? Are you still there?
I took another deep breath, held it, then—
Yes, Harv exhaled. I was just calling to see if you could leave my pass at the office when you get a chance?
Silence.
Umm.. well, Semoira weighed her words, there’s a problem.
What's that?
Harv, I lost your pass. I’m so sorry! I think I dropped it somewhere. Maybe… at the beach?
I don't believe you.
I'm very sorry, Harv. I looked everywhere!
I still don't believe you.
I can’t find it! she dug in her heels.
I remember exactly where I left it.
She giggled.
Can I at least look? I asked
Of course... she was starting to crack.
Can I touch?
She burst out laughing, Well, that depends! Then --- Hey is someone playing a piano?
Yeah.
Oh, is your family musical?
No, I'm here at the Chequit.
Really? Who are you with?
Nobody.
You mean you're alone?
Yeah. Locked myself out of the house.
So you're staying at the hotel?
They let me sleep on the porch.
Harv, don't sleep on the porch. It's not--um--I don't want you to.
It's fine. I've been sleeping on porches all summer, Semmy.
That was the first time I called her that. As if it were the most natural name to say.
Harv? Hold on. There was another muffled exchange that lasted about a minute.
Then Semoira picked back up.
Harv, my mom says you need to stay over here tonight.
High-toned English mum came back on, and laid down the law.
Mr Oxenhorn, this is Ginni King. Semoira tells me that you are on the Island with no place to stay? I refuse to allow my daughter to associate with drifters. If you wish to see her again, you'll be standing on my front porch in fifteen minutes. Have I made myself clear?
Next: 0.3 Walking on the Moon— Because love never ends. But is subject to gravity.
You’re reading Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0, by Harvey Oxenhorn. Subscribe here to join the journey, and get subsequent posts mailed to your inbox and on your mobile app. And feel free to comment below with any feedback, questions, or requests.
Harvey Oxenhorn, is a cybersecurity consultant, author of The Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0. for the millions of men mangled by years of unchecked and unquestioned feminism, globalism, and Woke. He is also founder of Malwords Weekly, and author of the upcoming book, The Atrocity Algorithm, How The Media Became The Enemy of The People. Follow him on Gettr, Gab, and MeWe @HarveyOxenhorn