#62 THE KIND CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN BOOKWORM: MY MYSTERIOUS RESCUER
#62 THE KIND CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN BOOKWORM: MY MYSTERIOUS RESCUER
A kind, mysterious Batman/Jack Reacher character of sorts
Captain Bookworm, or ‘The Kind Captain’, feels as if he’s always been part of my life in a way, although I’ve only known him for just over a decade and we haven’t kept regular contact.
I can’t recall exactly how we met.* Maybe I spotted him on an OkCupid dating profile, in full-on military gear, helmet and all in some distant battlefield adjacent places, arms laden with kittens or cuddling up to a rescue dog (those are actual pictures I recall of him). Or maybe I just met him on a night out in downtown Columbus, Georgia. My gorgeous Chinese friend Anna and I are both still friends with him on Facebook so he may have been a mutual friend, too.
Our earliest Facebook messages from October 2011 don’t leave a lot to forensic to the bottom of.
I said – I’ll assume flirtily since he was also one of these tall, handsome Captains of which there are/were, perhaps, too many in Columbus, Georgia where Fort Benning used to reside before it was renamed – “Rule is you can’t be scared away by my Facebook. Haha!”
Then I continued, swallowing the male misogynistic rulebook down whole: “Apparently no one takes a party girl seriously and no one likes a messy girl. I think it’s all to do with antiquated views of what women should be.”
He joked and said, “Yeah, because I’m such a clean individual.”
I continued. Was I on some kind of monologue? “(Read: it makes me unmarriageable. But I don’t care about that.)”
Yes, I used a parenthetical aside in my peppering of messages. Did I care about marriageability or had I read too many Jane Austen novels? Obviously, I may have done – to both. I mean there are only six (and a sprinkling of juvenalia).
I told him I hadn’t yet photo-stalked him. That was a thing I used to do when I became friends with someone. One of my ‘Germany ladies’ (i.e. friends I met when I was an officer’s wife in Germany), Morgan, one time joked that I really did “mean” that I photo-stalked people. I was the type of person in 2012 to go back to your 2005 photos and like and comment on them. Thankfully, I no longer have the time or inclination to do such things. But then again, I no longer get new Facebook requests because I’m a stay-at-home work-from-home editorial hermit and don’t have the pleasure of meeting new people I can delightedly add to my Facebook because we spent all night chatting drunkenly at a party and I found that person fascinating.
I told Captain Bookworm there were “only 2,740 pictures to stalk” (of me, of course – my fave subject, seemingly!) but I’d already looked at all 24 of the photos he had available but I missed the photo album and was going in for a look…
He told me I dressed nicely and had good taste in footwear. I had a penchant for heels back then that I’d not be able to walk in now – and I was probably inebriated half the time and don’t recall any major foot pain (middle age isn’t always kind). I told him to ignore the drunk photos and he joked, “Most of them?”
I Googled his surname and it’s of Dutch origin. I may not recall every detail about our interactions, but as Maya Angelou famously said: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” And Captain Bookworm (I’ll just call him CB from now on), the Kind Captain, as implied in the double nickname, always treated me with kindness. He was just that kind of human.
He was handsome, quiet, soft-spoken, had piercing hazel eyes, a lovely smile. He was warm and welcoming – and distant at the same time.
When I first went over to his place – I don’t recall the circumstances now – I was amazed. He lived in this massive warehouse-style industrial apartment. His brown leather sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table were huddled in the middle of the room in a ‘conversational zone’, against a polished concrete floor. A small island of furniture in an expansive space. It was the kind of place that only had sort of three-quarter-height walls, where you could see a gap at the very top. Perhaps, not good for noisy families but perfect for a bachelor. The ceilings were industrial; you could see the copper pipes and silver metal air ducts. Along the wall, a few feet behind the sofa was the pièce de résistance.
CB had built an impressive, extensive makeshift bookcase along the wall. He’d built it from cinder blocks and large, thick planks of wood. It was an entire wall of paperbacks, well-loved, and well-read. I didn’t see a television in sight. He spent his spare time reading. How endearing!
Even though he only had a single metal-framed bed in his bedroom and a small nightstand – the whole apartment sparsely furnished with the bare minimum he needed to subsist – he had another cinder block bookcase. Books were as important to him as they were to me! Hence the nickname: Captain Bookworm.
We had, perhaps, an ‘Elaine special’ of sexual-non-sexual encounters. We’d make out. I’d give him a hand job. Maybe there was mutual touching. Orgasms. Never penetration or any hint of it. Then, I’d fall asleep in his arms, squashed into his tiny bed, borrowing an item of clothing.
It was another mysterious situation where he never tried to have sex with me. I say mysterious but maybe because I was a bit of a mess and he didn’t want his life complicated. He never confessed any lingering feelings or the desire for things to be more – but he’d rescue me if ever I’d call.
Occasionally, I’d be downtown at night, out with my girlfriends, and if they went home early or went home with a date, I’d find myself downtown, alone. Sometimes I’d get a taxi home but if I was too tired or feeling lonely, I’d call CB and he’d usher me into his industrial apartment in the heart of downtown to repeat our ritual non-sexual encounter.
I’m not sure if he ever took me to breakfast or for a meal but I know he always made me feel safe, made me feel as if he cared for me as a human, and I appreciated that in the sea of all the stories in my twenties where I did not accept the right kind of love or care, where I chased the wrong people, the wrong men, allowed myself to be heartbroken again and again.
We kept in touch over the years. Nothing major. We checked in every now and then with ‘Happy Birthdays’ or if we saw the latest photo post. We’d chat about what each of us was up to, conversations having long lost any note of flirtation.
CB just turned into someone who never quite worked out and whom I always wished well, like those internet friends of yore (Mr Oxford and Mr Kent, et al).
In our many, many conversations over the last thirteen or so years, we probably told each other deep secrets and nothing at all. Details of our hopes and dreams. Trivialities of life and heartbreak.
I once apologised for being in a weird place back when we knew each other. He said he was in a weird place too, dealing with heartbreak from his previous relationship and a few one-night stands that he hadn’t enjoyed. We all have our own demons. Some of us, however, are better people and act with kindness through them. I hope, too, that he remembers me acting with kindness towards him. I hope I did!
With most military men, I find that they are great conversationalists, intelligent, organised, and driven, but can also reveal nothing at all. A false sense of one-sided intimacy. I knew nothing about his day-to-day life, nothing of his past, where he grew up, only a snippet about his parents. His mother is English and he may have an American father (the opposite of my situation where I had an English father and American mother who was raised in England to her American mother and English father) as we spoke about how if he wanted to leave his military life behind, he could apply for British citizenship via his mother.
He was always kind enough to ask about me. He’d ask me how the job search was going when I moved to England, how I was holding up in the midst of my divorce (to my first husband), how life was treating me – and I could open up truly about how I felt. I was sad my first husband hadn’t want to work on the marriage, I told him. I was depressed I wasn’t finding a job, feeling hopeless and lost (a feeling all too familiar in my twenties). I loved being around family and I was falling for the new guy in my life (Michael) but life is messy when you’re mourning the loss of an ex.
On a side note, I felt a little less alone this week when I read
’s beautiful piece, “My Imperfect Love Story,” about that exact situation. Sometimes love stories aren’t linear and that’s okay. Sometimes the person who protects your heart and helps you heal does so even if they know your heart half belongs to someone else (sometimes someone undeserving of that love). Allison wrote: “I think of it all as proof that a broken heart can heal. Especially when it’s held with care by someone new.”And the whole premise of Why We Met shows that it was a long journey to find the happiness I’m ever so grateful for with Michael. The path was messy. I have met many significant men along the way who have shaped who I am. Maybe most people don’t have to date 4,328 people like I do to find their person but some people do – and that’s okay. (Okay, okay, it’s probably more like 45 people but I do need to count at some point.)
CB I think is doing well. He’s been promoted to Major now. He’s an Army reservist. He was in the foreign service at some point. He lives in Washington DC and does lots of travelling. He is one of those government contractors who makes shed loads of money! He’s still handsome and lovely and I hope someday he – and his beautiful doggy – finds the person who is meant for him, the person who heals all those past sore spots left on his heart.
I recently watched Lee Child’s BBC Maestro course on ‘writing popular fiction’ and besides making me want to read one of his books, when Child describes his character ‘Jack Reacher,’ it reminds me of CB. Not in that he’s a contract killer sort but he’s the kind of person like a modern cowboy who always moves from one place to the next, never settling. Or maybe a little Batman-esque.
And to CB, I hope you will always be happy. Thank you for showing me kindness in a time when some men did not!
*P.S. On how we met: CB says he saw me out at The Tap or Fountain City Coffee one day and recognised me from my dating profile but didn’t talk to me. He messaged me on OkCupid, asking if it was me he saw (it was!), and we went on a date to Veteran’s Parkway Starbucks, which was the Starbucks where I met three other people: Starbucks Guy #1, Starbucks Guy #2, and Starbucks Guy #3 (yet to be written about because that was my first husband). Funny thing is, I don’t and have never drunk coffee but Starbucks does a decent chai latte. He also recalls what he called my “metallic mascara in very glam rock shades” which was really just lots of purple, blue, or teal eyeliner encircling my eyes because I thought that looked cool.
Coming up next, a post about someone from my uni days: the gorgeous Turkish guy I only kissed but who wanted to hook up at a random house party (and I was mortified).
Don’t forget to check out the other sixty-one posts I’ve written, including the one on why I’m writing this newsletter/blog in the first place – and the odd “present day snippet” of what I’m up to lately.
Are there any people who stood out to you in your dating history (or just in life) who acted with kindness or gave you the impression of kindness? Spill the tea (as the young people say)!
