Goines On: Reaching out

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Goines’ thoughts had been rushing like a waterfall for days, swirling like a vortex, fluttering like...he cast around for an image to capture the deluge. He felt unable to sort his thoughts out, assemble them, string them on a sensible line. He was more a passive spectator of his own thoughts.
    But something about today was different, and he sensed meaning, accumulation, order, and he wanted to embrace it, like Klara, the artificial friend in Ishiguro’s novel, hurrying to Mr. McBain’s barn to pray to the sun before it descended to its home in the West. (Klara did seem to be praying, even if she didn’t use that word.)
    The thoughts ordering themselves in Goines’ mind now were about the trio of virtual encounters he had experienced over the previous two days – virtual because they weren’t in person, but “electronically,” as were by far most of Goines’ encounters.
    The first encounter was with a former colleague in university administration who had emailed to say she was following his story. Touched by this – by her bothering to tell him – Goines told his former colleague that he appreciated her constancy, and he thanked her for “abiding with him,” quite conscious that he had chosen a Biblical-sounding phrase. Who even spoke that way, other than evangelical pastors from their pulpits? Goines hoped she would get that he sincerely meant what he said, however he said it.
    The second encounter came by way of one of those “classmates” apps, from a high school classmate, or someone who had been married to a high school classmate, who the app said had paid to send him a message. She asked how was he doing and said it was very hot in California. Goines was glad that he could acknowledge the message without also paying something (although he realized he was probably setting himself up for further overtures from the app). He thanked her for “reaching out” to him – without saying, of course, whether she was being paid to do it or not, for, after all, she had chosen him to reach out to rather than someone else.
    The third encounter came through LinkedIn, which Goines had used during the week to “connect” with a couple of dozen or so people whose names he recognized. One of these messaged him to say it was nice to connect with him, and she asked whether he was “still editing.” Though her name was familiar, and her profile suggested they too must have crossed paths at the university, he couldn’t remember how they had known each other. Maybe she just knew he had edited some of the university administrators’ stuff? He confessed he couldn’t remember how they had known each other and asked her to refresh his memory. Had he edited something of hers?
    In only a few minutes, she answered that he had edited her doctoral dissertation on the history of the first North Carolina public high school for blacks east of Raleigh. Ah, yes, he remembered that, although it was almost fifteen years ago. She added that she needed to turn the dissertation into a book and seemed to be stuck, which seemed to be an obvious plea for help, if he were available to provide it. But it was better than nice to be asked to help; he didn’t mind that at all. And he would demur if it weren’t something he was up to doing or didn’t seem something he would love to do.
    He asked her to formulate some questions as concisely as she could and email them to him. They could go from there. He might know someone else who could help her.

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