Chapter 1- Sleepless in Manhattan

Transcription

95 Chances for Love – Bill Riddle
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Sleepless In Manhattan
Chapter 2 – Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures
Chapter 3 – Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda
Chapter 4 – My Half-Assed Search
Chapter 5 – The 1980s
Chapter 6 – Jasmina
Chapter 7 – Full Disclosure Can Wait
Chapter 8 – Different Strokes
Chapter 9 – Classic Lines
Chapter 10 – Naked City Chemistry
Chapter 11 – Dating Debacles
Chapter 12 – Amateur Hour
Chapter 13 – Digging Deeper
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Chapter 14 – A Pro Has a Go
Chapter 15 – Modern Times
Chapter 16 – Today‟s Realities
Chapter 17 – eCharmony
Chapter 18– Ladies & Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
Chapter 19 – Where Is The Love?
Chapter 20 – The Little Men Who Live Behind My Eyes
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Chapter 1 – Sleepless In Manhattan
Finding love can be like eating soup with a fork. At a soccer match in ninth grade, I saw a pretty,
slim longhaired girl who was every preppy boy‟s fantasy. I maneuvered so we were next to each other.
Before long, we were talking and getting along like fries and ketchup. Her friendliness gave me
confidence and she laughed at my witty observations. I gladly spent thirty minutes watching the boring
game just to be in her company. Finally, I screwed up my nerve and asked if she‟d like to go out
sometime. She thanked me for my invitation and, just when I thought I‟d closed the deal, she told me
something I‟ve never forgotten. “I‟m sorry, I thought you knew. I‟m Mr. Domrick‟s wife.” Yes, the
soccer coach‟s wife. Talk about clueless.
Perhaps my lack of awareness stemmed from my early years socializing with poultry rather than
humans. My three siblings and I grew up in a rural Connecticut farmhouse, complete with chickens and
the classic big, red barn out back. Our nearest neighbor lived a quarter mile away. Aside from spilling
out of my mother‟s muddy green 1949 DeSoto at thirty-five mph, my childhood was reasonably calm and
uneventful.
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Of the many benefits to falling out of a speeding car at age five, my favorite was having my head
bandaged to look like a swami. Not many mystics hung out at Hartford Hospital wearing plaid pajamas.
Since they were a rarity in Connecticut, people young and old flocked to me with one burning question.
“What happened to you?” I divided my answers into two categories. Ones for adults and ones for kids.
For adults, I had to tone down the story.
We were on the interstate when my older sister said, “Let‟s open the car door and see if the
pavement looks blurry. You go first.” I grabbed the door handle, swung out, and dangled right
over the road to get a closer look. I hung on until she started tickling me. When I let go, I
bounced down the highway like a bag of laundry.
For kids, all bets were off.
My big sister owed money to Tommy Wingurtzman and there wasn‟t enough in my piggy
bank to pay him. When I wasn‟t looking, she tied me up and told him he could kick me in the
head for a dollar a pop. After paying Tommy, she had enough left over to buy a pony.
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Somehow, I survived my childhood and, not for lack of effort on my part, went off to college a virgin.
St. Pauli Girl beer has an ad. The tagline goes something like, “You always remember your first girl.”
Fortunately, for me, there was a first girl. God bless her. Sherry Stromberg. A nice Swedish girl. Well,
not directly from Sweden but who was I to be fussy? I met her while home on Christmas break. I‟ve
always admired the Scandinavians‟ relaxed attitude about nudity and sex. A blonde, Nordic goddess who
could have posed for the beer ad, Sherry was an honest-to-God “older” woman. Poor Sherry. I‟m sure
our passion was much more memorable for me than for her. Still, the drought was over.
My track record for meeting women was far from stellar. I managed to bumble along somehow and
eventually learned I had better luck in Cambridge than Boston. Maybe it was the town‟s leftward tilt.
Maybe I was more comfortable and familiar with Cambridge since I lived there. Maybe my small town
brain found the scale easier to digest.
Despite my ineptitude, I met a number of smart, beautiful women at parties, bars, school, even
sailing. In 1983, at the height of the Madonna craze, I went to Miami for a wedding. I had long avoided
Florida, convinced that something in the water turned hair blue. I spotted a lovely young woman at the
posh Grand Bay Hotel‟s Friday happy hour. At the time, they used the Grand Bay in the hit television
series Miami Vice. I figured, if it was good enough for Don Johnson, I should try it. Rita wore an elegant
grey business suit with a porcelain silk blouse. She drew me in with her whimsical smile and curls the
color of wedding rings.
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We began our whirlwind romance with me living in Boston and she in Miami Beach. After a year of
commuting for love, I proposed and she moved to Boston to be near me. I remember thinking how happy
we‟d be when she left her apartment to live with me.
What did I know? Living together went horribly awry from the outset. Things began to unravel
when she lost her cat in the move and continued downhill from there. Conflict was part of Rita‟s Jewish
heritage. Three thousand years of oppression and survival. She told me, “My family always fights at the
dinner table” as though this was something good. Like saying, “our Brazilian chef makes mango chutney
that‟s divine.” At one point, after a particularly draining argument, she said, “I know we can make this
work. You can make anything work if you try hard enough.” Unfortunately, I believed her. I now
understand that theory works no better for cars without wheels than for interpersonal relationships.
In 1986, I had the insane idea of going to graduate school at Columbia University in New York City.
For some reason, Columbia wanted students like me to attend a new, small program in Real Estate
Development. To ensure its real estate program didn‟t devolve into an academic meat market, Columbia
decided on a male-female ratio of nine to one. Two of the five women in the program were married. If
only I‟d chosen nursing.
It didn‟t take long before I realized I was out of my comfort zone in Manhattan, much the way I felt
when I sought love in Boston. With opportunities so limited at school, I‟d have to get creative. Try
something different. Go where only the desperate had gone before. Place a personal ad.
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***
When I opened the large, white, rumpled New York Magazine envelope, and dumped the letters on the
table, one stood out. I stared at the replies to my personal ad with a mixture of curiosity, hope, and
skepticism. 1987 arrived days earlier in the Big Apple. My eyes gazed at the 8½ x 11 manila envelope, a
lump of hope inside of me. She used Scotch tape as an extra security measure. God forbid the normal,
gummed seal and clasp failed. This could hold the hopes of a lonely single guy inside its flat, constricted
walls.
Consider how she addressed it. Think back to your first grade teacher. Remember her? It was
always a “her,” at least it was when I grew up in the Neolithic Age. Mine was Mrs. Richardson. I loved
her. She looked like Grace Kelly, only with dark curly hair. I also loved Paula McLave. I‟d known her
since kindergarten but, not wanting to rush things, waited until first grade to tell her. She seemed
receptive. The day after I told her, she stopped me with a sad look on her face. I asked, “What‟s wrong?”
She explained, “I‟m sorry but I can‟t marry you. My parents said we couldn‟t because you‟re not
Catholic.” At least our age wasn‟t a problem.
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Mrs. Richardson had the BEST handwriting. Such ramrod straight letters and sublime arcs that
always ended perfectly.
The letters on the envelope were almost as perfect as Mrs. Richardson‟s. In fact, for one scary
moment, I wondered if she was the one writing me. My respondent used simple, controlled block letters.
There would be no confusing cursive for this address. No red ink, felt-tipped pen or other untested way to
write. These were pure letters. Carefully formed. Skillfully constructed. She even spelled out New
York twice, just like the helpful guide in the personals section recommended.
The glue, Scotch tape, and metal clasp gave way to an elegant, 7x10 black, handcrafted card. She
placed a pink hand-cut heart in the center and outlined the edge in a darker pink. It was a masterwork.
Was her last name Hallmark? I hesitated. How could anything inside compare with the sophisticated
beauty of the outside?
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Her card more than met my expectations. On the left panel was a professionally taken full-length
color picture of an elegant, ivory-skinned temptress. She could have chaired any number of boards or fit
in nicely on the social pages. Her long, slender fingers were, no doubt, the result of years of piano
training. Her turquoise eyes said, “I know you want me.”
What a dazzling effect. The right panel had a pink letter to match the pink heart on the cover. The
black construction paper served as the perfect frame for the letter. Before even reading it, my eyes darted
to the signature. Who was this woman? Who would take the time to create such a masterpiece and send
it to me?
Jean Carol Shifton.
She said volumes with her exquisite presentation. What more could she add with words?
Jean began with:
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“Sure to please” me? I could see that. This was the standard to which all future replies would be
measured. The undefeated season. Bowling 300. 2400 on the SAT. I read slowly, trying to make the
moment last. Her handwriting was controlled, deliberate, yet soft and flowing. The blue ink sat well on
its pink background. Could this be the woman of my dreams? Had I discovered the motherlode of love?
Why did love and happiness have to be so elusive? With millions of beautiful women to choose
from, how could I not meet someone in New York City? After all, I had an IQ greater than an onion,
lived above the poverty line, and knew enough to refrain from singing. What‟s not to love? Apparently,
plenty. Despite my best efforts, I was still sleepless in Manhattan and unable to find Ms. Right.
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Chapter 2 – Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures
You‟d think writing a personal ad would‟ve been easy for a seasoned marketing person like me. New
York Magazine sure tried to make it that way. They produced an attractive glossy 244-page magazine. It
came with two crossword puzzles, TV and radio listings, and an ad for the Helmsley Palace featuring that
loveable future convict, Leona Helmsley.
The ad for the Helmsley Palace was a classic. Leona, draped in a shimmering gold blouse and black
floor-length skirt, had her hair arranged to best accentuate her diamond drop earrings and coordinated
tiara. Posed at an elegantly set dining table, the look on her face said she might carve up a few guests as
appetizers if things didn‟t go her way. The caption said it all. “It‟s the only Palace in the world where the
Queen stands guard.”
You may recall, Leona had an aversion to paying taxes. In fairness, I‟ve never heard anyone say,
“Damn, I wish my tax bill was higher this year.” Plus, I‟m sure Queen Elizabeth doesn‟t pay them.
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Nonetheless, Leona felt taxes were the burden of “the little people.” I think those were her words and I
don‟t believe she meant those short in stature. Of course, it made perfect sense that, as the wife of a
billionaire, she‟d pay less to the government than a busboy at her “Palace.”
Naturally, the Feds busted her. I hoped, when she got out of prison, she would write some uplifting
memoir about her life behind bars. Perhaps she‟d include a discussion of haute cuisine in a federal pen.
Possibly, some mention of her tireless work instructing cellmates in the fine art of linen selection. The
title, Queen of the Slammer came to mind.
Had I gotten the magazine‟s media kit, I‟m sure I would‟ve learned the publication was a magnet for
New York‟s finest women. Consider the advertisers. Bloomingdales offered 25-50% off on your choice
of mink, fox, raccoon, beaver, or coyote. Coyote? The Four Seasons, in their “Thirteenth annual love
letter to New Yorkers” went with:
“…Chef Renggli‟s insistence on hot and spicy flavors as the delicious substitute for salt
keeps winning new converts, while our distinctive Spa entrée Skewer of Shrimp and Chicken
with Bulghur became one of our most favored dishes.”
Was this my target market? I couldn‟t say I‟d always hoped for a coyote jacket, or even a date
wearing one. Still, at 50% off, it was tempting. And what about Bulghur? That‟s something edible? I
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thought it was a former Eastern Bloc country. I figured I‟d get a better idea by reading the personals
myself.
After wading through the sizable classified area, I reached my destination. A section called Strictly
Personals with five pages of hopeful desperation. As I studied the women‟s and men‟s ads, a pattern
emerged. Men and women promoted different things. Guys emphasized security and women their looks.
I suppose this should come as no surprise. Even with woman‟s liberation, our culture still views men as
the primary breadwinners.
Since the ads sold for twenty-five dollars per line, you could almost guess the writer‟s financial
picture, or level of desperation, by the ad size. Mine was eight lines. That might seem like a lot, but
others were even larger. Consider the following plea lasting nineteen lines:
Catch The Rhythm- If you‟re shapely
and the words are right/we‟ll sin in the
morning and mambo at night. This may
read unusual but I mean what I say/will
it matter in a month that we met this way?
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I‟m a self-made millionaire with sexy toes
and I even look better without my clothes.
I like my work and you‟ll love to play/with
this handsome, younger Jewish Fernando
Rey. Strong moral values: I don‟t smoke
or eat scallions/intelligent gambling won
me my millions. I‟ve practiced „till perfect,
gained a national reputation/now relaxed
with my talent, I like to vacation.
Suggestions are welcomed, directions are
not/lose your mind but keep your work and
we‟ll be hot. If you know how to ship but
prefer to kiss/let‟s gamble more than money
in St. Moritz.
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What an ad. I considered getting a sex change operation, just to be able to cruise to St. Moritz with
him. Well, actually, I did have a few concerns, albeit minor ones. With a scant physical description other
than “sexy toes,” I had a hard time getting a visual on him. Was he a slab of whale meat? Who was
Fernando Rey? He wanted me to “sin in the morning.” What kind of girl did he think I was?
Let‟s face it, he wanted a hooker, and I‟ve never charged a dime for my love. His line, “will it matter
in a month that we met this way?” said a lot about how people viewed the personals. I will say this for
him, he did provide a visual cue for those who knew what Fernando Rey looked like. A quick, presentday online search revealed Fernando wasn‟t my type, though he did appear in both French Connection
movies. I‟m guessing, the advertiser might have had some luck finding a gold digger, but how likely
would true love bloom from such an ad?
In my opinion, what “Fernando” did wrong was harp on the millionaire connection, if he wanted to
find real love. I know. Mothers have long told their daughters, “It‟s just as easy to fall in love with a rich
man as a poor one.” That said, I always thought women wanted the “sensitive type” who liked to cuddle
by the fire and take them for long, romantic walks on the beach. As long as he was stinking rich.
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I can hardly blame women for wanting it all. That‟s what guys want too. I once placed a roommatewanted ad in the Boston Phoenix as a joke. I made something up I thought wouldn‟t attract a single soul,
just to see what happened. The ad went something like this:
Roommate wanted. Non-smoker. Prefer a
“never home” mousey type who enjoys tender
moments with bowls of wheatgrass and
contact with hardwood floors. Apply in
person at 7½ Centre St., Cambridge.
I deliberately left off my phone number and couldn‟t imagine anyone replying. Weeks after the ad
ran my doorbell rang. It was some tall, underfed guy covered with a light patina of sweat. He saw my ad.
Whoa. After I did an initial threat assessment, I determined he was a bit mousey and even had a
thing for hardwood floors. Best of all, he was a professional dishwasher, so my cleanup worries were
over. Learning such bizarre people floated around in society made me realize there was someone for
everyone, even me. The dishwasher seemed disappointed when I told him I already found a roommate.
Well, I couldn‟t exactly explain it was all a harmless joke, could I?
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Several of the personals ads lacked substance. Some advertisers took a “less is more” approach. I
suppose, in a Zen way that might work. If I wanted Zen, I‟d have tried the personals section of Zen
Monthly. I couldn‟t imagine finding someone with only two lines. One ad whispered:
Fine Arts-And classical music lover, 51
seeks lady to share same.
Another said:
Accountant, Warm Exciting-60 Young
seeks playful friend/lover.
Perhaps this was the skinniest:
Dermatologist-Seeks thin, attractive
female 20-35. Phone photo.
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None of them gave me much to go on. The following confused me:
Life is Play-For mortal stakes. Male
mid 40‟s, divorced, attorney. Jewish
beliefs/Catholic tastes/Protestant ethic/
Zen perspective – healthy sense of the
ridiculous. Seeks female teammate.
Let‟s be one another‟s best. Note/phone,
please. Photo if you prefer.
He certainly covered most of the religious cards in the deck. Catholic tastes? Did he like the little
wafers doled out at communion? I thought the ad seemed too wordy to have a Zen perspective. What
worried me most was playing for mortal stakes. He might be better than Fernando, as long as you lived
long enough to get to know him.
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Why couldn‟t we have it all? In a city the size of New York, there had to be someone for everyone.
What about the women? What sort of ads were they placing? Just as many guys alluded to their fat bank
accounts, a number of women promoted their sex appeal.
This one seemed seductive:
Sweet-Smart-Stunning-Slim - Straw-
berry blond attorney, 37, seeks single
Jewish business or professional man
35-42, who is sincere, stable and
supportive. Photo/phone.
So did this:
Dark, Pretty, Slim – Dry wit, warm style.
36, 5‟6”
Show with my 30‟s-40ish, sweet compadre.
Photo?
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The Letterman Show was her goal? If she were that pretty, I thought she‟d end up there. Religious
preferences were rampant in the ads. I even considered, for a few fleeting moments, converting to
Judaism. I just thought it might be too much to handle after going through with the sex change operation
to be with Fernando.
Search as I did, I hadn‟t found the classic ad I expected. The profile of what every female wanted.
Were New York women afraid to dream big? I had nearly given up when the following caught my eye:
I am Looking For You-A man, mostly
happy in your life and, as myself, fulfilled
in your creative work world, but missing a
partner to share the special fun two people
can share together. Cooking special dinners,
country walks, bicycle rides, traveling to
faraway places, fireplace talks, exploring
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and sharing each other‟s eyes and dreams.
Fun-loving, caring and wanting to be cared
about, this attractive, slim, shapely lady, of
50 years is looking for you. No smoking please.
She nailed it. I admired her courage and candor. What an inspiring, romantic ad.
Of course, it was a complete waste of $300. No guy wants that. Not even Dr. Phil. Guys don‟t care
about all the mushy, sensitive, romantic babble. We pay lip service to it because we have to. How else
can we expect to propagate and ensure the survival of the species? I think if women were smart, they
would get a guy to write an ad for them talking in terms of the male‟s highly refined interests. I‟ll throw a
great sample ad out, just to be helpful.
Sexy, sexy, sexy, hot, sexy woman with
cover girl face and playmate body seeks
ATM. I love lingerie and spending loud
mornings waking up the neighbors with my
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screams of passion. My job as a contortionist
gives me a flexible schedule and body.
I‟m sure most women probably aren‟t willing to be so revealing. Nonetheless, I‟ll bet if ten straight,
sane, single guys saw this ad, all ten would be interested.
I know. We‟re as deep as a birdbath.
So, to be successful, I would have to write a male version of the I am Looking for You ad. Throw in
a pinch of visual imagery, stir it up, and submit it to New York Magazine. How hard could that be? I
thought the most taxing part would be fitting all the letters in the tiny little boxes they made you use in the
Strictly Personals coupon.
But what visual cue would entice women? I‟d have to pick a celebrity most people knew. Sadly,
Fernando Rey was already in use. Just whom did I look like? I thought I might stretch things a bit and
pick one of the hottest stars of the 80s, Don Johnson of Miami Vice fame. We weren‟t exact look-a-likes,
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but there was some sketchy similarity. Although he had better hair, we were both passable in t-shirts and
Armani jackets.
Despite being on the right side of the law as a vice cop in Miami, Don had a bad boy image. He lived
off the grid on his boat at the marina. As his character, Sonny Crocket, he lived a flamboyant lifestyle
surrounded by supermodels, Ferraris, and wickedly fast boats. In real life, Don was a stud too. An A-list
celebrity who dated the crème de la crème.
I caught a Vice episode recently where Sonny‟s partner failed to keep a friend of his from being
blown up by a drug kingpin. Naturally, Tubbs struggled with this and wanted to be alone. His own
private grief. Despite his protests, Sonny badgered him saying, “I‟ll tell you what. I know a great
breakfast place, and it‟s my treat. You don‟t have to say a thing.” Here was Hollywood empathy at its
best.
I hoped my ad‟s visual reference to Don would work but wanted to be careful not to scare away
women looking for the stable, romantic guy. I needed to somehow embrace Don and distance myself
from him at the same time. This would require finesse. I settled on the following:
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I thought it covered as much of what I was looking for as I could for $200. I wondered whom, if
anyone, would reply?
Ninety-five women to be exact. They wrote from as far away as Baton Rouge and Toronto. The vast
majority were neighbors of a sort, living or working near me on the island of Manhattan. It amazed me
to hear from so many women who were taking a chance at finding love through the personals. Just who
were they?
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Author - On a good hair day
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Don – Great hair every day
Chapter 3- Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda
As I view these women today, I realize they were much more attractive than I grasped at the time.
Maybe, at age thirty-five, I hadn‟t matured enough to have the perspective I now have. Of course, that‟s a
polite way of saying I was an idiot. While reading these letters twenty-one years later, I often ask myself,
“What was wrong with her?” “Why didn‟t you call that one?” “Are you blind?” Some were beautiful,
some full of wit and some very strange.
The ninety-five chances for love came in all shapes and sizes. The largest was a 10x13 envelope
from an actress named Jane Vane. Her 8x10 headshot included her name and phone number. The next
line said, “(On Camera: Jayne Karma).” I imagined her as a cast member of some daytime soap like
Days of Our Lives, a dramatic outburst simmering right below the surface.
“But, Ashley, Steve always wanted me.”
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“That‟s not true, and you know it.”
“Oh, but it is, my dear. How else would you explain his letter?”
“I read that stupid letter and all it says about love is he loves your bean dip.”
“That‟s a lie! Stay away from him you slut…he‟s mine.”
Was she the classic home wrecking vamp? From her picture, she might have been. Her steely eyes
belonged on a shark. Her thin red lips and straight white teeth said, “Feeding time.”
She might‟ve been as sweet as Godiva chocolate but I‟d never know. Along with a brief typed note,
she included the following personal ad she considered running herself:
RAISED BY NUNS…WDF now a feisty,
vivacious fashion editor. MA. Former
model and commercial actress. 5‟8” thin,
auburn hair, very blue eyes. Love sports,
esp. good at tennis, skiing. Looking for
tall, Caucasian successful athletic man
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40-ish to 60-ish with (PLEASE!) a sense
of humor. PS: Looks Count! And I do
smoke occasionally.
What happened to my home wrecking hellcat from Days of Our Lives? Here are my thoughts on Jane
from my past and present day perspectives.
Thirty-five-year-old impression:
I don‟t know if I want feisty. Rita was feisty, and we fought like gladiators. Why the big
envelope and picture? She‟s gotta be in her forties. She wants 40-ish to 60-ish? I‟m only thirty-five.
She‟d consider someone my father‟s age? That‟s a scary thought. Raised by nuns and divorced?
That‟s a really scary thought.
Fifty-seven-year-old view:
She is rather pretty and seems real. I suppose she‟s right about looks counting. There must be a
physical attraction or why bother. Anyone with a sense of humor can‟t be too bad. I wonder if
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religion is important to her. I wonder what happened in her first marriage. Does she have any kids?
I wonder if she‟s a hellcat.
Some letters were sublime. I opened an exquisite Matisse card from a woman named Helen. She fell
into the category of “Are you blind?” Her handwriting had a graceful flow that showed discipline and
beauty. Her elegant picture, made me think she‟d just returned from an afternoon at Sotheby‟s, perhaps
acquiring a rare manuscript or Victorian bracelet. She wore an understated ivory long-sleeved blouse,
simple pendant earrings, and pleated linen pants. Her face exuded an air of warmth and thoughtfulness.
Her dark brown hair was so inviting, if I were a wren, I‟d build a nest. She was fantastic.
Her note said she was a beautiful and caring lady. I believed her. She wanted to share:
Dancing in Rio. What a prospect. Helen was thirty-six, widowed, no children, Jewish, and spent her
weekdays as CEO of a major healthcare organization. Besides travel, she enjoyed, “the warmth of
entertaining close friends and family at my home.” She included a sizable banquet of priorities. As I
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scanned them, I wondered where I‟d fall on that list. Dead spouses have a way of becoming more
meaningful after they‟re gone. Especially, if they die young. Let‟s see.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
Deceased husband
Expired husband‟s parents
No longer among the living husband‟s siblings
Dead husband‟s ashes
Departed husband‟s beloved chihuahua, “Marmeduke”
Lifeless husband‟s nieces and nephews
Gone to his maker husband‟s friends
Memories of dancing in Rio with late husband
The Healthcare Organization she ran
Her own family and friends
Her religion
Me
There were many tantalizing parts to Helen but I got the impression her plate was full. I thought I‟d
never rank high in her life. I knew I deserved to be someone‟s priority and never called.
I can imagine how difficult it must have been to reply to my ad, or any other for that matter. None of
us likes rejection. Not getting a call back, after bearing your soul, is disappointing. Even the briefest
Xeroxed letter in 1987 took more time and effort than an email reply to an online ad today. No stamp, no
paper, no envelope, no pen. Simply cut and paste your copy and click send.
One companion stood out. Her soulful brown eyes stole my heart. Never had I met such a charmer.
Soft to the touch, her body would arch in response to my tender caresses. Often, when we walked
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together, complete strangers would catch my eye and I knew they were jealous. She was sweet, loving
and had a playful side. She found countless ways to show me her feelings without saying a word. Her
street smarts were acute but her sensitive side could read any mood. Perhaps, her best quality was her
loyalty. She made the Pope‟s Swiss Guard seem detached. How she grew such long nails, I‟ll never
know.
Her facial hair never bothered me. The colors combined like a butterscotch sundae. When I rescued
her, Scylla was a street mutt. For many years, including my stay in New York, she was my charming,
funny sidekick. Named after a figure from Greek mythology, she looked nothing like the six-headed
monster guarding the Strait of Messina. She resembled an overweight reindeer with tan barrel chest and
spindly legs. With her ears pinned sheepishly down and head cowering, she brought abasement to a new
level. I felt guilty for implying any malfeasance.
Scylla could charm the stripes off a zebra. Before I adopted her, the streets of Cambridge were her
own buffet line. With a regular circuit of backdoors to visit, her menus varied from leftovers to fresh
canned goods and, occasionally, even dry food. Everyone loved Scylla. Naturally, she was an
opportunist. Her favorite targets were new friends.
Scylla as hostess:
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Ahh company. Welcome, welcome. It‟s nice to have you here. Come in and make yourselves at
home. Can I get you something to eat? A light snack or, perhaps, more filling fare? I do have a
freshly roasted chicken. Of course not…it‟s noooo trouble at all. I‟ll only be a minute. Make
yourselves at home.
Dance of the sugar plum fairy drifts through her mind
There you are. Why don‟t I set it here on the coffee table? The bathroom? It‟s right around the
corner to your left. Take your time.
Were she able to read, I‟m sure Scylla would‟ve helped me sift through the possibilities. Raquel sent
me a Sierra Club card of the Merced River in Yosemite Valley. The tasteful image bore an irresistible
classic beauty. She didn‟t enclose her picture but wrote the following description:
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From her artistic card, it was clear she had good taste and, while I avoid cannibalism, I‟m
sure she tasted good. I called Raquel because these “facts” were enticing. Ordinarily, I
would‟ve asked her to send me a picture but the chemistry was so good on the phone I decided to
meet her in person. We agreed to meet after work, six o‟clock, at one of Columbus Avenue‟s
popular nightspots. I was so excited I got there fifteen minutes early.
I sat at the warm, mahogany bar watching the door expectantly. I waited for the 1987 iteration of
Medusa to come in. An exquisite temptress, preferably without the snakes. I have nothing against
33
snakes. It‟s just that they can be a distraction when they‟re crawling around in your date‟s hair.
Columbus Avenue was a hot spot, a molten meadow for the beautiful people. I knew Raquel was one of
them. I even thought her name was sexy. I kept an eye on the door as I nursed my Glenlevit and, every
time a “virtual knockout” entered the bar, I thought it had to be Raquel. Tick tock, tick, tock. Was she
standing me up? What would she be wearing? Where was she?
Finally, at six-fifteen, the door opened and Raquel looked me in the eye and smiled. It was a singular
moment in my life. Like where I was, when man landed on the moon.
Have you ever gone from a blissful high to an abysmal low in a split second? I remember being at
my grandmother‟s house in my twenties. She was one of my favorite people in the world. A minister‟s
wife who lived in New Hampshire, Grandma‟s home was as antique as she was. With wavy silver hair
and blue eyes that knew the gaze of respect, her smile rarely rose above a horizontal line. She once
mused about mining the gold electroplate on dinnerware bought at a church raffle. Despite being legally
blind, she managed to keep things cleaner than most people with good vision did.
One evening, Grandma was watching the Lawrence Welk Show. Because of her blindness, she turned
sideways to see the TV. Lawrence loved to play “Champagne music.” I believe they called it that
because it was better experienced after copious amounts of bubbly. You could tell the show‟s
34
demographic by its sponsor, Geritol. His band had an accordion player named Myron Floren and the
senior set loved this wholesome entertainment.
One of the things Lawrence liked to do was showcase his dancers. Bobby and Cissy were the stars on
the Welk show. When he wasn‟t wearing some outlandish dance ensemble, Bobby wore tight dark pants
and floral shirts with elephantine collars. Cissy kept her hem a few inches above the knee in dresses
abloom with orange and gold. Besides being clean-cut, they ripped up the dance floor. I watched as
Bobby took Cissy for a spin. They flew out of the wings like an exploding watch spring, whirling,
spinning, and twirling like dervishes. Their footwork and leg kicks were so well choreographed I
watched in amazement.
After Cissy and Bobby finished their number, Lawrence asked if anyone in the audience would like to
dance with Bobby. That‟s like asking a woman, lost in the desert for three days, if she‟d like a ride to the
nearest oasis. They nearly had a riot. They restored order and picked a lucky woman named Shirley.
Shirley was much younger than the show‟s demographic. Maybe that‟s why they chose her. Maybe her
uncle worked the soundboard in the mezzanine. Whatever the reason, Shirley was surely excited. Her
curly brown hair and bangs seemed more country than polka, although I‟m not positive I‟d recognize
polka hair if I saw it. She wore a short gold dress with white scarf and heels.
35
Shirley ran down the steps to the dance floor like the winner of the polka lottery. Lawrence decided
to build the excitement by asking her, “Where are you from?” and, “Do you like to polka?” Shirley was
so excited she burst into a spontaneous demonstration of her polka dancing. Lawrence had to pull her
back to the interview. Then he asked, “Are you excited about dancing with Bobby?” to which she again
went off doing the polka by herself for a few more seconds and had to be roped back in. At one point
Lawrence tried to keep up with Shirley on the dance floor. Before he collapsed, he waved off the music
and gasped, “This girl is too wild for me.” I had to hand it to Lawrence. He knew how to milk things.
At last the moment arrived and, after a few “and a one and a two‟s,” the orchestra started playing a
polka. Bobby and Shirley were off to the races. From my untrained eye, I thought Shirley was every bit
as good as Cissy, and possibly better. She and Bobby were fantastic. I feared Cissy might, in a fit of
jealousy, grab an accordion and hurl it at Shirley. But she didn‟t. They were twirling and swinging and
everything was going so well. That is until Bobby started swinging her hard and Shirley got on an angle
like a gyroscope. That‟s when it happened. No, Bobby didn‟t let go, but Shirley‟s wig did. It scurried
across the floor like a large, curly mouse heading for cover. Poor Shirley. She went running for cover
too. Bobby grabbed the wig and brought it up into the audience where she was still swirling from all the
twirling. Bobby slapped the wig back on her head and that wrapped up Shirley‟s night with the stars.
I tell you this so you‟ll understand the importance of visiting your grandparents. I‟m nowhere near
the dancer Shirley was, and I don‟t look good in a wig, but I had a vaguely similar sensation when I saw
36
Raquel. The feeling of going from a high to a low in a split second. I could have lied and said I was
someone else. I could have said, as we shook hands, “I‟m sorry I don‟t feel the chemistry,” and run out
into the lonely streets. By any measure, Raquel had oversold herself. After twenty painful minutes
together, I left our date sadder but wiser.
How I wished all the respondents included photos. Some of them spent considerable effort describing
their appearance when a picture would tell so much more. Beth was an elementary school art teacher who
started with the following:
37
Life has many lessons to teach and I‟ve always tried to not make the same mistake twice. Long
before I knew what dentures were, I attended a piano recital at Mrs. Rotundi‟s home. My older sister was
the pianist along with an interminable number of other students. As the town‟s only Italians, the Rotundis
had dutifully opened a pizza parlor. From the size of their home, it was obvious everyone ate there.
The recitals were always around the holidays. Perhaps she chose that time of year because of the
Christmas music her students could play to torture me. I‟m not sure who ruined Christmas carols for me.
If I had to place blame, I‟d say Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Dave: All right you Chipmunks, Ready to sing your song?
Alvin: I'd say we are
Theodore: Yeah, Let‟s sing it now!
Dave: Okay, Simon?
Simon: Okay
Dave: Okay, Theodore?
Theodore: Okay
Dave: Okay Alvin?...Alvin?...ALVIN!!!
Alvin: OKAY!!
I don‟t know about Dave, but I‟m sure the chipmunks got a lot more than peanuts for the albums.
38
The Rotundi‟s home seemed much nicer than ours. It was big enough to have a music room, looked
like they had actually purchased furniture, and had a paved parking lot instead of a gravel driveway.
After seating us in our gray folding metal chairs, Mrs. Rotondi dimmed the lights, leaving only the piano
lit for dramatic effect. One by one, the students made their way to the gallows. The boys wore white,
button-down shirts, dark pants, and clip-on bow ties. My sister, Cindy, wore a celadon taffeta dress so
wide at the hem, she had to round it up like a wayward calf, just to occupy one seat.
Church leaders learned in the dark ages that the best way to keep people awake during service was to
force them to get up to sing hymns. With no hymns to sing, recitals can turn to nap time for some. An
old woman sat next to me who could‟ve lived in the nursery rhyme‟s shoe. I listened to the strange
sucking sound she kept making, rather than the music. In many ways, I preferred it to the labored chords
coming from the front of the room. It reminded me of the noise kids make when they put one hand under
their arm and try to make a fart sound, only quieter.
It‟s always the times when you‟re not supposed to laugh when you can‟t help it. Funerals, church
confirmations, detention. Well, that is if you‟re a kid. I listened to the succulent sounds of old fartbag
trying to keep from cracking up. I tried to contain it, but jigs and jags of laughter would seep out –
mostly through my nose, because my mouth was covered. This was torture. I thought if I stood up to get
away from my scary neighbor, I‟d lose it completely – laughter rushing from me like air from a popped
balloon.
39
Just when I thought I‟d blow a gasket, the noise stopped. Ours is a merciful world. I listened hard,
trying to block out the sound of the piano. I thought she was still breathing. I knew if I turned to
investigate, I‟d betray myself so I sat, eyes glued to the front. The sound was definitely gone. In the
room, the noise returned to the normal throat clearing, rustling of programs and incessant piano.
I‟d barely brought myself under control when another noise began. This one I recognized. Snoring.
Ordinarily, snoring wouldn‟t seem funny to me but, because of the circumstances, I found myself
desperately trying not to laugh. It was brutal. I‟d have rather been up on stage forgetting those practiced
notes than suffer any more as the seatmate of Grandma Moses. The snoring continued, gradually getting
louder and louder until she added a small fart sound and barely audible plop, like a bird landing in a nest
of hay. This woman had no end to her own recital repertoire.
By now, it seemed safe to look over. After all, her snoring meant she was sleeping…right? I noticed
something in the darkness resting on the crease of her lap and it wasn‟t her program. As I stared harder, I
couldn‟t believe my eyes. It was her teeth. A slimy pink curve with white mothball slivers planted in a
neat little row. What kind of monster was sitting next to me? I pulled my eyes away from the spectacle
and tried to focus on the music. The notes sounded sweeter to me…like an escape route back from
purgatory. When the lights finally went up, I made a beeline for the punch bowl, never looking back.
40
Just as I learned to choose my seatmates more carefully, I also learned to be wary of rosy descriptions
lacking corroborating evidence. Beth sounded inviting, but I wasn‟t willing to take a flyer after my
experience with Raquel. If you‟re so attractive, why not send your picture?
41
Chapter 4-My Half-Assed Search
What were my responsibilities to the ninety-five respondents? I imagine they gave me about as much
thought as I gave them over the last twenty plus years. Probably not even that much. Every so often, in
the many moves I‟ve made since leaving Manhattan, I thought about tossing the box containing the
letters. How many moves did I make?
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
Manhattan→Nantucket
Nantucket→Rowley, MA
Rowley→Stuart, FL
Stuart→Stuart
Stuart→Stuart (don‟t ask)
Stuart→North Palm Beach, FL
North Palm Beach→Quincy, MA
Quincy→Quincy (I said, don‟t ask)
Quincy→Odessa, FL
Odessa→Odessa (All right, so I was in the witness protection program, big deal)
If my math is correct, that makes ten. In twenty plus years, ten moves, encompassing three states,
excluding Nirvana. I knew one thing. If I tried to reach any of these women, and they moved half as
much as I did, finding them would take a miracle or a damn good private investigator. Publishers
42
Clearing House uses sweepstakes and the phrase “Miracles can happen” to sell magazines. I suppose my
odds were better than having the prize patrol show up at my door, especially since I never send back the
entry forms.
I began to tally all the miracles in my life. Perhaps the most noteworthy was surviving my mother‟s
cooking. While her lack of culinary talent encompassed many dishes, I particularly remember her
meatloaf. I believe her recipe called for one loaf of white bread, hence the “loaf” part of the concoction.
She followed that with enough hamburg to fill a shot glass. Onions and tomato paste served as a binding
agent. The piece de resistance was the slab of Velveeta on the top. Removal from the pan required a
team of skilled masons with pry bars. She used a table saw to slice our individual portions and leftovers
served as paving material for our driveway. I might have starved had I known how horrible her cooking
was.
What other miracles have I experienced? Besides Smokey Robinson and his Miracles, let‟s see.
Getting a parking space on Newbury Street in Boston. Having the same shoe size since high school.
Backing my car into a phone pole and not scratching it. Mastering pig Latin. Surviving a summer
driving a Mr. Softee ice cream truck. There must be others…hmmm.
Miracles aside, what odds did I have of my finding any of these women? Better than an olive‟s
chances in a martini? Possibly. Better than hitting the lottery without buying a ticket? Marginally. They
were somewhere between slim and anorexic, even with all the muscle of modern technology. After all,
43
these women were trying to get married. At least I think they were. That means they would likely be
changing their last names. Ah. What was I thinking? I‟m sure they kept their old phone numbers. Most
single, beautiful women in New York keep the same phone number for at least twenty-five years.
I felt the odds were better if someone had a unique name. I think Sue is a perfect name for an
attorney. Especially, if she is Chinese. Maybe even with a first name she abbreviates with the letter “I.”
Imagine the fear gagging insurance company lawyers when faced with opposing counsel named I. Sue
Yu. I love when people have great names. Sensible names. I‟m not talking about Mr. Dogbreath (please
don‟t sue me) who taught science in seventh grade. Because, despite an accurate descriptive element, it
really doesn‟t give you any idea what he does.
I‟m talking about names that make sense in the bigger context. I‟ll never forget years ago, during an
oil crisis, I read an article about cars waiting in line to buy gas. I thought it was the usual media
melancholy until I got to the name of the gas station owner. I swear this is true. I swear it. This guy‟s
name was Phillip Metank. What a perfect name. I wanted to drive to east Kansas, or wherever he
pumped gas, just to fill up m‟ tank. I‟m sure, if gas weren‟t so scarce, I‟d have done that.
Despite moving a lot and because my purpose in life is to accumulate as much junk as possible, I
hung on to the box with the ninety-five letters. After one of my many moves, I decided to see what the
box contained. I‟m still not sure why I kept the letters. I learned long ago I‟m not the keenest observer
44
when it comes to women and, I thought, possibly the letters would teach me something. Perhaps there‟s
some dark psychological meaning that, now fully exposed, I can finally get help with.
I remember bringing a woman, Jace, to an elegant awards dinner. Everyone wore formal attire. It
was so fancy, the guy who took guest‟s pictures wouldn‟t even take my money. I realize it was a small
picture, but he put it in a frame and gave it to me. Free. Anyway, I saw this couple and I‟d ridden charity
bike rides with the wife, Liz. After thanking the photographer, I dragged Jace over to meet her.
Liz could‟ve been a player in the Covergirl Basketball League, if there was such a thing. She was
tall, gorgeous, and able to tear up the road on a bike. After she introduced us to her husband, we just
stood around looking at each other in a kind of funny way. It was polite. Cordial. But she and I had
ridden many miles together. Jace and I stayed about as long as you should stay once you‟ve won a big
pot in poker. Long enough to give the guys a shot to win some back, but that‟s all. After returning to our
table for the Bananas Foster, Jace said to me, “Did you know they were having a fight?” A fight? Well,
no I must have missed that little detail. I don‟t know how she knew. I wish I did though. I hate barging
in on a good fight. Somehow, Jace knew and, sure enough, Liz and her husband were divorced within a
month.
Maybe it‟s a woman thing. They have the genes. They understand relationships backward and
forward. For a woman, these letters are a source of valuable information. They can read between the
lines, noticing the envelopes postmarked around Valentine‟s Day. Of course, even I understand the
45
significance of Valentine‟s Day. If you‟re in love and you want to keep the romance alive, you‟d better
have gotten chocolates, flowers or lingerie and, most importantly, a CARD. The best part is, you can
pretty much forget all the other stuff if you remember the card. Now, if you‟re dating, be careful with the
card. Keep it on the light side if you‟re not ready to settle down. In fact, if you‟re not ready to settle
down, you might skip the card in favor of a cute plush teddy bear.
Cards and letters like these serve as some sort of coded reference papers women know all about.
How? They‟re women. They intuitively know and understand these things. They could scan the letters
and go “Unh huh.” Like confirming the diagnosis of a rare neurological tic. For me, it was like
encrypted code. I understood the basic meaning. What the author chose to say and not say. The one
thing I didn‟t understand was what they were saying when they were saying what they weren‟t saying.
How was I going to locate these long lost women? Without a reliable Ouija board or a PI on hand, I
decided to find out what my modest research skills could uncover. I held off on the Internet in favor of
getting things organized with a spreadsheet. It may not find a damn thing. In fact, it definitely won‟t find
a damn thing. But it‟s helpful to have all the clues they left behind to help me solve the riddle of their
whereabouts, organized. Who knows? Perhaps, a pattern would emerge.
Speaking of patterns, I started to pay attention to the differences and similarities in the letters. What
was the significance of the stamps chosen for example? This may not seem important, but hear me out.
At first glance, a simple American Flag stamp would seem to say either 1.) They were patriotic, 2.) They
46
were coy, not wishing to reveal their true nature with a stamp, 3.) They owned a sheet of them and didn‟t
want to make a special trip to the post office to buy a Love stamp.
I began to think it might be good to get a Flag stamp. I mean, let‟s say they used a Love stamp on the
envelope. What‟s the message there? They do this for sport? They have reams of Love stamps and send
letters in bulk to bachelors hoping, on a subliminal level, the men would feel the right vibe? They‟re
professional man hunters who will stop at nothing to bag their quarry? They have no sense of subtlety? I
got six Love stamps. Yes, complete with a sappy, floppy-eared dog picture on them.
Janice was a beautiful petite SJF from Boston who‟s small picture looked like she was in the
afterglow of a romantic interlude. With her lovely golden tresses cascading over soft naked shoulders and
waves of rumpled bedding, she stopped a little before reaching indecency. I suppose she might have been
just waking up. Nah. Even I know that look. It was an intimate image and I felt flattered she shared it
with me, a complete stranger. Intrigued, I turned the picture over looking for other clues. Besides
processing by Kodak, I discovered a small black mark made with a ruler and felt-tipped pen. The kind of
guide mark used when cutting out many pictures from the same sheet. So much for flattery.
47
Janice “never tried this before.” I suppose that was more likely than locating her with only a first
name, a twenty-year-old phone number and a seductive picture. Finding these women would take some
work. If any of them were criminals, it would be a snap. Call John Walsh from America’s Most Wanted
and get the show do a computer simulated age progression. Bingo, nabbed in no time. But, and I‟m
taking a leap of faith here, I believe the only crime any of these woman might be cited for is loneliness.
Even if they were guilty of something more sinister, like bad cooking, I‟m sure the statute of indigestion
expired long ago.
So there they were, in some form. All their names. Staring back at me from a cold, impersonal grid.
Yet, there were clues. Sometimes women left work numbers. Those businesses might still be around
after twenty years. One woman went to Brooklyn College and gave her full name. Another was a SAG
member. Models and actresses sent headshots. One stunner, who sent me a Xerox picture, modeled for
48
Elite. She addressed her note to “Not Just Another Pretty Face.” I‟m sure Elite wouldn‟t help me find
her, but still, there were clues.
I thought I might have more luck with the ones who mentioned, in twenty-one years, they‟d be living
in Manhattan at Seventy Park Avenue, Unit 2130, and included their future phone number. You know the
ones I mean. Like Miss Cleo. Despite her run-ins with a querulous and unappreciative Federal Trade
Commission, I love Miss Cleo. I love all psychics. They‟re much more accurate than weathermen or
economic forecasters. Plus, their outfits are better. I remember seeing Miss Cleo on television. She
looked like a cross between Carman Miranda and Ghandi. She asked the caller “Mike” to give her his
birthday. It was amazing. As soon as he gave the date, she knew instantly he was in “enough trouble
already.” Despite growing up in Los Angeles, she acquired a lilting Jamaican accent, which gave real
force to her mystic chords.
She accurately made note of two important things in Mike‟s life. First, he was a mamma‟s boy,
which he sheepishly admitted. Second, he was terrible with houseplants and had even killed a cactus!
Mike found this insight even harder to cope with than the first. Not to worry. Her hearty laugh served as
a balm, soothing those psychic wounds not just for Mike, but for those lucky enough to be within her
broadcast range. Even I felt better after the call. She actually said, “I wuv you.” When was the last time
you heard someone say that to a complete stranger? Miss Cleo, if you‟re reading this, I wuv you too.
Wait a minute. Could she be one of the women on my list?
49
One lovely woman sent me her picture and said, “P.S. I don‟t photograph well…I‟m better live and
in person.” She included her business card with her full name, Pamela J. Straw, the company she worked
for, Dimwit Data Systems, her work number and work address. She also revealed she had “aquamarine”
eyes and enjoyed “intimate evenings at home or on the town” When I first got her letter, I called her.
I did get a certain twinge of excitement when I thought of calling one of these women. What would
her voice sound like? Would it be deep and sexy, like Kathleen Turner? Accented? From my years on
the phone in sales and marketing, I learned to tell a lot about someone from the sound of their voice.
Were they tentative, tight, relaxed? I learned to speak with a smile on my face, in preparation for the
revolution in picture phones. When I did call the number on the card, this beautiful voice answered,
“Hello, Mrs. Straw‟s line.”
I‟ll bet I could track her down today by looking through the divorce decrees from 1987.
Like Mrs. Straw, Georgiana Irony sent me a letter with tons of possible ways to try to reach her. Her
elegant, ivory stationery had her full name and address printed on the letterhead. She described herself as
follows:
50
She went on to say she brokered real estate and directed a community project in midtown. I was glad
she was “lively” rather than the alternative. Occasionally, I would search the Internet to try to locate one
of the writers. Naturally, I‟ve thought of the many resources the „net has to offer but, partly out of fear
I‟d be successful in finding someone, I chose this half-assed approach for the early going.
By the way, I‟ve discovered all the good website names are reserved. How do I know? Simple. I
decided to see if Halfassed.com was available. No one would want a name like that. Sadly, I must report
both Halfassed.com and Halfassed.edu are unavailable. Halfassed.edu! You can be sure they‟re all gone
when someone paid the $9.95 to reserve that domain name for their school.
51
I thought Georgiana had a great name. I suspect that‟s why she spent the money printing it on her
stationery. I know what a pain it can be to get your real estate license and I thought she might still have
it. I searched her unusual last name and got nowhere. Then I thought, in case her last name had changed,
I‟d just search her first name. Voila. Thirty-six Georgianas. Twenty-one were Notaries, eleven
cosmetologists, but none were Realtors. Despite a treasure trove of clues, my feeble attempt to find
Georgiana failed. It wasn‟t a total waste of time, though, as I feel I have a better understanding of the
New York cosmetology scene.
52
Chapter 5-The 1980s
For those born too late to enjoy them, the 1980s were a time not long ago that scarcely resembles present
day. We had some of the same things we have today, like cell phones. Invented in the 1970s, they were a
communication device for people who wanted a workout by lifting a heavy, white plastic block to their
ear. By the 1980s, they evolved into a prop for Hollywood big shots to call their lawyer or work their
triceps. They stayed in brick form for many years and none but the rich and strong could justify them.
Not one of the women who wrote me in 1987 provided a cell number.
People weren‟t using personal computers as free weights in the 1980s, but they were far from
commonplace. The early PCs came long before Bill Gates got out of high school. The problem in getting
them from fun toy for early techies to a device performing some useful service, like crashing, was the lack
of software. Finally, Lotus 123, Electric Pencil, and WordStar emerged. My tech-savvy friend George
boldly predicted WordStar would take over the world of word processing.
53
A few of the women sent typewritten letters. Back then, the pros used IBM Selectrics and amateurs,
like me, went with Smith Coronas. In a moment of wild abandon, I traded my typewriter for a 1986 IBM
XT computer. I wasn‟t sure what I‟d use it for but I figured, if nothing else, it could double as an
ottoman.
We had discovered HIV/AIDS in the years before my ad. The first known case in the United States
occurred in 1981. Even in 1987, few worried about transmission of the disease. I suppose, if you loved a
hooker, you‟d use a condom but for normal dating, using protection meant spraying Binaca breath
freshener in your mouth. The big concern among non IV-drug-using straight daters was herpes or VD
and, for some reason, neither seemed worrisome.
Think of a world without Starbucks or Red Bull. In the 1980s, people had to rely on more mundane
sources of stimulation such as speed, cocaine, or crystal meth. What else were we missing back then? A
surprising number of things we take for granted today. The Internet, email, laptops, digital cameras, and
airbags to name a few. Of course, we were also missing spam and computer viruses.
The 1980s were an era that recoiled from the hippie movement of the 1960s. Politics became more
conservative with Reagan‟s trickle down approach. Materialism was in. BMW sales boomed as DINKS
(double income, no kids) and even those with kids put their spending power to use. Patriotism was up
along with the standard of living many enjoyed. The king of the music world was Michael Jackson.
Thriller sold millions of copies helping Michael progress down his road of weirdness.
54
Just when you thought things couldn‟t get any better, crack cocaine found its way into our hearts,
minds and bodies. I wasn‟t positive what crack was but knew it sounded like a good time. I decided to
investigate. After calling my dealer, he recommended searching online for answers. It‟s not as though I
had that many questions. I merely wanted to know what the substance was.
I found the answer on Wikepedia. They had a picture of a harsh, strung-out, bleached blonde with
tattoos, horse face, silver-blue nails and dark gashes for eyebrows. You can also find her picture in the
dictionary, under Crackhead. Her lizard-skinned hands were firing up a nice bowl of the stuff. The
caption, “Smoking Crack Cocaine,” said it all. Except what it contained. Under the heading,
“Appearance and characteristics” the site cautioned:
Because crack is not a regulated medicine, the actual content varies widely, including many
chemicals from crude processing or added to blow up the size of the cooked crack or volume of
the initial powdered cocaine.
“Crack cocaine is not a regulated medicine.” I wonder how many reading that statement thought,
What? The government doesn’t regulate crack? Now what am I supposed to do? I was going to call for
a prescription.
55
One last trivia tidbit for Jeopardy contestant wannabes.
I‟ll take “The 80s” for $1,000, Alex.
On April 17, 1982, this government severed all political ties to the United Kingdom.
What is Canada?
According to Wikepedia, Canada is the answer. Talk about dragging your feet.
In my view, the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989 was far less significant than Howard Stern's first payper-view, Underpants & Negligee Party. Despite the many unique 80s moments, finding a mate was
much like hooking up in the decades before, only the hairstyles weren‟t as good. Personals were seen as
the last ditch approach to take, if nothing else worked. I received many letters that alluded to this stigma
or came right out and said it.
56
One of my favorites came from a “friend” of Irene‟s. Evidently, Irene was so mortified at the
prospect of the personals that she allowed her friend to wrest control of her dating life. She sent the
following:
To add intimacy, she used a Xerox form complete with Xerox picture – “P.S. This is the only picture
she‟d let me have.” Irene‟s friend did “knock my socks off” by closing with a line that has worked on
horse buyers for centuries. “As you can see, she has gorgeous teeth!”
As if to echo Irene‟s concern about answering a personal ad, Donna started her letter this way.
57
I liked her straightforward approach. She went on to say:
Many women sent pictures with lovely, tanned bodies. How refreshing that Donna didn‟t wait for
hers. She went on to include her own personal ad, which she wrote for me:
58
Her picture did bear some resemblance to Susan Sarandon. She was leaning forward with her elbows
resting on a golden granite slab. She interlocked her fingers, as if she was praying to some laid back
deity. With the light coming from the side, she looked tan, which I thought was clever and much cheaper
than a trip to the Bahamas.
Despite only a glimpse of the crescent stone, it did seem familiar to me. I think it‟s from one of
America‟s tourist Meccas, Plymouth Rock. For those of you who haven‟t made the pilgrimage, I have an
incredible money saving idea for you. Skip it. I realize that in some quarters, specifically the Plymouth
Chamber of Commerce, this may seem a bit harsh. Perhaps I should explain.
Ever since I was a cow-licked kid at Cherry Brook Elementary School, I thought Plymouth Rock was
an enormous landmark. Something our Native Americans placed by the harbor to guide the pilgrims to
shore for Thanksgiving. Some years ago, when I found myself driving through Plymouth, I looked
skyward hoping to see this impressive part of our nation‟s heritage. A rock so majestic it would soar
above the treetops. Like the Matterhorn.
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My hopes faded as I wound my way to the quaint waterfront. Had I misread my childhood history
books? Had some drug addled teenaged townies absconded with it? I felt like an idiot standing at the
town‟s waterfront, needing help finding the rock. This was, after all, Plymouth Rock. This icon was on a
par with the Washington monument, Statue of Liberty and Mt. Rushmore. Can you imagine standing on
the esplanade in the center of Washington and having to ask where they put the monument? Finally, out
of desperation, I gave in. A local told me, “Oh, it‟s over there, just beyond the pier.” I noted the words
“you can‟t miss it” were not part of the directions.
I remember getting a sick helpless feeling as I drew closer and closer. When I finally laid eyes on it,
my heart sank. The rock was so small they relegated it to an indentation in the seawall surrounding the
harbor. I felt crushed. Searching for some explanation, I discovered it was much bigger when the
pilgrims landed but, over the years, millions of tourists with chisels, pickaxes and claw hammers
descended upon it like stone eating locusts. Their selfish, insensitive lack of regard for our nation‟s
heritage reduced this once proud landmark to its present faded glory. Of course, I used a sledgehammer
of my own to smash a nice chunk off as a keepsake.
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Chapter 6 – Jasmina
Jasmina wrote me a letter. Two and a half sheets written on white lined paper. No exquisitely crafted
card. No pink envelope or Love stamp. No poetic verse or cute clichés. Just simple, thoughtful
communication.
That‟s not to imply the other ninety-four women weren‟t thinking when they replied. It‟s hard
knowing what to say in response to a personal ad. What will resonate with the advertiser? It‟s a delicate
balance. My advice would be to send some mix of sincerity, humor, and reflection. Provide enough
information to be enticing but leave a lot to discover. Show interest, not desperation.
Some writers thought of their replies as a confessional. If I were a priest, or therapist this might have
worked, although, there may have been some ethical concerns. I remember my heart going out to one
woman named Laurel. Her letter was poignant, revealing, and lengthy.
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Part of her letter said:
Farther down she added:
Beneath her signature, she wrote:
I felt honored Laurel trusted me, a complete stranger, with the depths of her heart. Her
vulnerabilities, her struggles, her fears. Her many unanswered questions. Sitting here now, her letter in
front of me, I wish I could turn back the clock. Find some way to thank her for her courage. Give her a
hug. Encourage her to keep trying. I don‟t have a time machine and, even if I did, we‟re both different
people today. I hope she found love and continued the growth she was in the midst of when she wrote
me.
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Jasmina‟s letter arrived February first. After reading it, I began to think love might not be elusive
after all. Her calmness unfolded along with a quiet confidence. It wasn‟t pushy, angst filled or desperate.
Unlike most respondents, Jasmina sent a black and white image of herself. Her serene pose affirmed the
relaxed confidence of her letter. Professionally shot, her perfect makeup, and lighting only enhanced the
power of her look. She wore the expression of a chess grandmaster when he knew victory was his. Her
careful, glossy smile drew me in. I imagined her whispering, “Don‟t be afraid. I‟m friendly. I‟ve been
looking for someone like you. We‟ll have fun.” With her head tilting sensually, she drew me in. Had an
angel arrived in my mailbox? Was it possible to have chemistry with a picture? I believed I could be that
shallow.
Her opening was brilliant. If this were chess, I‟d concede the match and suggest we grab a bite to eat.
Consider how she started:
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This made me feel special because she wouldn‟t normally do it. She also said she was having fun.
Wow. Such a simple concept. Gone was the anxiety of dating. The frustration. The disappointment. In
one sentence, she had framed the entire experience. I was special. She wasn‟t desperate. This was fun.
Was she the dating equivalent of chess grandmaster Gary Kasparov? She was certainly more alluring to
me.
Jasmina had twenty-five years of exotic beauty wrapped in an understated package. Originally from
Yugoslavia, she grew up in the United States. She described herself as:
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If this wasn‟t checkmate, it was getting close. She nailed all the things I valued. She talked in terms
of my interests…but these were her interests too.
“Would you care for anything else to go with that, Mr. Riddle?”
“Um, well…”
Like some mythological seductress, she kept going…
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“Not afraid of intimacy and passion.” That killed me. Checkmate. I‟m all yours. Where do I sign?
Shall we try for an outdoor wedding? Tavern on the Green? Sure. Sounds wonderful. How many are
we inviting? No problem. I‟ll be right back, just let me call my parents.
What Jasmina did was make me feel special and make me think she‟d be fun to get to know. Yet
there was a depth to her and room for us to grow into something amazing. There was no rush. We were
going to enjoy the journey together.
I called her. We had a nice conversation and arranged to meet at the bar in the Algonquin Hotel.
Rarely had I been so excited to meet someone. The hotel was a place with a storied past. In the 1920s,
Douglas Fairbanks Sr., Eddie Cantor, and Will Rogers were regulars. The Round Table met there. This
group of luminaries included New York literary mavens such as Sinclair Lewis, Dorothy Parker, Edna
Ferber, and others. It was no accident I wanted to meet there. Now a historic landmark, The Algonquin
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was one of the reasons I loved New York. The great architecture. The hotel was part of many auspicious
beginnings. I hoped my date with Jasmina would be another.
Early February in New York is cold, gray, and gloomy. Darkness falls around four-thirty. At this
point in the winter, the snow has long since turned ashen. The attitude of the locals is just as harsh as the
climate. Weary, withered, withdrawn. They might as well be in hibernation. Would my date with
Jasmina be the start of the winter thaw?
My prime defense from the elements was a black cashmere coat I splurged on from Barneys. I still
have the coat and, once I amortize it another twenty years, figure it‟ll be a bargain. I wore that coat to
meet Jasmina. When I first saw her, there was no confusion. This was the goddess who enticed me with
her letter. Her eyes full of warmth, beauty, and shyness. Her mouth, a red study in passion. She wore a
navy wool coat, its collar and lapels soft and furry. The effect was stunning. Her calmness was
contagious. I could take chances. I could depend on her.
I am partial to reliable people, especially if they‟re piloting the small plane I‟m on or examining my
skull for cracks. I was once the passenger on a 33‟ sailboat, The Sting, captained by my friend Jim. His
reliability matched that of the Titanic‟s iceberg forecaster. The sky was dark as a mushroom shed, and he
told me we were looking for the Cape Cod Canal. The canal is hardly an insignificant scar on the belly of
Massachusetts Bay. It‟s an engineering marvel which, in order to aid seamen, is lit up brighter than an
auto dealership. Jim and I scanned the horizon looking for this passageway when we saw lights. As
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you‟d expect, the nearer we got, the brighter the lights became. Eventually, there was a glow like the one
Manhattan emits from miles away. Well, perhaps a little dimmer but it was the only bright spot in the
entire 360-degree sweep of our vision. I said to Jim, “That‟s gotta be the canal.” Much to my dismay he
said, “No, it‟s farther up.” Farther up where? Into the darkness? How else would you explain the
freighter emerging from the lighted waterway? I made a mental note, as I took the helm, to prepare my
will, should I come back from our sail alive.
I‟m sure Jasmina would‟ve recognized the canal. She seemed reliable. We sat in the overstuffed
leather chairs surrounded by oak paneled walls. She ordered Perrier and I went with Scotch. The
conversation was polite, tempered, and enchanting. We drifted to a land far away, no longer in
Manhattan. A place I didn‟t recognize. Perhaps we were in another era. A time of courtship and
tradition, before even the Algonquin rose from the ground. Where was this exotic beauty taking me?
What sort of journey were we on together? I had no idea.
We skated along the outsides of each other‟s lives. I looked for familiar landmarks to help me stay
upright on this slippery surface. She was ten years younger. I didn‟t know if that made things harder or
easier. While I enjoyed our time together, I needed to find my bearings.
We planned only to meet for a drink. Before we parted, we arranged to get together the following
Saturday and take a cruise. Well, sort of a cruise. The Staten Island ferry. The cheapest romantic
getaway on the planet. For twenty-five cents, you could sail across New York Harbor. There was the
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world famous skyline and the Statue of Liberty as well as vast, snobby ocean liners, wheezing, rusty
trawlers and ice-clad tugboats. During the week, you found a sea of bleary-eyed commuters trudging to
or from work. The ferry was also part of many movies, including Basic Instinct with Michael Douglas.
On Saturday, shoppers and sightseers replaced the commuter traffic. We stood by the railing and
talked as the gray jagged waters of the harbor rushed by. I was glad to have an activity to engage in. We
were sightseeing. People watching. It was safe. Non-committal. Almost like going to a movie. We
didn‟t need to reveal too much to each other.
Laurel alluded to it earlier when she spoke about chemistry. Despite the obvious physical chemistry I
had for Jasmina, something was missing. When two people click with each other, it‟s as though they can
skip the first four chapters of a book, their storybook, and not miss a thing. They already know and
understand each other. There are countless unsaid things but, because the connection is so natural, they
don‟t need saying. I watched our wedding plans move further and further away. We finished our harbor
cruise and went to eat at a restaurant with greenhouse windows overlooking the East River.
Now I knew why things seemed so unfamiliar to me. Even though we lived in the same city, we
came from different worlds. Jasmina lived in Queens with her family. Her parents brought their three
children from Belgrade to find a better life. Even though she grew up in our country, she was the product
of a traditional Yugoslavian upbringing. What were their rules, expectations, and norms? I hadn‟t the
foggiest idea. I came from a small town in Connecticut and a completely different culture. I kept
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searching for a way to meet in the middle but I had no roadmap. Maybe, if we were able to start on
Chapter Five together, I wouldn‟t have cared about our cultural differences. I knew the wedding was off.
I just didn‟t want to accept it.
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Chapter 7 – Full Disclosure Can Wait
Handwriting analysis has never been my specialty. I imagine, in today‟s word-processed world, it has
become as important as the French army. Come to think of it, I believe even the Nepalese outmatch the
French. Touring Nepal is like going back to the fifteenth century, only they take credit cards now.
Twenty-one years ago, I witnessed a stunning display of Himalayan military might in Kathmandu. At
the time, there was a big hubbub in this mostly forgotten country. The Nepalese called it the “thread
breaking” ceremony and all sorts of mucky mucks were a part of it. I believe the premise was, any excuse
for a party. Technically, in 1987, the country was the kingdom of Nepal. The royal family had a palace,
a few Mercedes Benzes, some elephant-drawn carriages and, possibly, indoor plumbing. The crown
prince returned from his strenuous tour of duty at Oxford and was finally of age. This was his moment.
To celebrate, they gathered some soldiers, carriages, and dignitaries for a parade.
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I couldn‟t believe my luck. Here I was travelling back in time without needing the H.G. Wells
machine to do it. For openers, the average Nepali wears clothes that say…what‟s the look I‟m thinking of
…ah…Middle Ages. Especially, the doorman at the Hotel Sherpa. He looked like a cross between a
Samurai and a Shriner. Before recent upheavals, the Nepalese were some of the friendliest people on the
planet. From the smiling women churning cream into Yak butter to joyful kids watching themselves on a
video camera, this was a simpler era.
My hotel was located on Durbar Marg, the main drag leading from the palace through the city. This
was also the parade route. In New York, when they schedule the Thanksgiving parade for nine o‟clock, it
starts at nine o‟clock. The television networks insist on it. Plus, the people at Macy‟s need to return all
those balloons to the party store to get their deposit back. The Nepalese discovered, if they don‟t rent any
balloons, there is no rush to get things going. I believed them when they said it would start “around”
noon. They had all the pieces of the puzzle on the table. In the mix were Jeeps, a few vintage cannons
and countless regiments of Nepali men. There was an olive-hued rainbow of uniform colors. The proud
Gurkhas looked crisp and stylish while those in other units wore kilts. I would hate to have worn those
into battle. In an obvious bid to curry disfavor with PETA, a small contingency showed up wearing real
tiger skins somehow fashioned into street wear.
The parade started shortly after one o‟clock. The troops and dignitaries marched for about five
minutes and stopped. There weren‟t any traffic signals so that wasn‟t the problem. Did someone
oversleep at the palace? An hour passed. Then two. Everyone stood around baking like a sherpa soufflé
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in the afternoon sun. The spectators, all twelve of us, excluding the naked guy walking down the
sidewalk, started to lose hope. The legions of soldiers seemed to get out of the spirit of the event. A few
wisely brought wooden, three-legged folding chairs. They knew how these parades worked. Others
resigned themselves to a seat on the curb or sat in the middle of the street. Slowly, the neat little rows of
men collapsed. Those who smoked, smoked. God knows what would‟ve happened with poker chips and
a deck of cards.
Despite the glacial pace, it was colorful, and the pageantry was magnificent. I believe some Zen
master once said, “If you want to see a parade which isn‟t moving, it is you who needs to move.” Tired
of viewing the same fifty guys for two hours, I started walking toward the palace. Just then, something
amazing happened. Perhaps using secret hand signals to alert each other, the whole group magically
reassembled into a formation. Cigarettes went out, chairs folded and wrinkles vanished from khaki
colored laps. Music played and people began moving forward in the Himalayan equivalent of marching.
Elaborate polished ceremonial carriages creaked by. I half expected a Trojan horse. I‟m convinced this
whole delay was a clever tactic to extend the length of an otherwise short parade. The royal family didn‟t
want anyone to feel gypped and, besides, why rush? This was the fifteenth century.
Although I‟m still not convinced of the French or Nepalese Army‟s relevance, I‟m reconsidering my
thoughts on the value of handwriting analysis. Brooke sent me a letter that had a distinctive style of
penmanship. Far from my first grade teacher‟s perfect chalk letters, Brooke‟s handwriting looked like a
blue jay‟s finger painting. Her opening, “Dear Don Johnson look-alike,” spanned a full eight inches. The
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loops of her js, ys, and gs swept down upon the page like an invading Mongolian army. Each line
overrun by the letters above and below. It was as close to hieroglyphics as I could decipher. I was
amazed the sorter at the post office could read the address.
I have my theories about Brooke and I‟d like to, if I may, advance them for your consideration. What
follows is my untrained, yet intuitive, analysis of her pen. First, it‟s clear to me she does not wish to be
clear. She‟s hiding something. Perhaps, she‟s guilty of excessive obfuscation. Maybe she snores. There
has to be something. I‟m also betting she favors Asian culture and studied abroad. Don‟t ask how I
know. It‟s just my gut. It‟s about time you knew my gut sings sweet and true. Did I mention possible
hypersexuality? No, of course not. That would be rude. But you experienced analysts know what I‟m
getting at here, don‟t you?
What was she saying in such a hard to read cursive? Apparently, she was unimpressed with Don
Johnson whom she skewered with:
For those requiring a translation:
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Lucky for you that the similarity ends there as I understand
he has serious drug alcohol problems and a real star ego.
And none of this interests me.
She didn‟t look like Don‟s type either. The picture she sent showed her sitting on a couch with a
cocktail in one hand, while reaching for the guacamole with the other. I thought, perhaps, she was
signaling she was a party girl. I could almost make out what she was saying. “Don‟t you think it‟s a
shame Bunny wants off the board? I remember the party she gave last summer in the Hamptons. The
music was so loud it gave me a headache.”
There was a grandfather clock in the background, a finely draped window, and an oriental carpet on
the floor. Welcome to Brooke‟s world. I could tell her world was much older than mine. Maybe it was
the imposing clock or the vase of yellow tulips bowing to the guests. Possibly, it was the hairstyle that
said, “Don‟t touch me.” She continued on her cultural bent, telling me:
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Translation:
I am foreign educated as I went to an international University
in Japan where I also modeled and did a television show. I love
things oriental and have traveled widely.
That explained the carpet and, perhaps, the handwriting.
She lost me when she said:
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Translation:
I especially love the country and gardening-flowers, herbs,
unusual things like sorrel and Swiss chard.
After deciphering her letter, I knew I wasn‟t drawn to Swiss chard or Brooke‟s older, superior world.
Debbie looked so wholesome, I thought she might coach girls‟ track or teach hygiene. Her friendly
smile and tilt of the head made me doubt she‟d ever run a red light. Despite her plusses, she should‟ve
waited to say:
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For me, the best part was the use of the word “fiascos.” I tried to imagine what might fall into that
category in 1987. Long before 9/11, this was a kinder, gentler time in our world. That‟s not to say we
didn‟t enjoy a good war from time to time, especially if it involved an African dictator. It just didn‟t seem
to be as fashionable to show up at your high school and mow down the pep squad with your online Uzi
purchase. Still, kinder and gentler were relative terms. This was New York City, not Mayberry.
The kind of fiascos I imagined Debbie referring to were the garden-variety sort. Tom was passable in
the looks department, but his breath smelled like a coal miner‟s sweat rag. Dick‟s teeth were Dazzle Dent
white but his girth prevented a certain closeness. Harry‟s hands wandered and he wouldn‟t take no for an
answer. I didn‟t blame a woman for getting a headache, given these Romeos.
Regardless of someone‟s past experiences, my ad was a chance to start fresh. It‟s hard enough to find
love without the baggage. We all have baggage. It starts accumulating in the womb. I love the way
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parents try to get their kids off to a head start by playing classical music to them from the moment they
discover the pregnancy. What if your embryonic child isn‟t classically inclined? Maybe that‟s why they
kick so much. “Shut off the Rachmaninoff, will ya? I‟ve only got a few months of peace before reality
hits.”
My own baggage started accumulating when I was young. No, I didn‟t get Mitch Miller piped into
my embryonic slumber, but I had other burdens to bear as I got older. One summer, I took care of my
grandparents‟ rabbit while they travelled. We placed Thumper‟s cage under the sugar maple tree off to
the side of our yard.
I was so excited when he arrived. My very own rabbit, even if it was just a short-term arrangement. I
grabbed a handful of carrots and put them in his cage. I expected him to chomp on them like Bugs Bunny
and say, “Ehhh…what‟s up doc?” He seemed annoyed as he gravitated toward the dry granular pellets I
gave him. So much for stereotypes. After a few days, I began to wonder why this was my rabbit to take
care of. Easter passed months earlier so what was I supposed to do with this creature?
The list of things rabbits don‟t do is extensive. They don‟t sing, bark, roll over, fetch, swim, cuddle,
or come when you call. In fact, they don‟t do much of anything. They‟re fast. At least jackrabbits are.
They reproduce, but all animals do. They eat. Big deal. I‟m not aware of people using them as guide
animals or for anything besides magic tricks. Even seals can swim, bark, and balance a ball on their
noses. So, other than grazing through a vegetable patch, what good are they?
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I began to lose interest in Thumper. I was supposed to keep his cage clean. That meant dragging a
hose from Canada and spraying all the crap out of his den. I already picked up the crap our dog left in the
yard. Why was it always my dog when it came time to scoop the poop? Of course, I procrastinated.
Well, that‟s not entirely true. Procrastination implies you did it at some point. Poor Thumper. He had a
crappy summer. By August, his coop had enough poop to fill half a garbage can.
I know. You don‟t need to tell me. I‟ve been bearing this terrible secret all these years, with no one
to share it with until now. Suddenly, I feel much lighter. Like some giant burden is now off my soul. I
can breathe again. Despite my own liberation, I would leave this kind of thing out when responding to a
personal ad. Your initial contact isn‟t the time for full disclosure. I‟m not sure when the time is, but I
know it shouldn‟t be the first ink coming from your pen. Debbie went on to say:
Yes, I did notice that. Honesty aside, women seldom, even in the liberated climate of the time, spoke
about being lovers. Especially “great lovers.” Now, that kind of honesty is fine. In fact, I think it should
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be encouraged. Stay focused on the positive. Wait until you‟ve gotten through the meal before revealing
you spent years toiling as the mistress of Saddam Hussein.
Think of dating as a job interview. Personnel offices always have some smug person sitting behind a
desk ready to trip you up with seemingly innocent questions. They‟re outwardly welcoming and friendly
as a way to hide their clever, prying banter. My favorite gambit is when they say something like, “Before
we get started, why don‟t you tell me a little something about yourself?” If you ever hear these words,
you must not, under any circumstances, reveal your last two jobs were fiascos. I suppose, if you‟re
applying for a position as a courtesan, you might mention the experience with Saddam but, in most cases,
this is where less is more.
Continuing in our category “Too Much Information” is our next contestant, Loretta. Her letter
confused me so much I called to get clarification. She was an actress/office automation consultant. I‟m
sure there‟s a huge calling for that mix of talents.
Loretta looked pretty in her picture and I thought, at least intellectually, she might resemble my
favorite psychic, Miss Cleo. Her beginning went well enough with:
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Succinct. Flattering. Forthright.
So far, so good. A little like how things were going for Carrie White when she attended her
homecoming dance in the Stephen King classic, Carrie. This fragile, teenage outcast was on stage
glowing in her moment of redemption. I won‟t spoil it for you but, as you might imagine, things take a
turn for the worse after they dump the bucket of blood on her head. Far worse. Much like the following:
We interrupt this sentence to give you the following special announcement:
Baby talk is annoying enough when you are addressing babies. Let‟s be honest. Unless it‟s your
child, who wants to hear, “Gootchie, gootchie goooooo…I see yooooou, tickley, wickley pooooo?” I
have no problem with cartoon characters using such dialect. Like Tweety Bird. When a cute little baby
bird wants to outsmart a giant cat, it‟s only natural to use baby talk. "I'm a tweet wittow biwd and I tawt I
taw a putty tat.” For humans, once you start baby talking to pictures of babies, you have taken annoyance
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to the next level. When you start baby talking to pictures of hairless, growling devilish cats, it‟s time to
calmly back away from the mirror and out of the bathroom. Be sure to avoid sharp objects as you pack
your belongings and move all your furry and furless creatures to the extraterrestrial Mecca of Roswell,
New Mexico.
And now back to your regularly scheduled sentence:
Is there a period in the house?
There it is. But that‟s not all dear reader. Far from it.
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You can see why Roswell might be a good option. The first few times I read this letter, I misread the
word Physics as Psychics. I‟m still disappointed I‟ve finally read it correctly. I wanted her to be my Miss
Cleo. We could attend clandestine séances together. It‟s possible, had we forged a psychic bond, we
would be living the good life in New Mexico.
To advance my research into the vast and wonderful complexities of the human mind, I called her.
After doing so, I was more confused than I was from reading her letter. Our conversation was audible but
disjointed, like the hiccupped dialogs you get when cell phones fade in and out of range. It reminded me
of a call I got from a friend of mine, Susan. Some people, specifically women, love to take a regular
name like Susan or Debbie and customize it to their own personality. Of course, to make things pricklier,
you have to spell it differently. That way, they can correct you when you don‟t spell it right. Debbie can
morph into Debbi, Debby, Debi, Deb, Deborah, Debra and Susan can become Sue, Sooze, Suzy, Suzie,
Suzi, and possibly Suet, especially if she‟s a bird lover.
Now, with a last name like Riddle, I‟ve never been one to make fun of anyone‟s name. I remember
the creative adaptations and insightful witticisms my adolescent campmates shared with me. Riddle,
piddle, diddle, fiddle, liddle. It didn‟t matter if they were actual words, as long as they rhymed.
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My friend Susan found spiritual enlightenment. Please don‟t get me wrong. I‟m all for spiritual
enlightenment. Just not if it requires me to remember your new name or, even worse, how to spell it. She
decided her new name would be Sunka, which sounded a lot like the instant coffee. It would‟ve been
easier for me to swallow if she‟d gone with Sanka.
So, Sunka called one time and our conversation was relatively normal. She lived in San Diego with a
small kennel of dogs and cats. Choosing to live a “healthy” lifestyle, herself, she once tried to entice me
with wheatgrass and tofu, both of which I believe are known poisons. Our phone call went something
like this:
Me:
“So, have you spoken with Tom lately?”
Sunka:
“No, I‟m not speaking to him.”
Me:
“Why not?”
Sunka:
“Oh, he did some stuff that pissed me off. My teacher is helping me to let go of it and
become at peace with my inner being.”
Me:
“That‟s good.”
Sunka:
“I‟ve been trying to get a workshop where I can make my mobiles.”
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Me:
“Why can‟t you do them at home?”
Sunka:
“I have been. It‟s just that I want to expand, and there‟s so little room here. I have a
friend I help with gardening, and I‟m hoping she‟ll let me use her garage.”
Me:
“I hope so too. It‟d be great if your mobile business grew.”
Sunka:
“Yeah. I could use the money. Did I tell you the FBI called me?”
Me:
“The FBI?”
Sunka:
“Yeah. They want to cut a deal with me. All I need to do is show them where Steven
buried the body, and they‟ll drop the charges.”
Me:
“Charges?”
Sunka:
“Yeah, from me trying to bust Chad out of the federal pen.”
Me:
(silence)
Sunka:
“So, you wanna hear a song I wrote?”
A song? Is it Jailhouse Rock? Are the words, “I‟ve been working on the chain gang” in it? My
conversation with Loretta was different but equally disorienting. Like I tumbled out of a dryer after five
minutes on fluff dry. Whatever she was trying to say, I was glad she had bizarre personal experiences to
relate. Perhaps my phone call added to that canvas.
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Chapter 8 – Different Strokes
As you can imagine, the replies to my ad were as varied as the women who wrote them. I‟m sure
some community college could double their enrollment if they offered courses on how to find love. One
woman who seemed to be buying enough stamps to paper a bathroom was Blanche. She held the dubious
honor of sending the letter that traveled the farthest to reach me. A Love stamp brought her envelope to
me from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Blanche could have come from the direct mail industry. Direct mail houses are, more than any other
reason, why I get mail. I look forward to hearing from dry cleaners I‟m not familiar with as well as other
merchants with offers I never knew existed. My favorite pieces include a pen with my name printed on
the side. How can I keep from buying something made especially for me? It‟s unfair. I‟m at their mercy.
There should be laws regulating such solicitation. Besides direct mail, there is regular mail. It‟s usually
from companies that want to get paid for things like mortgages, electricity and credit cards. Those
businesses never send me pens, yet I‟m sure they have them.
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While I appreciate the free pens, I do take the mail for granted. Think of life without mail. Naturally,
I wouldn‟t have the ninety-five letters. Besides that, debtors could no longer claim the check is in the
mail. Think of the holidays without the need to buy cards, stamps, and get pictures of the family taken.
Then let‟s consider our trees. No mail means plenty of extra forests to cover our planet. Let‟s see.
Which would I rather have? Trees or pens?
Indians are leading the no mail movement. Yes, those few trillion people dwelling in the country at
the forefront of our computer support needs, India. Technically, they offer mail service. I have found,
though, that their service is so abysmal, it should be categorized as No Mail Delivery. Things are slightly
different in Delhi than they are in Des Moines. In India, they are delighted to sell you as many stamps as
you‟d like. They especially love to sell postage for international delivery. The stamps are more
expensive, quite colorful, and usually have an elephant or leper on them. They also tend to say “INDIA”
and make a fine overall impression. To my knowledge, the Indian government has not stooped to selling
Rock „n Roll legends on their postage. Well, perhaps they have a Ravi Shankar stamp.
Once you write your letter or postcard, it‟s time to let the Indian Postal System do its job. You give
your envelope to the smiling clerk behind the counter and ask him how long it will take to reach the
States. The answer is always the same. Always. Indian postal automation might reach new heights of
efficiency. There could be an earthquake, or the entire lower half of the country could be under three feet
of warm water and the answer would still be the same. Two to three weeks.
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This is the precise amount of time required to allow Indian postal authorities to send your letter on its
way, lose it, find it, remove the stamp for resale, and discard it. The no mail movement is growing and
we should give India our heartfelt thanks for being at the cutting edge of this social change.
Blanche was on the dull edge of this social change. Her letter, on a medium quality velum, had a
black line at the top where the copier deposited extra toner. Mailed on Valentine‟s Day, like so many
seeds cast to the wind, it started with:
I know what you‟re thinking. What‟s wrong with that? There really was nothing wrong with what
she said. My concern was more how she said it. This was a boilerplate letter, which she‟d slightly
personalized. I understand a single mother of two kids choosing this timesaving approach. Still, her form
letter compared poorly with such personal letters from others. She may have been the best thing since
Jambalaya, but I knew the chances of something working were as good as receiving that letter mailed in
India.
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Of the ninety-five women who responded, three were unwilling to reveal their names. Not even their
initials. Since privacy was a concern for them, I was surprised they each included their picture. If
Madonna were desperately seeking company, wanting anonymity would‟ve been understandable. It
seemed more likely I might recognize these women in an elevator knowing what they looked like than
with merely a name. One of these women, who shall remain anonymous, sent me the following:
Just a curious inquiry, that‟s all. I‟ll bet this woman is a detective. Maybe she‟s Nancy Drew, all
grown up, looking for romance. Was this her version of The Strange Message in the Parchment?
Perhaps she was worried I was The Invisible Intruder. I‟ve got it! She thinks I have The Clue of the
Tapping Heels. That mystery is a classic. Carolyn Keene, doesn‟t disappoint when it comes to building
tension. Consider the opening:
Tap! Tap! Tap!
“Nancy,” said blond, pretty Bess Marvin, “that doesn‟t sound like a regular tap dance.”
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I‟m afraid I‟m not at liberty to disclose either the clue of the tapping heels or my true identity. I hope
you‟ll respect my wish to remain anonymous. Pay no attention to the name on the cover of this book, it‟s
a pseudonym.
None of the women sent me pictures I would consider X-rated. I wouldn‟t even say an R-rated
picture arrived. Nearly all were G-rated, which surprised me a little, given this was New York City. One
picture, with a slightly provocative pose, came from a half-Hungarian, half-Swedish woman named
Sonya. God bless the Swedes and the Hungarians. She wore a white chiffon dress she could‟ve pinched
from Stevie Nick‟s wardrobe. I can practically hear, “Back to the gypsy that I was…To the gypsy that I
was…Ohoo Ohhhh,” playing in the background. She held one of the bedposts with both hands, her
slender, heel clad foot raised to rest on the bed. Despite not calling, I loved her cheesecake shot.
Besides Sonya, one of my favorite pictures was from a woman who bore some resemblance to Natalie
Wood. Sarah had light brown curly hair, a radiant smile, and leopard print top. The irregular shape of her
photo intrigued me. Upon closer inspection, I noticed an arm around her shoulder holding her hand. I
wondered what happened to the arm‟s owner.
She started with macabre humor:
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She said she was funny and I suppose she was, though I‟m not sure Robert Wagner would appreciate
the reference to his wife‟s drowning. She was not the promiscuous type stating, “My sensuality is an
attribute only to be discovered by a chosen few!” I noted the emphasis. She finished with:
Saying you‟re looking for marriage in your opening is a bad idea. I never called. I knew she was
much closer to the altar than I was. Besides, I‟m not that fond of Cairo.
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Some took a more confrontational approach. It made me wonder if they were trying reverse
psychology or if they meant what they said. A woman who left only her initials, but included her
complete street address, started with:
What‟s wrong with this picture? I, for one, find television brings a special touch to a romantic,
candlelight dinner. Ideally, there would be a chance to catch a NASCAR race or one of those reality
shows where the contestants eat rat brains. If none of that is available, perhaps we could watch the
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nightly news with the always-uplifting stories dominating the broadcast. There‟s nothing like a good war
or deadly natural disaster to help me focus on my date.
I also take issue with her potshot at couch potatoes. This really burns my brain. How is it that some
people feel no qualms when it comes to making cracks about many of our finest citizens? It‟s about time
the couch potatoes stood up, or perhaps sat there, and took a stand. These people are performing an
enormous public service. Think of our world and the economic impact they represent. Beer and snack
companies depend heavily on them. Without these loyal legions of spuds, consumerism might collapse.
What about the pizza delivery franchises? What would become of them? Cable? Breweries? I think the
main loss would be to audio/visual retailers. How would they ever move those piano-sized televisions
and surround sound components? I suggest my writer take a good look around before slamming the
people that are the backbone of our country.
This same woman sent me a series of pictures of herself. Naturally, I sat on my couch to view them.
One picture, which I prayed was from Halloween, showed our jaded correspondent dressed in a clown
outfit. She had a surprised look on her face, which was the color of a polar bear, and in sharp contrast to
her long ruby nails. Because it was on an odd shaped piece of paper, I turned it over. The back said,
“Oops! Caught me off guard!” I understand candid pictures can be unflattering. I don‟t understand
clowns. They terrify me. Moreover, why would anyone send a picture of themselves that “caught them
off guard” to a perfect stranger?
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The next picture in the collection was of our little prankster holding a camera in front of a mirror so
the camera and flash obliterated her face. All that remained was a torso from the waist up with arms that
looked like, without much provocation, flight might be a possibility. I don‟t claim to be an expert but, if
you were sending someone you never met pictures of yourself, wouldn‟t it be better if they showed your
face? I imagined waiting at a bar for someone to meet me with a camera flashing in front of her face.
The caption, “Nothing to do when out of town on business?” was hardly reassuring.
The third picture was even more confusing to me. You‟d think, with three pictures, I would‟ve
narrowed down what she looked like. Far from it. This one, captioned “Say Cheese,” was triangular with
her body cut on an angle. Her head was in the shot, mercifully, and her left arm down to her elbow. She
seemed attractive but the specter of calling a clown rendered me far too upset.
One woman was businesslike. Her letter was on Clinique Laboratories stationery with my ad stapled
to the top. Not a copy of my ad for reference purposes, the actual tiny little ad from New York Magazine.
Perhaps she thought she needed to submit prima facie evidence that I placed such an ad. Despite not
enclosing a picture, it was a beautiful piece of professional correspondence. Karen began with:
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Was I missing something? What does “always there with a positive point” mean? Did she learn this
new style of communication at SUNY?
In precise manner, she went through my ad covering the various descriptive elements. At one point,
she said she would not use elegant to describe herself because it sounded so STUFFY! She believed she
was mellifluous though. Karen continued:
Further down she added:
That should clarify things. Since it wasn‟t the Don Johnson visual, I wondered why she asked how
much I looked like him. I suppose, like the ingredients in beef jerky, this was going to remain a mystery.
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Speaking of keeping things businesslike, I received a letter from a woman which could have gone
with a résumé. Like replies to a personal ad, résumés are as significant for what they say as what they
leave out. I was online recently and discovered the following real entries by earnest job seekers:








Am a perfectionist and rarely if if ever forget details.
It‟s best for employers that I not work with people.
I have an excellent track record, although I am not a horse.
Interests: Gossiping.
Reason for leaving: I thought the world was coming to an end.
Reason for leaving last job: Bounty hunting was outlawed in my state.
In the section asking for “Emergency Contact Number,” she wrote 911.
Qualifications: Twin sister has an accounting degree.
I wanted to hire the twin. Her sister‟s accounting degree did seem impressive. Darla decided to
include the following:
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I was ready to check her references and see if she wanted a signing bonus. In fairness, the rest of her
letter touched on the personal aspects of her life. She said she was “considered sexy by those in the
know” and she wrapped up with the following:
I paused to consider the possibilities. Real good phone. Did she have a 900 number business on the
side? She listed an eclectic group of interests. As I went down the list, few had much appeal to me.
Mystery rides, off-Broadway, the country, quiet evenings, and photography. For a visual person
interested in movies and photography, not having a picture of herself seemed odd. I tried to read between
the lines. Call it male intuition but I decided to live without Darla and her good phone.
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Chapter 9 – Classic Lines
Clever or scary lines helped letters make a lasting impression. What surprised me was I considered
pickup lines to be something men used, yet women had them too.
I loved this one:
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I wondered if my amateur personal ad respondent was in the insurance industry or perhaps sold
extended warranties. Although I was tempted to call, I didn‟t.
I think the world has two kinds of people. The planet as we know it. Our species…Homo sapiens.
Those who buy warranties and those who don‟t. Although I like the theory behind warranties, I never buy
them. The problem I have with them is a timing issue. Mechanical devices, like lawnmowers, have a
sophisticated internal clock telling them exactly when the coverage on their parts and labor expires.
Perhaps it‟s something they discuss with each other at the factory. Maybe, like birds migrating thousands
of miles, it‟s in their genetic makeup. Whatever it is, they manage to keep their act together until the
Friday after the warranty expires. Nothing mechanical ever breaks down on a Monday. It would be far
too easy to call someone to fix it. These machines aren‟t stupid. They want to do as little work as
possible.
The trouble always starts as a cough or a sputter. Invariably, a rattle develops or worse, the engine
starts missing. I don‟t mean missing like the lawnmowers you see on the sides of milk cartons. Just
missing. It‟s a mechanical term. Now, if you‟ve got a push mower, it‟s not so bad. You can just pick it
up and take it to the landfill…I mean Larry‟s Fix It Shop. For those with bigger lawns to cut, allow me to
extend my condolences.
With riding mowers, there‟s always some guy named Sonny who will come to your home, walk
slowly around your pile of metal, and, with a sidelong glance say, “What‟s the trouble?” I‟ve never
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understood why they ask that question. Trouble? Other than my lawn looking like a hayfield because my
mower died, there is no “trouble.” How should I know what the problem is? That‟s why I called you.
At this point, it‟s time for Sonny to take a break. He‟ll light up a Camel and stare at the trouble a
little. Then comes a weather prediction or possibly, “You really live way out here don‟t ya? I had a heck
of a time finding this place. I did some work for a guy that was just off 44, up by the Citgo. What was
his name? A real nice fella.” After grinding the butt into your driveway, Sonny will do one of two
things. He‟ll either remove the spark plug or peer into the carburetor. Regardless of what he does, the
diagnosis is always the same. “I see your problem. Your carburetor is all gunked up and its fouled the
spark plugs. I‟m gonna need to rebuild it. Is this thing covered under warranty?” Because my lawn has
grown an inch since Sonny showed up, I have no choice but to surrender, warranty or not.
Of the many pictures I received, one of the most memorable was of a beautiful woman, Sandi,
holding a newborn baby in her arms. My father loved to say, “You never get a second chance to make a
first impression.” It‟s a cliché, but there is truth to it. What a telling image to send.
Sandi spent a couple of paragraphs describing herself and, at the bottom of the page, finished with
this classic line:
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As I read between the lines, I concluded Sandi wanted kids. Soon. She might even own a crib.
Possibly, her nephew‟s crib was an option. Perhaps we could borrow it. When you think about it, who
really wants to own a crib? That means you‟re going to need it repeatedly. With marriage a scary enough
prospect, I couldn‟t be tempted to try Sandi, free crib or not.
Some of these women had to come from a sales background. The next writer worked in sales/PR for
the fashion business. She showed she knew how to address objections with:
I‟ve always had an “unusual” relationship with poetry. I like the idea of it. You write some words
down in no particular order just as long as they look good on the page. Even better, you can throw the
grammar rulebook away in the spirit of being “poetic.” In terms of a way to communicate something, I
don‟t get it. It seems you could say the same thing in a regular sentence. If you want to say something
romantic, why does it need to fit into the labored structures poets employ? Now if you merely want to
rhyme, I can imagine how that would be satisfying. Poets love to say clever stuff like:
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A rose lifts the day with its redolent scent
as I walk down the lane to pay the rent
I understand the appeal of rhymes. The other technical stuff is what eludes me. If you want to say
something that doesn‟t need to rhyme, why not come right out and say it? If poetry is such a great way to
communicate, why not use it in instruction manuals, or to sell beer?
I wonder how a poet would write a warning label. There‟s probably a “Warning Labels” course
taught in law school. Corporations love to hire lawyers to make up these things so our Asian litigator, I.
Sue Yu, won‟t bring a nasty liability suit. Some of these attorneys, after drinking their lunches, came up
with the following real warnings:
Sleeping Pills
Warning: May cause drowsiness
Matches
Caution: Contents may catch fire
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Microwave Oven
Do not use for drying pets
When I consider smart ways to dry my dog, a towel never enters my mind.
Despite the many labels already written, I hope starving poets will tap into this lucrative market.
Please consider the following as a model from which you can build this exciting new career:
(For a garage door opener‟s remote control battery)
Far from the purpose of its coming hither
Death lurks in the shadows with every leaden moment
Swallowing such sundry dangers
Small children will ill profit by such excess
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Feel free to steal, as I have, from Shakespeare‟s The Rape of Lucrece or any other respected
wordsmith.
One woman went with a little poetry, and I liked it.
Although she had no rhymes, and didn‟t grasp how few days full of women I‟d had, I was sad when
she stopped.
Another poet came with the following:
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I wondered about her height.
Lara started with, “Happy New Year! I don‟t like DJ‟s looks – so that‟s fine.” I wondered why she
bothered writing. She recovered somewhat by describing herself as “divinely elegant and languidly
sensual.” She closed with the following:
What a line! Maybe she was an optometrist. Clearly, this woman had experience. She listed her age
as thirty-five plus. Plus ten. She also seemed miles ahead of me. A shark on the prowl. She terrified
me. I thought, if I called her, I‟d end up fish food, or a zombie from the eye-gazing.
Another sent a short, typed and Xeroxed note addressed, “YOU HAVE FOUND HER!” She cut the
page in thirds to economize. She signed the letter and ended with the following:
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Candice worked as a costumer on films and sent a short note telling me she had two cats and wanted a
kid. Her opening grabbed me:
I called her because I hate being wasteful. My thirty-five-year-old bachelor brain was making large
adjustments just to consider marriage. When a woman, whose biological clock is ticking, puts wanting
kids in the first words she writes, I knew I‟d wilt under cross-examination.
Prosecutor:
“So, Mr. Riddle, please tell the court exactly what your intentions were with the
plaintiff.”
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Me:
“Well, I agreed to meet her with the understanding I wouldn‟t be wasteful.”
Prosecutor:
“I see. Please state for the record exactly what you didn‟t want to waste.”
Me:
“Um, well, her sexiness.”
Prosecutor:
“Her sexiness. You didn‟t want to waste her sexiness?”
Me:
“Yes, Ma‟am.”
Prosecutor:
“Are you talking about the fertile nature of a woman who seeks to bear children? Is
that what you didn‟t want to waste?”
Me:
“Well, um, not exactly.”
Prosecutor:
“Please answer either Yes or No, Mr. Riddle.”
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Me:
“No, Ma‟am”
Prosecutor:
“I see. Then what kind of sexiness are you referring to?”
Defense:
“Objection, the prosecutor is badgering the defendant.”
Judge:
“Overruled! You will answer the prosecution‟s question, Mr. Riddle.”
Me:
“All right, I admit I wasn‟t ready to start a family. I knew that‟s what she wanted,
but I needed more time. I wanted to make sure we were compatible before we started
making babies.”
Candice wasn‟t the only one coming on strong. I always thought Wendy was wearing a karate outfit.
Then, upon closer inspection, I discovered it wasn‟t a ghe after all. I‟d completely misunderstood her
picture all these years. I thought she was telling me she wanted to kick my ass. Why else would someone
send a picture of herself dressed for combat? Turns out she was wearing the kind of bathrobe you get at
the fancy spas when you‟re having your hair done. Maybe she planned to do battle with her split ends.
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It‟s amazing how such a little detail made a huge difference in how I perceived her. Talk about getting
the wrong impression.
Wendy‟s look seemed quite serious for someone having a beauty day. With sharp hooks for
eyebrows and a penetrating stare, her thin lips neither smiled nor frowned. Perhaps she felt undecided
about her new haircut. Her picture seemed to be saying, “I‟ve had about all the crap I can handle. If
you‟re not serious, step aside.”
The feeling from her monogrammed and embossed card was completely different.
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It makes me wonder what might have been had she sent a different picture or gone to a salon with a
different robe.
It always surprised me what women chose to say in their letters to me. Many used pickup lines you
might hear if you were in a bar. Their directness surprised me. One woman, who worked for the Hyatt
Hotel in Washington D.C., sent a Xerox picture that bore, I thought, a striking resemblance to the singer
formerly known as Prince.
My eyes seemed to miss most of the paragraph except being interested in a “sexually aggressive
energetically romantic man.” Now, if I just met Prince in a bar and he told me he wanted that, I‟d think
he was just after me for my body. Well, I suppose that might work if we weren‟t both guys. All right,
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maybe it would work for Prince. I have no idea what he‟s into or even if he‟s still called Prince. I seem
to recall he changed his name to “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince.”
I loved that paragraph in her letter. It was full of such wonder and promise. For example, what
would an “energetically romantic” man need to do to show he was energetic? Sweep her off her feet?
Whisk her away in a horse-drawn carriage? Skip ahead of her throwing rose petals on the ground?
What I didn‟t understand is how someone who wanted sex morning noon and night would settle for a
few giggles from time to time. In the absence of a spreadsheet, let‟s break it down:
Constant Sex
A Few Giggles
Do they seem like they are remotely close to each other? I didn‟t call Prince for several reasons. This
woman really looked like the singer and he‟s just not my type. She lived in Washington. I‟d commuted
for love once before and knew it was dicey. I suppose those problems aren‟t as big as one other thing I
neglected to mention. Her picture wasn‟t merely creepy because of the Prince element. She had a
starburst over her head, rays of toner reflecting outward like beams of light. I recognized it from my
History of Art classes. Middle Age paintings of the Madonna showed her piety the same way. I had no
idea how she did it. Should I frame the picture and make it into a shrine? The Xerox version of the
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Shroud of Turin? Dating Prince and Madonna at the same time? Perhaps if Prince looked more like
Madonna.
One woman, who chose to remain nameless, brought caution to the next level. Her photo was so
small I believe she used microfilm. To be certain I‟d never drive to Garrison, New York and track her
down, she borrowed a friend‟s P.O. Box. Or so she said. I wasn‟t aware P.O. Boxes were so scarce in
Garrison, much less that people loaned them to friends. She typed her letter, of course, lest I recognize
her handwriting. In what must have been a wild and reckless moment for her, she included her phone
number. I called it several hundred times and left messages. How could I resist someone who enjoyed:
At least we wouldn‟t be fighting about that. The question of who gets the remote, though, could be a
much thornier issue.
The woman in the next letter didn‟t want to get into a discussion about academic credentials:
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She ended with a question I‟ve been haunted by for years.
Evidently, Miami Vice wasn‟t big in Hicksville, NY. I had no idea how to respond. Did it matter?
I loved this woman‟s beautiful script. She was an artist with a gift for words:
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She offered “support, nurturing, tenderness, good loving, and empowerment.” Sadly, this was
another woman to fall into the “What was wrong with her?” category.
Occasionally, I came across a letter from a woman with such rare insight that it caught me off guard.
This woman had a unique perspective:
I believe, until now, “brilliant” is a word that has missed falling off the lips of women seeking to
describe me. I guess there‟s a first time for everything.
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Sometimes, just a flash of wit or humor carried the day. The doctor who sent this must have learned
the location of the funny bone in medical school.
After attaching a microscopic picture of herself, she added:
I liked her style and called her. The phone call was an uncomfortable tug of war and things never
went any farther. Ever since I found myself a hormonally overloaded teenager, I‟ve worked to discover
what attracted the opposite sex. My track record, while marginal, is nonetheless broad. What I concluded
is, clever lines on paper don‟t do as well as a sense of humor and full plate of sincerity.
Even humor is a hard thing to nail on a small piece of paper. One woman, trying for levity, came up
with this:
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It‟s hard to stay optimistic in the search for love. There are many discouraging moments. Many
women spoke of the need for chemistry. It may well be the most important element.
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Chapter 10 – Naked City Chemistry
“There are eight million stories in the naked city.” That line came from an old TV detective series,
coincidentally titled, Naked City. I thought the number might be on the high side, though it‟s possible
some New York residents had more than one story to tell. I wondered if some cities had no stories to tell,
like Las Vegas.
Jennifer had a story. That leaves 7,999,999 to go. Her story began as follows:
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I love her irreverent and insightful opening line. She was an architect and used a pencil on grid paper.
Her lettering both drew me in and differentiated her. She continued:
Jennifer said she was new to the Big Apple and found the social scene interesting but strange. I felt
the same way. Perhaps she had the same trouble I did tuning into the right dating frequency. She didn‟t
include a picture with the letter, but I called her and our conversation flowed easily.
When she sent her picture, she included the following note:
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Her frustration showed. For some reason, of all the lovely backdrops in a city as beautiful as New
York, she chose her bathroom, featuring a pink and black chevroned shower curtain, and the usual sink
and toilet.
Her look went well beyond “somewhat disgusted.” She had the countenance of a night shift cab
driver who‟d finally gotten to sleep only to be awakened by a couple of fresh-faced religious zealots
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canvassing for heathens. A stare so withering a charging pit bull would balk. Despite our initial easy
conversation, she seemed mad at me for asking for her picture. I was disappointed and never called
again. I wonder if things might have been different had she smiled.
Chemistry is so important. It provides some high school teachers with a livelihood and way to torture
students. It also plays a big part in how two people respond to each other. With daters, there are two
types of chemistry. Physical and mental. Physical chemistry is the hurdle I need to clear in order to
discover if there is mental rapport.
Cathleen could have helped Jennifer with photocomposition. She chose the balcony of a beachside
resort with sand dunes and the ocean in the background. She also wrote one of the most thoughtful and
engaging letters I received. Nearly three pages, it began with:
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“…added depth to the meaning of the word shallow!” With a line like that, she should be a writer, if
she wasn‟t already. Just how deeply shallow was I? Farther on she wrote:
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This woman was witty, well spoken, sensible, sincere, and said her first passion was sexy lingerie.
She went on to say:
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Like Cathleen, life is full of surprises. There are times when you do things you may not want to,
because the situation calls for it. In the early 80s, I dated a playful woman, Annette. With sandy blonde
hair, pouty lips, and radiant smile, she belonged on a Vargas calendar. Annette was one of those rare
women who were unafraid of their sexuality.
We rented a house on Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. Located in Little Carrot Bay, the Cook
family owned it and lived next door. I‟m not daring when it comes to trying unusual food, but I do have a
knack for charming the chef. Mrs. Cook looked like she walked off the front of a pancake mix box. She
was as likely to wear a kerchief over her corn rowed hair, as sport a ten-gallon straw hat. Her sweet
maternal nature made you feel a part of the family from the first friendly greeting. I knew she‟d be
feeding us for the week so I told her how much I enjoyed her cooking at the first meal and every time we
ate. She beamed and offered me extra helpings of her savory Caribbean dishes. She had a way with
chicken, rice, and vegetables. Coconut pie was her specialty. As the week progressed, so did my
portions. I couldn‟t believe my luck. I was in paradise with a beautiful woman and eating like royalty.
On Friday, after six days of feasting, Annette and I went to Mrs. Cook‟s for dinner at five o‟clock.
Our wonderful chef smiled and told us she prepared a special treat for us. She brought a bowl so large, it
looked like a serving dish, but she placed it in front of me. I saw a suspicious solid mass in the middle.
Her soup had onions, carrots and spices floating around like the waters of a moat protecting a bony
palace. I looked at Annette with a pained expression. My appetite gone, I said to Mrs. Cook, “This looks
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interesting, what are we having?” She said, beaming brighter than ever, “Ohh, today eez Friday, me
child. You ore een look. I‟ve made you one of me favorits…ox foot soup.”
I scanned the hoof and the thick black hairs covering the beast‟s ankle. Had this been a horse, I‟d
have checked for the shoe. I downed the beer I brought over, wishing for something stronger, and slowly
waded into the soup. It was the longest meal I ever had. Spoonful by spoonful, I watched the level
slowly drop. It seemed like an hour before I saw the pattern on the bottom of the bowl. With the last
drops swallowed, I felt I‟d survived a visit to gastronomic purgatory. To reward myself, I went back to
our rental to retrieve another beer. While I was gone, Annette told Mrs. Cook how hungry I was and,
when I returned a few minutes later, discovered I had an even fuller bowl of the same dreadful soup.
Love is different than dining. The consequences of doing something because it would be the polite
thing to do are greater. Cathleen was a beautiful woman and, perhaps I should have asked her out. I
could tell, by her letter, we might have mental chemistry. As much as I wished the physical chemistry
were there, it wasn‟t. Unlike Mrs. Cook‟s soup, I passed on experiencing Cathleen.
The women who included a copy of their own personal ad intrigued me. I received one such note
“From the Desk of…Dr. Sarah Lehman.” Her ad went as follows:
The Woman You Wish You Had Met
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Lady doctor, an exotic/striking beauty,
5‟3”, slim, Jewish, bright, open, creative,
playful. Seeks authentic kindred equal,
30 to mid-40‟s, happy, successful, enjoys
his work. Bio/photo. NYM E000.
She began with:
Near the end, she wrote:
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I reread her ad looking for something that spoke to me. I wondered what kind of replies she got.
From her Xeroxed picture, she looked a lot like Marlo Thomas. Despite the appeal I‟m sure she had with
some, her ad and note didn‟t resonate with me, and I never responded.
A few wrote such captivating letters, I called, even though they hadn‟t included a picture. One of
these was Cheryl. Her opening was full of confidence and wit. She began with:
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This woman might have missed her calling if she wasn‟t writing copy for a Madison Avenue ad
agency.
So she was a writer! After further describing herself, she finished with:
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I considered calling the maitre d‟ to check her reference but called Cheryl instead. Sometimes you
have conversations that feel like you‟re flailing about trying to strike a piñata. Swinging and swinging
trying to make contact. She said, “It‟s the chemistry between two people that really counts.” I hung up
wishing we had a natural flow and easy banter but we didn‟t. I kept looking for the chemistry.
Another opening that caught my eye:
After more description, she closed with:
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While I did like what she said, I found little in the letter to latch onto. Perhaps she was an appetizerlike person. After my months of loneliness in New York, I was looking for the full course meal.
By now, I had an idea what appealed to me. When a woman opened her letter with a sentence like:
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I was reluctant to go any further, regardless of how perfectly I‟d described her. There must be hope.
Yes, love can be elusive, but many have found it. I wanted to believe there was a special woman, a
soulmate with whom I‟d feel chemistry. I thought, if I kept searching, I‟d find her.
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Chapter 11 – Dating Debacles
I‟ve never considered myself a wine connoisseur. While I enjoy a tasty glass of the grape, my palate isn‟t
refined enough to differentiate between twenty and fifty-dollar bottles of wine. Aficionados like to pour a
thimbleful in a snifter the size of a goldfish bowl, grab the stem with two fingers, and swirl it around. It‟s
as though the glass contains toxic waste they‟re trying to avoid. After that, they sniff the delicate bouquet
and take a sip small enough to appease the Woman‟s Temperance League. Finally, they spit it out like
some sort of expensive mouthwash. Talk about a buzz kill.
I visited a snooty vineyard in California with a woman who knew much more about wine than I did.
Everything went well at the first. A tall curly-haired blonde chap, whose English accent sounded like he
learned it in acting school, gave us the free tour. At one point, before I got my oar in the water on the
subject, some guest made the mistake of asking about the vineyard‟s champagne. Obviously, he just fell
off a turnip truck. I thought he looked familiar. The tour guide set him straight saying, “I‟m afraid we
don‟t make champagne here in California. Champagne can only come from one place, the Champagne
Region in France. What we make here is sparkling wine made with the méthode champonaise.” That
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means they mix it with mayonnaise. Even I felt like an idiot being on the tour at that point. I knew I was
nowhere near sophisticated enough for my lofty guide.
To brighten our spirits, my friend and I left the tour and visited their outside tasting area. Maybe
there we could blend in with the oenophiles without attracting too much attention. We sat off to the side
at one of their café tables, just happy to be near the well-heeled sophisticates. Along with the birds, rustle
of leaves and clinking of wine glasses, I detected an out-of-place noise. While people weren‟t retching
into their wine buckets, it did sound frenzied. I put down the atlas-sized menu to peer behind me.
At first, my eyes failed to register what they were seeing. There was a tangle of arms and legs like
you might find in a drunken version of Twister. A couple which really knew their wines had begun
exploring every intimate nook and cranny they each possessed. I‟m not talking about some teenage
petting here. No. Far from it. They had their hands not over but under each other‟s clothes. Both of
them. Their mouths were sucking like Hoovers at a vacuum convention. Tongues licking ears, cheeks,
eyes, noses, necks, cleavage. It was as though we‟d magically gone to the Land of No Inhibitions. How
was I to guess this “classy” vineyard had a Jekyll and Hyde personality? By day, it hosted proper wine
sophisticates turning their noses up at the oaky aroma of high priced wines. At Happy Hour, it became an
unrestrained romper room for the hot and steamy passions of well-heeled but shameless sluts. I told our
server, “I‟d like to order a case of whatever they‟re having.”
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Karen had black shoulder length hair, sultry brown eyes, and a wry smile. Tennis, skiing, and travel
were interests women commonly mentioned. Karen added, “long walks on the beach.” That was another
favorite pastime. I wondered how long the walks needed to be. No one ever mentioned liking, “short
walks on the beach.” What was it about the distance? Did they get something, after five miles, which
they missed in the first thousand yards, like sunburn?
She told me on the phone she loved wine. We agreed to meet at a trendy wine bar in midtown. As I
waited for her, I thought about the couple from the vineyard, trying to remember what they ordered. I
scanned the wine list but nothing looked familiar. Finally, Karen arrived, with her roommate. Did I need
to pass inspection before getting permission to proceed further? It wasn‟t as though I asked her to meet
me under a bridge in the meat-packing district. Did we need a chaperone? Her roomate said she was, “on
her way out and thought she‟d stop by and say hello.” On a first date? I wondered if Karen‟s parents
would be joining us for the dessert wines.
Karen and her roommate both had the same name. I know. What are the odds? In a way, it
simplified matters because I only had one name to remember. The downside was, every time I said, “So
Karen, how do you like New York?” or some such thing, they both looked at me and gave a “this happens
a lot” giggle. I needed wine to help slaughter some brain cells. Despite my predicament, I ordered a
bottle of expensive Cabernet Sauvignon. I still remember the vintage. Jordan 1978. It was pricey. The
waiter had the affectation some people get when they discover how few of us meet their lofty standards.
He brought the bottle and showed it to me. I think he was making sure I trusted him. He did seem on the
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smarmy side. Would he try switching bottles to an inferior wine, just to see if I knew the difference? I
made a note to keep an eye on him.
After I assured him he brought the right wine, he sliced the foil away and opened the bottle. When he
pulled out the cork, it made a faint pop. I was disappointed. After years in the bottle and all of this
ceremony, I want the noise to be loud, like opening a bottle of sparkling wine made with méthode
champonaise. Sorry. Just a wee li‟l pop. He recommended we allow the wine to breathe before drinking
it. All that time in the bottle and now I had to wait? What could I say?
After a few eons, he returned and poured a splash into my glass. I grabbed the stem and swirled it
around, in case it was radioactive. I took a swallow and told him it was fine. He gave me a
condescending look, poured the Karens each a glass, and added to my own. So here we all are. One big
happy family. Just as I was going to toast the occasion, Karen #1, my date, asked the waiter for a glass of
ice. He said, “Do you mean ice water?” What a question. I detected a faint look of concern but, not
wanting ice to get in the way of a good tip, he brought it promptly. I was going to be collecting Social
Security if it took any longer to enjoy the wine. Before I could toast anyone or anything, Karen #1
plopped a handful of cubes in her wine. She looked at me and said, “I always drink my wine chilled.”
The waiter called his therapist.
Here‟s to living long enough to enjoy all the good life has to offer.
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***
Sue sounded normal when I called in reply to her letter. A former competitive swimmer, she worked
in advertising and loved keeping fit. Her picture bore testament to the hours she spent in the gym. Clad
in a mint green tank top with white shorts, she could‟ve hosted a TV exercise show.
I find it hard to meet women in fitness centers. Maybe their guards are up from men hitting on them
so much. I was relieved I wouldn‟t have to think up some fitness-related banter like, “I‟m trying to get
my body fat down to six percent. Do you think Thigh Master would help?” or, “Would my couch be a
good place for some high intensity reps?”
While I‟m all for keeping fit, I think many gym rats take things way too seriously. Especially their
deltoids. What a great name for a Motown group. The Deltoids. I‟d go see them. I could also imagine a
tropical paradise named that. Maybe some exotic island off the coast of Africa. “Oh yes, Joe and I just
got back from two weeks in the Deltoids. I told him to wear sunscreen, but he wouldn‟t listen so, of
course, he burned. We loved it, though, and we‟re going back next year when it isn‟t so sunny.”
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I watched a show called The Man Whose Arms Exploded. It was about a man, Gregg Valantino,
who‟d gotten his biceps to be a whopping twenty-eight inches around. Gregg worked his biceps to the
point where they looked like flesh-covered turkeys. They were the size of a woman‟s waist. I got tired
just thinking about lugging them around. He said, ever since he was a small boy, he admired Popeye.
No, that was the man with the exploding forearms. In any case, the show was to help people like me,
with biceps the size of avocados, learn from his mistakes. If you don‟t want your biceps to explode, stay
away from those twenty-four hour gyms and the sixteen-hour iron-pumping marathons. It‟s unhealthy. I
was grateful to get this message, lest I reorder my life to do exactly that. Thank God for responsible
journalism.
Sue and I agreed to meet at a restaurant/bar near her work. Far from the trendy watering holes on the
upper west side, the place looked like it had been around since the natives traded beads with the British.
It had a high tin ceiling, dark mahogany bar, linen tablecloths, and sawdust on the black and white tiled
floor. I don‟t understand why sawdust creates atmosphere, but it does. I knew I needn‟t worry if I had an
oil spill because they thoughtfully anticipated that.
I didn‟t see her at first. She was sitting at the bar with a gaggle of men hanging on her every twitch.
When I approached, she turned as though she recognized me. The guys gave me a look the tax assessor
gets when showing up at your door. I saw why she attracted a crowd. Sue looked like she spent many
hours a week shaping, buffing, toning, sculpting, and otherwise perfecting her torso. Unlike Gregg, she
didn‟t seem ready to explode, but her low, sexy voice drew me in. She was the perfect mix of curves and
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cleavage. I could tell everyone enjoyed her company. I ordered a Shirley Temple and suggested a table
far from the fray.
Her red slinky frock and black four-inch heels were the perfect counterpoint to her mildly masculine
physique. When I complimented her on the dress, she told me a company called Climax made it. Good
name, I thought. I was thankful for the sawdust as I followed her to our table. I hoped it would soak up
the drool dripping from my chin. Her hypnotic walk was only slightly more decent than the lascivious
thoughts I had from behind her.
As we sat and talked, it was clear she was the puppeteer and I the puppet. If she was a religion, call
me converted. I imagined a sea of beefcake guys parting as she walked to her gym‟s free weights.
“Would anyone care to spot for me? All ten of you? You‟ll do Trevor. Come with me.”
Libraries are full of books about subliminal communication. They describe body language as a way
to help you better read someone. For example, if your arms are crossed, and you‟re not in a straight
jacket, it means you‟re unreceptive to communication. While I‟m no expert on the matter, I sensed Sue
was subtly telling me she was interested. No, it wasn‟t the large kielbasa she admired on the menu. It
was the way she grabbed the stem of the cherry and slowly slid it up and down the rocks in her tequila
sunrise. She‟d pull it out, suck the liquid off, and put it back in her drink. At one point, she let it drop to
the bottom, fished it out with her fingers, and put them in her mouth. I don‟t remember our conversation.
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Even if I did, what difference would it make? I wondered if our uniformed waiter performed marriage
ceremonies.
Sue touched me while we were talking. My arm, my hand, even brushing against my leg from time to
time. I scanned the bar to see if they sold bottled oxygen. We stayed for dinner and the seduction
continued. “I‟ll have the bird‟s nest soup, oysters, and a cold shower please. No, let‟s skip the dinner.
Can I get a banana split, TO GO?”
I was sure, after we finished eating, this was to be my lucky night. Mysteriously, after two hours of
gliding through one green light after another, the signal turned red. How could this be? Had cupid taken
leave of his senses? What about the cherry dipping and body language? Doesn‟t that count for anything?
Apparently, in the manual on dating, Sue read the chapter on sending mixed signals but skipped the one
on delivering the goods. All that came from my date with her was a hard-lipped peck and “Thanks, it was
fun.” Fun for whom? I must have missed the chapter on man-eaters playing with their food. Perhaps,
after such a build-up, anything would have been anticlimactic. Still, I was open to her using me and
casting me aside like another notch on her bedpost, if she had any notches.
***
Mona was an art director whose company did fashion and album cover design. In her letter, she
enclosed a picture of herself with five other people. I liked that she wrote, I‟m the brunette, except all the
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guys were brunettes, too. I couldn‟t figure out what they were doing together when I first got the picture
and still can‟t today. Half of them are serious, and half are goofing around. Mona was one of the serious
ones. Her arms were crossed and she leaned into someone wearing glasses perched on a nose so large,
the rest of his face disappeared. She wore a sultry “I can have any man I want” expression.
Our conversation went well on the phone, and she seemed eager to meet in person. Her interest in
reading, skiing, and travel meshed with my own. We arranged to have dinner at a Mexican restaurant
around the corner from my Upper West Side apartment. I was pleased she wanted to come all the way
across town to meet me and hoped she left her friends on the East Side.
Mona looked as good in person as she did in her picture, possibly better. Her choice of a white
business suit, while elegant and attractive, seemed unusual for a date at a Mexican eatery in February.
Nonetheless, who was I to complain? Mona, however, had complaining down to an art. Stirred in with
the margaritas was a steady stream of whining. “It took me forever to find a cab.” “My boss has no
business running his own company.” “This salsa is watery.” “My roommate is such a slob, I‟m going to
have to get my own place.” I was tempted to tell the waiter, “I‟ll have the carne asada and a gag for my
date, please.” I thought shots of Cuervo might impair my hearing, so I let „em tumble.
She peppered me with questions. Where was I from? What had I done? What was my family like?
Mona seemed to yearn for the details of my life. At first, I was relieved to take a detour from the bitch
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session but it made me uncomfortable when she seemed to be prying. Was this the Big Apple version of
the Grand Inquisition?
Years ago, Ralph Edwards hosted a show called This is Your Life. He trotted out dusty old celebrities
and sat them in a chair in front of a live TV audience. If Ralph happened to snag a guest, like Henry VIII,
his staff gathered as many of his wives as possible, threw in a few knights and even some serfs. Then
Ralph brought them out one by one to tell the world the story of Henry from their point of view.
I had the chance to catch up with Henry recently and it wasn‟t on Ralph‟s show. Charles Laughton
portrayed him in the 1933 film, The Private Life of Henry VIII. They save these meaty classics for
insomniacs. The movie was well under way when I tuned in. Some woman, with a “B” pendant around
her neck, was standing with a few close friends. My European history is rusty but I‟m going with Anne
Boleyn in our category, Queens of Yesteryear. No one seemed to know what to say. Finally, Anne said,
“Is it time yet?”
Tuning in with only this to go on, you can see how there‟d be a world of possibilities. She didn‟t
look pregnant, so I ruled that out. Without an apron, I wasn‟t worried about the goose overcooking. A
wedding? She looked pleasant in all other respects but was missing the bridal glow. Her dress was
impeccable and hair done to the nines. Scratch beauty parlor from the list. Time for what? A trip?
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Then someone answered, “It‟s time.” I was sure I‟d finally learn what time it was but they went to a
scene with Henry flirting with some young damsel. Brittany, I think. No. He was planning on going to
war for that. Wasn‟t he? I warned you, I‟m rusty. He planned to marry this vixen. Tiffany? No. That
was his jeweler. After a bit of cooing, they cut to a guy banging on some structure in the castle‟s
courtyard. He looked serf-like and swung a mean hammer. Back to Henry and…Mary? No. She was
the Queen of Scots. The femme fatale wanted to know whether to wear the pearls or diamonds.
Decisions, decisions. Henry said, “Pearls for a pearl!” What a wit. I was impressed with how masterful
people were at sucking up to Henry. This could serve as a training film for partner wannabes.
Returning to Anne. Now she‟s standing on the wooden platform in the courtyard which looks
suspiciously like a gallows. Possibly, it was the three large black-hooded men with swords. Anne‟s
travel plans seem like they‟ll be cut short. She gazes skyward and says, “What a beautiful day.” Wow.
Is she in denial or what? If I were in her boots, I think other phrases would be more apt to fall from my
lips. Like, “I believe you have mistaken me for my twin sister, Ann, without the „e‟. Don‟t worry, it
happens all the time.”
The scene changed to one with Henry and Antoinette. That has to be her name. Then, there was a
noise, as if someone opened a bottle of ale. Just a little pop. No impassioned plea for mercy. No scuffle
on the gallows. No blood-curdling wail. No roar from the crowd. They didn‟t even show the severed
head. As executions go, it was a tremendous disappointment. I was, however, pleased to note the
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remarkable similarity between the guards Henry had and those from the Wizard of Oz. It was uncanny. I
guess Anne won‟t be making an appearance on This Is Your Life, after all.
With all her questions, I wondered if Mona planned to revive the show. When she had most of my
life history, she launched into the details of her own. I‟m not talking about the usual stuff you reveal on a
first date. She said she liked to shoplift from department stores and Bloomingdales was her favorite
target. When I arched my brows, she really spilled the beans. Among her other criminal
accomplishments was breaking into the audio shop in her hometown and grabbing a carload of stereo
equipment. When I asked how she got in, she smiled and said, “Through a skylight.” She didn‟t look big
enough to carry off such a caper and, even if she was, why tell me?
I checked my wallet. At this point, her previous whining began to sound good to me. I wondered if
she had multiple personalities. I didn‟t care if she harbored a stripper inside her. My head pounded from
Mona‟s onslaught, and I said goodbye, glad I was only a few blocks from home.
Nine months later, I was finishing lunch at a Chinese restaurant when an attractive woman tapped me
on the shoulder. She acted as if she knew me. She was so alluring that, despite not knowing her, I
couldn‟t make myself say so. I‟m often mistaken for someone else so I‟m not surprised when it happens.
She knew my name, though, and told me hers, but it didn‟t register. Then she mentioned some details of
my life. I stared at her in disbelief. How did she know my birthday? Had Miss Cleo gotten a makeover?
She knew where I grew up, the schools I attended, and even my dog Scylla‟s name. Try to imagine a
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stranger walking up to you and knowing you hate lima beans and taught skiing. Despite my outward
calm, it totally unnerved me. I looked at her again. Her name was Mona but she looked nothing like the
Mona I dated. Remarkably, this was the new and even weirder Mona. A real life Stephen King moment.
She‟d been in a car crash on the interstate, and her face smashed the windshield. The doctors had done an
amazing job reconstructing it. She was still a stunning woman but bore little resemblance to the way she
once looked. I smiled politely, but inside I was totally freaking out. I sipped some water while I gathered
my composure. After regaining my wits, I told her it was nice seeing her again, excused myself, and
trembled out the door.
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Chapter 12- Amateur Hour
Could I find any of these women after twenty-one years? Perhaps, with the help of the Internet. The
majority of respondents only gave their first name. When I found someone with a first and last name, I
tried my chances online. I lucked out when I found an ad for an oncologist placed by a medical recruiter
named Jolie Arundal.
In 1987, Jolie wrote me a thoughtful letter and enclosed her picture and business card. Her
professionally shot photo said a lot about her. She looked pretty, elegant and savvy. Like a star recruit
for a job posting, I‟m sure she made a great first impression. I imagined her saying, “Yes, the thing I like
most about our industry is the dynamic people I‟ve gotten to work with. I‟m always learning something
new.” I still wonder why I didn‟t respond to her letter. After twenty-one years, I could only guess.
I thought of sending her a letter apologizing for my tardy reply, but I‟m more of an instant
gratification type. On a whim, I called her. She answered the phone and I said,
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“Hi Jolie, My name is Bill Riddle and I‟m replying to your letter dated January 7, 1987.”
“Which ad are you responding to?”
“I‟m not calling about a job. You sent me a letter in 1987 and I‟m just now answering it.”
“You mean 1997?”
“No, you sent me a wonderful letter back in 1987 in reply to a personal ad I placed in New York
Magazine.”
She laughed, I‟m sure out of disbelief as much as anything. She was in the middle of working out
and asked if she could call me later. I believed she would. After all, how many people call in reply to a
letter sent twenty-one years ago? I was certain this was the first one Jolie had gotten all week.
True to her word, she called back. I expected we would reminisce about the 1980s in New York and
talk about each of our lives since then. Nope. She thought I‟d called to explore a possible relationship. I
guess that made sense. At least, it would in Hollywood. But this was New York. Unfortunately, the
prior twenty-one years had been painful for Jolie. So painful, she didn‟t want to discuss them. I had to
respect her wishes.
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Jolie told me she ran a number of personal ads in New York Magazine, as well as responding to mine.
In her typewritten letter from 1987, she included the following ad that ran weeks before mine:
For The Selective Man Only – Serious about
getting serious? Ready for intimacy on all levels,
eventual commitment/marriage? I‟m a woman
who is 38 (looks 28) head-turner, entrepreneur,
5‟5”, slim, ambitious yet tender, empathetic,
self-confident yet vulnerable, multi-faceted,
eclectic interests, vivacious Jewish, non-religious,
non-smoker, Manhattanite, sincere, warm, open,
caring, highly affectionate/sensual accommodating,
responsive to your needs/feelings, articulate, free
and expressive with her feelings, perceptive, bright,
witty and never married. If you can reciprocate and
appreciate a woman who has a great deal to give and
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share, please send letter/phone. Photo appreciated.
I wished I could take away those twenty-one painful years for her. She seemed like a lovely woman.
My experience with Jolie gave me pause. I certainly didn‟t want to open a painful chapter in
anyone‟s life. I was surprised my call did. I was sure someone would react the way I would, were the
situation reversed.
“Hello, is this Bill?”
“Is this the Psychics Benevolent Fund again? You ought to know I spent all I can this month. Don‟t
your psychic powers tell you that?”
“No, this is Randi Behavior. You probably don‟t remember me, but you replied to a personal ad I
placed in New York Magazine in 1987. I‟m writing a book about my experience, and I‟m calling to see
what you‟ve been doing since you answered my ad.”
“I wondered when you were going to get back to me, Randi. Do you have any idea how hard it‟s
been to keep the same phone number the last twenty-one years?”
“Well, I‟m glad to reach you. It has been a long time. What‟ve you been up to?”
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“Up to? Me? Oh, nothing particular. I took the dog out a few times and, one night, ate an entire bag
of barbecued chips all by myself.”
“I have your letter in front of me, along with an interesting picture of you. Were you incarcerated
when it was taken?”
“Incarcerated? What picture did I send you?”
“You look like you‟re wearing a prison uniform.”
“Ah. That was probably laundry day. When did you say your ad ran again?”
“January, 1987”
“Yeah, that‟s right. They paroled me in November of eighty-six. So why didn‟t you get in touch
before now, Randi?”
“Randi?”
“Hello?”
I did the simplest search possible given my limited knowledge of how super snoops locate their
quarry. That meant putting everyone‟s phone number in a reverse directory and seeing what came up. I
didn‟t expect to find a single person this way. After all, my phone number had changed so many times, I
couldn‟t remember half of them.
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I was amazed when sixteen had the same number after twenty-one years. Despite my elation, I knew
I could just as easily find happiness as sadness. I wondered if reaching these women might be sad and
depressing. Would I hear painful stories of broken hearts? Hapless women crushed under the weight of
the concrete jungle? Bitterness and resentment? This might create a bonanza for the therapists working
Manhattan‟s unhappy humanity. Perhaps that would be too much.
Plan B. I reined in the impulsive instant-gratification side of me in favor of a more considerate, and
time-consuming approach. I decided to write them. After all, one good letter deserves another, even if
my reply was slow in arriving. I sent the following to the women I was able to find:
Dear Laura,
I‟m writing a book and hoping I can include you in it. The book is called 95 Chances For
Love. It‟s about looking for love twenty-one years ago. I‟m sure you don‟t recall answering the
personal ad I placed in New York Magazine in 1987. Despite numerous moves over the years, I
saved your letter and ninety-four others. Please forgive my tardy reply.
While we never ended up together, we each have an interesting story to tell about that time in
our lives. What we were doing, how we sought love in a city the size of Manhattan. Despite the
huge number of women in New York, I found it hard to meet someone.
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Our world was so different when you answered my ad. Personal computers were just
catching on. The Internet was off in the future. People took the time to write letters with pen and
paper.
Was the ad successful? You‟ll have to buy the book to find out. No, just kidding. I suppose
it was successful in some ways. In case you were wondering what my ad said, I‟ve included it
here:
Don Johnson Has My Looks- But not
my mind. Ivy-educated, successful,
sincere young 35-year-old, entrepreneur
who loves candlelight, tenderness and
passion seeks meaningful relationship
with elegant, sensual lady who is slim,
tall, self-aware, bright, loving and very
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pretty. Photo, please. NYM A115.
Don Johnson and I have aged in twenty-one years, though Miami Vice is now making a
comeback in reruns. Laura, I hope you can be a part of my book. If you‟re comfortable with it,
let‟s open a dialog and see where things go. If you aren‟t, I understand. I don‟t mean to intrude.
In either case, I wish you happiness in your life.
Sincerely,
Bill Riddle
In the letter, I included my phone number, address, and email. It would be easy for them to contact
me. I thought a letter would give them a chance to collect their thoughts and, perhaps, call an attorney or
grief counselor. Then they could make the rational decision to move and leave no forwarding address.
There had to be someone with an interesting story to tell. Possibly a heartwarming anecdote about
her release from the asylum early enough to spend Mother‟s Day with her nine children. Twenty-one
years later, I again looked forward to what the mail would deliver me.
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Chapter 13 - Digging Deeper
I felt optimistic some of the women I wrote would respond to me. I thought they might be curious to
speak with someone who saved their letter for so many years. Perhaps the image of someone living in a
home filled with decades of correspondence wasn‟t as compelling as I believed.
A few years ago, I went to a Christmas party held by a couple of hoarders. I suppose you could
consider them collectors whose collections took over their home. Narrow walkways led to places like the
kitchen, bathroom, and front door. In some rooms, the array went all the way to the ceiling. Still others
had floor space taken up with shelving units, leaving only constricted pathways between them.
I wasn‟t sure what to make of it all. The home was modest and yet the owners filled it with thousands
of items. I thought they might know something I didn‟t. Possibly, there was going to be a run on
ashtrays from all fifty states. Maybe, the market for themed bottle stoppers was about to skyrocket. They
had an affinity for cat collectibles finding space for a wide assortment in this category. Cat shaped soaps,
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expensive cat art, cat clocks with the moving tail and eyes, leaning porcelain figurines, even plush cat
chairs with wrap-around tails. What grouping would be complete without puss „n boots dressed in little
buccaneer‟s outfits? I was disappointed not to find a Jaguar, Lynx or Cougar in the garage nor did I find
signs of an real housecat. They must be slipping.
There was an entire room devoted to items of a more sexual nature. A sign on the door warned guests
who might be offended to turn around before it was too late. The home version of television‟s “Viewer
Discretion Advised.” How could anyone pass up such an invitation? These weren‟t items likely to be
found at your Adult superstore, like Uncle Harry‟s blow-up date. They were a mix of schlock, erotica,
campy and bizarre. My favorite was the bolt chasing the nut mounted on a wooden base with the line,
“Not without a washer.”
Traffic flow among the guests was a mix of obstacle course and right-of-way deliberations.
Fortunately, the home‟s owner was an attorney, so guests could settle serious issues out of court. Besides,
there was no room for fisticuffs.
Just because I had, their letter didn‟t mean they wanted to hear back from me after all this time. After
my experience with Jolie Arundal, I was more hesitant about opening Pandora‟s box. I understood some
of these women might have found frustration and heartache in their searches. They may have never fallen
in love. I was prepared to have the door (or phone) slammed in my face a few times in my journey to
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discover who found love and how they did it. That said, I didn‟t want to awaken painful memories.
Although it was risky, I believed there must be rewarding stories of love and happiness.
Voice mail. The modern iteration of the answering machine. Back in the 1980s, you could spend
hours recording and rerecording your greeting on a tape machine. Closet DJs could use their best
announcer voices to sound to a caller like they reached a radio station. Those who were shy could buy a
prerecorded tape to sound like their favorite celebrity. You might hear, to the background music of Polk
Salad Annie, “This is Elvis. I‟m at the drugstore, but I expect to return real soon. Leave a message, and
don‟t be cruel.” Of course, the best feature of these machines was being able to listen to the message
while the caller was leaving it. Then you could decide, after the first ten to fifteen seconds, whether they
were coherent enough to carry on a conversation.
Unfortunately, voice mail has destroyed much of the fabric of our call-answering world. That is, if
you‟re able to retrieve the message. I used to marvel at the way my cell phone‟s brain decided which
messages I should receive. It took me some time to decipher the criteria it chose. For a while, I suspected
it had something to do with the caller‟s voice. Did they sound tentative? Did they want to leave a
message? Was it important?
After a few years, I learned the messages my phone chose to lose were the ones causing the greatest
economic impact. Radio stations calling to tell me I‟ve won the mega yacht, and all I have to do is call
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within the next six months to claim it. I don‟t blame the technology. I‟m sure it‟s a matter of my phone‟s
laziness, indifference, or not being in the mood to take the call.
In 1987, Adriana sent me a headshot from her days in the Screen Actors Guild. She looked like a
young Lauren Bacall, with the proud forehead, high cheekbones and full lips of the 1940s starlet. She had
depth. You could see something in her eyes, some knowledge, and experience. She struck me as the kind
of woman who‟d send back an overcooked burger.
Adriana was a writer and had seen some of life. When I called to follow-up on my recent letter, I
wondered what her voice would sound like. I got a greeting made by a computer. I don‟t mind some
computer dialog in my life from time to time. My car has a navigation system that, I believe, uses the
original mapping from Lewis and Clark. When I first got the car, I was so excited to have directions to
places without suffering the humiliation of admitting I was lost. To see how it worked, and to impress my
passengers, I tapped out a destination and hit go. It was a place I knew how to get to, but that didn‟t
matter. I wanted the computer to show me the way.
Everything went well at first. This sexy English woman told me, in a reassuring voice, how to get
onto the interstate. I was delighted to oblige. We were on the highway, driving merrily along when, for
no apparent reason, she decided we needed to exit. I checked all the gauges. Plenty of gas. No orange
engine lights flashing. The car sounded fine. Why were we exiting? Where was she taking us? I was
curious and decided to find out. The next thing I knew, we were driving on a potholed truck route
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through one of America‟s industrial backwaters. Was this some sort of shortcut? It seemed unlikely,
since I‟d gone from cruising at sixty-five to bumping along at thirty-five. After a few minutes, I turned
around to get back on the interstate. Well, you‟d have thought I spray-painted graffiti in Westminster
Abbey. This woman got so indignant and huffy. I did know the correct route, after all, and yet here she
was, practically yelling at me to turn around. I think she even swore at me. The warnings and threats got
stronger. She seemed ready to come out of my dashboard with a group of British hooligans and make
short work of me. I leapt for the knob and shut it off before suffering bodily harm.
I left Adriana a message. To my surprise, she called back later the same day and left a message.
Before returning her call, I looked at her original letter. It was lengthy, thoughtful, and sincere. She said:
and later added:
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This is only a small part of what she shared. Adriana ended with, “Well, I think I‟ll go build a
snowman on my terrace.” I‟d called her twenty-one years earlier and now wonder if things never
progressed because of our phone call. Perhaps, as a writer, she was better on paper. When I responded to
her recent message, it was awkward. No, I don‟t think that characterizes the conversation forcefully
enough. Was it as painful as a root canal? Yes, but in a different way. I‟m reaching here, but I‟d
compare it with an experience I had while living in Cambridge.
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At the time, I ran a screen printing business from my first floor apartment. The building was vintage
1907 with a classic beveled glass front door and gold leaf lettered address. The vestibule had those small
black and white octagonal tiles that look like scattered bits of hard candy covering the floor. In the
winter, it served as the thawing out point for old Doc Greene when he stumbled in from the frozen tundra.
The Greenes were, I believe, some of the building‟s original settlers. A graduate of Tufts Dental
School back when they worked on wooden teeth, Doc Greene possessed a ghastly collection of paincausing instruments. My favorite was a drill powered by a foot pedal, much like there is on a base drum.
Despite these torture devices, he seemed far from sadistic to me, especially when he sat on the second
step gathering his strength for the trip up one flight. In the winter, he wore a fedora and a gray tweed
overcoat. I marveled at the small nasal icicles as they melted drip by drip from his moustache.
I knew the doc‟s daughter Eleanor much better than I did him. Not only was she closer to my age,
perhaps only a century older, she was more outgoing. Their apartment had the decor popular back in the
1940s. It might have gone in some oversized time capsule had the forties been more stylish.
Eleanor was a keg of a woman with a hearty cackle and hair, a conflicting palate of gray and brown,
worn in a bun. She favored the layered look of formless dresses and button-front sweaters often topped
with a faded floral apron. Her footwear varied from five and dime slippers to prewar shoes with calf160
height nylons. Given her proximity to a dentist, she had surprisingly bad teeth. Perhaps her father was a
surprisingly bad dentist. Thankfully, I never needed to have the bejesus drilled out of a tooth as he
pumped wildly on his pedal.
I called her Miss Greene, and she called me William. She never used the building‟s intercom,
preferring to lean out her second story front window and screen visitors. As if traveling back in time to a
world of dust, pain, and antiques wasn‟t terrifying enough, she would occasionally insist I join her for tea.
The tea didn‟t scared me as much as the hungry wet kiss I‟d face upon leaving.
You could buzz our building‟s inner door to let in the desirables. Sometimes, my neighbors propped
the door open. More for my own amusement than anyone else‟s, I tacked a postcard to my apartment
door that said Waverly Mills. I thought it would make my small company appear more businesslike. I
was inside reading when, without a knock, a smartly dressed young couple walked into my home.
Someone left the door propped open. My sitting naked on the couch didn‟t seem to register with them at
first. Once I came into focus, their expression said they wouldn‟t be staying for dinner. I often wonder
what became of them.
My call to Adriana was that kind of awkward. I consider myself adept on the phone and can usually
read someone by their intonations, pauses, inflections or grunts. Her voicemail message said she wasn‟t
sure how she could help but would be open to learning more about my project. I was leaving another
message for her when she said hello.
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I tried everything to get the conversation going. Since we were both writers, I thought we might have
common ground there. She said she wrote some books on cinema and TV, as well as articles for
women‟s magazines like Good Housekeeping. That was a start. I asked about her experience with the
personals and, with each answer, she seemed to be slipping further out of reach. After a long pause, she
recovered with, “I tried Nerve.com, but all it had was people looking for sex.” She said she spoke with
some nice men, but upon meeting them, there was no chemistry. I asked how she met people, and, after
another prolonged silence, she said, “I usually go about my business and, if I see someone I‟m interested
in, I give him a look.”
Things were devolving to pregnant pauses on her end. I heard a ball game in the background, so I
knew we were still connected. I wondered if the game distracted her. I asked if the Yankees were
playing the Red Sox, and she returned for a moment answering, “Yes.” I asked what the score was, and
she said, “I don‟t think there is one.” Sensing some momentum in a safe area, I asked if she ever went to
Yankee Stadium. There was a long pause. A painfully long pause. I wasn‟t sure why she was
speechless. Perhaps, she drifted to a time years earlier. Although I didn‟t know her, I asked how she was
doing. No answer. Earlier in the call she mentioned, “the bloom is off the rose.” Maybe that explained
her silence. I asked if she liked the book idea, and she said she didn‟t understand the premise. I gave her
the executive summary, which she followed with another long pause.
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Have you ever tried having a conversation with someone when, part way through it, you realize
you‟re the only one talking? There must be a delicate way of saying goodbye. I sweated as I tried to
extricate myself from the situation. Imagine Humphrey Bogart backing slowly toward the door with a
pained smile on his face using his most obsequious tone to say, “Now, look fellas, ya got me all wrong. I
was gonna split the dough with ya as soon as things cooled off.” Fortunately, you can‟t get filled full of
lead over the phone. I thanked her for speaking with me, and suggested she call if she wanted not to talk
some more.
I saw a pattern emerging. The women I could reach were those whose name or phone number stayed
the same for the past twenty-one years. The chances any of these women found love seemed less and less
likely. U2 did a song called I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. I felt the same. I was looking
for women who found love. I knew they were somewhere.
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Chapter 14 – A Pro Has a Go
Despite locating the sixteen women from my ad who still had their old phone numbers, finding things
has never been my forte. As a child, I was terrible at hide and seek. I‟m not sure if physics is involved,
but I‟ve lost many things which I tore the house apart trying to find. These aren‟t large items, like my
bed, but it‟s still frustrating. The worst part is finding the item not long after I needed it. It‟s always in a
place I know I looked. I believe gremlins sneak around, take my stuff, hide it for a day or two, and then
replace it where I am sure to find it. I‟m not making this up. They are doing this to me.
The most memorable thing I lost was my return plane ticket from New Orleans. I flew there for a
one-day business trip, dressed in my best three-piece suit. All I brought were the clothes I wore and my
briefcase. It wasn‟t even a large, cavernous briefcase that doubles as a popup trailer. The meeting went
well, but in the cab heading back to the airport, I discovered my ticket was missing. I couldn‟t have left it
in the hotel because I didn‟t stay in a hotel. I searched my pockets. The jacket alone had at least a
hundred of them. Nothing. I took everything out of my briefcase and examined it. The nail clippers,
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Excedrin bottle, business cards, hairbrush, pad of yellow-lined paper, pens, calculator, even the package
of airline nuts. Nada.
It dawned on me, as I think about the contents of my briefcase, how similar and different it is to a
woman‟s pocketbook. It has a handle, is made of black leather, and holds stuff. That‟s where the
resemblance ends. Unless you‟re paying off a ransom note or doing a movie drug deal, men never have
more than one briefcase.
Women have a different purse for every day of the week. Minimum. There‟s the denim one for
casual trips to the market. The classic, sturdy Coach bag for year-to-year duty. Don‟t forget the fashion
accessory with the six-month shelf life. My favorite is the one the size of a dollar bill. The women with
these bags need a man with deep pockets to hold everything but their lipstick.
I had the opportunity to view the contents of a woman‟s purse recently. After a brief scuffle, I
wrested it from her. For a pygmy, she was surprisingly fast and had excellent aim with her shoes.
Somehow, I was able to outrun her. I was amazed at the number of things I never thought to include in
my briefcase. Among the items discovered were:
Mentos gum – fifteen pieces in a green pop-top container
Genuine Bayer aspirin – 150 coated tablets
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Reading glasses – 1x magnification
Max Factor lipstick – Cinnamon shade
Covergirl Wetslicks – Shell colored shimmer
A receipt for six geraniums @ $4.97/ea.
A ballpoint pen from the nursery with the geraniums
One Hershey‟s kiss
A recipe for Chicken Parmegiana Quesadillas (Makes four servings)
A two-foot long receipt from Publix Super Markets for $68.38 (Where Saving is Part of
the Pleasure)
I didn‟t know what Wetslicks were but I loved having them. It surprised me that pygmies used them.
Then there was her wallet. Miraculously, this held even more items than the much larger purse. How
was this possible? It contained:
$15.68 – a ten, five ones and change
Six receipts from various stores, one which was two months old
Every preferred customer and buying advantage card known to man
Best Buy Reward Zone
Ace Helpful Hardware Club
ABC Fine Wine and Spirits Advantage Buying Card
UPS Frequent Shipper card
Borders Rewards
American Greetings – The Card Club
Hallmark Gold Crown
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DSW Reward Your Style
Lowes Preferred Customer
Pet Smart Pet Perks
Wet Seal - Seal Deal
Staples Business Rewards
CD City Discount Card
There isn‟t enough paper left on the planet to finish the list of smart shopper cards. She also had:
Six two-cent stamps
A voter registration card
Visa (perhaps fifty of them)
Discover
American Express
Boat US (expired)
A Florida Driver‟s license
Two family pictures and a small kitchen sink
I felt woefully unprepared. This was just what she carried around with her. I shuddered to think what
she had in the center console of her car, or worse, her glovebox. Perhaps, if I stole her car too, I could
move this valuable research further.
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Did I need to invest in a man-purse just to strike some sort of balance with the opposite sex? If I
could lose my plane ticket with a sparsely filled briefcase and the clothes on my back, what chance did I
have of finding anything with such a wide array of distractions?
I was tempted to rip my suit‟s lining apart but, instead, called off the search. The ticket was gone. I
charged a new ticket and made my flight home. A month later, I picked up my suit from the dry cleaner,
and the woman behind the counter handed me the missing ticket. I asked where she found it. “It was in
one of your pockets,” she said. Ya see? Gremlins. To think she was posing as a counter clerk at a
drycleaners.
The women I located through the reverse phone directory were still single. I now knew I needed to
find respondents who‟d married, if I wanted stories of love and happiness. That meant digging deeper
than I knew how to.
I was especially interested in two women. Could a pro find them after so many years? If so, how
would these women feel about a man from the past dropping into their lives? Suppose they‟re happily
married, have a couple of kids, and live in suburban bliss. Why bother with such an intrusion? I hoped it
was because they had a story of love, hope, and inspiration, and were willing to share it with me.
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At lunch one day I mentioned my book to a friend. I told her I hoped to find women with joyful
stories to share, but I wasn‟t having much luck through my own efforts. She said her mom had been in
the business of finding people for over thirty years, and could locate almost anyone.
I called her mom. Terri grew up in Plant City, Florida and sounded like Granny from The Beverly
Hillbillies. Just as the world of dating has changed, Terri‟s line of work has become much easier thanks
to the Internet. My goal was to locate the ones who might have found love. Terri said to send what I had
on those I couldn‟t find and she‟d let me know what she could do. I asked her to focus on Jasmina and
another woman who never gave her address. I waited.
Terri was unable to locate the woman with no address. She found Jasmina, though, who was now
forty-seven years old. Her last name changed from the one I remembered. Perhaps she found love and
got married. The records showed that four months prior to Terri‟s search, Jasmina bought and registered
a new Hyundai under her maiden name. Was she divorced? Terri gave me her home address but no
phone number. It was as close as I‟d come to her in the last twenty-one years. Without a phone number,
I thought I might catch her by camping out on her doorstep.
Camping has never appealed to me. It might have something to do with growing up in the country.
The many wooded acres surrounding my home were no big deal to me. Maybe it‟s because an incident
from my youth scarred me for life. Any boy scout will tell you the keys to locating a good campsite are
access to water, shelter, tinder, and the scoutmaster‟s car. Since I never excelled at scouting, I missed the
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mark on all counts. With over sixty acres of land to choose from, I picked a particularly remote campsite.
It was up a steep hill about one hundred miles from our house and required extensive work to provide
basic shelter. Fortunately, I brought a knife, flashlight, sleeping bag, canteen, and tuna sandwich.
After hours of snapping, bending, and shaping hemlock branches, I fashioned a primitive lean-to.
From my twelve-year-old perspective, it seemed impressive. I settled in for the night listening to the
rustle of leaves and occasional dim thud as something fell to earth from the heavens.
In the wee hours of the morning, a familiar sensation awakened me. My big tiger cat, Boots, must
have followed me. He was at the bottom of my sleeping bag kneading a spot to create his own snug nest.
Why cats use their paws this way is a mystery to me. Perhaps, they worked as masseuses in past lives. It
sure felt good to have company. I reached down to pat him and the sharp barbs of a porcupine dug into
my fingers. Talk about terror. In my pre-teen mind, this shy inquisitive animal turned into a killing
machine. He became capable of spraying quills in machinegun-like manner. He was there along with a
herd of his fellow mercenaries. They were skilled assassins. Stealthy, ruthless flesh-eating monsters.
They would use their barbed weapons to fillet me like a flounder. I‟d be hanging in the smoke house by
dawn.
I spent the rest of the night with the sleeping bag over my head wondering how many hours I had left
on the planet. It was time to repent for a young life of sin. Copying the multiplication tables off Bruce
David‟s paper in third grade. Burning my sister‟s blouse with an iron. Well, that was an accident.
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Dousing our babysitter, old Miss Burns, with gasoline and sending her to a fiery death. Another accident.
How was I supposed to know she was flammable? Dear God. If you‟ll just let me live this one time, I
promise I‟ll be good for the rest of my life. Please?
Although it seemed unlikely I‟d run into porcupines in Queens, and despite better access to water, I
decided against camping there. My only other option was to write her a letter and see if she‟d reply.
This was uncharted territory for me. Even my car‟s navigation system couldn‟t help. The letters I
sent to the other women were a bust. One woman found through the reverse directory had the same
address and a different last name. She lived in Boston and I wrote her twice because she seemed like
she‟d married. No replies. I didn‟t want to blow this chance to reach Jasmina. I knew my letter needed
to be better than my previous ones. More personal. More compelling. The irony of my situation wasn‟t
lost on me. In a complete role reversal, I needed to put myself in the shoes of all the women who wrote
me and say something that would resonate with her. I went with a hand-written letter full of hope and
sincerity:
Dear Jasmina,
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It has been twenty-one years since we last saw each other. We went out twice after you
responded to my personal ad in New York Magazine. You were one of very few I dated and I
remember our time together vividly.
I‟m writing a book about my experience titled 95 Chances For Love. You are a special part
of my book, and I hope you might be willing to speak with me about your life since the time we
both were dating.
I‟m sure many things have changed for you, as they have for me. Naturally, I‟ll respect your
privacy. I think you will have fun reading my book and hope you can be a part of it.
My contact information is below, and I would love to hear from you, Jasmina.
Sincerely,
Bill Riddle
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Just as she did in her letter twenty-one years earlier, I focused on her being special and this being fun.
I wondered if this strategy would work as well on Jasmina as her‟s worked on me.
A few days later, Jasmina emailed me.
Hi Bill,
I was very surprised to receive your letter, how were you able to find my address? I'm glad to
hear you're doing well, and I hope you're enjoying Florida. I love New York, but I could do
without the winter season. My life has been all over the place the past twenty-one years. I think
I'm settled in New Hyde Park for a while anyway with my beautiful eight-year-old son, Gregory.
I have my hands full with him and working full time. I was at the US Merchant Marine
Academy in Kings Point, New York for two years as a contractor. My contract ended Friday
actually, but I left earlier in August to work for a financial company in Great Neck. Things are
bad at the Academy right now, but there is a possibility I may go back there at some point as a
permanent Federal Government employee, we'll see how the dice roll. This new job is just tie
over for me, not what I really want.
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Anyway, that is basically it in a nutshell. I am a mainstream, suburban single working
mom (I need three of me) but my little stud muffin is worth it. His teachers all think he should be
an actor. I tell him to do whatever he loves to do, just make sure he can make a lot of money
doing it.
What inspired you to write a book on "chances for love?” That is interesting.
I'm going to write a book on keeping afloat. (joking, but no one would believe my life story,
I think Stephen Spielberg would buy the manuscript).
Thank you for writing and hope to hear from you.
Have a nice evening,
Jasmina
I was so excited to hear from her. She sounded great. I wrote back with the following:
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Hi Jasmina,
It was so nice to get your reply. You're so kind to respond. I remember your wit and humor
and am glad to know you still have it. Congratulations on your son, Gregory! He sounds like a
great guy, and I'll bet you're a wonderful mom. Juggling a full time job as a single mom is a
challenge. My sister did it, and I have such admiration for those who succeed at it.
The inspiration for the book came from the letters I saved for so many years. Some, like
yours, were amazing. We don't communicate or meet people that way anymore. It's incredible
how much our world has changed in just twenty-one years.
Jasmina, you were one of the most memorable women who wrote me. For that reason, you
are an important part of my book. If it isn't too personal, I'd like to include more of your own
story. I'm hoping you found love and happiness. Certainly, you have much to be thankful for and
proud of. Did you find love? If so, how? What happened?
Thanks again for writing back and I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Best regards,
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Bill Riddle
She replied:
Hi Bill,
Thank you for writing, I have been real busy. How were you able to locate me?
Have a good day,
Jasmina
Hi Jasmina,
It was my pleasure. I understand how busy you must be. I have a friend who bragged she
could find almost anyone. I told her about my book and that I'd love to find out what happened to
you. Like most things these days, I assume she found you on the Internet. I'm heading to New
Hampshire for a wedding this weekend but hope we can catch up further next week. Thanks,
Jasmina. It is great to hear from you.
Have a good weekend,
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Bill
A few weeks passed without any encouragement from her. Finally, I wrote:
Hi Jasmina,
I wanted to get back to you and see how you‟re doing. It was nice to reconnect after all these
years. You said your life had been, “all over the place” in the last twenty-one years and no one
would believe your life story. I‟d love to learn more of your story to include in my book. If you
want to be anonymous, that‟s fine. If you‟d rather chat on the phone, that‟s fine. Just let me
know what works best for you.
I hope you and Gregory enjoy Halloween!
Bill
I waited, and she never replied. I began to think Jasmina hadn‟t found a lasting love. Her concern
about how I located her and lack of further communication told me she was uncomfortable. I weighed
my options. I could:
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1. Send a couple of goons to her apartment with instructions to press her to be forthcoming.
2. Offer money for her story.
3. Send her chapters in installments hoping to coax her into being a part of my literary masterpiece.
A fairy tale ending would be satisfying but, as often as Hollywood creates them, they rarely happen in
real life. Jasmina was one of the most significant women I encountered from my ad. Our two dates bore
testament to how much I wanted things to work. That she was reluctant to have further contact was, in its
own way, significant. What it is significant of, I have no idea.
Perhaps it is a statement about long lost love. Perhaps it is about love being elusive. Perhaps it is
about our world and how hard it is to take chances or trust people.
I feel like Jerry Springer trying to add context to a show featuring hookers heavily involved in charity
work. Sadly, I may never get more details without sending the goons.
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Chapter 15-Modern Times
I decided to find out what was available for people looking to meet someone today. I searched New
York Magazine’s Strictly Personals section. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I found it
online and discovered only a few ads, none from men looking for women. I wasn‟t sure what to make of
it. Times change, but the age-old quest to find a mate is a constant. Where was everyone looking? It had
to be the Internet, but New York Magazine was online and people weren‟t advertising there. Where were
the New York sophisticates looking for love?
I don‟t know who creates the TV ads for eHarmony, but they‟re revolting. Don‟t get me wrong. I‟m
all for finding happiness. I just hate seeing the shameless goo-goo eyes and huggy wuggy stuff, right on
my television. Can‟t these people find somewhere to do this in private?
Perhaps I could log onto a popular dating website, or a lesser-known one, and contact members to see
what their experience was like. I wasn‟t interested in filling out reams of paperwork or answering a forty179
page questionnaire about my interests. I doubted they‟d have a category for researching online dating.
Could I do it painlessly, or would I have to go through the hassle of creating my own profile before
contacting any of the members?
Experience has taught me any such undertaking involves setting up, yet another, user name and
password to add to the hundreds I already possess. I used to be annoyed at the need for such tight security
for everything from online banking to my account at Amazon.com. God forbid somebody hacks that and
steals books I hadn‟t ordered. Even worse, was the prospect of someone pretending to be me and sending
books to my entire gift list. It could get messy. The authorities might think I sent Tips & Techniques For
Escaping A Federal Penitentiary, or the bible of such matters Prison Break for Dummies, to my friends.
I‟ve gotten much better about the whole Internet security thing. I owe my recovery to a twelve-step
program I belong to called Password Haters Anonymous. They found membership grew dramatically
once they removed the security requirement to access their website‟s member area. Due to my recovery, I
now embrace user names, user IDs, user logins, login IDs, online logins, pin numbers, customer numbers,
and, of course, passwords. Through the program, I learned the secret to coping is to make all my
information uniform and easy to remember. I now use Bill as my user name and my mother‟s maiden
name, Smith, as my password for everything.
Back in 1987, there were personals in the Village Voice, and the daily papers like the New York Post
and Daily News. I‟m sure they were also in more targeted publications, such as Sheep Herders Monthly
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and the venerable National Enquirer. Although I don‟t subscribe to the Enquirer, I admire its innovative
approach to journalism. I worry that, in an attempt to sell newspapers, it has toned down its once fiery
rhetoric. I hate to think its place as the vanguard of tabloids has slipped while others like the Star, Weekly
World News, and the Globe, push journalism to new heights. To catch up on the latest news, I did a quick
online search for recent stories. To my utter dismay, I learned Weekly World News had slipped under the
waves.
Gone, but not forgotten.
I will remember it for covering such breaking stories as:
SANTA'S ELVES REALLY SLAVES FROM THE PLANET MARS!
PACK OF WILD COCKER SPANIELS TERRORIZES WYOMING!
WOMAN DELIVERS OWN BABY WHILE SKYDIVING!
MULTIPLE PERSONALITY MAN CHARGED TRIPLE ROOM RATE!
For the most part, these were wonderful stories the mainstream media overlooked and, I feel, at a
terrible price.
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What kind of personal ad would I place in the Weekly World News, if it were still around? I came up
with:
Well traveled Elvis look-a-like alien
seeks woman for long distance relationship.
Psychics, fertility goddesses, and those with a
passion for colonizing other planets preferred.
So which of these dating sites would cause me the least pain and suffering to access? For some
reason, possibly because I wasn‟t nauseous from their television ads, I went with a site called Mingle².
I‟m not clear on the benefits of squaring a dating site but perhaps it has to do with finding an available
domain name. Mingle² touted itself as “Completely free online dating.” The word free resonates with
me, especially when used in the world of commerce. Businesses are, after all, here to enrich our lives
with any number of things they will give us, just to be nice. Apparently, a lonely philanthropist felt it his
or her civic duty to help the unmatched people of our planet find love.
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Wait. This could be a trap. What if some mad genius set up this site to cultivate email lists with
which to spam unsuspecting unattached adults? Who would do such a thing? Certainly not our lonely
philanthropist.
I proceeded cautiously, checking to see what they wanted from me. I read their privacy policy
carefully and gave them a bogus email address. I‟m not about to be out-smarted by a website.
It started out friendly enough. They wanted me to tell them about myself, almost like a job
application. So, I did. Well, sort of. I mean, do they really expect me to tell the truth? All guys over
thirty increase their height and lighten their weight on these forms, and I was hardly going to be an
exception. Why? I‟ll tell you why. I‟m still growing, and it‟s possible I‟ll be six feet tall one day.
Speaking of height, I saw an ad for shoes guaranteed to increase your height by 3½ inches. I wasn‟t
sure what to make of it. Let‟s say you‟re a guy measuring a Napoleonic 5‟2.” You buy a few pair of
these shoes (I recommend boots if you are Napoleon), and now you‟re a towering 5‟5½.” After meeting
Josephine at a bar and returning to Versailles for the night, then what happens? You can‟t take off your
boots or she‟ll know how short you are. I suppose you could staff the palace with people shorter than
you, but I have to believe, at least at bath time, those boots are coming off. What‟s the woman supposed
to think when she sees how much you‟ve shrunk?
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Mingle² gave me a choice of body type. This is subjective. I consider myself athletic, but is that my
body type? My other choices were slender, average, a few extra pounds, can‟t see the scale over my gut,
and need a crane to lift. I hate to think of myself as average, so I went with athletic.
Next was a query about ethnicity. I thought the list of choices was extensive. Pacific Islander and
Other were included. I was glad to know they covered all the bases, with even room for extraterrestrials.
The lifestyle section came next. Just like in the daily paper. I hoped for a good crossword puzzle or
some wisdom from a national columnist. Today, I read a piece of advice given to a reader asking what
the polite reply was to someone who apologized for stepping on his foot. I‟m not making this up.
Someone took the time out of their day to write a letter about this insufferable problem. Even more
amazing is that this national columnist, who must get tens of thousands of etiquette questions every year,
selected this letter to publish, along with her helpful answer. Perhaps an epidemic is rocking our society.
Thousands of people going around stepping on other people‟s feet and apologizing. Maybe so many
people wrote in it became a matter of journalistic responsibility to address the problem.
Her answer was (and I quote): A: To the person who stepped on your foot, “I‟m all right, thanks.”
There you have it. Succinct, polite, and measured. I would never have thought of such a reply. When
someone apologizes for stepping on my foot, I say, “That‟s all right. I have two others.”
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Since no advice was forthcoming, I answered the first question in the Lifestyle section. “What was
my Marital Status?” I was surprised to find a married choice among the selections. I wondered how
many married people were looking for love on Mingle². I later stumbled upon a site specifically for
married people. Not married swingers. Married men and women wanting to have a discrete affair. I
can‟t imagine finding too many photos among those profiles.
Each of these questions served as an eliminator of sorts. Do you have children? Do you want
children? Do you drink? Do your children drink? Oddly, they didn‟t ask about drugs. I‟m sure that‟s on
someone‟s list of disqualifiers. Are you a frequent crack user? What about crystal meth? An occasional
joint? Maybe those questions appear on a different site. Drugmatch.com.
The religious question challenged me. They listed all the usual ones. Then there was No Answer and
Other. I thought No Answer implied not admitting to innocence or guilt. Like nolo contendere. Either
that, or I hadn‟t given religion any thought. Many of my ad respondents felt passionate about finding
someone Christian or Jewish. Some said they were Jewish but religion wasn‟t important to them. Sort of
a cultural frame of reference. I looked for a choice that said Spiritual but couldn‟t find one. I was afraid,
if I selected Other, I‟d have to choose Satan as my co-pilot. They had Non-Religious as a choice. Why
couldn‟t they have Religious as a choice? I pleaded no contest.
I‟m only on Mingle²‟s first page and already I‟m weary. Now I have to list my interests. Here‟s my
chance to clarify things so there is no confusion. My choices are:
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Dating
Activity Partner
Friendship
Marriage
Relationship
Intimate Encounter
Activity Partner spoke to me. I worried some might think I was looking for a shuffleboard opponent
or to help deliver the child of the World Weekly News’ skydiving woman. I wonder if she packed a tiny
parachute for her airborne newborn. What if they yanked the umbilical cord instead of the ripcord?
Somehow, the appeal of jumping from a plane to possible death escapes me.
I wanted to know how many selected Intimate Encounter. I love that the site included it as an option.
I thought it showed a good deal of decorum. It‟s fine with me if you want to engage intimately, and I
thought it sounded classier than friend with benefits. At the risk of ending up in a crochet circle, I chose
Activity Partner.
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I listed my profession as Astronaut. I thought it sounded better than writer, which I always thought
was a euphemism for unemployed. I was going to enter my Interests, but wanted to see what others had
put on the form. I didn‟t want to put down nude bagpiping only to find everyone else chose the same
thing. Then it would be like, “Oh, great. Another nude bagpiper.” On the other hand, leaving it blank
made me seem uninteresting. I gambled on nude bagpiping.
I got to the next page expecting to disclose my personal hygiene habits but merely found a short
summary page. They asked me to accept their terms of service and privacy policy. To my relief,
Mingle²‟s privacy policy states they always knock if the bathroom door is closed. Because I was still
concerned about spam, I chose my other email address: [email protected].
The summary page gave surfers a snapshot of your profile. Here I needed to make up a username and
a headline. For the headline, I went with, “Astronaut Seeks Space Cadet.” They recommended I write a
brief blurb about me, so I did. “I already told you once. Weren't you listening?”
Then I needed to upload a photo, which was highly recommended. I was tempted to grab a picture of
Neil Armstrong, but I thought he‟d be pissed. I settled on a picture of my yellow lab, Henry, gainfully
pulling a sock out of my dresser drawer. The site said, “Uploading a photo greatly enhances your chances
of meeting someone!” I wonder what kind of person would want to be Henry‟s Activity Partner.
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I was on the home stretch. All that remained was for me to provide my password, and enter the
squiggly security letters to prove I could enter squiggly security letters. After an hour of studying the
terms of service, we reached an agreement. As tempted as I was to receive email offers from qualified
partners, i.e. the entire online community, I declined.
My creative email address and easy-to-remember password were accepted. I was now a part of an
online dating community, and already had three emails. These singles act fast. Upon checking my mail, I
was bitterly disappointed to find merely a “Welcome to Mingle²-Please Read” email, a compelling piece
about new features, dated eleven months earlier, and the Sex Partner’s Quiz. I was dying to take the quiz
but registration alone took me an entire afternoon, so I thought I‟d come back to it. I even passed on my
three online “flirts.” Back on the main page five people were shown in the section, “People You Might Be
Interested In.” One was a picture of a lovely couple, presumably married.
The only one close to my age was a forty-nine-year-old woman with a piercing look and the
following upbeat blurb:
I'M JUST A NORMAL....HAHAHA.....PERSON.......EITHER U LIKE ME OR U
DON'T.......LOOK AT ME! I WON'T CRY IF U DON'T.....AND I AM NOT BEING
CONCEITED.....MY WORLD WILL FALL APART WITH OR WITHOUT U IN IT.
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How refreshing. I was encouraged to note, with or without me, her life was in the toilet. She might
be a tremendous help for my research. She had four friends including one man with a chia pet and
another who looked like the devil incarnate.
I thought of sending her the following email:
I'm writing a book about dating and am interested in learning about your experiences. If
you'd be open to talking about it, I'd love to hear from you.
Was I moving too quickly? Aside from the married couple, she was the first person I found. It‟s true
she didn‟t sound particularly optimistic or even marginally sane, but I‟m sure she had a poignant story to
tell. Possibly, about gouging someone‟s eyes out. Perhaps things were going well with Satan. How
would I know if I didn‟t ask?
As I was preparing to email her, I read the following:
Please Note
To message OPTOMIST you MUST meet the following conditions:
Male
Age: 26 to 49
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NOT looking for an intimate encounter
NOT married
I knew one thing. Getting to the depths of Internet dating was going to be like pushing water uphill.
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Chapter 16 – Today’s Realities
With a full head of steam, I returned to Mingle² to see about the Sex Partner‟s Quiz. This site didn‟t
seem to be predominantly about sex. I thought it was more about forming relationships. What would
their Sex Quiz reveal? Mingle² could be the new Masters and Johnson. Was Kinsey behind this? My
excitement was palpable.
It was a first-rate disappointment. All it wanted was the most basic information about me. Age,
gender, location, sexual orientation, how many partners, education, music preference, and whether I
prefer MySpace or Facebook. That was it. No place to reveal anything remotely salacious. My hopes
revived when it promised to provide me with the following useful and scientific information:
Which cities and states are having the most sex?
Most promiscuous cities in the US
Most promiscuous states in the US
Most promiscuous cities in the world
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Which cities and states are having the least amount of sex?
Least promiscuous cities in the US
Least promiscuous states in the US
Least promiscuous cities in the world
“The world‟s most promiscuous city.” What a tremendous source of pride for some municipality. I
couldn‟t wait to discover where it was. Unfortunately, Mingle² didn‟t have enough data to provide that
information. But it has to be available somewhere, right? Strictly as a public service, I went online to
investigate. I expected there must already be a city that incorporated it into its tag line, the way states do.
Missouri is the Show Me State, Connecticut is the Nutmeg State. Florida is the Sunshine State.
I think some of the state slogans need work. Missouri‟s seems like a haven for flashers. Nutmeg?
That‟s what you want the world to know about your state? In all my years living in rural Connecticut, I
never once encountered a nutmeg farmer or anybody who knew one. At the risk of alienating all the
nutmeg growers in Connecticut, I propose a different state slogan. “Connecticut, The State With No
Accent.” Promoting a lack of accent is a real selling point. Tourists can understand the native‟s
directions and it sounds more mysterious than, “New York‟s Cutest li‟l Suburb.”
In case you don‟t know, Florida has a swamp full of “cause” license plates. The state university
system has them for its plethora of colleges. You can also support your favorite disease or sports team
with 121 choices. As I searched through the possibilities, I was saddened to note they overlooked three
naturals. “Land of Blue Hair,” “A Nice Place to Die,” and “Early Bird Discount Paradise.”
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I hoped the world‟s most promiscuous city had a cool name like Sheboygan, Picayune, or Grand
Junction. I wondered how the city leaders would feel about “Picayune, City of Promiscuity.”
After an exhaustive one-minute search, I have limited results to report. I did find a story about New
Mexico betting the future on a promiscuous supercomputer. Just what we need. Now the computers are
getting randy. I also found the country with the most promiscuous women. Sadly, it is not the United
States or even in our hemisphere. The Sydney Morning Herald reported New Zealand women have the
most sexual partners in the world. Its women average 20.4 sexual partners, according to a survey by
condom- maker Durex – well above the global average of 7.3. No wonder they‟re called New
ZEALanders. First, the Kiwis take the America‟s Cup from us, and now this. I thought, as I booked a
flight to Auckland, the study has to be flawed.
The Durex Sexual Wellbeing Global Survey, questioned 26,000 people in twenty-six countries.
Austrian men were the most promiscuous. They topped the list with 29.3 sexual partners, more than
twice the global average of 13.2. I don‟t know about you, but when I think about Austrians, I think about
Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. She seemed so wholesome and pure. If she is the archetypical
Austrian woman, how can the Austrian men top the list? Were they having intimate encounters with
women from some sexual hotbed like New Zealand?
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I don‟t mean to dwell on this, but I had to go the condom-maker‟s website to see what else they‟d
uncovered. Or covered. I learned the following:
More than 317,000 people from forty-one countries took part in the world‟s largest ever survey on
sexual attitudes and behavior. The research confirmed that Greece is officially the sexiest country with
Greeks having sex 138 times a year, well above the global average of 103. That‟s why the streets are
deserted. Croatia (134), Serbia and Montenegro (128) come in a close second and third. I expected
China to top the list. All those people had to come from some activity, and it isn‟t from taking over the
world‟s economy.
What visit to a condom-maker‟s site would be complete without investigating the latest offerings?
The first thing that caught my eye was something that looked like a wedding ring, with some plastic
protrusion where the rock normally goes. It appeared under the Vibrations category. Had Durex
discovered an erogenous zone on the ring finger? I clicked out of curiosity.
I came to a page full of products. As I scanned for the condom ring, I noticed they offered Durex gift
bags, in either large or small sizes. I wasn‟t expecting to find gift bags. Why would anyone pay .65 euros
for a condom-maker‟s bag? It‟s not as though they offered it in ribbed material. Was this the new chic
European sexual sophisticates were embracing? The copy asked, “Treating someone special? Why not
put your Durex gift in a gift bag?” Perhaps the bag is a subtle way of communicating you‟re prepared.
Whatever it means, I bought a case.
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I was unable to locate the ring. I suppose, with more time, I could find it. Just not in the seven hours
I‟d devoted to the task. I retreated to the main page and bid adieu to Durex‟s pleasure zone.
The world of condoms and dating has changed since I placed my ad. Gary is divorced, twenty-seven,
and wants to remarry. He tried eHarmony, Match.com, Yahoo Personals, and MySpace. Somehow, he
missed Mingle². As Gary opened up to me, I tried to glean as much as possible from this young dating
veteran. I looked at his MySpace page. It featured copious pictures of him, as well as a playlist of the
music he liked and some short video clips. His profile said he was in a relationship and included a picture
of his girlfriend. Someone looking for love could learn a lot about Gary from his page. Since he has a
girlfriend, I expect they‟d learn he wasn‟t available.
I started to feel old. I didn‟t have a MySpace page. Was MySpace just the darling of the younger
generation? Were there any people on the site over thirty? Besides my visit with Gary, I‟d never been
there. I decided to investigate.
Upon arrival, I hit the browse tab. The criteria defaulted to the eighteen to thirty-five age range.
They went as high as sixty-eight, but octogenarians were out of luck. Perhaps they profiled retirees on
MySeniorSpace. I punched in fifty to sixty-eight expecting, “results not found, please try again.” Middle
age seemed too old for MySpace. Maybe the system was jiggy when I tried because I had an impressive
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number of matches. One profile featured the most perfectly preserved fifty-year-old woman on the
planet. If she was fifty, she had made some plastic surgeon quite wealthy and invested her money wisely.
I scrolled down to find out more about her.
“Brianna” lived in Reno, liked to read Dr. Seuss, was a Pisces, “had the cutest lil nephews ever!!!”,
earned less than $30k, and was a Christian 6‟10” bodybuilding swinger. She made no mention of a stint
with the WNBA. Still, she had a unique niche as a Christian swinger.
Oh. I get it. This was just a little joke. Was everyone on MySpace in on it? She obviously had
friends. Someone was trying to get her to go camping at Lake Tahoe and someone else asked, “poo butt r
u coming next week??!!”
I felt like the MySpace search had gone horribly awry and I‟d barely gotten started. Perhaps research
doesn‟t suit me. I couldn‟t push myself to contact Poo Butt, even though she was online. Possibly, there
was some tutorial, the rules of the MySpace road. I‟m sure Gary would know, or any teenager.
If it isn‟t out already, there will be a book forthcoming along the lines of MySpace For Dummies.
One thing I never understood about the popular Dummies books is the topics chosen for publication.
Most subjects seem well within reach of the average consumer. Dating For Dummies, Eating For
Dummies, Watching TV For Dummies. I would think dummies would need help with more advanced
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topics like Brain Surgery For Dummies, Air Traffic Control For Dummies, or Building A Lunar Module
For Dummies. The only thing that‟s certain about the series is its creator is no dummy.
I went to the next member of the fifty to sixty-eight group. Tina. A fifty-three-year-old who looked
like a well-preserved fifty-three-year-old. She had a very sparkly page and, as soon as I arrived, up came
a song by Rascal Flatts. With a name like that, it had to be country music. Surprisingly, I found myself
enjoying the song. The lyrics said something like, “There‟s a place in your heart, and nobody can take
you there.” I had no idea what it meant, but it sounded soulful and romantic. Maybe a cardiologist could
explain it.
I have mixed feelings about country music, and about Tina, too. She‟s the one who got me started on
this country kick. Now I have to spend a fortune on new clothes, a Stetson hat, snakeskin boots, and a
pickup truck. And what about my dog, Henry? I don‟t think yellow labs are part of the country scene. I
need a hound dog. Not a Bassett, though. A Blue Tick Hound, Bloodhound, or any dog that looks like he
lost his best friend. Then there‟s my investment in line dancing lessons and a new music collection, not
to mention buying a ranch. All because of Tina. I vowed to be more careful on MySpace.
I almost forgot. Tina used this line in her blurb:
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Who I'd like to meet:
I like to meet someone that is themself not someone they are not
It was almost Shakespearean. The exact meaning escaped me, but it sounded deep.
I skipped a profile from “Crazy Lady,” leaving it for someone braver to explore. Before I
left, I checked out “Marge,” who posted her picture with a guy. I never understood these
women.
In 1987, a lovely fur representative named Annie wrote me and sent an unusual picture.
Annie was holding a shotgun she obviously just used to blast the daylights out of someone or
something. Perhaps an unsuspecting mink. Her hand was on her chest, as if to say, “Whew, that
was loud.” This is the best part, though. The picture she sent to try to entice me has a guy, her
date or something, smiling right into the camera. I didn‟t get more than a profile shot of her.
You have one shot to make an impression and this is the one you take? What message was she
sending? Granted, she wasn‟t pushing a stroller, but it was hard to imagine what she was
thinking. I bet she dug country music. I called her, of course. I knew it was a shot in the dark,
but I wanted to shoot the breeze. The upshot was she and I were way off target with each other.
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MySpace Marge had country music playing, too. Something cheerful like, “Remember when
we broke each other‟s hearts,” with a twanging steel guitar solo. A raccoon flash-image bobbed
and blinked its eyes, saying, “Pet me, pet me.” I‟m not making this up. It scared me to death. I
knew my computer would crash if I clicked on it.
Mingle² looked much better to me. I‟d seen and heard enough on MySpace and left with
what shred of sanity I still had intact.
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Chapter 17 – eCharmony
Back at Mingle², I thought I‟d ask women between twenty-five and sixty years old what their Internet
dating experience was like. I tried sending the following through the site‟s internal mail system:
I‟m writing a book about my experience looking for love with a
personal ad twenty-one years ago. I‟m hoping you might have
experiences and wisdom to share about today‟s online or offline dating
realities. If you‟re open to helping me, I‟d love to hear from you. If not, I
wish you luck in your own search for love.
The site only let me send the same note five times before telling me I needed to be more
creative. More creative? Who‟s to say the sixth recipient wouldn‟t find it creative? I added a
space. Now that’s creativity. I sent five of the new messages when I learned I reached my time
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limit. Mingle² didn‟t want its members rushing into anything. Because of the site‟s restrictions,
I had to wait before sending more emails. I began to wonder if things were any easier for
today‟s daters, even with the help of modern technology.
After ten emails, I reached my pain threshold. The women of Mingle² opened them within
hours. That was a good sign. I knew these women were right on top of the scene and ready to
share their intimate knowledge of cyber dating.
Only one replied. A sixty-year-old woman named Mary. Her profile listed her hobbies as:
TRAVEL, kayaking, water, home rehab, gardening, simple things,
weekend get-a-ways, boating, reading, cooking, people watching,
TENNIS, carpentry, intelligent conversation
I never met anyone who had “water” as a hobby or even “home rehab.” Did she like
drinking the water or bathing in it? Perhaps she could combine the water and home rehab
interests by moving to New Orleans.
She replied with the following:
This dating is a nightmare. Seems our baby-boomer cohorts have a
LOT of hang-ups. Brain damage from too much drugs? PTSD
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from Vietnam? What?
My experience has been one of men saying they are looking for
"that certain someone", "long term relationship", etc, etc.
BUT, they don't want to move too fast....six months later....they
still aren't ready. THEY (MEN I'VE MET) must think they are
going to live forever! At fifty-five to sixty years old, how many
healthy good years do we have left? Not enough to
draggggggggggg your feet foreveeeeeeeer.
The moment it looks like it could become serious......POOF! They
are gone.
For Mary‟s sake, I wished dating was more like the scenarios found in romance novels. I
investigated this genre recently and learned a lot.
The first book was set in Washington D.C. The male love interest was a leper with a rare
blood disease and one eye. Actually, that‟s not exactly true. He was the son of a former
President with “the face of a warrior – tough, intense, with knife-edged cheekbones” and a fine
artist. The Prez set him up on a date, “as a huge favor,” with the stunning, hard-driving daughter
of a department store magnate.
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The second one was set in Washington State. The heartthrob was a prosperous rancher with
a nose, “as straight and sharp as a knife blade.” He fell for a beautiful woman who had regained
her vision and, just in time, I might add. Had she still been blind, I doubt her heart would‟ve
pounded when he approached her table at the country western bar.
I only read the first chapters. I was concerned, if I kept going, I‟d gravitate from romance
novels to cooking shows. What I concluded is the world is full of men with knife-edge features
who live in Washington. I considered suggesting relocation to Mary, but wondered if those men
dragged their feet too.
Her email sounded frustrated but not bitter, so I answered:
Thanks for your thoughtful reply. You're not alone in the
frustration you feel. I don't know why men are scared. I imagine
some women are scared, too. I'm guessing it has something to do
with baggage from previous relationships. As we get older,
baggage gets heavier.
You're right about how much time we have left. Why wait until
we're in our last days to find a bond with someone?
I'm curious why you chose Mingle² and whether you tried any
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other sites. Besides online, have you tried anything else?
I gave her my contact information, including a web address for my business and invited her
to talk on the phone. She replied with her phone number, and I called her.
She was articulate and our conversation flowed smoothly. She mentioned a website she had
luck with called Plentyoffish.com (POF). The site sent her so many prospects she went on two
dates a day. She said many of her suitors were only looking for one thing, though. A wealthy
widow? A merry widow? What were they after?
She also tried eHarmony, Match.com, and Yahoo Personals. As a strictly unscientific experiment, I
offered to pay for a three-month renewal of her eHarmony ad. I thought sending the money to Mary
would be less painful than filling out their forms myself. I was curious to know whether the hype was
true.
eHarmony boasts having a “comprehensive” 436-question Relationship Questionnaire. The SAT has
fewer questions. I think, once you‟ve completed it, you have security clearance high enough to skydive
with the President. eHarmony also touts scientific matching based on twenty-nine Key Dimensions of
Compatibility. I‟m aware of three dimensions, four if you add Miss Cleo the psychic to the mix. Did I
miss something by skipping tenth grade physics?
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Singles today think nothing of placing a personal ad on dating sites. It is socially acceptable and,
many feel, the best way to meet your mate. People will openly admit, at a party or standing in line at the
supermarket, they found their spouse/significant other by placing an ad online. It‟s no big deal.
My brother Rick found his wife online. She is beautiful inside and out, and all she did was respond to
my brother‟s ad on Depressedgeeks.com. All right, there‟s no such site. But, it‟s true about how
beautiful Ann is. It‟s also true about my brother‟s ad on CherryBlossoms.com. He hoped to find a lovely
Asian woman who knew how to cook Thai food, and the site delivered. She turned out to be an
accountant and doesn‟t cook Thai food but I suppose she could cook the books. Rick and Ann found true
love on the Internet and are now happily married.
Mary wrote me with the following update on her eHarmony experience:
eHarmony has matched me with men sixty-eight and seventy-two
respectively.
Uhhhhh, I can't imagine dating someone seventy-two! With eHarmony
you have NO input into your preferred age range.
I am sixty. Baby boomer for sure. I want to stay within that generation,
someone who is very liberal and fun. Preferred range: fifty to sixty-two.
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Born after WWII. Actually early fifties gets into men who still have kids
at home or are putting them through college. More like fifty-five to
sixty. It's not about looks, but attitude.
They have also matched me with guys in their fifties and closer to my
age. They have been blue collar and I don't see activities involving
sports or travel. More like: movies and that sort of thing. I have found
that if their activity list is short, there may be a physical impairment.
I hope this has been helpful.
I'll correspond later.
It was evident the sailing hadn‟t smoothed out for Mary. It wasn‟t as though she was on the
Lusitania. Still, I tried to keep the mood positive. I sent Mary the following:
Hi Mary,
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You seem like you're making progress, despite the thin results from
your online efforts. I‟m surprised you haven't gotten more from
eHarmony.
What were the singles events sponsored by POF? Has anyone had
some luck at those gatherings?
I value your insights and always look forward to hearing from you,
Mary. Please keep me posted, as you're someone I'm sure will be
successful.
Take care,
Bill
She replied:
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Bill,
I am seeing someone, still, that I did not meet online. We dated back in
Indiana, and he has moved here.
POF has had two or three barbeques at parks. I also attended three
gatherings at bar/restaurants in the evening. MANY (fifty or more)
people showed up for the bar/restaurant events.
There are activities such as these all the time. Many are in St. Pete.
Don't know of any "hook ups" as a result of these.
I honestly had no better results with eHarmony. I wasn't on there very
long because of the relationship that developed from my old BF from
Indiana.
I dunno what is going on. I still think the Baby Boomers are a group
that: (1) was the first generation where it was OK to "live together.” (2)
Had a high divorce rate, thus, lots of baggage concerning same. (3) They
want SOMEONE, but are afraid of being hurt. (4) Decide that doing IM
and email, possibly phone, is fun but that‟s as far as they are willing to
go.
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Who knows?
Mary
In fairness, it was hard to consider Mary‟s experience an indictment of eHarmony. Despite her lack
of success, the company wouldn‟t have money for those obnoxious TV ads if no one were finding love.
Plus, my publisher‟s attorney insisted on this disclaimer.
I discovered each dating site has its own personality. The challenge is finding the one on your
wavelength.
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Chapter 18 – Ladies & Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
I knew people were seeking soulmates online but wanted to know which strategies, old or
new, were successful. My sister Lee is a treasure trove of experience and insights. She‟s fortyfive, divorced and has a grown daughter. Recently, she moved from Connecticut to South
Carolina to be near family.
Lee missed her calling by not taking to the airwaves. While she bears little resemblance to
Miss Cleo, she could fill in nicely for Delilah or any other advice-giving confidantes in the
realm. With her gift of gab, she can keep a conversation going standing alone in a closet. Lee is
also able to relate to others, regardless of their situation.
I can imagine someone calling her radio show with a problem like, “My boyfriend told me he
wants to be a shepherd and I‟m worried we‟ll never see each other.” I‟ll bet Lee would say
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something like, “It‟s funny you mentioned that because I used to date a shepherd. I loved being
on the open range and eating under the stars. We‟d still be together if I hadn‟t developed an
aversion to lamb.”
Lee tried eHarmony, Match.com, and clubbing with mixed results. One thing she has always
done is get out and circulate. Sitting at home, watching reruns of Sex in the City won‟t help you
find someone. After moving to Greenville, she built a new network of friends. Her strategy was
both conventional and innovative. Embrace NASCAR.
Even though I consider myself a car guy, I‟ve never been interested in auto racing. It seems
like a tremendous waste of gasoline and rubber. I suppose a crash livens things up but, aside
from that, what‟s so interesting? How quickly the pit crew changes the tires? I think auto racing
would be more challenging if the drivers had to prove their skill against rush hour traffic.
When I think of traffic, I think of Los Angeles and the I-405 Freeway. Of course, the best
part about LA traffic is the aerial coverage whenever there‟s a psycho running from the cops. I
still feel bad about the OJ Simpson chase. It seemed so wimpy I felt it hurt the reputation of the
other decent, hard working crooks running from the law. How seriously can you take a city with
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a forty mph car chase? It‟s disgraceful. To make matters worse, it ended in a peaceful surrender
rather than a hail of gunfire.
Since it may be a while before NASCAR adopts my idea, we‟ll have to accept its present
setup. That works well for my sister. Lee went to a race with a guy she met on eHarmony. To
make things more interesting, she picked a driver to follow. What would her selection criteria
be? The kind of car he drives? No. His point standing compared to the other racers? Hardly.
His visibility as a spokesperson for some auto related item, like beer? Yeah, right. After
diligently studying the driver‟s faces on the track‟s Jumbotron, she picked Kevin Harvick. Why?
Because he seemed like a nice guy, had cute dimples and she liked the name Kevin.
Her intuition was remarkably good. He placed second in the next two races she attended. He
also has cute dimples, and a cool website. His loyal fans use the site to deepen their relationship
with Kevin and themselves. It has a chat room, a message board and Lee now has something in
common with people from across the country. She lives in the heart of NASCAR country and
Kevin even hosts an annual party for his fans. When was the last time your favorite celebrity
hosted a fan appreciation party? I‟m not aware of a thing my very own Miss Cleo has done in
that regard. Perhaps, she sent the invitations telepathically.
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Today Lee has a network of people with whom she shares a common interest. Best of all, the
demographic is skewed in a woman‟s favor with sixty percent of NASCAR fans being men. I
wondered what the demographics were for other professional sports. According to Kevin
Canfield of Sports TV, “Like Major League Baseball, as well as basketball and hockey, two of
every three viewers of NFL games are male.” I think those are favorable odds, if you‟re a
woman.
Lee hasn‟t found her ideal match through NASCAR, but she is connecting with a lot more
people because of it, and having fun while doing so. I asked what else she had luck with. She
mentioned eHarmony. Lee recommended I join to help me get the complete picture. I feared
this would require filling out its entire 436-question profile. Since registering at eHarmony was
less appealing than tooth extraction, I opted to glean as much as possible from Lee‟s experience.
Lee had better luck with eHarmony than Mary from Mingle² did. She explained they try to
match your personality with someone who, from their metric, would mesh well with you. She
thinks one reason they ask so many questions is to try to find out if you‟re the deceitful type. I
wondered how many different ways they might ask if I‟m married. Are you attached? Legally
joined? Hitched? Betrothed? Wedded? Spliced? Yoked? Connubial? United? Given over to
another? I was sure eHarmony had many more. When she told me that, along with pathological
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liars, they could filter out the mentally unstable, I knew I wouldn‟t be wading in the
eHarmonious dating pool.
It sure seemed like a ton of work. Lee said she knew many men felt the same way. She
thought, if someone were willing to be tortured in this manner, it made him serious about finding
love. She also said, if one put in the work, she was sure there would be good results. Lee met a
few men through the site and, despite not finding “the one,” thought eHarmony gave her better
options than any others she tried.
She did meet a person she has great chemistry with and fell for. No, not online. In a bar.
What was so unlikely was neither Lee nor the guy usually went to bars. It was one of those
times when the stars aligned and two people meant to meet connected. Still, it wouldn‟t have
happened if they‟d both stayed home.
Since bar hopping sometimes worked for her, I asked why she didn‟t do it more often. She
said she didn‟t have any single girlfriends to go with and wasn‟t the type to bar hop alone.
There‟s a business model: Rent-A-Friend. A companion for men or women to accompany them
for a night on the town. It‟s perfect for those who recently moved to an area or, for people like
me, who have no friends.
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I asked Lee if she‟d thought about going on a singles cruise. She said, to consider it, she‟d
want to go with a girlfriend. Rent-A-Friend to the rescue. There‟s no end to the ways Rent-AFriend can help. I wonder if that domain name is available. Nah. That had to go long before
Halfassed.edu.
I hoped to find additional strategies that would work for today‟s singles. I think, what struck
me most was how hard finding love still was. Lee said she thought going after men as soon as
they divorced was a way to beat the competition. I feared she might mean it. I pictured women
staking out the courtrooms. Then, as the newly minted divorcee walked down the courthouse
steps, skillfully bumping into him sending his huge stack of papers flying all over the plaza.
Hollywood could sell it.
To cover all the bases, you should add a direct mail campaign to the mix. Just as insurance
agents and cable companies bombard new homeowners with offers, I‟m sure recent divorcees get
them too. Men probably hear from hair replacement clinics and women from breast implant
surgeons.
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Along with sporting venues, what other ways are there to get out and circulate? Cultural
attractions like the symphony, theater, ballet, and museums have worked for years.
Unfortunately, those can be costly and unpredictable.
If I were looking to meet a woman, I‟d be thinking about what things women like. Cooking
classes, advanced avionics, flower shows. I suppose it would help if I knew a few words or
phrases to impress them.
The most important thing to remember about cooking a lamb roast is not to over-cook it.
That’s why God invented meat thermometers.
I remember when the AAM was launched onboard PSLV-C8 along with Italian satellite
AGILE. Can you believe it only weighed 407 pounds? (If you meet someone with this, buy
lottery tickets).
What beautiful orchids! Mine are happiest when facing south and getting plenty of light.
Feel free to steal these helpful lines for yourself. I wouldn‟t think of taking credit for them.
The key is to have an interest in whatever you‟re attending. It‟s the passion you feel for a hobby
or interest which will help you find someone you‟ll enjoy.
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I was watching the Russo & Steele auto auction on television and, besides the insane prices
people were paying for wheels, three things struck me. First, where do auctioneers learn to talk
like that? Second, why do they talk like that? It sounds like they‟ve lost all command of the
English language. Through the help of an interpreter, I learned this is what they said:
Who will start the bidding off? Fifty thousand. Do I have fifty thousand? Thank you,
sir. Hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah
hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah hammanah,
hammmmana, hammmanah Sixty thousand! Hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah
hammmmana, hammmanah hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah Seventy, in the front
row! Hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah hammanah, hammmmana, hammmanah
hammmmana, hammmanah, Abadee, abadee, that‟s all folks.
The third thing was, as the cameras scanned the room, I didn‟t see a single woman. I‟m sure
some were there, like the ones dressed in navy suits coaxing the bidders higher, but the odds of
meeting a man are in a woman‟s favor.
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There are rules to the game of love, just like any other game. The secret to being successful
is stacking the odds in your favor. Being one of a few hundred women in a room with thousands
of men gives you a real edge if you want to meet a man. I‟d caution you to do a little homework
to increase your odds. I‟m not saying you need to know the torque on a „72 Camaro SS but some
knowledge of cars will make it more interesting and will differentiate yourself.
I went to a sports bar not long ago. They are best experienced with a few beer-guzzling
friends. I rarely frequent these bars because I don‟t have any beer-guzzling friends. So, I went
alone expecting to find tons of guys wearing baseball hats and team jerseys and figured, with any
luck, I might make some beer-guzzling friends. Why would I subject myself to all of this fun?
Because, miraculously, the game I wanted to watch was not shown on one of the thousand
channels my cable provider offers.
It started out well enough. A sultry, cleavage-sporting hostess, Alicia, greeted me. She said,
“Is it just you?” I hated to admit it was but, as I looked around, there was no wingman in sight. I
sheepishly confessed it was, “just me.” I asked if she‟d mind my looking around, trolling for
someone to sit next to, and she said “Oh sure. Go right ahead.”
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This wasn‟t your father‟s sports bar. It was an alcohol-serving version of the television
department at Best Buy. Every inch of wall space was showing some sporting event. They even
had high school football. The screens at the far end of the bar were so supersized I felt ashamed
of my “big screen” set at home. There were so many televisions I was shocked to discover
they‟d neglected the stalls in the men‟s room or the space above the urinals. Airlines cram sets
into seat backs. Minivans have them tumbling down from their headliners. This seemed like a
glaring omission to me. As I nursed my beer, it was nice to not reach for the remote at
commercials but, rather, turn my head slightly to view a different channel.
The bartender was fit and prematurely bald. He eyed my beer as I slowly drained it. I felt
like some sort of profit center not performing up to expectations. When it got low enough he‟d
ask hopefully, “Can I get you another?” His idea of finesse was to bring the bottle over and give
the cap a precision flip right in front of me. Like Anne Boleyn‟s executioner. Did this add to the
freshness? I‟m not sure. It seemed like amateur showmanship but, for some reason, wouldn‟t
have bothered me had the pregnant bartender working the side bar done it.
At one point, I thought an altercation was brewing. The guy sitting to my right looked like
he could have STERIODS as his car‟s vanity plate. The veins in his neck resembled flesh
colored snakes. I was sure his name was Tiny. Guys the size of Winnebagos are always named
Tiny. He reminded me of the guests I met at a friend‟s Christmas parties. Richie was a top
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criminal defense attorney and, every year, his holiday gathering included a broad mix of clients
and friends.
Hollywood has no idea how frightening real-life thugs are. Maybe movie muscle isn‟t as
scary because you know they‟re actors. Ritchie‟s clients were the real deal. Huge, ham-fisted
enforcers dressed in XXXL sport jackets and turtlenecks. The thing that made them the scariest
wasn‟t their size or choice of wardrobe. It was their look. A combination of wary, sadistic, and
detached. Like they were seeing right through you. They made a prizefighter‟s stare-down look
like a loving gaze. If they‟d challenged me with, “Whadda you lookin‟ at?” I‟d have retreated
with, “Nothing at all sir, your Honor, your Eminence.” I really would have. Survival is a
powerful instinct. I hate to think what might‟ve become of me had I accidentally spilled my
drink on one of their sport jackets, or worse, their date. “You‟d like an entire new wardrobe for
yourself, your date and your respective families? No problem, your Majesty.”
I suppose Tiny could be part of this happy family. Did he have the same barber as the
bartender, or did steroids cause baldness? He ordered a bucket of beer. As excessive as that
sounds, it was merely a six-pack in a bucket of ice. Perhaps, because human growth hormone
doesn‟t mix well with alcohol, there were words exchanged. It had something to do with the
check. Thankfully, it got resolved without spilling any suds.
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As I looked around the room, I noticed about six women, and they were all with guys. The
odds in a sports bar are well in your favor, if you‟re a woman looking to meet someone. I
wondered if there was an equivalent place for men to meet women. Possibly, a bar like the one I
was in, only with What Not to Wear, Dancing with the Stars, and Bridezilla fighting for your
attention.
I wish I could tell you I had a blast mixing it up with some new “buds.” That the female
servers were dressed in skimpy referee‟s uniforms, but none of that happened. I talked to a
painting contractor and his beer-guzzling friend who taught tenth grade world history. The exact
meaning of the words “third wheel” and “three‟s a crowd” becoming clearer than a flasher‟s
underwear. In the end, I over tipped, feeling guilty about my modest consumption and lack of
companionship. Where was my Rent-A-Friend when I needed him?
Besides the strategies mentioned above, I‟m sure there are many other good ways to meet
your mate. The secret is to use deodorant, and get out of the house or car or wherever you are
living. You can spend your whole day online but it‟s never going to replace direct human
contact.
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Chapter 19 – Where Is The Love?
Returning to my school days in Manhattan and pile of replies to my ad, I looked anew at Jean Carol
Shifton‟s exquisite hand-made card. She tempted me further with her other qualities:
Later, she said:
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I sat holding her letter in stunned silence. My previous excitement and elation suddenly gone, I felt
empty. My advertisement sought a woman exactly like her. Exactly! So, why was I now balking? She
was well beyond, “Are you blind? She‟s lovely!” Jean was in the category of, “Pick up the phone and
call her…IMMEDIATELY.”
Yet I waited.
I didn‟t know what to do. What was wrong with me? Something was holding me back. Was it too
soon? It was barely a month since I ended things with my fiancée, Rita. I thought I was ready. Perhaps
Jean‟s perfection scared me. I knew she outmatched me on the card-making front. Possibly I‟d be
inadequate in other ways too. Her hobby was cooking? She was probably Cordon Bleu caliber.
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Surprisingly, her field was pharmaceuticals, not greeting cards. Do you have something to relax me,
Jean? A piece of apple pie might calm me down. What kind of nitwit was I? I coveted good food and
Jean knew how to make it. I stood at the jump door of love, parachute on, but was afraid to step into the
wild dating unknown. How ironic. Marketing/sales wiz places ad and gets what he wants, only he‟s too
chicken to try it.
If I had friends daring me to reply, things might‟ve been different. I won‟t do certain things,
regardless of the dare. Eating tofu cheesecake, conducting autopsies, and swimming under ocean liners
fit into this category. I‟m amazed at the varied things I‟ve done though. Driving 155 mph on our
interstate highway system is a powerful adrenalin rush and completely insane. Despite cutting down on
travel time, it‟s bad for gas mileage.
Live television is also a thrill ride. I once worked at a public television auction as a presenter. I
believe my getting such a plum gig had to do with the level of desperation the station reached to find
volunteers. I watched the auction for a few nights. WXEL in South Florida did the broadcast. Every
night they tried selling the type of antique bed warmer used since the days of Henry VIII. No one bid on
it. I‟ve found the spirit of bed warming can be elusive when the temperature outside is a steamy ninety
degrees.
I thought it would never sell and was grateful they didn‟t saddle me with it during my broadcast stint.
As I did my shift on the air, I noticed, with horror, they did give me the bed warmer to sell. What was it
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with these people? Didn‟t they know Eskimos don‟t buy ice? Out of desperation, I said it works as a bed
chiller, if filled with ice. Someone snapped it up.
I may be daring about some things, but Jean‟s invitation was too scary. Her letter came in January.
They say timing is everything. Maybe it wasn‟t the right time for us. Without someone to dare me,
maybe I was afraid.
In March, I visited Nantucket and stayed with my friend Bonnie. I went there to do preliminary
research for my master‟s thesis about affordable housing on the island. At the time, a gallon of regular
gas cost ninety-five cents. Given a median home price of $350,000 on Nantucket, I thought one page
would cover it. Possibly even three words. “There is none.” I figured my professors at Columbia might
want a few more sentences.
I arrived on Friday with my dog, Scylla. Bonnie set me up on a pseudo date with her friend Marci.
The evening‟s high point was a Tarot reading. Unfortunately, Marci only mildly resembled Miss Cleo.
Still, besides getting drunk, there wasn‟t much else to do on Nantucket in March.
Aside from Miss Cleo, I find this occult stuff bizarre. I like the concept of forecasting the future,
especially, if it means making a killing on the stock market. Knowing the day and time I‟m leaving
planet earth, though, is waaaaay too much information.
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Tarot decks have some scary cards in them. The Death card, for example. Tarot readers tell you it
doesn‟t mean your death. Nooooo. It just means the end of something. Like your life. No. The end in a
transitional way. Like quitting smoking or graduating from millenary school. Still, how many of us want
to see the Death card in our reading? Not me. I can end my dependence on bagels some other way.
Thankfully, the Death card eluded me. The reading was confusing though. The cards appeared to
say one thing, but they said something completely different. It was as though a Tarot reader‟s union
insisted their membership could not have the cards say what they appeared to be saying. I can understand
that too. If any Mary, Terry, or Jerry could pick up a deck and know what the cards were saying without
interpretation, there would be chaos. I‟m also sure, they‟d have to remove the Death card. I don‟t
remember the particulars of my reading other than it mentioned love in my life. A prediction as vague as
the ones from my beloved Miss Cleo. I felt optimistic. Love in my life. I only hoped it wasn‟t the Love
card saying that.
The next day, I went to breakfast with an innovative developer. We ate at the Downy Flake. It was
one of those eateries with locals nursing their hangovers from the night before. It also had locals with
more money than God, who looked like ordinary Joes, nursing their hangovers from the night before.
Other locals ate there who fought fires and taught school. Those folks weren‟t nursing hangovers. They
were too busy trying to figure out how to afford to live on this expensive sandbar in the Atlantic.
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Bonnie let me borrow her BMW so after breakfast, instead of seeing how well it would drive in the
dunes, I returned it to her. She owned a two-family home and rented the downstairs. Bonnie was the
agent who sold me my little cottage in Madaket. At the time, she was in the “off” stage of her
relationship with a local, who looked like an ordinary Joe, with more money than God.
I find people, for the most part, don‟t like big surprises. Perhaps it‟s the lack of control, even if it‟s a
pleasant surprise. I don‟t mean winning the church raffle. Like buying a lottery ticket, you have some
control, and much better odds, when you enter one. I mean shocks like surprise parties, being laid off,
discovering you have rickets, things of that nature. The problem with surprises is the conspiratorial
element to many of them. All those people who know something you don‟t and are keeping it from you,
until the time is right.
Perhaps the scale of the surprise determines whether it‟s enjoyable. Like the difference between
getting a little sun and being burned beyond recognition. Life is full of things that, when taken in small
doses, are pleasant but can turn ugly when overdone. Unlike alcohol, I don‟t believe sex falls into that
category. When was the last time you heard someone say, “God, I feel terrible. I had way too much sex
last night?”
Little surprises can be delightful. I opened the door to Bonnie‟s apartment and was pleased to find a
friend of hers on the couch. Some people in life are instantly likeable. I wish I knew how they managed
it. Most of us have some semblance of social grace. Even I know, upon first entering someone‟s home,
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the words “what a dump” should be stifled. Some people just radiate likeability. They have a knack for
putting you at ease and making you glad to be with them.
Barbara was like that. With her easy laugh and ready smile, she could brighten a death march. Talk
about a pleasant surprise. She was also beautiful without trying to be. Dressed in a pink and white tank
top, her black Edwin jeans had the fit I‟m sure Edwin envisioned. Since when had casual become so
alluring? Her long, wavy auburn hair added height to her petite frame. I liked her lack of accent and
enjoyed hearing about her trip to North Carolina. Her warmth and magnetism was in stark contrast to the
raw feeling of the island some call the Grey Lady. She delighted me and I wondered what her story was.
March eighth was unseasonably warm on Nantucket with temperatures in the low seventies. Could
this be the start of the winter‟s thaw? Were we the beneficiaries of global warming? It wasn‟t until the
three of us went to buy milk and The Boston Globe that I got Bonnie alone inside the store. I pumped her
for details about Barbara. “Who was she?” “Was she involved with someone?” “Was she on parole?”
Well, I suppose her parole status didn‟t matter. By now, I knew I had no idea what I was looking for.
Jean Carol Shifton proved that. I thought there must be some chemistry, a spark. Barbara and I could
have powered the Nantucket Lightship with the electricity passing between us.
I‟d like to tell you she “had me at hello” but I can‟t. I was attracted to her yet I didn‟t have the clarity
Renee Zellweger had in Jerry Maguire. At one point, Bonnie, Barbara, our dogs and I piled into a
minivan and hit Miacomet beach. It was one of those glorious days in New England that, after a long,
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dreary winter, seemed miraculous. The sun returned. It was gorgeous. Everyone was in a great mood.
The daffodils were awake. What a fertile moment for love to bloom.
That night, Bonnie, her date, and I met Barbara at the Ship‟s Inn for dinner. I don‟t recall the meal
but afterwards we went to The Atlantic Café for a drink. It was around eleven o‟clock when we drove
Barbara back to her car. I got out to say goodnight to her. Neither of us wanted the night to end, but I
thought it would be too pushy to invite myself to her house. I gave her a kiss goodnight and said I‟d meet
her Sunday, before I flew back to New York. Then something serendipitous happened. Bonnie drove off.
We were left together on the cobblestone street. Just the two of us. We went to Barbara‟s antique cottage
and started a fire. A fire still burning today. It was the most romantic evening of my life. I didn‟t realize
it, but I‟d met the woman of my dreams. How ironic that I left an island with millions of women for one
with only a few thousand to find love.
As much as the world has changed in the last twenty-one years, one thing has been consistent.
Barbara‟s dedication to me. We‟ve weathered our share of life‟s realities and, somehow, she‟s stuck by
me. That takes a sense of humor.
Long before I knew Barbara, I served as my friend Anthony‟s best man. The priest at the ceremony
said conception was, “the greatest act of human creation.” Feeling creative, Barbara and I conceived a
great human. Our daughter Julie. I‟ve learned so much from both of them.
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In fifth grade, Julie had a horrible teacher. This woman was mean, spiteful and should‟ve retired
years earlier. Before Christmas break, I noticed Julie had a present for Miss Cough. I asked why, of all
people, she was giving her wretched teacher a gift. She said, “I don‟t think anyone else will give her a
present so I thought I would.” That had to come from my wife‟s side. Fortunately, she outgrew that
phase. All right. She‟s still a sweet kid and, thankfully, much smarter than I am. Anthony‟s priest had a
point.
Barbara is as fascinated by the letters as I am. They have taught us both lessons about love. She has
taught me a lot about love too. It‟s hard work, regardless of how compatible you are. She still manages
to laugh at my jokes after twenty-one years. Maybe those Tarot cards do know the future.
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Chapter 20 – The Little Men Who Live Behind My Eyes
Whenever I‟m at the gate waiting to fly somewhere, I always scan the departure area to see who will
be flying with me. The flavor of my travel companions depends on where I‟m going. The shuttle
between Boston and New York has a sea of laptops and suits while Las Vegas flights go for leisurewear
and makeup. Orlando has kids and their lunatic parents ready to feel the “magic” of long lines and
expensive hotdogs. In Nepal, I encountered a goat making the flight from Pokhara to Kathmandu that had
a better seat than I did.
My scientific research has discovered that, the longer the flight is, the more likely I am to sit in front
of a screaming two-year-old. If the flight is an overnight flight, invariably, at three o‟clock in the
morning, someone behind me unwraps a snack. Even with earplugs, the crinkly paper sounds like distant
machine gun fire attacking my slumber.
As a way to meet people, travel is a mixed bag. I usually sit next to mothers with toddlers or
regional sales managers for small electronics companies. If neither of those is available, I get the A-type
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traveler, producing monthly reports on his laptop. I always feel like such a slacker. I could be solving
world hunger yet I‟m sitting around with a book or crossword puzzle and not a single bar graph.
I think airlines would increase market share if they approached seating a different way. Rather than
asking for window, bulkhead, or aisle seats, they should allow passengers to request seatmates that meet
other criterion. Air travel would become a way to meet someone with common interests. Imagine
matching twenty-something singles with other singles within a chosen age range. Shepherds with little
Bo Peeps. Middle-aged divorcees, gays, vegetarians, fitness fanatics, co-dependants, monks, Christians.
Most preferences could be accommodated and, maybe, matched.
While seated next to a grandmother from Grand Rapids on a recent flight, I was reading the airline‟s
magazine. On the back of a page showing the terminals in Omaha, was an ad for Bologna International.
It caught my eye because they offered matchmaking, In the European Tradition. The page was full of
copy except for a picture of the founder, Irene Bologna, who looked like Dolly Parton only a few cup
sizes smaller. She seemed so happy to be in the ad I feared she might explode in a hail of white linen.
Below the name of her company was the line “The more you have to offer the more difficult it seems
to find the person who is right for you.” To emphasize that point, they repeated the exact same words
further down in red ink. I thought about the ramifications of this statement. If I understand it correctly,
it‟s easier to find the right person if you have little or nothing to offer.
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Perhaps, I‟ve misunderstood dating all this time. As I thought more about this, I began to get queasy.
How would I be able to convince people what is needed is a new model? People who work to become
less and less attractive. Evidently, the Europeans have the upper hand in this respect. After all, they
already have their own “tradition” about these things.
Where to start? Perhaps with some bodywork like on the television show Extreme Makeover. The
show is a natural for this. Until now, we‟ve watched ugly ducklings turn into swans, right before our
eyes. They give “knife-edged cheekbones” to guys that want them and liposuction their beer guts.
Women with bad teeth get cosmetic dentistry, their noses straightened, and their breast size adjusted up or
down.
With the Bologna model, what we need is to stop applying makeup, shaving, using deodorant, and
dressing for success. We can eat like rescued refugees. Throw the bikes and jogging shoes away.
Extreme Makeover can get rid of those chiseled features and fill its participants with Jell-O, until they
look more like cylinders. I‟m sure gelatin is a lot cheaper than bionic parts. A new day is coming.
As cutting-edge as this model is, there are other bold and creative approaches, too. Within the online
dating realm, I‟m amazed at the different tactics people employ to find love. The parts of themselves they
choose to reveal. What they do and don‟t say. My ninety-five letters from 1987 are just as creative as
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Internet daters are today. I decided to locate and compile a Top Ten list of the funniest, scariest, and most
memorable personal “blurbs” found online. They are real, unadulterated, and taken from Mingle².
Top Ten Blurbs on Mingle²:
10. Good girls are hard to find, Bad girls are hard to resist!
48-year-old woman from Tujunga, California
Looking for man for dating
9. Homo Sapiens, please... (No "Sexo Primitivo"!)
32-year-old woman from Moscow, Moskva
8.
Looking for man for relationship
RATHER HAVE 30 MINUTES OF WONDERFUL THAN A LIFETIME OF NOTHING
SPECIAL
45-year-old woman from Manhattan, New York
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Looking for man for friendship
7.
Looking for a dairy farmer
47-year-old woman from Swindon, England
6. This is as easy as nailing jell-o to a tree...
43-year-old woman from Arlington, New Jersey
5. Saw it wanted it threw a fit got it
46-year-old woman from Montrose, Colorado
Looking for man for intimate
encounter
4. So hot, I make fire stop, drop, and roll! READ THE PROFILE BEFORE CONTACT
24-year-old woman from Tampa, Florida
Looking for man for intimate encounter
3. If you are not from the U.S. or you are looking for cyber/phone sex, save your breath,
you'll need it later to blow up your date.
45-year-old woman from Springfield, Vermont
2. IF RAINDROPS WERE KISSES, I'D SEND YOU A STORM...
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37-year-old woman from Sherman Oaks, California
Looking for man for
relationship
And the best blurb is…
1. The little men who live behind my eyes and scream directly at my brain told me to tell
you Hello.
The following online personals are also unedited. They did get me to click through to learn more
about them:
seeking my vampire master to guide me on this chosen darkened blessed path of mine
35-year-old woman from Aberdeen, Scotland
im a mom into myself and meeting goths and vampires i live in a very small town but
have a good family i wear very gothic clothes and have been into the occult for may years
now i had an encounter with an american vampire and he has shown me the way also as a
single mom who looks 21 i have had a few one night stands to say the least im very
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experienced in the bedroom and if i dont get a job soon i will stard selling my body agin
**** we all need the cash bills to pay blah blah blah
Profession: studentmom
Desperate and willing.....
19-year-old woman from Bray, Wicklow
Looking for man for intimate encounter
Interests: food, poles, dancing, the list just goes on....
I am currently stuck to my couch and have been for the past 12years, prior to this I
enjoyed long walks on the beach and pole dancing....am looking 4 someone who shares
these interests, or someone to deliver food to my couch.....or failing this, anyone,
seriously, ANYONE will do.
Profession: pole dancer
Here's all you have to know about men and women. Women are crazy. Men are stupid.
And the reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.
Just looking to meet new people, get out more, and experience something new. Sometimes I'm a
little socially awkward, but I usually make up for it with my inappropriate outbursts. But don't worry
237
it's part of my charm. I'm honest, a loyal friend and no matter what my best friiend says I will bail
you out if you get arrested, LOL
All men profess honesty as long as they can. To believe all men honest would be folly. To believe
none so is something worse.
Profession: Capital Management
If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you!
41-year-old woman from Coventry, England
The way to this woman's heart is definitely through laughter - gut wrenching belly
laughs as well as dry, witty, one-line asides that amuse and make me smile. Ability to
cook delicious meals, and enjoy doing it will also be a huge plus (I'm happy to cook - no
one has ever complained about my cooking, but then again no one has actually lived to
tell the tale). I like nothing more than to sit in the kitchen chatting, pouring the wine and
watch someone else cook... Who was it who said, "I don‟t cook. I can‟t be good in every
room in the house!” Makes the lack of cooking seem like a huge benefit. Wish I'd
thought of it!
Profession: Business consultant
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I agree with the last woman. A sense of humor is as important in finding a partner as it is in
smoothing out life‟s wrinkles. That‟s not to say you should roam the neighborhood laughing at every
little thing. For example, let‟s say your name is Xanthide and the guy across the hall says, “Oh hi
Xanthide, I haven‟t seen you in a while. What have you been up to?” I wouldn‟t say you should break
into spasms of laughter to the point where tears are streaming down your face. Or, if you‟re out walking
your rabid pitbull and a cute little girl in a pink pinafore comes running up, stay away from anything
resembling a gleeful giggle.
Ann has a sense of humor and knows when to laugh. She is one of the sweetest little old ladies you
could ever know. She‟s one of those people who call you when you‟re blue and say, “I tell all my friends
about you and what a great job you always do.” She‟s also unflappable. She was at a party of mine
sitting next to a fire warming the outside on a chilly Florida night. Ann was having a grand time when
my friend noticed her shoe was on fire. Scott leaned over and said, “Would you excuse me for a second?”
In an instant, he had taken her shoe off, extinguished the fire, and replaced the shoe on her foot. Ann kept
right on with her conversation, as though this kind of thing happens to her all the time.
I had an appointment to show her a home to buy and rang the doorbell. No one answered. I knocked.
There were cars in the driveway and the garage door was open. Finally, I took the key from the lockbox
and opened the front door. That was my first mistake. This really angry guy came towards me and I
knew trouble lived here. I said, “Oh, I didn‟t think anyone was home.” He seethed, “Yeah? Well, I‟m
here!” He seemed like he was a few degrees north of deranged and heading south. I said, “I can see this
239
isn‟t a good time for you, why don‟t we come back later?” In my experience, there is never a good time
to show a lunatic‟s home. Even if they‟re out, there‟s no telling when they‟ll return, or if the place is
booby-trapped. Despite his suppressed rage, I thought he understood and even agreed with me. This was
not a good time to show his home. I said goodbye, but I was pissed. I had an appointment, had Ann, and
had driven all the way to Looneyville. And, for what? So the owner could act like a wack job?
As soon as I left, I called the listing agent. That was my second mistake. I said, “I want you to know
your client was totally uncooperative. I rang the bell, knocked, and was letting myself in when he came at
me full of rage.” Good old Ann was waiting on the sidewalk. She was trying to subtly communicate
something. I kept complaining to the other agent, “How does he ever expect to sell his home if he doesn‟t
let anyone show it?” I was gaining steam when I got the message Ann wanted me to turn around.
Imagine my delight when I discovered Freddy Kruger right behind me listening to my every rant. Had I
been with someone younger than Ann, I‟d have yelled, “Run for your life.” Sadly, that was not an option.
We inched our way toward my car. To increase our chances of survival, I asked Freddy if he wanted
to speak with his agent. After all, she could be a witness. He grabbed my phone saying, “Gimme that!” I
got Ann in my car while he was yelling at his agent. Then he turned his sparkling personality towards me
saying, “You think you‟re smart? Do you? You think I like to play games? Huh? You stupid idiot. You
want your phone back?”
240
Ordinarily, I would find questions to be a useful way to gather information and develop a better
understanding of each other. In this case, I wasn‟t feeling the love. I considered lighting one of Ann‟s
shoes and hurling it like a Molotov cocktail.
Well, Mr. Kruger, I suppose I‟m smart enough to know when not to show a home but not smart
enough to wait until after we‟d left to call your agent. No, you don‟t seem like you‟re partial to games,
unless you consider torturing small animals a game. Sense of humor? Nope. Now, as far as getting my
phone back, that would be nice but it‟s certainly not a deal breaker. I‟m happy to let you keep it if you
promise not to carve Ann or me up. Does that sound good to you, Freddy?
Somehow, Ann and I escaped with our lives. I even retrieved my phone from his trashcan. The point
is, things would‟ve gone much better if he‟d had a sense of humor. I might even have sold his home.
As I reflect on my ninety-five chances for love, the beauty, variety, and hope in those letters still
moves me. I placed an ad, and got bits and pieces of what I was seeking. My hopes and dreams were the
same as many that wrote me. It‟s hard to find love, to find your soulmate. Running the ad was a
testament to the lengths I would go to look for it. Yet, despite going to this extreme, love eluded me. I
learned you can‟t make love happen. Sometimes, love has a mind of its own and will develop on its own
terms. It wasn‟t until I stopped looking, that love found me. Not where the odds were greatest, on an
island with millions of women, but where they were slimmest, on an island with a few thousand women.
241
Looking back on the letters I realize, despite the many changes in our world, the search for love is as
old as time. I learned a lot from those looking for the right match. I heard their stories of frustration and
disappointment and was reminded what hard work it is. Rarely, if ever, did anyone say they enjoyed the
search. Yet we persist. It‟s in our makeup. We‟re hardwired to seek companionship. Humans crave
love. I realize how lucky I was to find it.
So where does all this leave us? Dating can be an exciting way to drive you insane. Don‟t take
things too seriously. Have a short memory. Be creative and sincere, but not desperate. Let things unfold
gradually. Don‟t start with, as one woman did, “Who wants to get married??” Maintain a sense of
humor. Most importantly, stay positive, there‟s someone out there for everyone, even me.
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Chapter 1- Sleepless in Manhattan

Transcription

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