Dating Without Novocaine (18 page)

“T
hey always lie. Why do they always lie? It's not like we're not going to notice,” Louise said, gesturing into the air.

We were hiking the Wildwood Trail, from the zoo parking lot through the Hoyt Arboretum all the way to Pittock Mansion, with its view over the north end of the city. It was a popular route, especially on a Saturday, with runners, dogs and chatting pairs passing us or being passed every few minutes.

“Did he think I wouldn't notice that his claim to an average weight did not correspond to the sixty extra pounds hanging off his belly?” she asked. “Although I certainly couldn't tell by that photo.”

In an effort to cleanse her dating palate of the taste of Derek the Divorced and Uninterested, Louise had at last succumbed to the lure of Internet dating. The guy she'd chosen had looked cute in his picture—a picture, it turned out, he had chosen with a clever eye to self-flattery.

“It's like catalog shopping for clothes,” I said. “You have to be suspicious if the model is sitting down or has
her arms crossed over her waist. The outfit probably makes her look like a stump.”

“And baseball caps. I'll bet ninety percent of the guys who put up photos wearing a baseball cap are bald.”

“Can't blame them for trying,” I said.

“He didn't wear the cap to the coffee shop, though, and every time he got embarrassed he rubbed his head. It was like he was polishing it. I was tempted to squirt a bit of Turtle Wax on for him, maybe hand him a chamois. And it wasn't just his looks he lied about.”

“Oh?”

“He said he had a Ph.D. in psychology. Nope. Hasn't done his dissertation yet. He said he loved to travel, especially abroad. He's been to England—ooo! How foreign!—and the rest of his travel has been road trips in the U.S. He said he loved kayaking. He's only kayaked once, three years ago.”

“None of those are exactly lies,” I said, mostly to egg her on.

“And he had soft little hands, with pointy fingers.”

“Eww. Baby mouse paws,” I said.

“Can you imagine hands like that touching you?”

We contemplated such a horror in shared revulsion.

“He was nice, though, wasn't he?” I asked. “I mean, he wasn't what you were looking for, but he wasn't a jerk, or a looney tunes.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Too nice. That crap guys give about women not liking the nice guys, they don't get it. Nice doesn't mean being so passive and needy that you let women walk all over you. His ex tricked him into marriage with the old ‘I'm pregnant and I'll abort it' routine. Can you believe that still works?”

“At least he tried to do what he thought was right.”

“But what type of idiot doesn't know what he's getting himself into? Oh, yeah, like that marriage is going to work. Poor kid would be better off not being born, with a mom like that and an idiot father. Of course, his wife ‘miscarried' shortly after the wedding.”

“Whoever said men were bright about relationships?” I asked. “They're like bumpkins visiting a city for the first time. Some are sweet, some are rednecks, but not one has a clue.”

“And then they can't believe it when things go bad,” she said.

I liked it when Louise got into rant mode. There were times I thought she'd as soon stomp on a man as kiss one. Someday she'd be swept off her feet, and I hoped to be around to see it happen. It would be fodder for merciless teasing.

“The men I talk to on the crisis line, who are getting divorced,” she went on, “all they do is cry and talk about killing themselves. Or maybe killing their wives, and then themselves. They can't handle it, they have no idea what's going on and they can't imagine a future without her.” She stopped her rant for a moment as I stepped behind her, letting a jogger by.

“The women getting divorced, though, all they care about is ownership of the house.”

“That makes women sound like the mercenaries, and men like the romantics.”

“What makes a person romantic?” she asked. “Ideals crafted from fairy tales and one-dimensional beliefs about people and relationships? It doesn't scream of intelligence.”

“But maybe we need a little of that type of magic in our lives. Reality is too cold and gray. I want to believe in the happily-ever-after, and a love that never dies.”

“Despite experience?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What type of unrealistic philosophy is that?”

“If you go into dating with a bitter attitude, you're not going to attract a warm-hearted guy,” I said. “It's like there's some sort of karmic dating force out there, giving back what you put out.”

“Put out?” she snickered.

“I didn't mean that in a sexual way,” I said, chiding.

“I don't see how this karmic dating has benefited you so far. Look at that Pete creep.”

“But I got what I asked for, didn't I? All I was interested in was his body, and that's all he gave me. Or I hope that's all he gave me. I haven't had a pelvic exam yet.”

A male jogger approached us, and I stepped behind Louise again. He was a good-looking guy, early thirties, dark hair and a model's jaw. He also seemed to be lacking a jock-strap under his running tights.

He nodded to us and passed by.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“How could I not?”

“Do you think he knows it's sticking out? It's like he's got a tree branch growing out of his groin.”

“He's got to know,” Louise said. “Maybe he gets his kicks letting it flop around in public. Maybe he thinks it turns us on.”

“Makes me think of a dog licking his penis where everyone can see it. Ugh.”

“I thought you were the one obsessed with the male organ?”

“Only in the proper setting,” I said. I turned and looked back down the trail, but the jogger was long gone. “Think he'll come back?”

“You wish.”

We walked in silence for a short ways. The trail was cut into the side of a forested slope, and on our right we could look down through the trees and see glimpses of the Japanese Garden in Washington Park.

“That date has pretty much taken care of any desire I had to meet someone right now,” Louise said.

“One date and you're finished?”

She shrugged.

“You really don't care about getting married, do you?” I asked. “Or even about getting involved.” I knew we'd had this discussion before, but it was as though I had to keep checking that it could really be true.

“Not particularly. I feel like a freak for saying it, but I'm happy alone. I like having my apartment to myself. I like doing my own thing, and since I don't want to have children, there's no pressure to find someone soon.”

“Don't you miss the sex?”

She shrugged, as if embarrassed to admit that she wasn't a steaming mass of frustrated hormones. “You know, I never could fall asleep with a guy in my bed. I think I'd rather spend winter with a down comforter than a man.”

“You were happy enough with Scott while it lasted, weren't you?”

“That was a long time ago. There was the novelty factor that made it bearable.”

“Was he lousy in bed?” I asked, and then felt my cheeks heat. I couldn't believe I'd asked that. We had known each other long enough that we felt free to inquire into the skills of men we were dating, but never had I asked about Scott's past performance. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know.

“He was attentive. Perceptive,” Louise said. “A quick learner. I imagine he's learned a lot since we were together,” she said, a leer in her voice. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” I mumbled.

“He was one of those guys who likes to sleep with an arm draped over you, and he'd snore right in your ear. I couldn't sleep like that. Could you?”

“Probably. I like snuggling up to someone.”

“Hey, what happened last weekend?” she asked suddenly. “Scott thought he was going to go down to Roseburg with you.”

“I decided to go on Saturday, instead, and spend the night. It was too far to ask him to drive on his own, so I told him not to come.”

The truth of the matter was that Cassie, as she'd predicted, had weirded me out about the whole Scott thing, and I couldn't see us spending that much time alone in a car together, and didn't want him doing yardwork at my parents' house as if they were potential in-laws he was trying to impress.

I didn't know
what
I was feeling about Scott. He was cute; we enjoyed each other's company; I had, admittedly, used my new vibrator and put his face on the
fantasy man who was doing me; but still, I wasn't sure what it all added up to. I wasn't sure if it was worth enough to destroy the friendly ease we all shared, which would surely happen the moment Scott and I crossed the line from friendship to something more.

“I think he was disappointed,” Louise said.

I played with the idea of asking her if she thought Scott had a thing for me, and if he did, if it bothered her.

I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was too embarrassing, and I didn't think she'd be able to give an honest answer. I mean, what could she say? She'd have to say it was fine, no matter what discomfort she felt, otherwise she'd sound insanely possessive.

“He'll get over it,” I said. Another cute jogger went by, nodding at us as he passed. We watched his rump flexing as he trotted away. “Do you suppose we could trip one, just to make him stop?”

“You're the horny one, you do it.”

“Only if you'll help me drag him into the ferns so I can have my way with him,” I said.

“No problem.”

“You're a good friend.”

“Don't I know it.”

“Y
ou don't really want to go out with this guy,” Cassie said. She was sitting on my bed while I tried on different sandals, checking which would go best with the soft pink floral sundress I'd made.

“Yes I do.” I kicked off the brown ones, and tried the pair with the narrow pale gold straps. They were flats, so my legs looked shorter than I would have wished, but the brown sandals were just too heavy-looking.

She raised her brows, in a gesture that suggested I was fooling myself and that she knew what was really going on.

“What?” I asked.

“No, if you want to go out with him, you should.”

A statement that immediately made me want to shake out of her whatever she was thinking. I don't know why I always asked for her advice, when I heeded almost none of it.

“Come on, what? Do you see it as doomed from the start?” I asked.

She looked at me, not answering.

“I think there's potential here. He seems to have everything in place,” I said. I didn't sound very convincing.

“You go ahead and do what you have to.”

“You're not half so harmless as you look,” I told her. She smiled serenely.

Last week I'd realized that my birthday was fast approaching. Three more weeks, and I'd be thirty, and if I didn't do something quickly, I'd still be single. My plan to find a mate had sounded so simple and efficient four months ago, but somehow the time had slipped away, and I was no further along than I had been.

Unless I wanted to count Scott.

If I hadn't been attracted to him from the very beginning, though, maybe that meant there wasn't really any chemistry between us. Maybe it meant that whatever pull we might feel toward each other, it was there only because of familiarity and availability.

But if I'd first met him as a stranger, and not as Louise's ex-boyfriend, what would I have thought?

Oh, baby, come to Mama.
That's what I would have thought.

Before I made any move in that direction, I had to be certain that Mr. One-in-a-Million was not waiting around the corner. I didn't want to miss out on my perfect match because I'd given up too soon and gotten together with a guy I'd known as a friend. I didn't want to settle.

So, I'd gone on a personal ad binge, both traditional newspaper and Internet. The
Oregonian, Willamette Week,
Yahoo!, AOL, Match.com, Matchmaker.com. Any personal ads out there, I'd sifted through them,
writing to any man within the desired age range who had a college education, didn't smoke and didn't seem to be an utter lunatic.

There were fewer of them than one might think. And desperate creatures that they were, the same man was often found on two or three sites.

Not that
I
was desperate for searching all the sites and papers. Organized. Efficient. Practical. That's what I was.

“How is your public humiliation project progressing?” I asked, changing the subject from my dating wisdom or folly.

Cassie had confronted Jack the Two Timer the day after her discovery of his perfidy. She had, she'd said, been perfectly cordial in her ending of their liaison, and had proceeded to detail the situation to every person who crossed her path, whether they knew Jack or not. She said it had proved therapeutic, and she had a new understanding of talk therapy.

I wondered what Louise would have to say about such a treatment plan.

“He's getting a paranoid look in his eyes,” she said. “He gets fidgety whenever someone looks at him, especially if they're talking to someone else at the time. I have hopes that a nervous tic will soon develop.”

“I'm surprised he can stand to still work there.”

“I thought about hanging Voodoo Jack in the break room, but Real Jack might steal him,” she said. “Besides, I like shooting him.”

That I knew. I'd finished Voodoo Jack only a few days ago, but in that time I had heard the faint twang
of the rubber band gun and Cassie's version of his screams at all hours.

“I still wish I could have found a slingshot,” I said. “Pellets would have thwacked so well.”

“The rubber bands are good. At least I don't have to worry about cracking a window. I may burn him when I'm done, though. Would you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

 

It was a short drive to the Irvington neighborhood, where I was to meet my date, Tyler, a thirty-eight-year-old computer engineer.

I had finally done it. The computer geeks were everywhere, and with few other options I had persuaded myself to meet one.

It seemed unfair, after all, to prejudge a man by his profession. Perhaps, as he claimed, he had artistic sensibilities, and read things other than tech magazines and science fiction. Perhaps he really did run marathons and practice Tai Chi—although I wasn't sure the Tai Chi was in his favor.

Maybe, just maybe, his sense of humor wasn't stuck in third grade, and maybe he wore an analog wristwatch, instead of some digital monstrosity with a built-in calculator and weather forecasts downloaded from a satellite.

And even if none of the above were true, he might have other redeeming qualities. Maybe he hadn't lied about an income that topped a hundred thousand a year, and his desire to start a family. Maybe his photo reflected reality.

One could hope.

I'd agreed to come to his house—perhaps not the wisest of choices, but he'd sent me a photo of it via e-mail, and I couldn't resist. It had been built in 1910, with three floors and over five thousand square feet. He was renovating it bit by bit, he'd written.

The Irvington neighborhood had a number of historic homes—“historic” being a relative term, in Portland—and I enjoyed my slow cruise down the tree-lined streets, looking at the big old houses and their gardens. It was late afternoon, the sun was still bright but with a hint of that warm golden tone that encouraged lazy strolling, as many were doing along the sidewalks.

I smelled freshly cut grass, and heard the ch-ch-ch of a sprinkler and the bouncing of a basketball in someone's driveway.

This was someplace I could see living.

The house was on a corner, huge and white and shaded by leafy trees. I parked next to the curb and walked up the brick path, taking in the yard that, while tended and neat, looked like nothing new had been planted for years.

I imagined myself taking on the role of gardener. Climbing roses for the trellises on the sides of the portico; lilacs in a hedge along the front, for privacy; the usual tulip bulbs for spring, and dahlias for summer. Mom would have some good suggestions, if I asked.

The paint on the house was sanded off in places, as if awaiting a fresh coat. Two of the small panes of glass in the sidelights were cracked. I was reminded of Dad's comments through the years about the pains of fixing up an old house, and couldn't help but be struck by the
possibility—the synchronicity?—of ending up doing the same thing myself, with Tyler.

I rang the bell.

I caught a glimpse of movement through the sidelights, and then the door opened.

“Hannah? Hi.”

“Hi.” He was as cute as his photo: about five-eleven, a runner's build, blondish-brown hair a little too long, and a pleasant, if narrow, face. He was wearing an earring, though, a small sapphire stud. I hadn't seen that in the photo.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“It's kind of hard to miss,” I said.

“Come in,” he said, stepping back. “Careful, don't let Sassy out,” he added, as an overweight marmalade cat brushed by his ankles. “She's an indoor cat. She's declawed—she wouldn't stand a chance out there.”

I slunk inside. He'd told me in an e-mail that he had two cats, but somehow I'd manage to block the information from my consciousness. As long as he didn't start talking about “Kitty did this… Kitty did that…” maybe it would be okay.

Men with cats. It just wasn't right.

“Wow. Nice entryway,” I said, and meant it. The floor was gleaming parquet, and opposite the front door was a curving staircase with a carved balustrade. There was no furniture, and nothing on the walls, but directly above us was a huge crystal chandelier that looked as if it had been stolen from Versailles.

“Thanks. It took me ages to decide on the floor, and you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find someone to do this kind of work. My friends kid me about how long
I take to make a decorating decision, but this is my dream house, you know? I want it to be perfect.”

“I don't blame you.”

“You want a tour?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure. Do you want me to take off my shoes?” He was barefoot, wearing khaki walking shorts and a clean white T-shirt. Given his own bare feet and his flawless floor, I didn't want to risk inflicting damage.

“No, that's all right. You're not wearing heels.”

I followed him from room to room, listening to his descriptions of what he had planned for each. Most of them were nearly empty, yet each had a single piece of furniture or a rug, or even just a box of stuff that told of what its future would be. The library had stacks of books on the floor. The formal living room had a marble fireplace and a gilt-framed mirror. The dining room had a massive sideboard. And so on, and under all of it there were the beautiful floors.

“And this is the ballroom,” he said, leading me up the stairs to the top floor. “Or, the storage area. I keep all my junk up here, since it's going to be quite a while before I can get to this part of the house. I'm going to have to replace the roof in the next five years or so, anyway, and for all I know it could make a mess up here.”

“But what a lot of fun this room will be when it's finished,” I said. The ceiling was low, and sloped on the sides because of the roofline, and looked more like a converted attic than a ballroom. “If I'd been a kid in a house like this, I would have loved roller skating up here.”

He laughed, but I wasn't sure he was amused. “Skates would be hell on the floors.”

“Probably.”

He led the way back downstairs. It was strange, but for all the empty space in the house, I was beginning to wonder if there was really any space in it for someone else. Tyler had plans for every room, and I wasn't getting the feeling he'd considered that his future wife might have her own ideas about the home they would share.

On the other hand, there was no reason for him to wait around for Ms. Right to show up, when there was a house to be renovated.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can start dinner.”

“I was kind of hoping we could take a little walk through the neighborhood first. It's such a pretty evening.”

He grimaced. “I ran eight miles today. I'm kind of sore.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“No, we can go, just let's not make it a major hike or anything.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

I followed him to a back door off the kitchen, and wondered what the deal was. He was too tired for a walk? The only reason his running had seemed like a good thing to me was because it would mean he was in shape, and would have energy. It hadn't occurred to me that he might spend all that energy actually
running.

What was the point of that?

I wondered if that was what all those gorgeous runners on the Wildwood Trail would be like, in person:
too tired to walk around the block. Probably too tired to have sex, too. “Come on, honey, go down on me. I'm too tired to do anything else.” Like that was going to be a lot of fun for the woman, wearing out her jaw while he lay back and—

“Hannah? Is something wrong?”

“Huh? No, just daydreaming.” I smiled at him as he put on his Teva sandals, then squinted at his toes. “Er… Is that nail polish you're wearing?”

He grinned, then slid his foot next to mine. “It matches your sandals. What a coincidence!”

“Do you always wear toenail polish?” I asked carefully.
What a coincidence,
indeed. If
this
was synchronicity, I wanted nothing of it.

“Only in the summer, and only gold.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to not sound appalled.

“I like how it looks, so why not?”

Because you look like a Bohemian-wannabe fruitcake, that's why,
I wanted to say. Toenail polish, good Lord. “Fair enough,” I said instead.

“I'm not gay or anything. I'm just not going to be limited by other people's opinions. Does it bother you?”

“Hey, they're your toes. You can wear whatever you want on them.”

Things improved during the walk. We talked about Portland, hiking in the gorge, movies we both liked or hated, and as we came back to the house we talked about work.

“You made that dress, really?” he asked, motioning me to a seat in the 1950's style, unrenovated kitchen.

“This? Piece of cake.”

“Lemonade okay?”

“Great,” I said, and he poured me a glass.

“How long did it take you to make it?”

“Two hours, give or take.”

He stopped, pitcher of lemonade in hand. “You're kidding.”

“No.” I smiled uncertainly. “And it's my own pattern. Or, rather, I started with something from Butterick, then changed it to suit me.”

“That's amazing. Really, Hannah, that's great. We are so far from being able to do the most basic things for ourselves anymore—and here you can make your own clothes.”

“I can make anything that's made of fabric,” I said, enjoying the rare praise. Not many people truly appreciated the skills of a seamstress.

“But you make most of your money hemming pants for people?”

“It's easy. Takes me maybe ten minutes, start to finish, and I charge them eight dollars for it.”

He started taking out the stuff for dinner. He'd said in his e-mail invitation that he wanted to cook for me, and that if upon meeting I thought he was a freak and didn't want to stay, I could leave at any point. He'd followed the statement with a smiley-face emoticon.