Dating Without Novocaine (5 page)

“Don't look at me like that. Most guys I know would rather have a girl with a little extra on her, than too little. You need something to hold on to.”

Cassie nudged me from the other side. “I told you so. You can't be a good belly dancer without any belly. It looks wrong. Women are supposed to be soft.”

“Mmm.” I was not convinced. I wanted to be convinced, I would dearly love to believe those extra ten pounds were beautiful, but I would have to isolate myself from the rest of the U.S. to believe it.

I had a disturbing inkling that even if ten pounds were to fall off overnight, I would still think ten more needed to go. And then there were the two acne scars on my cheek I'd want lasered off, and the chin tuck, and the electrolysis for those nasty hairs around my navel and—horror upon horrors—my nipples. There was no end to the improvements to be made.

“This one's boring,” Louise said. “Let's look at someone else.”

The next photo was of a buff-looking guy leaning against a polished pickup, the sun glaring off the fenders and his sunglasses. His jeans were tight enough that the bulge of his penis was visible.

“Full of himself. Next,” Louise said, not even giving me time to scroll down to read what the guy had to say.

A balding guy, going to fat, crouching down next to a Labrador. “Maybe,” Louise said.

Scott made a noise of disbelief. “Him?”

“It's the dog,” Louise explained. “Makes him look caring.”

“Remind me to get a pet. A cat would be good. They're independent, not much trouble.”

“Don't get a cat,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Guys with cats are weird.”

“Oh, for God's sake. Why?”

“They just are. They start talking about ‘kitty did this' and ‘kitty did that', and it's just wrong. Besides, your apartment will smell like dirty litter, and that's nothing to bring a girl home to.”

“She's right, there,” Louise agreed. “The way you
keep house, you're better off with… Huh, I can't think of anything that wouldn't eventually smell.”

“We're going to be here all day if you two keep looking through ads. Come on, let's get going.”

“Ooo, you're such a man,” I said. “So task-oriented.”

“That's me.”

Nevertheless, I could see his point, and over Cassie's and Louise's protests I clicked through to the ad-writing screen. “Who first?”

“I'll go,” Cassie said. “I've got to get ready for work in a bit.”

I slid out of the desk chair and Cassie took my place. I went and sat at the other end of the futon from Scott, snatching another bunch of grapes on my way.

“There's a problem with your one-in-a-million mate theory, at least as it applies to Portland,” Louise said, sitting in our battered old rocking recliner, rescued from a neighbor's yard sale.

“What's that?”

“Proximity. There may be two million people in the greater Portland area, but that covers a lot of space. Studies have shown that we tend to get involved with, and marry, those who live closest. Take two dating couples, one who lives twenty miles apart, and the other who lives five miles apart, and the five-milers are more likely to wed.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked.

“I've been reading up on it.”

“Makes sense,” Scott said, working on the brownies now, one leg crossed over the other in that knees-wide
position used only by men. “It's a lot less bother to pick a girl up five minutes away, than half an hour.”

“You're so romantic,” I said. “Sounds like you'd walk through fire for your true love.”

He shrugged, brownie in hand. “It's the truth. Men are lazy slobs. You should know that by now.”

“So the point is,” Louise said, “if it's only the closest people we can fall for, then we aren't really searching all of the greater Portland area, which means less of a pool.”

I chewed my lip, considering. “No, I don't think that's a problem. The idea was not that there would be one million single guys our age who wanted to get married: it was that there were one million males. We're already draining away most of the pool just by selecting for age and marital status. So we drain out a few more by location. No problem. Although I admit, it sounds like the pool is turning into one of those shallow mud baths the zebras wallow in during the dry season.”

Cassie looked over her shoulder. “Welcome to the dating world.”

The Serengeti image was strangely appropriate, and put a bit of a damper on my enthusiasm for the project. I'd briefly managed to see Portland as a vast uncharted sea of men, but now I was back to the mud wallow.

“What else have you been discovering?” I asked Louise, in hopes of something cheering. She had a mini psychology library in her apartment, and between that and working with fifty-odd counselors and social workers, she usually had good access to interesting information. She was enough of a cynic about life and love that she was constantly looking for a scientific expla
nation for personal things that the rest of us took for granted.

“Along with the proximity, is familiarity. It's not that we know what we like—we like what we know. So the more time you spend with someone, the better you like them.”

“Doesn't that work the opposite way?” Scott asked.

I made a face at him. He grinned.

“Same thing happens with music, or a piece of art,” Louise explained. “Or fashion. You ever notice how when something new comes out, you swear you will never wear it, and then six months later it's in your closet.”

“Unfortunately,” I agreed.

“Then there's similarity,” Louise went on. “Age, race, ethnic background, educational level, social status, family background, religion.”

“I can see that. Less to argue about,” I said. “Less to get adjusted to. And if you got involved with the person because they lived close by, you probably have a lot in common already.”

“Social status?” Cassie asked, turning away from the monitor. “You mean, like class differences? Where are we, India?”

Cassie was maybe the one person I knew who I could imagine being equally comfortable in the company of a drug addict who had dropped out of middle school or a middle-aged society matron from the West Hills. She was so firmly in her own world, the relative positions of others could not shake her.

There were times I hoped I would grow up to be like Cassie.

“And last but not least,” Louise went on, “physical attractiveness.”

“Hoo-rah!” Scott said.

“Oh, stop it,” Louise scolded. “You're not nearly the animal you think.”

“Ha. What do you know?”

“You're a ‘nice guy,'” I said, feeling wicked. “You're the type that women like to have as a friend.”

“Kee-rist! Thanks a lot! Could you be a little more insulting?”

I gave a toothy grin.

“When's the last time you had a checkup? Maybe it's time for some dental X rays.”

“Don't be mean.” Memories of hard cardboard edges poking my gums filled my mind, and the heavy weight of the lead apron on my chest. The smell of alcohol, the taste of the latex-gloved fingers against the edge of my tongue…

“The thing about the physical attractiveness,” Louise said, “is that we go for someone as attractive as we think we can get without risking rejection.”

“That must be why handsome men are so terrifying,” I said.

“I scare you that much?” Scott asked.

I snorted.

“Come on, Scott, you're the same way,” Louise said. “I've been with you when you've refused to approach a woman because you thought she was too beautiful for you.”

That was interesting. I never thought of Scott thinking himself not good enough for anyone. Who wouldn't
want a good-looking guy who was a reliable provider? What did he have to be uncertain about?

“You know,” I said, “you see rich, ugly men with beautiful women, but you never see a rich, ugly woman with a handsome man. Never. The closest you get is a famous, rich older woman with a young guy, but even then she's got to still be looking pretty good.”

We looked at Scott.

“What? I didn't do anything.”

“Guilt by association,” I said.

“I thought I was a ‘nice guy.'”

“So you'd date a woman less attractive than yourself?”

“That's not a fair question.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I answer honestly, I'll sound like a pig.”

“What's unfair about that?”

“You already know the answer. Everyone knows, you don't need a scientific study to prove it. Guys are visual. We want someone good-looking, if we can get her.”

“And even if you can't,” I said, beginning to get steamed by the injustice of it. I hated caring about my appearance as much as I did, I wanted to believe it didn't matter, that it was inner beauty that counted, but every time I almost started to convince myself of that, something came along to say I was wrong.

“I saw an interview on TV,” I said, “with some guy who said his only intimate relationships were with prostitutes, because the women that he found attractive in daily life did not find him attractive in return. So he'd rather pay for it, and have it fake, than get to know a real woman he could maybe build a life with.”

“For God's sake, Hannah. Now you're comparing me to a guy who sleeps with hookers? All I said was that I'd prefer someone attractive. So would you. So would anyone. Listen to Louise, she's the one who read the study!”

“I'm putting that in my profile,” Cassie said. “‘Must have no history of dating prostitutes.' Do you think that will put anyone off?”

The tension broke, and I relaxed back against the futon. Scott nudged my knee with his foot, and I slapped it lightly away, looking at him from the corner of my eye and not quite able to keep from smiling.

“If it does,” Louise said, “it's just as well. Think of the diseases! Bleh!”

M
y mobile phone rang as I slowly cruised the residential street of tract mansions looking for Kristina DeFrang's house. She was a new client, referred by Joanne of the muffins and too much clothing.

I pulled to the curb and stopped before answering, having promised myself when purchasing the thing that I would not annoy the rest of humanity by driving and talking at the same time. I'd come near to breaking the promise a hundred times, and who would know? But I didn't want to be one of
those
cell phone users. I wanted to be one of the good ones, who when in public huddled in a corner and whispered a brief conversation, then hung up quickly.

Perhaps that was another criteria to put in the personal ad, besides no history of dating prostitutes: does not use mobile phone while browsing at Barnes & Noble or standing in line at Starbucks. Cassie would qualify that with: prefers independent businesses to chains, and does not know the difference between a Grande and a Tall.

I, on the other hand, thought Starbucks and Barnes & Noble were both good places to look for guys. Some
guys apparently thought the same thing about bookstores: I'd once been followed aisle to aisle by a lummox carrying a copy of
Chicken Soup for the Single's Soul.

“Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hannah! Are you on the phone?”

It took a daughter to translate Mother-speak correctly. “Hi, Mom. I'm on the cell phone, in my car.”

“You aren't driving, are you? Should I call back?”

“It's okay, I'm parked. What's up?”

“Where are you?”

“Nearly to Camas, looking for a client's house.” Camas was across the river, in Washington state, about half an hour from Portland. “She's supposed to have a big job for me, something about redecorating her second house.”

“Dad can't get the VCR to work.”

The abrupt change of topic was nothing new, and I tried to not take offense at her apparent lack of interest in my work. And it
was
only an apparent lack: I knew that she cared how I was and that I was able to make ends meet, but the specifics of that struggle and of my work were beyond her present life.

Mom and Dad were nearly seventy, having had me late and as a bit of a surprise. Mom was a retired grade school teacher, and Dad had been a carpenter and was now a housing inspector. He talked about retiring, but I doubted he would unless forced to. They lived in the house I had grown up in, in Roseburg, three hours south of Portland. It wasn't the boonies, but it was pretty close.

“Put him on,” I said.

There were scuffling sounds, muted voices, then Dad. “I followed your instruction sheet, but it didn't work, and now I can't get the regular TV stations, either. I think the remote's batteries need to be changed.”

I stifled a sigh. How could a man who could spot the first faint signs of dry rot and tell the exact remaining life span of a roof be stymied by a couple of black buttons?

“Get the biggest remote…” I said, and within half a minute I heard the static disappear from the background, and the voice of a newscaster caught mid-drone.

“Thanks! I think I can remember how to do that,” Dad said, and then Mom was on the phone again.

“He's rented some awful gangster movie. He knows I don't like those.”

“What is it?”

“Analyze This.”

“You might like it. It's a comedy.”

“I don't know how gangsters can be funny.”

“I gotta go, Mom, or I'll be late.”

“Okay. When are you coming down for dinner?”

“I'll call from home. I really have to go.”

“They've seen bears in the park, coming out to go through the garbage. The salmon berries are late in coming out this year.”

“I gotta go, Mom!”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I hung up, feeling the mix of guilt and love and worry that I usually did after talking to my parents. In the back of my mind sat the realization that death or accident or
illness was not just a possibility, but an inevitability. What would happen to one, when the other died?

What would happen to me?

I picked up the instructions to Ms. DeFrang's house, looked again at the address, and coasted down the street, trying not to think of the future.