Dating Without Novocaine (6 page)

“H
ow much are you going to get for doing that job?” Louise asked, raising her voice to be heard over the shouts of juvenile delinquents. We were in the lobby of the Garland Theater, a one-time movie house that had decomposed into a venue for local bands and, twice a month, professional wrestling.

If you wanted to call it professional.

“I'll have to figure it out, but I'm guessing about fifteen hundred. You should have seen her place: it was in one of those big new housing developments where every house has something like four thousand square feet, yet they all have these dinky little bits of yard. You could reach out a window and shake hands with your neighbor.”

“Who'd want to live in one of those? They all look alike.”

“Yeah, I know, but this Kristina DeFrang's house, it was different. You went inside, and you wouldn't have known the house was brand new. You'd have thought Thomas Jefferson lived there, or King Louis the Something.”

“Lots of antiques?”

“Yeah, but not like some people do, where there's Victorian junk clogging up all the space. This was…different. And it didn't look like any one particular style. Everything blended.”

“Could have been in
House Beautiful?
” Louise asked.

“I wish I knew how to put together a room like that.”

And I wouldn't mind someday being Ms. DeFrang. She was in her late forties, fit in that spalike way wealthy women look fit, but without the usual accompanying manacles of gold and diamonds on wrists and fingers. Her hair was cut in a bob similar to mine, and she wore minimal makeup. Her clothes were simple and obviously expensive, and I knew it would be beneath her dignity to show the name of a designer, or to sport a style that showed a hint of trendiness.

How she'd ended up in that nouveau neighborhood, I don't know. She seemed too good for it.

She was too good for me, too, but she was the type who would consider it a mark of bad breeding if she ever let her awareness of that show.

I'd felt like a tacky frump following her around her house, my shoes looking like the discount store copies they were, my pantyhose showing the coarseness of knit available only at the grocery store. My blouse I'd made myself, copying one I'd seen at Saks, but with its sleeves that belled at the wrist and the ruffle at the surplice neckline, it felt gauche when confronted with Ms. DeFrang's timelessness.

“She wouldn't be caught dead here,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Ms. DeFrang. But if she had to come here, she'd make it look like she was pleased to be invited.”

“Then she has more grace than I do. Why did I let you talk me into this? Remind me?”

“Ah, come on. You need new experiences,” I said as we shoved our way into the theater and fought our way to our seats.

“No, I don't.”

“You'll have a great story to tell,” I said.

“If I survive.”

“There are dads with their kids here. It's family fun!”

“They'll all grow up to be murderers.”

We sat down, and I tucked between my feet the paper bag with the costume I was going to deliver.

“So she wants you to copy the entire master suite?” Louise asked, going back to Ms. DeFrang.

“The entire thing, only in different fabrics that she's ordering from her decorator. She and her husband have a house on Orcas Island, up in Puget Sound, with the same basic layout as the one in Camas. And she wants me to do the guest bedroom up there, too, that her mother-in-law uses.”

“So, what is it, dust ruffles and duvets?”

“And about a dozen decorative pillows, and hangings for the beds. A lot of it is simple stuff, but the pillows are going to be a little tricky. They've got contrasting striped borders, piping that I have to make myself, mitred corners. They're going to be a pain. And I have to order the pillow forms myself, from a wholesaler.”

“But that's why you get the big bucks.”

“Oh, yeah, I'm rolling in it.”

The announcer came out, a late middle-aged man with
a belly and light brown hair in a pompadour, his skin craggy and mottled. He started his spiel, trying—vainly, I thought—to add drama to the lineup of local wrestlers.

“The Logger, straight from the backwoods where they eat owls for dinner,” he said, to a mix of cheers and boos from the crowd. “The Body Bag, and you know why he's called that—”

“He sends them home in a bag!” a kid to our right yelled.

“I can't believe you talked me into this,” Louise said.

“We'll just wait until Elroy has his match, then go down to the dressing room.” Elroy was my client, whose new spandex pants I had in the bag between my feet. I'd done costumes for a couple wrestlers down in Eugene when I'd worked at the alterations shop, and they'd passed my name along.

There was something perverse about it, but I had a bit of a thing for wrestlers. Not these locals sorts so much, but the ones on the WWF had a way of catching my eye. Those greased-up, muscled bodies throwing each other around called to something primal within me.

Not that I could see myself married to one of them. They were the toys of my imagination, and I was happy to keep them there, where their oiled locks wouldn't stain my pillows. Although maybe just once…

A round of cheers went up as the first wrestlers came out, one of them flanked by two women who looked as though they lived under a bar. The wrestlers were no more appealing, their bulk in their barrel chests coated with a layer of fat.

“My butt has better muscle tone than either of theirs,” Louise said. “Don't these guys work out?”

“They always start the evening with the unknowns. The later guys will be a little more interesting.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Some of the young boys in the audience were getting excited by the match, shouting and booing, and there were some drunk college-age guys being obnoxious a few rows down. The rest of the house had a tired feel to it, as if seeing a porky guy in lace-up red boots being thrown onto a wrestling mat wasn't fine entertainment.

“I want to see some blood,” Louise said. “Blood!” she said in a half shout.

The kid next to us heard her, and took up the cry. “Blood! Blood! Bust him open!”

The boy's father leaned around his son and gave us a dirty look. I shrugged helplessly, trying to look innocent. He shook his head and leaned back.

“He's not so bad,” Louise said, nodding her head toward the father. “Is he wearing a wedding ring?”

“You're beginning to scare me.”

“I kind of like this. Who here is going to care what I do?” She stood and started shouting toward the ring. “Headlock, baby! Jackhammer! Body slam!”

“What are you doing?” I hissed, yanking at the hem of her blouse. “Sit down! Louise!”

“Pile driver! Sit on him! Wooooo-hoo!”

“Louise! You're embarrassing me.” I could feel my face going red as people turned to look.

“Put him in a granny hold!”

“Louise!”

“Wooooo-hoo!” she cheered, punching her fist into the air, then finally submitted to my tugging and sat as
the match ended and new wrestlers came out. “That was fun.”

“You were screaming nonsense.”

“Yeah, so what? No one cares. Maybe they'll think I'm some kind of expert.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, lighten up.”

“This isn't like you.”

“What can I say? It's the testosterone in the air. I should get some of my co-workers to come here, for stress relief. God, I get so sick of having to watch every word I say.”

“You mean on the phones?”

“You can't be flippant with suicidal callers or some guy whose wife just left him.”

“I wouldn't think so,” I said.

“But you know,” she said, sounding thoughtful, “it's never the mentally ill I mind talking to. It's the walking wounded, the so-called normal people who drive me up a wall—especially family members of someone with a mental illness. God, they're annoying. And even off the phones—lately it seems like everyone who works at the crisis line is involved in their own petty political battles.”

“Like what?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I don't even know. Who gets to be a supervisor. How time off will be decided. Who gets to change their schedule. Whether someone screwed up on a call, and what should be done if they did. I feel like the only thing to do is to lie low and keep my mouth shut, and hope no one notices me.”

“Is this all recent?”

“It's probably always been like this, I just didn't have to see it because I worked nights.”

“You're not going to go back to that schedule, are you?”

She hesitated. “No. I like having a life.”

“But?”

“But it was a lot more peaceful. I don't know. Maybe I'll start looking for another job. Derek is thinking of doing that, too.”

“The divorced guy who needs his pants taken in? Just how much talking are you and Derek doing?”

“We had dinner last night.”

“Louise!”

“Just dinner! It was just friendly, and we talked about work. I told him about the Internet thing, too.”

“‘Just dinner,' my ass. What'd he say about the personal ads?”

“Told me to be careful, of course.”

“I don't think you need to worry. With that ad you put on, no one's going to answer,” I said.

“I saw no reason not to ask for exactly what I wanted, if I was going to do this.”

“Who's going to fit all those criteria?” Louise's ad had been two long lists of wants and don't-wants. “Wanted: over 5'10; master's degree or higher; aged 28-34; fit; omnivorous; reads fiction; can ballroom dance; knows how to cook at least three dishes worthy of being served to company; owns a car less than five years old; has traveled outside the country. Not wanted: smoking; drugs; excessive alcohol; divorcés; sexually transmitted diseases; either children or the desire to have
children; snowboards; hunting; video games; trips to Las Vegas.”

“You said there's one in a million,” Louise said.

“I think you don't want anyone to answer. Then you won't have to deal with dating.”

“I'm not against dating. I just don't feel the pressure you do.”

“Because you don't want to have children,” I said. Louise had never been interested in having them, and for all any of us could tell, never would be.

“Probably.”

“Sometimes I think you don't want to get involved with anyone, period.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I don't. I miss the physical contact, but then I think about all the work that it takes to find someone you're willing to get to know, all the cruddy dates you have to go through, and then how long it takes to be sure enough of the person to be willing to open yourself to them, and… And suddenly a plate of lasagne and the TV start looking like a pretty good substitute.”

“I feel tired just listening to you.”

“There's more to life than sex and relationships.”

“Is there?” I asked, smiling to show I was joking. Kind of.

“Work and love, that was what Freud said was important in life.”

“Then we still only have half.”

“But we can love our family, and our friends,” she said, and blinked her eyes at me like a lovesick fool, and made kissing sounds.

“Great.”

I looked back at the ring just in time to see Vinnie the Hit Man's elbow accidentally go into The Snow Man's mouth. Blood spattered, and the Snow Man spit a glob of red mucous into his hand, and even from back where we sat I could tell that he'd found one of his teeth in that glob.

“Oh, God,” I said, slapping my hands over my eyes.

“Hey, that doesn't look fake.”

“It's not.”

“Vinnie looks pretty embarrassed. Huh. Too bad Scott's not here. What are you supposed to do with a tooth that's been knocked out like that? Put it in a glass of milk?”

“I don't know,” I said from beneath my hands. “I don't want to know.”

“Wow. This is more exciting than I'd expected. Thanks for taking me!”

I groaned, and tried not to think of teeth.

“C
ass, I've caught one!”

“Caught one what?” she called back from the kitchen, sounding worried. “Please don't say a cockroach.”

“No, a man! Maybe a cockroach disguised as a man, but I'm hoping not.”

That drew her out, a veggie burrito in her hand. She had on a black sports bra and a low-riding brown batik skirt, with a belt made of old coins ka-chinging around her hips. She'd been practicing dancing in our living room before hunger had struck.

“Which one is it?” she asked, coming to stand beside me at the computer.

“The wildlife biologist.”

“Which one was he again?”

I reached for my binder and flipped pages. I'd gotten so many responses to my ad, the specifics of who was who had started to blend and I'd resorted to charting out the prospects.

“Thirty-six, brown hair, blue eyes, never married, moved here from Utah three months ago to work for the Audubon Society. He likes collecting old records, hiking, camping, the Discovery Channel, favorite movie is
The Hunt for Red October
—like me!—and favorite book is
Lord of the Flies.
”

“That doesn't sound promising,
Lord of the Flies.
”

“Why not? I love that book,” I said.

“And you are a disturbed individual. Look at you and that binder.”

“Hey, I'm on a mission.”

“Love is not a mission,” Cassie said.

“For me it is. Or maybe I should say ‘business.'” I paused and considered. “Or maybe not. That doesn't sound quite like what I mean.”

“Whatever.”

“And there
is
a certain element of synchronicity to it: remember me talking about going on a nature hike with a guide? Look, I could have my own personal expert on hand!”

“Mmm,” she said, not half as convinced as I thought she should be, considering that she was the one who said I should look for coincidences.

“Have you written back to anyone yet?” I asked.

She took another bite of burrito. “No.”

“Cass!” I said, exasperated. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “None of them felt right.”

“‘Felt right'? It just feels unfamiliar, is all. I thought there were a few who had a lot in common with you.”

“The energy was wrong.”

I pursed my lips. I never did well with discussions of ‘energy.' “Do you mean there was something suspicious about their profiles, or their letters? Or annoying, like those guys who claim to want a smart woman but misspell ‘intelligent'?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. I just don't feel that I'm going to find the right person on the Internet.”

“And you won't, if you go at it that way.”

“You never know. Love comes when you're not looking for it. You have to release your desires before you can achieve them.”

I frowned at her, then turned back to the monitor. How could you not be looking for love, if you'd put an ad up? And how would you ever get what you wanted, if you gave up striving for it?

“Where are you going to meet him?” she asked.

“Someplace public. Maybe the Starbucks at Pioneer Courthouse Square. That should be safe, don't you think?”

“Should be. Just be careful.”

“I'm not stupid. I won't get in his car or anything.”

“Hannah, doesn't it seem a little wrong to you that we should even be having a discussion like this?”

“You mean, assuming that anyone we meet might be a psychopath?” I asked.

“Dating shouldn't be like this.”

I chewed my bottom lip. My parents had met at a town picnic. How much more quaint could you get? There had been enough mutual acquaintances that they
could each reassure themselves of the other's reputation. As far as I knew, Mom had never had to worry that Dad might haul her off into the woods, rape her, then leave her murdered body buried under a pile of leaves.

“I know it shouldn't,” I said. “But what choice do we have?”

“There's always choice.”

“Yes, well, I'm going to explore all the choices I've got. This is only one prong of my multipronged dating attack plan, you know.”

“Do I.” She started heading back to the kitchen. “Let me know where and when you decide to meet him. And leave me his name and number, just in case.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, but was glad she'd asked. It felt a little better to know that someone would be keeping track of how long I was gone and where I was. It might be important when the police tried to track down my killer.

Cassie was right. There really was something wrong with dating like this.

 

Four days later I sat on a stool at the counter that lined the plate-glass windows, sipping chai. Starbucks was crowded with noon-time business people and semi-eclectic twenty-somethings. The coffee shop was perched above the northwest corner of Pioneer Courthouse Square, a red brick plaza often called “Portland's living room.”

I had my back to the windows, and to the group of street kids who hung out there. White guys with dread-locks, wearing pullovers woven in Third World countries; girls with hair dyed bubblegum blue or ketchup
red, with silver studs dotting their faces; wanna-be Maoris, their cheeks and noses swirled with green tattoos. I didn't know how any of them could hope to get a job, except maybe at faux-hip vintage clothing stores where funny-smelling garments were passed off as stylish and daring. Then again, jobs probably weren't their main concern just now.

The problem was, they reminded me too much of the college kids in Eugene. I'd finally reached the age where instead of such personal expression in dress seeming liberating, and possessed of some magic symbolism, it just seemed silly. And limiting. No one takes seriously a woman with a stud sticking out of her lower lip like a big steel pimple.

I took another sip of chai, watching the customers arrive and leave. I was ten minutes early for my meeting with Wade the wildlife biologist, and so had plenty of time to fret over which unsuitable guy might or might not be him.

He'd said he'd be wearing a tan coat, which I assumed was the basic color of a biologist trying to blend in with the background. He hadn't posted a photo with his ad, and hadn't had access to a scanner to e-mail one, so the only picture I had of him was in my head. I was imagining a broad jaw, broad shoulders, and creases at the corner of the eyes from squinting against the sun out in the wilds. And of course, a deep, slow voice like a narrator on a nature program.

I crossed my fingers for a quick second. Please let him have the voice. I'd heard it said that while a woman's most sexual feature was her hair, a man's was his voice. I loved it when you could feel the vibrations
of a man's voice rumbling in your own chest: it was like he was becoming intimately acquainted just by speaking.

A man in khakis and a blue oxford shirt came in, brown hair, beige windbreaker over his arm. He got in line to place his order, eyes casually scanning the room, skimming over me, then his phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket.

I watched him a few moments longer, but he showed no sign of looking for me, and a cell phone definitely did not fit my picture of Mr. Wildlife.

I wondered if, when Mr. Wildlife did show up, I would fit his expectations, in turn.

My own ad had run thus:

Originally I'd put “spirit of adventure” without any qualifiers, but Louise had warned that such a phrase might invite men with an interest in S&M.

I'd done a little playing with bondage in the past—
and had considered making my own Velcro wrist straps—but I certainly wouldn't want to date someone who was so into it that they searched for a woman based on such criteria. I tended to view with suspicion ads that asked for feminine women. What did a guy mean by “feminine”? Submissive? Eager to be told what to do? Weak?

I was getting paranoid. Most of them probably just meant she kept herself groomed and didn't engage in belching contests.

“Hannah?”

I turned, and felt my face flush, my heart suddenly thudding in my chest. “Wade?”

“I was hoping it might be you,” he said, and held out his hand.

I slid down from my stool, switched my chai to my other hand, and shook, nerves overwhelming me and making my muscles quiver.

He wasn't what I had expected. He was just under six feet, his posture stooped, his frame narrow and with no hint of brawn. There was a faint resemblance to Anthony Hopkins in his face, if Anthony Hopkins had been in his thirties, still had his hair, and looked more frightened than frightening.

And the voice was average.

Still, he was not displeasing. He looked friendly.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” I asked, somewhat stupidly. This Starbucks was one of the easiest places in the city to find.

“Not much, although I got turned around trying to figure out all the one-way streets. I've only been down
town twice before,” he said. “Last time I ended up going over three different bridges by accident.”

“Three?” I asked, beginning to feel hopeful about this. Here was a guy who admitted getting lost, and was willing to laugh about it.

“I'd be on a street, driving along, then suddenly there was a railing and the river far below, and I'd be on the east side.”

“It takes a while to get it all straight. Did you want something here?” I asked, gesturing to Starbucks at large.

“I was thinking, maybe, we could walk around a bit?”

“Okay.”

I was too nervous to finish my chai, so I dropped it in the trash on the way out. He opened the door for me, then held it for another woman to go by, as well.

“Which way?” I asked.

“I don't know. I was hoping to wander and see some of the city.”

“I could give you a mini walking tour,” I said. “If you want.”

“That'd be great.”

We headed up Broadway to the Performing Arts Center, then cut between two of the buildings to the Park Blocks, which stretched south to the P.S.U. campus, the art museum and the Oregon Historical Society.

I snuck glances at him as I pointed out landmarks, taking in his T-shirt and old green plaid shirt, worn khakis and stained sneakers. It didn't look as though he'd taken much effort with his appearance.

Perhaps that was a good thing. He seemed easygoing,
and while he might not be exactly spiffy, at least he was clean and had short hair. He wasn't a slob. He was just used to the company of ducks and raccoons, that was all.

Unless it was all a disguise, and he really was a psychopathic serial killer. They were supposed to look innocuous, after all. Or like Anthony Hopkins.

Was this the type of synchronicity that Cassie had been talking about in my tarot card reading? God, I hoped not.

“How many dates have you had, off the Internet?” I asked as we headed toward the river, and Waterfront Park, which ran along its west bank. It was wide open and in the heart of downtown, so I needn't fear being dragged into any bushes.

“This is my first. And you?”

“Mine, too.”

Nice guy, but I was beginning to feel as if I was doing all the conversational work. Maybe if I was quiet for a while he would start talking.

We walked in silence for several minutes, and then there was a faint stirring of sound from him. I waited, and then waited a little longer.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

At last! He speaks! “A little. Are you?”

“A little. Do you know somewhere to eat?”

My spurt of excitement died. I didn't want to choose a restaurant—it was his turn to make a decision. But I also knew he'd only been in downtown Portland twice. I felt weary suddenly, and was tempted to say I had to go home, but then he looked at me, a shy smile on his lips, and I didn't have the heart.

“Do you like Thai?” I asked instead.

“Is it like Chinese?”

“Kind of.”

“Okay.”

Okay, then. Lunch.

 

“I got Mooch when I was collecting data for my thesis, in Colorado,” Wade was saying.

Two minutes earlier, the check had arrived, and was now sitting inside its black folder at the edge of the table. Wade had made no move toward it.

“He was no bigger than the palm of my hand.”

My glance slid to the folder. Should I reach for it? Pull it toward me and open the cover?

“His mother was a Burnese mountain dog, his father a German shepherd.”

Wade had finally found a topic upon which to converse, and although he had glanced at the waiter when he brought the check, I wasn't certain that the significance of that event had imprinted itself upon his consciousness. I nodded and smiled and pretended to listen. Should I just say, “Dutch treat” and see how he reacted?

Should I just wait?

I had chosen the restaurant: did that mean I was expected to pay for both of us?

“He chewed the upholstery off the headrests in my car, so they're covered in duct tape now.”

In a perfect world, he'd sweep the check into his hand and say, “Let me get it.” Or better yet, say nothing at all, and without breaking the conversation slip his
MasterCard inside, as if money were too low a topic to let intrude.