by Byron Lane
Nice to meet you, Juan: so boring.
Nice to meet you, Tommy: racist.
Nice to meet you, Erik: smug.
Holding fast to the theory that dating and love is a numbers game, I click onward, to this profile and that, just working to get my numbers up.
And then, Reid1976.
Reid—I say his name with a swoon in the middle: “Reeeeeid.” His profile caught my attention not with its fireworks but its lack of them. Answering those dreaded OkCupid questions, his brevity betrayed an alluring charm and wit, practicality projecting a steadiness, confidence:
My Self-Summary:
Attorney. ACLU. Fighting for criminal justice and equal rights. On weekends I volunteer for dog-adoption groups and help feed the homeless. Nice guy but in bed I’ll slap your ass and call you bitch.
No need for me to read any further. I message him right away. A nice guy who loves animals and homeless people and spanking? A kind man who’s a monster in the sack? Here’s my phone number, here’s my Social Security card, here’s the key to my apartment.
Reid isn’t like the rest of them, with their endless back-and-forth email banter on OkCupid. I sent him one message, a compliment about one of his profile pictures—him with his strong features and scruffy beard and shaved head and pink sweater that appears to be hiding a muscular body and toned arms holding a cute three-legged terrier. I boiled all of my testosterone-fueled analysis down to: “Hey, Reid, I like your sweater. I’m Charlie.” He wrote back immediately: “Thanks. Like your profile. Wanna play mini-golf Saturday at one P.M.?”
I jump from the computer, pacing around my apartment in tight circles like an armadillo in a headlight, wondering how to respond. He’s direct and no-nonsense. He’s offering an instant opportunity to meet face-to-face, no playing games, and it’s a daylight adventure where complications of sex and drinking are virtually nil. Of course, I have concerns: No one wants to go on real dates anymore; who is this guy? He’s a few years older, so perhaps his maturity leads him down this path. Or maybe he’s a psycho and I’ll be murdered. Or maybe he’s just out of a relationship and overanxious to get into a new one. Or, or, or—I could go on for days with the potential downsides. Much easier would be to simply say yes.
* * *
Mini-golf is a nightmare, confirming that I am terrible at every conceivable sport. Reid is handsome and towering at six foot two. He’s kind and gentle and casually uses legal jargon like “tort” and “mens rea,” as if I know what they mean, though it doesn’t stop me from pretending.
“Why don’t you take two turns,” Reid offers, after I miss my shot at the windmill, the ball gently edging near the cup but, as if God’s cruel joke, not falling in.
“But that’s not fair to you,” I say, leaning on my putter like guys used to do with umbrellas or walking sticks in the fifties. I’m feeling happy and giddy, and it takes all my might not to kick up the bottom of the club and twirl it around like I’m in a film with Dick Van Dyke.
“I’m so far ahead of you,” he says, “I’m still going to win.”
“Fine.” I carefully tap the ball toward the cup, and it again doesn’t go in. “Motherfuck!” I yell, pointing down at the injustice. Reid smiles.
“Fuck it,” he says, “let’s keep going.”
As we weave our way through the faded Astroturf of a mostly forgotten and shockingly still-open-for-business mini-golf course in Sherman Oaks, we share some details of our lives, our education, our past relationships. Reid’s three-legged terrier from his profile picture recently died. He gets emotional talking about it, and I’m smitten to recognize in someone an ability to be passionate about connection with another living being.
Therapista says healthy relationships are about trust and mutual respect.
I’m patiently waiting for my opportunity to name-drop Kathi Kannon, to start whirling and whipping up my standard stories to get predictable laughs and elicit standard follow-up questions about my days, years, time with her. Reid asks about my family, my mother, Dad, growing up in New Orleans, my years working in the news business.
“So, Charlie, what’s your passion?” Reid asks, as he gently taps a ball into its vessel just beneath a giant apple with a smiling green worm on top.
“I work for Kathi Kannon,” I say, holding up my golf ball and dramatically bending over and placing it in the starting position, aiming for that apple and worm.
“Who?” Reid asks.
My tap of the ball turns to a wallop following his question—one I rarely get. Who doesn’t know Kathi Kannon?!
“From Nova Quest,” I say. “From Jaws 3. From Mork and Mindy?”
“The actress? You work for her? What do you do?”
“I’m her assistant,” I say. “We travel together. We’re friends, too.”
“Cool,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“But I asked you, ‘What’s your passion?’ You know, what lights your soul on fire? What makes time stop? What brings you peace?”
I pause a moment. I’m thinking, What is my passion? I’m thinking, Is Kathi Kannon my passion?
Reid casually taps his ball into the next cup, at station number 12, with its resident garden gnome.
What’s my passion?
I relax my shoulders, I drop my guard, and I say for the first time out loud, “I’m not sure.”
My mini-golf outing with Reid has none of the usual markers to help guide me into whether it’s a successful date or not. There’s no ordering more drinks as a signal we’re staying longer. There’s no watching the clock and rushing to bed because we have to get up early the next day. I’m confused by the lack of a hard-and-fast rule about making out in the daytime—is it even allowed?
As Reid and I putt through the final bits of the course, I start to feel the sunlight exposing me even more, no dim lighting to soften my acne scars. My cute clothes are getting sticky with sweat. The heat is forcing my long hair to curl and protest exposure to the outdoors.
“How do you like your job?” I ask him.
“Well,” he says, landing another putt in the hole, “it’s cool.” He walks over to the cup and picks up the ball, tossing it in the air and, on his attempt to catch it, fumbling. It falls back to the ground and rolls a few steps away. He doesn’t go after it. He watches it roll. He turns to me. “I used to work for a big fancy firm, and I was so stressed and I hated it. Eventually I got laid off and was devastated. Then I started working for the ACLU, and it’s less money but a meaningful use of time and I love it. I think about how upset I was with being laid off and I missed the big picture. I regret I had to be laid off and didn’t own my life enough to be proactive and quit on my own.”
I’m speechless and find myself staring at him, his long legs covered with bushy blond hair so easily maneuvering through the course.
“Do you think the universe is friendly?” he asks.
“Ugh, you sound like my therapist.”
“Oh, no. Do I?”
“Yes. But to answer your question: The universe feels friendly right now,” I say, locking eyes.
Reid smiles. “I agree,” he says. He stares at me, making a point, I think. “The universe was friendly to release me from a job I hated, friendly to help me find a new one, and friendly to teach me the lesson that I don’t ever again want to stay in a situation that doesn’t bring me joy.”
“Friendly to invite me here today.” I smile back, giving him a little nod.
“Are you done with mini-golf?” he asks.
I consider. We have only a few more putts to go, but I’m just standing there, holding my ball and putter like a dope, like a drunk smitten by the grace and beauty of another human being, by a sweet moment shared between two people—even if nothing more ever comes of it. Perhaps this date has been the universe’s friendly learning experience for me.
“Yeah. I feel done,” I say. “Any chance you want to grab lunch? Maybe a salad or something?”
“How about we have some happiness?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Pizza,” he says, reaching out his hand. I grab it, and we walk in lockstep to his lovely little Volkswagen Beetle, continuing our afternoon and eventually sharing a sweet kiss, tasting in each other the cheese and tomato sauce and longing that made the entire afternoon and evening so delicious.
That night, my level of job satisfaction aside, I text Kathi, “I think I met my husband.”
Kathi texts back, “Orion just watched me puke.”
* * *
I’m not exactly on vacation. Kathi still has her cell phone. So while she’s getting well, I’m getting called, and called frequently.
I bring her various treats, mostly banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery on West Third Street.
Kathi and I eat together, providing Orion an opportunity to shower and take a few moments to himself.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Fine,” Kathi says. “He’s not ugly.”
“As long as it helps. Is he gay?”
“I think he’s multi-sexual,” she says. “He’ll probably fuck anything. Roger starts foaming at the mouth every time he sees him. Poor Roger. So depressed. Glad Orion is helping him feel alive again.”
“You think Roger is depressed?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” she says. “Working for my mother all day, every day, forever.”
And I wonder, Am I depressed? And I wonder, Am I not a facsimile of Roger to Kathi, as actual Roger is to Miss Gracie? I recall Reid’s question about my job: How do I like it? Is Kathi Kannon my passion?
* * *
I’m at The Farm of Beverly Hills getting dinner for Kathi because “someone” left the refrigerator door open overnight and all her food spoiled. I’m at Target getting bath towels because “someone” spilled nail polish on the entire stack of old ones. I’m rushing to the bank to get cash before they close because Kathi’s credit card is frozen because “someone” bought a life-sized neon palm tree from China and the bank thought it was fraud.
And now I’m rushing home.
Reid and I are supposed to go to dinner and watch some Netflix, but I’m exhausted from a long day running errands for Kathi—she also needed a bicycle, baking supplies, a dildo to send Tom Cruise for his birthday even though I think he has a restraining order against her. I think it’s going to take the whole night to wash the day off. And I’m hungry in the kind of way that can only be quenched by having ice cream for dinner, like a ravenous animal—something I do occasionally but only alone; no one should have to witness that.
I don’t know what to do—calling Reid and canceling at the last minute is a dick move. The alternative is taking care of myself and my needs, but isn’t that a slippery slope toward being alone the rest of my life, a perpetual state of self-care, a perpetual state of aloneness?
I draft a text but delete it.
I draft another and delete it.
Therapista says the only way through the fire is through the fire.
I pull Reid’s number up on my phone.
I take a deep breath, searching inside for some guidance, for some signal of what I should do. But it’s hard to compete with a quiet, solitary night of rest and an ice-cream-induced coma. I call him, trying to sound weary and worn. “I’m kinda stressed,” I say, “because I could use a night in and I’m not sure I’m up for hanging out but I feel bad canceling on you.”
As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, I’m still and quiet and regretful. I’m bracing for his reply, his reaction of inconvenience after this, the first real reveal to him that a good partner I might not make.
“Who cares?” Reid says. “Let’s cancel. It’s okay. I’m here to make your life better, not more stressful.”
I’m silent on the phone for a moment, not exactly stunned as much as turned on—what a perfect response, a blend of caring and concern.
“So, wait?” I ask. “You don’t mind if we cancel?”
“Not at all. Let’s skip tonight and you can stay in and recharge your batteries. I’ll watch TV and get some rest, too.”
The pressure is immediately off. What a wonderful way to look at dating: someone who wants to make my life better, not more stressful. Maybe that’s something I can apply to every relationship. Do the other people in my life make it better or make it more stressful?
I say, “Never mind. That was a test. Please come over immediately.”
“Okay. On my way. Mind if I bring some happiness?”
“Pizza?” I ask.
He says, “Tonight I’m thinking happiness is ice cream.”
* * *
My early weeks of dating Reid are punctuated by the milestones of Kathi Kannon’s recovery.
Our first two dates are during Kathi’s first week of her self-imposed home-institutionalization, check-in, and observation with Orion.
Our third date is Kathi’s second week, while she’s subjected to evaluation and stabilization and Orion’s insistence on healthy lifestyle choices—eating healthier, taking long walks, going to psychiatrist appointments, AA meetings, bathing regularly.
Then there’s the week Reid and I have dinner at the Magic Castle, around the time Kathi is feeling her best, wondering aloud and negotiating with Orion just how many more weeks he’ll be with her.
There’s the week Reid and I take early-morning walks together while Kathi relapses a bit, which Orion says is normal. The week Kathi refuses to do family therapy with Miss Gracie gifts Reid and me with time to cook each other our favorite dinners—I make us nachos, burritos, veggie burgers. Reid makes us salmon with ginger reduction, roasted chicken and potatoes, rosemary-and-feta-stuffed turkey breasts. The week Reid and I do a push-up challenge is the week Kathi calls Orion a “cunt fester” and he threatens to quit, until Miss Gracie and I calm him down, me with compliments and Miss Gracie with cash.
In between, I visit Kathi and nap with Roy. I make sure the mansion doesn’t burn down with Agnes inside. I thank Benny for pretending to prune the rosebushes. I bring Kathi her favorite foods, her e-cigarettes, her laptop.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Are you still ready to get rid of Orion?”
“Yes and no.”
I tidy her nightstand. “Cool.”
“You seem distracted,” she says.
I sit on her bed and blurt, “There’s this guy.”
“Ugh. Tell Orion I’m gonna need to relapse to hear this.”
* * *
Reid and I use a Groupon to join an Australian circuit-training class called Training Mate, where hot Australians scream at us to work harder, move faster, lift heavier. They give us nicknames, “Reidy” and “Char-o.” I mean, my nickname is not as adorable as Reid’s, but I’m grateful to be identified with a moniker that’s not Cockring. Reidy and I work out, we walk to breakfast, we go back to his place.
Reid owns a home near Larchmont Village, a cute little boutique shopping area not far from my shitty apartment. His home is small but lovely, decorated sensibly, a couple of bowls still sit on the kitchen floor for his late doggie.
I’m looking around. “You’re like a real adult,” I say.
“Come here,” Reid says, walking down a hallway decorated with pictures of his family, his friends. We enter his bedroom, decorated in shades of white, with views of his green back lawn framed in every window. Reid sits on his bed and pulls me close to him.
“May I look at you naked?” he asks.
“What?” I say, looking around, all the lights on, the curtains open, sunshine pouring in.
“You can trust me.”
“May I look at you naked?”
“Yup. But I asked first.”
Reid makes me smile. I’m flattered, amused, aroused.
I slowly reach up and take off my shirt, which messes up my hair. I start to fix it.
“No,” Reid says. “Don’t touch it. You’re perfect.” He nods: Keep going.
I can feel my bangs dangli
ng in front of my eyes, my tousled locks long and growing, just brushing my bare shoulders. I unbuckle my belt. I let my jeans fall. I hook my thumbs into my underwear and pull them down. I step out of them. I study Reid’s sweet, handsome face. I feel safe and alive and a strange ownership of my body, my life, though still, some insecurity lingers. I’m exposed and hyperaware of all the little things I wish I could change.
“I love your hair,” Reid says, examining but not touching. “I love your ears. I love your nose. I love your skin—the little scars on your face from some hard days as a teenager. I love the little bit of fat on your stomach, the proof that you enjoy life, that you live for life, not for pictures on Facebook or something.”
I’m getting hard, relishing that Reid seems to love all the things about me that I don’t love about myself.
Keep going.
“I love your humor, your work ethic, your nature as a caretaker. Turn around,” he says.
And I turn, feeling hotter and hotter knowing Reid is bearing down, assessing.
“I love your ass. I love your thighs. I love your back.”
I hear him stand. I feel him walk toward me, push his clothed body against my nude one.
“I love this bit here,” he says, pinching my stomach.
“I love this bit here,” he says running his hand along my jaw.
He takes a step back, slaps me on the ass.
“I love this bit here,” he says.
We laugh and I look over my shoulder at his fresh red handprint on my right butt cheek. I reach to touch it.
“No, no,” he says, guiding my hand back to my side, guiding my head upright, positioning me to look into a mirror across the room. I watch us. I see him kissing my neck, putting his hands on my shoulders, moving them down, wrapping them around my waist, his big forearms hard and cold against me.