Looking for Mr. Goodfrog

by Laurie Graff

  “On the couch,” I said, not lying. “On the river,” I said, and explained.

  “Oh, well, better to have danced and lost than never to have danced at all,” he said, moving on to ask questions about the turbulence of the water. “Are you on that pier with the boats? They have free kayaking in the summer.”

  “I know all about it. I took Charlie last year.”

  “How Holly Golightly of you!” said Fred. “So, listen to this. Trey got back in town, finally, after his summer stock designer stint at a little theater in the Finger Lakes. Summer shlock he called it, the budgets were so low Trey said the whole cast practically had to share one costume!”

  I could hear that Fred was building up to a big finish, and I hoped it would be the dip that he deserved.

  “And...?”

  “Anyway, fences have been mended between me and Babalou, my newest pet name for him. Even though he’s a WASP his hair looks just like Ricky Ricardo’s. We didn’t talk about it, we didn’t discuss what happened. We just... Let’s just say I’m on my way back over there now. I don’t like to kiss and tell.”

  “I just like to kiss,” I said, that dance and Dirk having unleashed feelings that had been hidden all year.

  Tonight the dam had burst, and it all came pouring out. The feelings bubbled up inside me flowed over, spilled to the floor, and I didn’t know what to do with them. The feelings of desire had been relegated to a box marked Unfulfilled Yearnings. The fear of them remaining that way struck me with panic. I didn’t know what to do, and when I turned my head and spotted my phantom dancer standing a few feet away on the dock, leaning against the railing chatting up some other girl, I decided I should just do what I could. I left.

  Saying good-night to Anne, Fred kept me company on the cell until I got far enough in my travels to duck into the subway, losing my signal and ending the call.

  When I got home, I took Charlie out for a walk on Columbus. The outdoor cafes were filled with couples back from their weekend away having a late supper, or winding it down over a drink. I couldn’t help but wonder. Why wasn’t I one of them?

  There had to be a reason. If I looked back at the very beginning of the dating dance maybe I could figure it out. I thought about the beginning of boys. Back then I was part of the pack. But the leader was somebody else.

  At our fourth-grade Christmas party Joni Wolf said she thought it was time we all went steady. Joni told every boy he needed to ask a girl. The announcement came in the middle of the party. All the girls wore go-go boots, and danced on top of their desks to the theme song from The Monkees. The classroom looked like an underage episode of American Bandstand.

  Rachel and I walked home from school that day, plotting how I could get Lee Loran to ask me. I listened in on the extension when she called to tell him she got me to admit that I liked him. Rachel also told Lee that if he asked me she would pay him back by going steady with Marty, his best friend...if only Lee wouldn’t mind asking Marty to ask her. Lee said he’d definitely ask Marty, but he couldn’t ask me because Joni Wolf had already asked him to ask her, so he was taken.

  The next day when we got to school Joni was wearing Lee’s ID bracelet around her wrist, but it looked more like she had him wrapped around her little finger. Marty did ask Rachel and the four of them sat together during snack time while I watched, alone, a few rows away eating a stick pretzel and drinking my container of homogenized milk.

  Later, Rachel told me that Lee told her that he really wanted to go steady with me but he never thought I would want to go steady with him. He only said yes to Joni so he wouldn’t be left out. Then three different boys asked me to go steady but I didn’t like any of them, so I told them all no. Rachel said I should go back and say yes to one of them, so I’d have somebody I could break up with when someone better came along.

  Joshua Perry was my very first frog. But his jaw jutted out in a way that made him look more like an ape. He was scrawny, wearing top and bottom braces that had the kids calling him Metal Mouth. While I accepted his ID bracelet hoping that would make me feel more accepted, it kept the other kids away, thinking we always wanted to be alone. I felt more alone going steady with Joshua than I had when I was just alone and not going steady.

  Once we broke up, Joni and Lee broke up. So Joni made a new announcement that everyone should break up. When I told Lee I was happy that he and Joni really had, he asked me to go steady. Joni got mad. Joshua was so hurt he wouldn’t look at me. And since none of the other boys were going steady anymore Lee and I broke up, our relationship lasting from the beginning of the “Star Spangled Banner” through the end of Assembly.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

  I had found my way back to my building and came out of my trance when I was greeted by retired garmento aka Rabbi Schindelheim, standing out in front as if awaiting the arrival of a congregation.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, slightly distracted, as I couldn’t help but feel I might have spent my adult life duplicating a dating pattern that started in the fourth grade.

  “It’s Jewish Valentine’s Day. Are you aware of this?” he asked, smoking his cigar, imparting knowledge between puffs.

  “A happy Jewish holiday? How come I never heard of it?”

  “Well, Tu B’av is fairly obscure, but one of the most important. The girls of Jerusalem used to go out in borrowed white dresses and dance in the vineyards. Then the men would come down to the fields and pick a bride.”

  White go-go boots, or white dresses? What was the difference between a pronouncement from a fourth grader telling you to hook up for a while, or a village telling you to hook up forever?

  Was commitment fate, or just a decision one chose to make at a certain point? Did love propel commitment, or was it the other way around? And if that was the case, what’s love got to do with it?

  “Tell me more, Rab— I mean, Mr. Schindleheim,” I said, catching myself as this rabbi didn’t even know he’d been ordained.

  “Well, it’s a day for flirting. Tu B’av is about hope and continuity, even after the worst of things,” he said. “It’s about getting on with life, and getting on with love. What do you think?”

  I was going to find out because I just got an idea. My hope suddenly resurfaced, refueling me to continue the mission for that thing called love. Besides, if this kept up I had a feeling I’d soon be attending services in the lobby.

  I went room to room after entering my apartment, flipping switches to turn on lights, the computer, the A/C, the TV and the answering machine. Alerted of my one message, the familiar sound of Millie filled the room.

  “Hi, it’s Mommy. I have to ask you something, so call me when you get home. But if you get in in the next fifteen minutes turn on the TV. I don’t know the name of the show or what channel it’s on in New York—its channel ten here...”

  I pictured my mother sitting on the sunporch watching whatever it was while decoding the daily cryptogram in the Palm Beach Post.

  “You may be interested. It’s one of those reality shows where the girl sees everyone she’s ever dated in her whole life in one room. They all tell her why they broke up with her and didn’t want to get married, and then when it’s over she has to marry the best of her worst. I thought it might appeal to you.”

  It didn’t.

  Aside from everything the whole reality trend had gone way past getting on my nerves, not to mention all the jobs that were being taken away from actors and writers. It was less and less interesting to watch regular people interacting in the non-reality of their reality show. All this reality was not stimulating entertainment, stimulating anybody’s imagination, or giving breath to anything original or new. Besides, your average Joe really was pretty average, especially without charisma, acting skills, or a script. Television was falling way below average, and that was the biggest reality.

  But I sure was fascinated with those bachelors and bachelorettes. I would love to understand the reality of falling in love in six episod
es, or tying the knot in the new fall season lineup. I plopped down in a chair and opened my TV Guide to try to find the show my mother was talking about. The cover included a series of photos promoting the feature about couples who had met on TV. Little bubbles hovered over each couples’ heads filled with blurbs that read Dumped? or Headed for Divorce?

  Yet one photo caught my eye. I studied the face on the girl. Her blond, curly tresses fell around her happy heart-shaped face, her newly betrothed looked on, content and sincere. But really! Was this what Americans wanted to watch? Was it fate to fall in love on national TV? Was that someone’s destiny? Perhaps I was only ready now to see the reality. I had to face the harsh reality that I could no longer leave it up to fate or destiny. I had to make it happen. I would need to search.

  The high-speed DSL quickly connected me to Dogpile, my search engine of choice. I typed the letters B-A-S-H-E-R-T and quickly received eighty-four results! A novice in the unfated serious search for lasting love, I made my first double clicks on the heading, BASHERT 101: How to Get Hitched for Dummies, and began to read.

  The word bashert means fate, destiny, or what is meant to be.

  So far so good.

  According to the Talmud, Rav Yehuda taught that forty days before a male child is conceived, a voice from heaven announces whose daughter he will marry!

  Well, I hadn’t dated anyone deaf but there sure was a whole generation of guys out there that obviously couldn’t hear.

  Your soul mate is generally referred to as your bashert, but the person meant for you is your basherter. How do you know if you have found that person?

  One clue might be that he would call you again after sex, I thought quickly skimming the page until something alarming caught my eye.

  Although a first marriage is considered bashert, or meant to be, sadly two people can still ruin it. Judaism allows divorce, making it possible to have a good and happy marriage with a second spouse.

  Therein lies the problem, and it was so disturbing I had to go lie down. So much for my mission.

  I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, realizing I’d had it all wrong. I had never before considered that maybe it wasn’t a question of who was bashert for me, but what was bashert for me?

  Already well into my forties, was a first marriage between two late bloomers what was meant to be? Or was it bashert that I remained single all these years because my basherter was not yet even available? I threw the covers over my head, drifting off while contemplating how much longer I’d have to wait.

  Maybe my basherter was only in the middle of ruining his first marriage, the one that was bashert. Maybe I had to wait until they separated, until he moved out, and filed for divorce. Maybe I would have to wait until he had one rebound relationship, one transitional relationship, and a handful of flings. Then I’d have to wait for his kids to adjust to the idea of their parents’ marriage ending. Maybe I even had to wait until they were old enough to go to sleep-away camp in the summer so my basherter actually had some free time to hunt me down, date me, and mate me. And would that mean our marriage was bashert only for me and just a good and happy second marriage for him? Forty days before my basherter was conceived whose daughter’s name was announced? Hers, or mine?

  I was afraid my name wasn’t ever announced. The fear was soon echoed by a sudden crash of lightning that jolted me. Sitting up in bed, I listened to the rain and pondered. What if my name was never whispered into anybody’s ear?

  I got up to go to the bathroom. When I turned on the light I was surprised to see I was wearing a white nightgown. Funny, it didn’t even look like one of mine, I thought, before I flushed to leave the loo. But who cared? I was nothing more than a runner-up. The bachelorette unchosen.

  “Hi!” said a geeky balding man who greeted me as I came out of the bathroom. “How are ya, today, Kar?”

  “Aaaaaahhh!” I screamed, before running from this man and down the hall.

  But there were men everywhere! On the sofa, on the chairs, in the doorways, on the floor.

  “Ohmygod!!! What’s going on?” I hollered before feeling a reassuring hand on my arm.

  I looked up to see it belonged to a man in a Hawaiian shirt who was leading me to the center of the living room. He smiled a big GQ smile that made his white dentures gleam.

  “Good morning, Karrie,” he said. “I’m Rick and I’m the host of your show! Welcome to The Basherterette!”

  The BasherterWHAT?

  “Uh, listen, uh, Rick, is it? Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. This must be part of some very big mistake. I would never go on a show like that! Besides, my agent wouldn’t even be able to get me an audition.”

  “Oh, it’s no mistake,” said Rick. “We’re a brand-new show and forty days before the network picked up the pilot, the producer was driving his Porsche and out of the blue he heard your name announced to kick this baby off!”

  And to prove he was right, Rick opened to a page in my TV Guide.

  The Basherterette—Reality

  Debut: A perennial single

  seeks love in Manhattan.

  Starring: Karrie Kline

  What could I say? I finally got my name in TV Guide.

  “Now that that’s settled, let’s begin. O-kaaaay!” said Rick, sounding like a game-show host. “Look around your apartment, Karrie, and you will see we have brought you twenty-five eligible men who all want to be your bashert. Are any of them your basherter? Ask us if we know. Ask us if we care. Let’s face it, Karrie, you may be looking for your basherter, but we’re just looking for ratings.”

  “Wait a sec,” I said, skipping over that to get to this. “Back up. You’re doing the show here? In my apartment?” I looked around the crowded room. “Don’t you know this is only a one-bedroom?”

  “Sorry. Your show doesn’t have much of a budget. Now, gentlemen,” continued Rick as he addressed the men. “One of you lucky men will be selected to have a serious monogamous relationship with marriage potential with Karrie. Due to the size of the apartment, this will be an accelerated version of the show. Every two hours we will hold a PEZ ceremony that will eliminate several of you wonderful men. Karrie will give each man she hopes to get to know better a Charlie Brown PEZ dispenser. If you don’t get a Charlie Brown PEZ dispenser, we’ll hail a cab for you on Broadway that will take you back to work. If for any reason you don’t feel Karrie would be right for you, you do not have to accept the PEZ dispenser and you are free to go. Now let’s get this show on the road.”

  For our first group date we went down to the basement of my building to do my laundry. A widower who worked in construction told me if things worked out he expected I would move into his house in Patchogue, Long Island, where he’s built a great laundry room.

  “But isn’t that, like, two hours from the city?” I asked, finding it as difficult to separate the men from the boys as the whites from the darks.

  “It would only be for another ten years. Just until my four kids grow up,” he said, sketching a picture of the house on a pad to show me. “You do want a family, don’t you?”

  Thinking this scenario seductive, he made a move. In front of all the other men, right in the middle of the spin cycle, he kissed me. A big one. A big slobbery wet one. To his dismay, Reggie got eliminated at the PEZ ceremony.

  “She made out with me in the laundry room, dudes” were his parting words. But he wasn’t the only one to go once the ceremony officially began.

  “Excuse me,” said a nervous fellow with thinning hair. “I have an important client coming to my office in half an hour and I really don’t have time for such a long courtship. Besides, tonight’s my night with my kids.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, shooting Rick a look to let him know I didn’t feel bad. “He wasn’t really my type.”

  To tell you the truth, no one was, but I didn’t know how to get out of this. I was stuck, I thought, sadly looking over at the stack of balding Charlie Browns. With that a round man with pocked skin st
ood.

  “I just thought this would be an easy way to get laid. I didn’t realize I was going to have to stick around. No offense to you, Karrie, but I don’t want to have to jump through any hoops.”

  “I have two cats.”

  “I’m allergic to dogs,” said another.

  “But the Maltese is a hypoallergenic breed,” I said, I didn’t know why.

  “Anyone else?” asked Rick. “Is everyone else here able to stay?”

  The best-looking man in the room got up to go.

  “I’m married,” he said, slipping out the door. “Sorry.”

  Two men jumped up from behind the sofa just as he left.

  “I’m gay.”

  “I can’t see anybody for more than four to six weeks. I didn’t realize I’d have to keep it going after the show.”

  “Hey, Rick,” I interrupted. “I thought you said you had twenty-five eligible bachelors. But you found twenty-five unavailable available men.”

  Man, what a nightmare! I concluded the first and last ceremony by handing out one PEZ dispenser to a real estate lawyer who only got in under the good graces of Charlie. But it was one PEZ too many.

  I was not good at this show.

  Riiing!

  “And now it’s time for Karrie to bring you home to meet her mother!” Rick announced.

  Riiiiing!

  “Since we cannot fly you to Florida we will show you a photo of her mother, Millie, and you’ll have the opportunity to meet over a nice long chat on speaker phone!”

  Riiiiing!

  I didn’t know how to get off the air.

  Riiiiing!

  I only hoped we wouldn’t go into syndication.

  “Karrie, pick up!” Millie’s voice came through the speaker phone loud and clear.