Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. The next event’s Wednesday night at Starbucks. Do you want to go?”

  “Not really.” I could just imagine all the nerdy Jewish guys that would go to something like that. “Why don’t you go first and tell me how it is? If you like it, I’ll go to the next one.”

  “I think it would be more fun if we went together. Besides, you owe me one for getting you the low down on Steve Rogers.”

  “You’re going to call in your favor for this?”

  “Why not?”

  He probably thought he’d look like more of a stud if he walked in with another woman. “Okay, it’s a date.”

  * * *

  When we arrived at Starbucks, the place was already packed. Greg and I each paid our $10 registration fee and filled out the top portion of a questionnaire with our name, address and phone number. The lower portion of the form was broken into seven sections with a blank line for a name and one question underneath: WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE THIS PERSON AGAIN? YES OR NO (CIRCLE ONE).

  We’d just handed in our forms when the organizer of the event rang the bell and introduced himself. He placed me and the other twenty-one women at small tables spread throughout the room. On the center of each table was a plastic number. I was seated at table number thirteen.

  He then assigned each man a number from one to twenty-two. I never did figure out how they managed to come up with an equal amount of men and women. The organizer told the men that when he rang the bell, they should go to the table that matched their number. After seven minutes, he said, he would ring the bell again, and all of the men would move to the next odd- numbered table if they’d been assigned an odd number, or the next even-numbered table if they’d been assigned an even number. This way, no one would be staring at the table on either side of them looking for their next date.

  That seemed fair. Completely random, but fair. A combination matchmaking and musical chairs, except only the men played. At the end of seven rounds, the organizer told us, we could socialize and talk to whomever we pleased. That way, if fate didn’t match us with the person we wanted, we could introduce ourselves at the end of the night.

  The organizer waited until everyone was seated before he shouted, “Ready, set, date.” And we were off. Match Number One was named Richard. He was tall and stocky with black hair. His nose was too large for his face, but he was cute in spite of it.

  Richard told me he’d grown up on the East Coast and had just moved to Southern California last year. I told him I’d been living in Los Angeles almost ten years and couldn’t imagine ever moving back. He said since L.A. was now his home, he felt like he should learn to surf. I told him I tried boogie boarding a few times, but preferred scuba diving. He said he wasn’t scuba certified, but that he liked to snorkel. We were still talking about our favorite snorkeling spots when the bell rang.

  I waited for Richard to leave, then pulled the questionnaire out of my purse. I wrote down his name and number on the blank line and circled YES. I wasn’t smitten, but he was attractive and could hold up his end of a conversation. I returned the questionnaire to my bag and another man sat down.

  Match Number Two was named Josh. Based on looks alone, he would’ve been a seven. Cute enough to date. But his incessant whining about Los Angeles’ lack of culture, combined with his nasal voice, reduced him to a five. Before Speed Dating, I hadn’t thought seven minutes was enough time to spend with someone to know whether you wanted to date them. I was wrong. After two minutes with Josh, I knew I never wanted to see him again. I just had to wait another five minutes for the bell to ring.

  Match Number Three was named Seth. He was probably 5’5” in his work boots, but 5’3” without them. We talked about our hobbies and how hard it was to meet people in L.A. He seemed nice and normal. When the bell rang, I pulled out my questionnaire and considered it for a full ten seconds before I circled NO. I knew I could never get past the height issue.

  Match Number Four was named Ira. He was tall, but about fifty pounds overweight. Despite the rules of the program, he spent the entire seven minutes talking about his career as a stockbroker. He told me how much money he’d made last year, and how much more money he intended to make in the future.

  I asked him for a stock tip so the seven minutes wouldn’t be a total waste, but by the time the bell rang and I had a pen in my hand, I’d forgotten the name of the company whose stock I was supposed to buy. I pulled out my questionnaire and circled NO. Even a lucrative stock tip wasn’t worth an entire evening with Ira.

  Match Number Five was named Barry. He was the reason I was afraid to go to singles events. I couldn’t accurately guess his height because he sat with his shoulders slumped over the table and his head bent down. This position did, however, afford me a great view of his few remaining strands of hair which he’d coiled into a bird’s nest on the top of his head.

  After thirty seconds of post-bell silence watching Barry finger the grooves in the table, I started asking questions. I knew he was an unequivocal NO, but we had seven minutes to kill. His responses were either monosyllabic or “I don’t know,” and were always directed to the tabletop.

  The highlight of our mini-date came at the end of minute five when Barry removed the hearing aide from his left ear to check the battery. It was still working, but the sudden movement caused the bird’s nest to fall and I was afforded the rare pleasure of watching Barry recoil it back into place. I spent the last two minutes staring out the window.

  Match Number Six was named Evan. He was short with red hair, freckles, and wire framed glasses. I wasn’t attracted to him, but at least he talked and wasn’t afraid to look at me.

  Evan also ignored the guidelines and opened the conversation by telling me that he was a plastic surgeon and had just joined a practice in Beverly Hills with a large celebrity clientele. I told him I didn’t think it was possible to be a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles without celebrity clients. He told me that even though I wasn’t a celebrity, he would be happy to help me with those little lines around my eyes. I had no hesitation circling the NO under his name.

  Match Number Seven was named Danny. Danny was a sweater. By this point in the evening, the wet rings under his armpits had seeped out onto his chest and were creeping down toward his waist. Danny made a real effort at conversation, but I was distracted by his constantly wiping the perspiration off his face with his shirt sleeve.

  After the third time, I handed him my pocket pack of tissues. They helped to soak up the sweat, but shredded in Danny’s beard. By the end of seven minutes, Danny looked like he’d had a terrible shaving accident. When I gently pointed this out, he quickly brushed the tissue particles off of his face, but they just landed on his chest and shoulders, giving him the worst case of dandruff I’d ever seen.

  When the bell rang, I circled the last NO and beelined across the room to Greg. I was ready to leave, but Greg wasn’t. He’d spied two women he hadn’t been matched with but wanted to meet, and said he wasn’t leaving without at least one phone number. I braced myself for a long night.

  Chapter 42

  Coffee Buzz

  I wished Greg happy hunting and went to the counter to order a grande café au lait. I waited for my coffee at an empty table in the corner while I perused an abandoned copy of Daily Variety. I was only halfway through the lead story when I heard, “I’m sorry, but that’s my paper.”

  The first thing that registered about the man standing before me were his warm hazel eyes outlined by long, thick, dark lashes. The rest of his features, his average height and build and dark brown hair, were unremarkable.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know anyone was sitting here.” I got up and handed him the paper.

  “You don’t need to leave,” he said, and sat down in the empty chair across from me, still holding his steaming venti-sized cup with the name “Noah” scrawled in black marker under the lip.

  The counterman called, “Julie,” and I said, “That’s m
e.”

  “Nice to meet you, Julie, I’m Noah.”

  The counterman called my name again. I released my hand from Noah’s handshake and said, “I better go get that.”

  “Why don’t you join me?” he said. “I’m almost done with the paper. You can have it when I’m finished.”

  I looked around the room and spotted Greg pretending to listen to every word being uttered by a buxom blonde. “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

  I picked up my coffee, stopped at the condiment bar for a Sweet ‘N Low and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and returned to Noah. When I sat down, he handed me the paper. I read the portion of the address label that hadn’t been torn off: NOAH GREELEY, CAPITOL STUDIOS, BUILDING 9, ROOM 214, 1600 CAPIT.

  “So how do you like working at Capitol?”

  “How did you—”

  I held up the paper and pointed to the mangled address label.

  He smiled. “It’s as good a studio to work at as any I guess. How about you? Are you in the business?”

  “Tangentially. I’m an entertainment litigator.”

  “That’s close enough for me. I’m in business affairs.”

  I knew a few people from law school who had left law firms for studio business and legal affairs jobs. The general consensus was that the hours were better, the pay was worse, and it was the closest a lawyer could get to making movies without quitting the law altogether and becoming a producer.

  “So you’re a lawyer who isn’t a lawyer anymore?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  We talked about his job, my job and current movies. We both liked intelligent, mainstream pictures—which we both estimated was less than twenty percent of the pictures released by the studios in any given year—and art house films that contained stories as well as angst. Compatible taste in film was always a plus for a movie fan like me.

  I hadn’t even realized we’d been talking for almost forty minutes when Greg came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Whenever you are.”

  Greg and Noah exchanged a look and Greg said, “I’ll wait for you by the door.”

  I picked up my purse and stood up. “It was really nice meeting you.”

  “You too,” Noah replied.

  I waited a few more seconds, hoping he would ask me for my phone number. When he didn’t, I turned to leave.

  “We should get together and see a movie sometime,” Noah said when I was two feet from the table.

  Yes! I turned back. “I’d like that.”

  Noah didn’t move, so rather than wait for him to figure out the next step, I pulled my pen out of my purse, wrote down my name and number on the front page of his Variety, and handed it to him. He promised to call and wished me goodnight.

  Greg was waiting for me at the entrance. “It looks like you found yourself a match.”

  “We’ll see,” I said and looked away before my smile betrayed me. I hoped Greg was right.

  Chapter 43

  It Had Been Too Long

  By the time I unlocked my apartment door it was almost eleven o’clock. I changed clothes and went through my nightly routine—removing my makeup, washing my face, and brushing my teeth—then climbed into bed. I fluffed pillows, rearranged blankets, and switched sides of the mattress, but nothing worked. All I could think about was Noah. I’d talked to him for less than an hour, and I was already fantasizing about waking up with him on Sunday mornings.

  By four o’clock the next afternoon, I was debating whether anyone would notice if I locked my office door and took a nap. I’d barely slept three hours the night before and I’d been dragging all day. I had a narrow panel of frosted glass in my door frame, but I didn’t think it was clear enough for anyone to see through. I had just put my head down on the desk when the phone rang.

  “Hi,” the caller said in an exceptionally perky voice. “Is this Julie Burns?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Who is this?”

  “My name is Sarah. I’m calling from Aish HaTorah.”

  “Where?”

  “We organized the Speed Dating event you attended last night.”

  “Oh right.” I was a little embarrassed that I’d already forgotten their name.

  “I wanted to let you know that you had one match.”

  “What?” How could she know about Noah?

  “You circled YES next to Richard’s name on your questionnaire. He circled YES next to your name too.”

  “Great,” I said, without much enthusiasm. In the afterglow of meeting Noah, I’d completely forgotten about Richard.

  “I’ve already called Richard and given him your phone number. He was very excited. I’ll give you his phone number, and the two of you can take it from here.”

  I took down Richard’s number on a post-it and stuck it on top of the pile of post-its next to the phone on my desk. Phone numbers I saved but would never use.

  * * *

  I arrived home that evening to a flashing red light on my answering machine. I pushed PLAY before I’d even set down my briefcase and kicked off my shoes. “Hi Julie, it’s Richard. We met last night at Speed Dating. I’d really like to see you again. Give me a call when you have a chance. I’ll be home the rest of the evening.”

  Damn. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Richard, I was just disappointed that it wasn’t Noah. I waited two more hours hoping Noah would call. When he didn’t, I called Richard back. We were on the phone less than five minutes before he asked me if I’d like to get together over the weekend.

  “What did you have in mind?” Maybe he would wow me with something completely unexpected.

  “How about dinner Saturday night?” he asked.

  Or not.

  We made plans to meet at La Mer, one of those ridiculously expensive restaurants I’d always wanted to try, but only when someone else was paying. I figured if he was asking, then that meant he was paying.

  * * *

  When I arrived at La Mer Saturday night, promptly at seven-thirty, Richard was already waiting. I was glad I’d worn my long black skirt instead of my usual black pants. Richard was wearing a gray pinstriped suit complete with white cuff-linked shirt and yellow tie. If he hadn’t already told me that he worked for his father’s shipping company, I would’ve thought he was a banker.

  The maître d’ greeted Richard as if he were an old friend and seated us at a table for two in the corner. As we walked through the restaurant, I was surprised to see that almost all of the tables were filled. It was the quietest crowded restaurant I’d ever been in.

  Richard ordered a bottle of wine with dinner and immediately began telling me the story of his life. I learned about the boarding school in Boston he’d attended from the time he was eight years old, his Ivy League college, and his family’s home in Charleston which was actually a twenty-room mansion on ten acres of land complete with swimming pool, tennis courts and a stable out back where he and his three brothers learned to ride.

  The other family residences were a six-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue in Manhattan, and a vacation home in Antigua where they spent the winter holidays.

  “What, no summer home?” I asked as a joke.

  “No,” Richard replied in all seriousness, “it wasn’t practical. Every summer my parents would take my brothers and me to a different country in Europe so we could learn the language and soak up the culture. It made more sense for us to rent a villa for the season rather than buy a home in every country we traveled to.”

  At Richard’s urging, I told him about my family’s annual winter vacation. It began with a twenty-three-hour drive from our house in New Jersey to Pompano Beach, Florida where my parents, sister, and I would descend upon my grandparents in their two-bedroom condo. Our daily activities consisted of lying on the beach in the morning, the pool in the afternoon, and going out to dinner and watching TV at night. All my family wanted to soak up was a tan. If we all came home a shade darker than when we’d left and no one ended
up in the emergency room, my parents considered it a successful vacation.

  Richard seemed unfazed by the differences in our backgrounds. I wasn’t. By the time we’d finished coffee and dessert, I knew it would never work out.

  Chapter 44

  Too Rich

  “How can anyone be too rich?” Kaitlyn asked over breakfast Sunday morning, which was an unusual occurrence now that she and Steve were an item.

  “I’m not comfortable with him. Our lives are just too different.”

  “Well how did you manage to have a five-hour date with someone you’re not comfortable with?”

  “Easy,” I said. “I was fascinated. I didn’t think people like that even existed outside of books and movies.”

  “I think you’re overreacting. I’m sure you could get used to the money if you tried. You’d probably even like it.”

  Maybe, but…no.

  She shook her head. “So how did you leave it?”

  “He said he’d call. I think he will.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Kaitlyn and I went to the Santa Monica Mall, then the Century City Shopping Center, and finally Beverly Hills. I spent the afternoon searching for black suede boots and Kaitlyn spent the afternoon persuading me to give Richard another chance. By five o’clock I was convinced that there was not one pair of comfortable suede booties in all of Los Angeles, and that Kaitlyn was right.

  I could get used to the money if I tried. It wasn’t fair of me to rule out Richard, or “Richie Rich” as we were now calling him, just because he was wealthy. It wasn’t his fault he was a member of the lucky sperm club and had everything handed to him on a silver platter since the day he was born.

  And it wasn’t like I had anything against money. In fact, I’d even fantasized about being rich myself some day. Since I hadn’t had much luck playing the lottery, and I knew I’d never get rich working for Rosenthal, the next best alternative would be to marry someone rich. I just needed to keep an open mind.