Because I can’t swim and I’m afraid of water, I decide to take up white water kayaking.
The Ocoee River is the perfect elixir. Soon things are back in scale. The oar becomes a weapon to thrash the bullshit into submission. I beat it senseless and feel better for it. Hundreds of men do not a universe make. I’m determined to prove the existence of real love. But my inner gyroscope returns to point one – toting a load of hormones which is never a good thing. I’ve overdosed on emotional intimacy and need to balance me out.
On day three a halcyon enters my Thoreau-like existence. For the record, a halcyon is a legendary bird supposed to calm the wind and sea so as to be able to breed on water. My halcyon arrives in the form of Gary, my white water kayak instructor. I hired him to learn the proper way to kayak. He’s been a patient teacher. As we stand on the shore of the Ocoee, his muscles shining with sweat, I feel little horns sprouting from the top of my head. Heat rays start emanating from my body.
Sensitive to all signs in nature, Gary waits for his opportunity. Within minutes, I have clobbered myself with an oar. With the tip of his finger Gary touches my injured forehead. One thing leads to another and then to some thick underbrush and a tarp. We tumble onto the tarp like two woodland animals. Shortly thereafter, my gyro is humming in perfect tune.
My days are now spent paddling, running the rapids, risking all under the watchful eye of my new man. I glide over his words of endearment and stick to all things physical. Physical is the only thing you can rely on, I tell myself. I forget about the interviews, mentally shelving them for as long as it takes to become happy again.
Our kayaks slide side by side on the burbling water. There is a particularly bad spot up ahead, Gary warns. “A doctor from Atlanta got killed at this very spot last year. His foot got caught in the rocks, and his friends had to watch him drown – right before their eyes.”
“Why didn’t they save him?” I ask.
“Why would they risk their lives?” He speaks as if to a child. “They could have been caught up in the rapids and died, too.”
“Whoa ... they didn’t make any effort to help him?”
“That would have put them at risk. They could have died along with the doctor.” My hunky instructor says.
I hesitate, my question already answered. “Would you try to save me ... if my foot got stuck?”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t expect me to.”
But I do, that is the sorry part of it. I quietly pack my tent and leave the banks of the Ocoee. As I hike out of the valley, I pause at a fallen tree to catch my breath. A bright blue butterfly comes to rest on my left hand. It sits for long minutes, occasionally rubbing it’s antenna with its little feet. As I’m always looking for signs, I take his visit as a sign. Quit while you still can. The tiny creature finally departs on a breeze, which is exactly what I should be doing.
Mr. Kayak phones me many times in the coming weeks. His messages are pleadings. He professes his love for me. He does not understand what came over me. “Was it PMS?” he asks.
I wonder if Mark would have stepped into the raging river to save me? How many men would be willing to die for the woman they loved? I become obsessed with knowing.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Women just put the fin down to one side and wear high necked blouses to hide the gill marks. I can respect a survivor but not a shark.”
~ Tom, 48, divorced
Case 402 / Tom
Five years into my adventure, Tom calls to confirm his appointment for an interview, he says he’s a “dolphin researcher.”
We meet in person and I put his scientific research to the sniff test. The reality is he made a small donation to a dolphin research center recently and just spent the weekend visiting the facility.
Twice-divorced, this forty-eight year old insurance estimator owns a three bedroom home in a quiet, middle class subdivision just outside Tampa. I prepare to weed through his interview, sorting truth from fiction, expecting more fantasy than reality.
Tom’s eager to tell me of his adventures with a dating service, “They define success as if two people get married. I define success as if two people meet and like each other.” He talks fast. I scribble notes and keep my recorder running. His blond hair is flecked with gray. He arches his back, over-conscious of the image he projects.
“I saw Theresa’s video and read her profile. She seemed self-assured, but not uptight, very relaxed. Theresa is so down to earth, her idea of an ideal date is normal budget things, not jetting across the country to watch the sunset.”
Now he speaks with a put-upon air, “A lot of these women write down as an ideal date, most romantic ... oh yeah ... fly to Paris to have dinner, yeah right – on whose bank account? It’s like, you have to be kidding.” He scrunches up his face in mock horror.
Tom appears nervous as if he has a built-in calculator and is deducting his own points as we talk. His expression darkens. “I don’t think people are completely honest in their profiles,” says the Dolphin Man.
I decide not to push the honesty thing, what would be the point? I change conversational directions.
“You’re really happy with your relationship with Theresa?”
“Oh, yes. This is serious. We’ve talked about marriage.” His answer has an empty ring to it. I press the space between his words. “You’re sitting here today, because you read my invitation to be interviewed on the dating service’s bulletin board last week. Right?”
“Right... in their office.”
“I’ve got to ask you if you’re so happy with Theresa, what were you doing back at the dating service?”
Tom stammers. “I’m just letting my membership run out. You never know...”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Once you commit to something or someone, nothing is worth breaking that commitment.”
~ Barbara Silkstone, Love Investigator
“Why am I doing this to myself?” I ask Sal as I gather my pillows into a friendly heap and lay back to stare at my bedroom ceiling.
“Hey, this was your big idea.” I can sense his smirk across three-thousand miles. The best part of being good friends is the shared language of love that allows for teasing and ego mutilation.
“I’m getting grossed out. The men are opening up way too much. I’m overwhelmed. I can’t see a direction ahead.”
“Take it one interview at a time.”
“I’ve never learned to leave well enough alone. I have to keep relearning the same lesson. When I was five years old, I knew enough to stay clear of my mother’s vicious temper. The slightest infraction would cause her to inflict bruises and welts on my skinny little body. On the other hand, I was always testing the limits.”
“Is this a long story?” I hear Sal pour liquid into his glass. The ice tinkles.
“I was eating a sugar cookie in one of the two bedrooms in our little apartment. My mother was clanging pots in the kitchen. As I sucked on the cookie I wondered what the effect of spit on the cookie would be relative to wall-stickability. I always had an interest in science.”
Sal chuckles softly.
“I slobbered up the dough to what I guessed was the proper consistency and then plastered it on the wall. It stuck for a full minute and then slithered to the floor. Unfortunately it left a cookie-size spot on the dusty pink surface. It then occurred to me that Hitler in the Kitchen would beat the tar out of me unless I made the spot disappear, quickly.
“I scrambled to the bathroom and grabbed little scraps of toilet paper, sliding them over the bar of Ivory soap. I returned to the cookie-wall and rubbed. This action caused the spot to grow large and clean. The old paint made the soap circle stand out as if a flashlight had been aimed at it. I panicked.”
Now both Sal and I are laughing.
“In my five-year old brain, the solution was clear. If the wall was dirty and the spot was clean, I needed to dirty the cookie-spot to blend it with the dusty wall. I rubbed my fingers over the bottoms of my sandals in order to pick up some
smutz to blend into the spot, but each time I touched the spot it grew bigger and bigger.”
“I see where this going,” Sal says.
“I could hear my mother winding down on the pot banging. She would be checking on me soon. I was a goner. I smeared the shoe soot with great passion, creating a spot as big as my head but with a curious looking fish-tale at one end. This operation failed to blend the clean spot into the dusty wall. I could feel the pain and shook in anticipation.
“I took some pencil scrapings and rubbed them on the spot which was growing and taking on a life of its own. Then pure tot-brilliance struck. I decided the rest of the wall must be dirty because it was greasy. If I could make the clean cookie-spot greasy it might blend in. I grabbed a jar of petroleum jelly from my brother’s diaper table and smeared a handful of goo on the spot which had taken on the shape of a large whale. I was staring at the whale in horror when my mother walked in.”
Sal allowed me a moment of silence. It was not a pretty memory.
“The giant waxy whale remained a thorn in my mother’s side for years to come. No matter what cleaning solution she used or how thick the re-paint, the whale would surface in all its greasy splendor.”
“And so...?”
“The moral is quit while you’re ahead or you’ll end up with a whale on the wall.”
“Get a grip,” Sal laughs.
“It’s easy for you. You’re not out there. My pajamas feel too tight, I have a headache. I’m hungry but I have no appetite.”
“There’s something else. What is it?” Sal asks.
I reach to my nightstand and pick up a weathered black and white photograph of a guy with freckles and a smile that could still light up my world.
I speak softly, “The more I dig into men’s histories, the more I think we only get one chance at real love. I think I used mine up a long time ago.”
“The First Love thing?” I can hear the ice tinkle in Sal’s glass as he pauses to wet his smoky throat.
“That’s the only one that feels real.”
“Go to sleep,” he tells me. “Have a happy dream.”
I sleep fitfully. I dream I am driving a Winnebago on the information highway. The vehicle has no front windows. It is out of control and I can’t see the road ahead.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Women seem to like their men to treat them terribly. I’m not like that. One time I tried to be mean to a woman. She just laughed at me.”
~ Ronnie, 46, divorced twice
Case 405 / Ronnie
In response to his personal ad trolling for dates in a local rag, I agree to meet Ronnie in a beer parlor north of Charlotte. I have a general idea of where it is.
It takes a few minutes for my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the emporium Ronnie has designated for our rendezvous. The beer logo, encased in a clear plastic block of pretend ice, casts just enough illumination for me to find my way to the counter.
Ronnie looks like an oversized owl perched on a barstool, his amber eyes glowing and a string of blond hair stretched and glued over his bald head. A frequent user of classified ads, this forty-six year old Carolinian has had seven meeting-dates this week, nine the week before.
“What was it about my ad that made you call me?” He questions, locked and loaded. “Was it the mention of the hot tub or the fireplace? Because I have to confess, I don’t really have either one.” He takes a swig of his beer and reluctantly asks if I’d like anything to drink.
When I tell him it was neither of those turn-ons he seems disappointed. “See, my buddy Mac writes the ads for me.” He quickly divorces himself from the printed lie. “I don’t have a way with words like he does. He’s a guidance counselor. I’m just a music teacher.”
Ronnie moves on, forgetting I’m not a potential date. He’s on automatic pilot. “If we were to go out, you should know that I like inexpensive places with live music.” He rattles off a list of threadbare bars.
The bartender offers us a sticky card listing half a dozen fried munchies. This burnt-out, would-be Romeo brushes it aside. I slide the signed agreement to him, promising to never contact him again and to disguise his identity. He appears to accept that I’m here strictly in the interest of research and not as date material.
“Like how do guys meet women anymore, besides clubs?”
I suggest the various dating services to him. He asks the cost. I give him my guesstimate. He chokes on his draft stepping off the barstool to cough.
“Mac recommended I use internet dating.” He stares at his empty beer glass possibly searching for the meaning of life. Once a woman responds to my ad, I like to talk to her a few times on the phone before I even think of asking her for a drink.” He waits for my feedback.
“Do you ever ask them to dinner? Or lunch?”
“A guy could lose a lot of money that way. No. I wait. I’m not gonna drop twenty or thirty dollars on dinner and find out there’s no chemistry.”
I’ll bet he uses coupons.
Desperate to get a handle on where to meet women, ‘owl-man’ pushes on. “When you interview have you found one thing in common with all the men?”
I hesitate. “Do you really want to know?”
His eyes stare in terror, “Uh ... sure ...”
“Most people, not just the guys, are looking for love but they don’t have a clue what love is.”
He orders another brew as he thinks on what I’ve just told him. He seems relieved I didn’t use the other “L” word... loser. Then he says, “I guess I always thought of love as having someone who shared your interests.”
“And what are your interests?”
“Well ... I just told you. You know hanging out – listening to music.”
As I dismount the barstool my boots crunch on the peanut shell floor. I wave Ronnie off and crunch out the door into the sunlight.
Could it be that simple? Love equals shared interests? That would mean ... the more interests you have, the greater your chances of finding love? I scrape my boot bottoms on the asphalt, freeing the broken shells that cling to my soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“All dressed in white...”
~ Barbara Silkstone, mother of the bride
Hundreds of pearls have fallen onto and into the white carpet in my house. My eyes will need corrective vision surgery to recover from the hours of hand stitching. After weekly fittings and nerve-fraying adjustments, the wedding gown is finished. It’s lovely and all that I thought it could be. I would pat myself on the back but the pinch in my neck is too painful.
There have been food tastings for the reception and guest lists to mull over, bridesmaids’ tantrums and groom melt-downs, and wedding photographers who insist on large deposits then fail to return my calls. Why would anyone put their mother through this? It must be revenge for giving birth.
I’m into my fifth year of interviewing and can’t see any way out except to finish the adventure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“The death of my mother was the greatest loss I have ever suffered.”
~ John, 38, married
Case 421 / John
I first saw John when he played a character in a film that was so powerful it was nominated for multiple Academy Awards. His portrayal was fierce, violent, and loathsome.
Recorder in hand, I brace to meet this seemingly terrible man at his home in Hollywood Hills. I park my car on a driveway and gather my notebook and tape recorder then trot up a steep incline to his house. Two thoughts trip through my brain: how am I getting away with this gig and how have I not been killed or savaged at this point? You’ve been bloody lucky, I tell myself. Strange men are opening up like flowers and women are throwing their men at me hoping I’ll share what I gather – I won’t.
I knock on a heavy old Spanish Mission style door. Anticipating his film persona, I’m surprised when the door swings open revealing a dad with a baby in his arms and a five year old girl, who clings to the pocket of his pants.
&n
bsp; We shake hands. I’m embarrassed because my palm’s a bit sweaty. This interviewing stuff can be stressful. John offers me a cold drink as I follow him to the backyard. We sit at a table on a deck overlooking a forested valley.
He settles the baby on a blanket at our feet. The little girl scrunches down engrossed in drawing crayon pictures. Sitting across from me, John begins our chat by interviewing me. “Why did you start your quest? What’s your motive?”
Surprised, I verbally stumble then answer, “I wanted to find out all about love. Who men love and why and how they stay in love.”
As I gaze into his bright blue eyes I wonder why he’s so comfortable with me. What did I do to inspire such confidence that he lets me into his home and around his children? This is the good part of the interviewing – being welcomed as an authority or an old friend.
“Why did you agree to this interview?” I ask.
“When we spoke on the phone you said you were collecting thoughts about men, women, and love. I have some unusual thoughts and I care enough to share. You sounded sincere. I go by my gut a lot.”
“Mind if I record?” I give him my professional smile as I blot the drips off my ice tea glass.
“First,” he says, “I believe we carry around love-frames that come from our childhood or lost first loves. We spend our lives trying to fit people into these frames. This forced perspective can really mess up our lives.”
The baby fusses. He lifts her up and into his lap. Balancing his time lovingly between his daughters and my questions, he never loses a beat.
I feel light headed with the surrealism of the scene. I’m expecting something edgier. The last time I saw John, he was beating some guy into a bloody mess on a wide screen, now he’s coaxing burps out of a tiny infant.
John continues, “Love-frames can work if we find someone who is on a parallel journey, but frequently the journey changes. One partner doesn’t continue to back the other’s dreams.”
“Do you think marriage sometimes stifles growth?”
The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman Page 6