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More Noise, Please

Curt Seubert

    Yes, divorce sucks. But, for me, dating is worse; more desperate than loneliness, more soul-crushing than a bad marriage. I’d rather stew in the badness of a rotten relationship (or is it the rottenness of a bad relationship?) than go out into that nightmarish world of singles, of come-on lines, pick-up strategies, studied gambits, preening, primping, stockings, stalkings and (shudder) dancing.
    After my first divorce at twenty-five I dipped my toe in the then-burgeoning world of online dating. Filled with hope and sadness, gnawed by a sense of abandonment, weighed down by bad memories of caring for a sick spouse who’d only wanted to ignore her disease, yet hoping to make that soul connection that might result in a bit a nookey along the way, I posted my profile (mildly doctored) on the local singles board and in just two days was getting nibbles, most of them cautious, but also a few full-fledged strikes from rather explicit, caution-to-the-wind types. Scams, I learned to my chagrin, once I clicked “reply” and the spam poured in. Still, I persisted, trimmed sails, learned the signs, the signals, and gravitated towards the more circumspect of the personal tales.
    One night, around 1am, as I was downing my usual post-essay-grading bottle of cheap wine and pack of Marlboros, sweating despite the late hour, the computer beeped to let me know I’d gotten an IM. “Kristy” she said her name was. Interested in meeting? I’m a shrinking violet, aged 23. Chat ensued. An hour flew by, bustling with questions: jobs, hobbies, likes, dislikes—all that stuff you’d normally use as I’m-Interested-In-You-Yes-Really fodder on the first date. I passed the test. Let’s meet soon. But what would we talk about? I wondered.
    How about the night after tomorrow, 7pm? Sounds great. Where? Not sure yet. I’ll check around and let you know. Sounds good, but I’ve got a confession. Yes? I’m not Kristy. You mean that’s not your real name? No. I mean I’m not her. I’m her friend. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve just been trying to find a way of getting her out of the house.
    I love wine because it muffles the oft-distracting clamor of self-preservation.
    Okay. You don’t mind? Well, it’s a bit of a shock. Sorry. It’s okay. You still want to meet her? Sure. We arranged a time for me and the real Kristy to chat the following night, and I went to bed, pretty drunk but feeling for the first time in a long time that faint glimmer of hope and sense that I wasn’t as worthless as the divorce papers had seemed to attest.
    I woke up, a bit hung-over and feeling nervous—my first blind date. And, besides, what kind of person would meet someone their friend had found on an online personals board? I needed some way of protecting myself.
    A side-bar in that month’s Maxim gave me what I needed: arrange to meet somewhere you’re a regular, preferably a place with lots of people, and arrive half-an-hour early. Your familiarity with the locale will act as a camouflage in the jungle of patrons, giving you plenty of time to decide whether to let your prey pass or whether to go in for the kill.
    Do you know Windjammers? I asked as we IM’d that night. No. It’s a bar up on Bryden. I know the area. You can’t miss it. It’s got a big cut-out of a sailing ship on top. Why there? I thought we could have a drink first and then go to Applebee’s for dinner. I don’t drink. Really? That’s OK. We’ll just meet there.
    I dressed in slacks and a black work-shirt; good enough to blend in with the bar crowd, but also, hopefully, nice enough to impress a girl.
    Kirsty was plain and skinny, with a mat of curly, brown hair and black-rimmed glasses perched precariously over her scrunched up, anxious expression as she scanned the bar. As her eyes passed over me, I didn’t know whether to feel thankful or slighted.
    I could’ve been a bastard and just let her wait to be stood up; I could’ve sat there and watched the whole thing with some perverse satisfaction. But I wasn’t a bastard. It wasn’t a bastard who’d sat for days at my wife’s bedside in the IC unit while she’d hurled insults at me; but it’d been a weaker man who fired back a few recriminations and put-downs of his own. And, besides, I’d always had a thing for those bookish, librarian-types and Plain Jane’s.
    We exchanged greetings and names. Shall we go? Yes. Applebees is just down the block. We went in her car. I forget what we ordered. I forget how I got home—if I walked or if she dropped me off. I do remember she didn’t asked me question one, that she spoke only in declaratives, divulging, lingering and circling back on a plethora of personal problems.
    She suffered from aches, pains, numbness, and tingles. She had mental troubles, too, due in no small part, she attested, to the isolation inflicted by her physical impairments. To my private horror, she popped pills before and after the meal.
    Do you mind? she asked. No, I don’t mind. It’s just that I’ve got to take this medication to keep my emotions balanced. Oh, really? You don’t mind? You’ve gotta do what gotta do, right?
    I did my best to keep from checking my watch too often. I thought if I could just keep things polite, I could slip away and never, ever, return her emails. No luck there, though. When the time came to settle the check, and I told her how much she’d have to pay for her half, she got offended.
    You’re not going to pay for me? Um, no. But I thought you were going to; that’s what real men do on dates. Well, we just met tonight, you know, and, honestly, I don’t think there’s going to be a second date. Why? I hesitated. Despite my ex-wife’s accusations to the contrary, I am not cruel. I lied. You’re just not my type. Oh, you mean I don’t look like a model? All you men are the same. That’s not it. What is it, then? she pressed.
    A little less honesty would’ve been a good thing.
    I don’t remember if I said that.

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