I have spaghetti for lunch.
– • –
At 5:00 p.m., I start trying on all of my new clothes again. I have two purposes. First, I need to ensure, again, that none of it is defective. If there’s a zipper that doesn’t work or a button hanging by a thread or a small tear at the corner of a pocket, now is the time to know. Second, I need to choose what I’m wearing tonight.
In the end, I choose the George Foreman pinstripe suit and the white shirt with blue stripes, with no tie. I think it looks dressy, yet easygoing. I also think I look too round and puffy. This is not something I thought about before I decided to look for dates on the Internet, but now that I am an active Internet dater, I may have to incorporate some belly control into my daily routine. I could start doing sit-ups. That would give me something new to count and whip my stomach into shape. The thought of this makes me happy.
It is 5:37 p.m. and I am dressed for my 7:00 p.m. Internet date with Joy from Broadview.
– • –
After putting the mix CD in my front coat pocket—and then checking twice more to make sure it is there—I decide to do some last-minute brushing up on Internet dating, just so I know as much as possible about what will happen tonight.
On one website, I find an article called “Everything You Need to Know Before You Go on That Online Date.” At first, I am not
interested, as the article plainly says that it is written for women over forty, but then I remember that Joy is forty-one and I think that it might benefit me to consider things from her perspective.
By the time I finish reading the article, however, I wonder why any woman would ever want to go on an Internet date. The person who wrote this article does not seem to like dating or to expect much from it. She says that men don’t want to date older women and that the only way a man will show genuine interest in someone is by stalking her, which alarms me, because I don’t want to stalk anybody.
Finally, the writer suggests buying the book
He’s Just Not That Into You
, by Greg Behrendt. She says that it will reveal everything about men and what they think.
Regardless of what happens tonight, I must read this book. I would be very interested to know my feelings about dating women.
I immediately go to Amazon.com and order it.
I think I now know more about Internet dating than I want to know. I hope Joy hasn’t seen this article. Why would she come?
– • –
It is very easy to get from the house on Clark Avenue to the wine bar downtown. After backing out of the driveway, I head east on Clark down to Sixth Avenue W., make a right turn, then an immediate right on Yellowstone Avenue, then a right on Seventh Street W., pass by Clark Avenue, and then make a right on Lewis Avenue.
I have driven in a circle, but I also have taken all right turns.
Lewis rides down through the tree-lined neighborhoods of central Billings, crosses Division Street and becomes Fourth Avenue N. downtown. At the corner of Fourth and Broadway,
I can see the big
Billings Herald-Gleaner
building, where people are inside compiling the things I’ll need tomorrow, including my weather data and Dear Abby.
I turn right on Broadway, cross over Third and Second Avenues, and pull into a diagonal parking spot across from the wine bar.
As I shut off the ignition, the digital clock in my Toyota Camry flips over to 7:00 p.m.
– • –
Bin 119 is impressive, and busy.
Joy does not seem to be here yet.
I find an open table at the far end of the place, and I sit down facing the door, so I can see her when she comes in.
It’s a very nice table—very modern, with leather-bound seats. I like it. The soft lighting and dark-wood decor remind me of Dr. Buckley’s office, and I like that, too.
I look at my watch. It’s 7:03.
I may have to prepare myself for the possibility that Joy is not as punctual as I am. If I work hard at it, I’m sure I can do this. Dr. Buckley says that all people have things they are good at and not so good at and that if I like someone, I should appreciate his or her good points and forgive the bad. This makes sense to me. Dr. Buckley is a very logical woman.
At 7:05, a server comes by and asks if I would like a menu or to order a drink. I tell her that I’m expecting someone and will wait, thank you.
Five minutes isn’t too late, right? That can be the difference between a well-set clock and a haphazardly set one. While I don’t understand why anyone would want a clock that doesn’t tell exactly the correct time, I know that some people
don’t give such things a lot of thought. Maybe Joy is one of those people.
I read somewhere that giving someone fifteen minutes of leeway on an appointment is the polite thing to do, and so I resolve that I will give Joy until 7:15 before I start to become annoyed at her.
On the other hand, I remember that when Jimmy Johnson was the coach of the Dallas Cowboys, he considered a player late to a team meeting if that player wasn’t in the room five minutes early, and he would dock the player’s pay. Jimmy Johnson would not tolerate someone’s being fifteen minutes late, and he won two Super Bowls. Clearly, there is politeness, and then there is what works.
At 7:11, the server asks again if I want something to drink. I decline. Also, I am annoyed. I can’t help it.
At 7:13, I see Joy at the door. She looks just like her picture—striking. She’s tall, too, maybe close to six feet tall. I like that. She is wearing a white dress with big brown-and-blue swirlies—paisleys, I think they are called—that comes down to about the middle of her calves. She looks very nice.
I start to raise my hand to flag her down, but she sees me first and smiles.
She’s walking back here toward the table.
Holy shit!
“Edward, I’m so happy to meet you,” she says, offering a handshake as she sits down.
I accept and try to remember to shake firmly.
“Have you been waiting long?”
I look down at my watch: 7:13:57…7:13:58…7:13:59…
“Fourteen minutes. We were supposed to meet at seven, correct?”
“Yes. I am so sorry. I left Broadview early so I could get here in plenty of time, and then there was a big wreck on Highway
3—a really bad one—and that slowed me down, and then when I got down here, I had a really hard time finding a place to park. It’s busy here on a Friday night.”
“I parked right across the street.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Edward, I’m glad I’m here now.” She looks me over. “I like your suit.”
“Yes.”
I reach down on the bench seat beside me and pick up the rose, which I’ve been hiding. I set it on the table across from Joy. “This is for you,” I say.
She picks it up. “Thank you so much. It’s beautiful. You’re so sweet.”
The server comes by again to drop off menus and take our drink order. Joy orders a Gewurztraminer, which appears to be some sort of wine. I order a glass of water. I’ve never had wine, and I don’t drink alcohol. Or, at least, I haven’t.
“You’re not having wine?”
“No.”
“I love Gewurztraminer. I like sweeter wines—Rieslings and chardonnays. Not so much red wines. Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”
“I’ll try it, I guess.” When the server walks by, I ask her to bring me a glass of Gewurztraminer. Even if I don’t end up liking the wine, I sure like the word.
“We didn’t really talk about eating, but this menu looks yummy,” Joy says. “Would you like to have something to eat?”
“Yes.”
When the server comes back with the Gewurztraminers and the water, she asks us if we would like something to eat. Joy orders
the lobster mac ’n’ cheese. I order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken.
“A salad?” Joy says. “You’re going to make me look like a pig for ordering a big, hot meal.”
“I’m interested to see your mac ’n’ cheese. I can’t decide if it sounds good.”
“I’ve heard that it’s fantastic. Would you like a bite when it comes?”
“No. I couldn’t do that.”
– • –
Over dinner, Joy asks me a few questions but mostly talks about herself. She is surprised when she asks what I do for a living and I say “nothing.” I then tell her that I’m living on my investments, which is a little white lie. I’m living on my father’s investments.
She launches into a story about growing up on a farm outside Broadview and how her parents were mean to her and her and brothers and how eventually she ended up living in town with her aunt and uncle, who were very nice people and—
The Gewurztraminer makes me belch. It’s not loud, but it interrupts her story.
“I burped,” I say.
“Yes, well,” Joy says, looking momentarily annoyed, and then she’s off and talking again. I like listening to her. Her story doesn’t have a lot of structure—she jumps around a lot in time and place and goes on little side stories called tangents—but she is so demonstrative in telling the story that I just shovel salad into my mouth and listen.
“Edward, I’m sorry, I’m dominating the conversation,” she says. “I’d like to hear what you think of all this.”
“I think it’s nice that your aunt and uncle took care of you.”
“No, I mean about this,” she says, waving her right hand in a parabola over the table.
“It’s good food.”
“No, about us, about being here,” she says. “Were you nervous? I was.”
I think about her question for a few seconds before answering.
“I guess I was a little nervous. I woke up really early this morning, at five fifty-seven. I usually wake up at one of four times—seven thirty-seven, seven thirty-eight, seven thirty-nine, or seven forty—but today I woke up at five fifty-seven thinking about tonight.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if we were going to have sex.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but I wondered what would happen if we did.”
Joy looks cross. “We are not having sex.”
“I know. That’s what I decided, too.”
“Well, I’m glad.”
“I just don’t see how it could happen. I would miss
Dragnet
.”
“That’s not the only reason it’s not going to happen. And listen, I read up on
Dragnet
. Why do you keep talking about a forty-year-old TV show?”
“I always watch
Dragnet
, every night at ten.”
I look down at my watch. It’s 8:04.
“I’m very uncomfortable with this conversation,” Joy says.
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe you brought up sex. That’s really out of line.”
“I was just being honest about what I was thinking of, because you asked me.”
“I don’t know. I’m really uncomfortable. I think I’m going to go.”
Joy flags down the server and asks for a box for her lobster mac ’n’ cheese and for separate checks. When they arrive, she puts cash on the table to cover her check, and then she stands up.
“Well, it’s a long drive back to Broadview,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.” And she pivots and walks out.
I reach into the breast pocket of my suit jacket to fish out my wallet, and I realize that I never gave her the mix CD.
– • –
By the time I get home, I have replayed the whole scene in my head, and I am frantic. Joy thought I wanted to have sex with her, and she wigged out. I didn’t want to have sex with her. I told her that. She didn’t understand what I was saying.
And then there was that last line: “I’ll talk to you soon.”
She’s just not that into me.
– • –
I make a bold decision: I am not going to watch
Dragnet
tonight. I don’t have the energy for it.
It’s too bad, too, because the fourth episode of the first season, “The Interrogation,” is not just one of my favorites, it is my favorite. Kent McCord plays a rookie cop named Paul Culver who is mistaken for a liquor store robber while on undercover duty, and Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon, now working in internal affairs, try to wring the truth out of him: Did he rob that liquor store or not?
In this episode, which originally aired on February 9, 1967, Sergeant Joe Friday gives a speech that I think should be printed out and passed out to anyone who wants to be a policeman. It goes on for several minutes, and it never gets boring. Paul Culver sits rapt (I love the word “rapt”) as Sergeant Joe Friday tells him that being a cop is hard work, that people don’t treat cops very well, that he will never make very much money, that his uniform will get torn up by bad guys, and that he will write as many words in his career as there are in a library. He tells Paul Culver that he will see things that break his heart and that bad people will try to do bad things to him.
None of it sounds very appealing, but Sergeant Joe Friday says he is proud to be a cop, and in the end, Paul Culver is proud to be a cop, too. Sergeant Joe Friday convinced him that he ought to stick with it, even though Culver got agitated when he was falsely accused of a crime.
Sergeant Joe Friday always says exactly what he wants to say. I wish I were he tonight.
– • –
I also take a pass on writing my letter of complaint. I don’t know who the target should be.
Is it I for chasing Joy away? Is it the vintner of the Gewurztraminer for making me burp? Is it Joy for showing up late and overreacting? Is it I for thinking that she overreacted?
I lack the clarity for a letter of complaint.
Internet dating has wrecked all of the things that I rely on.
Here are today’s numbers:
Woke up: 7:37 (seventeenth time this year out of 299 days, because it’s a leap year).
Yesterday’s high temperature: forty-four degrees.
Yesterday’s low temperature: twenty-four degrees.
Today’s forecasted high temperature: forty-eight degrees.
But forecasts, as you know by now, are notoriously off base. I shall wait for the facts, which I prefer.
Here’s a fact: I hate online dating.
– • –
After breakfast, I log on to Montana Personal Connect one last time to wipe out my account, and I see this:
Inbox (1).
I click the link.
Edward:
I wanted you to know that I am not feeling “the click” factor with you. I dont really know how to explain it but I feel
as though we would not be compatable because I felt at Bin 119 that you were not interested in learning anything about me. When I was telling you about my uncle adopting me you said “I burped” and then didn’t follow up on anything about what I was saying regarding just getting to know me. I guess I feel shut down with you and I dont enjoy feeling that way. I am not saying I wouldn’t want to be friends but I dont want to date. Its a different level and I dont feel it with you.