The 7th Tarot Card (2 page)

“When you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount.” —Dakota proverb

*******

Soul Daddy had three great pictures on e-soulmate, and one bad one. He looked worse than the bad one. He seemed much older than he indicated in his bio, but maybe it was his stooped shoulders and shuffling gait that gave me that impression. Let’s try and have an open mind here—looks aren’t everything—I should find out who he is as a person. I vowed not to be shallow; give him a chance to sweep me off my feet. I waved him over, we said our hellos, and I shook his frail, liver-spotted hand. He gently lowered himself into the seat across from me, leaned in and squinted at me.

“
What happened to your eye?”

“
Just a slight hair brush incident this morning,” I replied breezily and angled my uninjured side towards him. “The swelling should go down any time now.”

He pursed his lips
. “Looks painful. What can I get you to drink?” He stood up again, pulled a faded brown wallet from the back pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts and withdrew a folded slip of pink paper. The edges were raggedy and worn and he carefully unfolded the paper to avoid tearing it.

Regarding him curiously, I replied,
“A small mocha would be very nice. What’re you going to have?”

“I think I’ll go with a cup of hot water.”

“
Just hot water?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“
Yes.” He smiled with satisfaction. “I’ve been saving this coupon from my dentist for a special occasion, and this will just about cover it all.” He held it up proudly for me to see.

Mental sigh
.

T
his is the guy who claims he loves to travel to exotic places. Clearly, he doesn’t do that. Unless he considers Tacoma exotic.

As w
e chatted and sipped our beverages, I learned that Soul Daddy’s real name was Ronald Schrencker. Ronald asked me how my mocha was and I told him it was just right. Then I asked him how his hot water was and he reported that it was good and not too hot. Evidently he didn’t recognize my smart-aleck attempt at humor.

Ronald
’s into horticulture and knows all the Latin names of flowers and plants. I told him the flowers in the pots on my front porch were red ones. At least they used to be before they died. Not sure if I watered them too much, or too little. It’s a fine line really.

After thirty minutes of scintillating plant talk and hearing how his ex-wife ripped him off, my cell phone rang. It was my sister, Nikki J coming to my rescue.
Nikki’s real name is Susan, but she feels that name doesn’t reflect her true essence. A free spirit, she often reinvents herself, and her usually long brown hair is now short, spiky, and blonde. Nikki and I have an arrangement: whenever one of us has a blind date, the other one calls thirty minutes into the date. If the date is going well, we ignore the call. It the date is tanking, we answer the call and hear about an emergency that requires us to take immediate action and depart at once.

I
quickly answered and Nikki told me, in a monotone voice, that her imaginary cat, Ramone, was stuck in a tree, and she was beside herself, beside the tree. In the background, I could just make out a rhythmic little scraping sound. Probably filing her fingernails. I told her to calm down, call the fire department and I’d be there right away. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best emergency excuse. Obviously Nikki was not feeling very creative today—but what can you do?

I thanked Ronald for the coffee, tried to look worried about
poor, unfortunate Ramone, then took off for Bellevue Square to buy a pink sweater and generate some neurons. Okay, he was a very nice guy, but I just don’t want to date someone whom I’m not attracted to, and who can’t afford to buy a cup of coffee. Is that really too much to ask? Call me superficial.

At the mall, leopard print flannel pajamas on display in the Victoria
’s Secret window beckoned to me, so I made a quick pit stop inside to pick them up, then moved on towards Macy’s. Did I really need leopard PJs? No, but it was a reward to myself for my earlier, dismal attempt at left-handedness. I feel it’s important to celebrate the “nice tries” as well as the victories.

As I meandered past the kitchen gadget shops and upscale clothing boutiques, I was
suddenly overcome with the uneasy feeling that someone’s malevolent eyes were focused on me. Watching. Waiting. My scalp prickled as I paused a moment, turned and studied the mélange of shoppers. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Jack the Ripper wasn’t standing there in a trench coat, ready to strike. The most threatening thing I saw was a runaway toddler squeezing a mustard-oozing hotdog in his gooey, little hands, teetering dangerously close to my black pants. Right behind him raced his mother in hot pursuit.
Get a grip girl
, I told myself. I was obviously still wigged out over the breather calls.
Let’s not allow paranoia to set in.

Continuing on into Macy
’s I found a mint green cashmere sweater on sale. It wasn’t pink as I had planned, but we must be flexible. Maybe it’s my destiny to have a green sweater, I don’t know. One shouldn’t box oneself into rigid ideas. On my way out, I took my usual stroll past the designer handbags and drooled a bit. Can’t afford one yet, but someday, when my credit cards are paid off . . . . At the rate I’m going, I should be totally debt free in about two-hundred years.

Exiting
the mall, I crossed the sky-bridge to the parking garage, contentedly humming along with Muzak’s orchestral version of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” streaming from the overhead speakers. Just as I entered the busy garage, not more than five yards away, a car door opened and I froze. Shuffling out in in his plaid shorts, faded orange polo shirt, and Birkenstocks was Ronald Schrencker.

I was trapped like a rat
.

I made a
n abrupt U-turn and speed-walked back across the sky-bridge into Macy’s. The closest hiding spot was to the right of me in the men’s underwear department. I took cover behind a well-endowed mannequin wearing black designer briefs and a matching V-neck T-shirt. Keeping my eyes on the door, I made a show of feeling the fabric, which by the way, was amazingly soft and probably worth the high price tag I pretended to examine.

After a short interval
Ronald entered, paused, and looked around. I dropped down out of sight and prayed he wasn’t in the market for new boxers. As the seconds ticked by, I felt increasing confidence in my hastily chosen refuge until a large pair of black wingtips came around the display table and stopped in front of me. Very slowly, I lifted my head and looked up to find a store clerk with his arms folded, staring down at me.

“
Helloooo,” he greeted me.

“
Hi.” I waved my fingers up at him.

“
Can I help you with something?” He raised an eyebrow.

“
Not right now, thank you.” I gave him a sunny smile. “Got a pesky little leg cramp. Can I just crouch here for a while?”

“
Sadly, no.”

He regarded me
for a moment and pursed his lips. “Perhaps I should call 911 for you.”

I replied,
“You know, I think it’s feeling better now.” Bit by bit I stood up, shook out my leg, and searched for Ronald out of the corner of my eye, but he had vanished. I thanked the clerk for his concern, then head down, scuttled out of there as fast as I could. Yes, I cut it too close that time. I need to come up with a new exit strategy.

~

A dazzling pink and golden sunset filled the western sky as I nosed out of the parking garage, so I decided to take the scenic route home through downtown Kirkland, a lovely beach town on the shores of Lake Washington. The decorative mini-lights adorning the trees and lampposts were just beginning to blink on, twinkling softly in the dusk and casting a charming glow onto the town. Out on the lake, two die-hard jet skiers in wetsuits raced around Moss Bay, getting in some last-minute water time as the remaining rays of filtered sunlight slipped silently behind the Olympic mountain range.

After a short drive
to Redmond, I pulled into my garage and parked. I grabbed my purse and shopping bags containing my new sweater and pajamas, and felt pleased with my purchases. Directly across from my garage sits a row of grey mailboxes, lined up like little metal soldiers at attention, and I walked over to them to collect my mail. In the gathering twilight, I did a cursory glance through the pile of junk mail, bills, and magazines. Nestled in between was a small padded envelope with a neatly hand-printed address but had no return information. Curious to find out what was inside, I turned and quickly walked the short distance to my condo.

As I
started up the stairs, pondering the mystery envelope, I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation my neighbor, Steve, who lives below me, was having with another guy. Steve is a very sweet, very shy, computer technician; the perfect, quiet neighbor whom anyone living in a condo covets. Steve’s come to my rescue more than a few times when I’ve encountered the dreaded blue screen of death. The two men stood just outside Steve’s front door and the other guy was loud and razzing him pretty hard—a real jerk.

“Thanks for fixing my laptop, man,” the jerk said. “It’s awesome having a computer geek for a buddy. I’d have invited you to my party last weekend, but it was a couples thing, you know? You should see this hot new chick I’m dating.” He blew out a low whistle. “When was the last time you had a date anyway? Years I bet. Dude, you still like girls don’t you?”

“
I have dates,” Steve said in defense.

I winced.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams,” said jerk. “Name one date you had in the last year.”

Something told me to
mind my own business, stay out of it, so I continued on my way up the stairs. But, at the top, I hesitated, turned around, then descended the steps midway and hung over the railing. “Steve! Hi honey.” Both of them turned and looked up at me.

“Hi,” I said, smiling sweetly at the jerk. I couldn’t tell who was more stunned. Turning back to Steve, I continued, “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t remember what time we said—eight-thirty?”

“
Ummm,” Steve started.

I jumped in before he could say anything more,
“We could make it earlier if you’d like—say eight o’clock? Okay?”

“
Sure,” Steve managed to say.

“I bought a little something for our date tonight.” I dangled my shiny, pink-striped Victoria’s Secret bag over the railing. “You’re gonna love it. See you at eight.” I gave him my warmest, sexiest smile, then turned and flounced up the stairs. Good thing they couldn’t see the flannel PJs inside the bag. I strained to hear their conversation, but there was complete silence. I think they were both speechless.

My automatic porch light had already come on,
welcoming me with a friendly glow as I reached the top of the stairs. The soft mist of moisture that developed during my drive home evolved into a steady sprinkling of rain as I unlocked my door. Perfect timing. I let myself into my condo and deposited my packages on the dining room table. Still wearing my rain jacket, I flipped on a brass table lamp and sank down onto the floral sofa in my living room to open the mysterious envelope.

Ripping off the top
edge, I peeked inside, then slipped my fingers in and pulled out a CD. It was the soundtrack from the movie,
Blue Velvet
. The plastic case was scratched and worn. Hand-printed on a yellow sticky note taped to the front of the case, again in small, neat letters was the message:

This is one of my favorites
, Victoria. Knew you would enjoy it.

A feeling of
foreboding slithered through me. Could this be connected to the breather calls? If so, the caller also knows my address. Maybe it’s just a gift from a friend of mine who forgot to sign his name. There’s probably a reasonable explanation. But just for the heck of it, I double-checked that my front door and the sliding glass door to my balcony were locked. I’m on the second floor, so my humble abode is not easily accessible, but even so . . . .

A glass of wine was definitely in order. One great thing about being single is that you can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You can be a slob
, and no one yells at you. You can eat ice cream for dinner, and no one yells at you. Basically, no one yells at you.

I decided to fix a spinach salad, make some popcorn, and watch a movie.
You’ve got your greens, your corn, and of course your grapes, so all in all it was a nutritious meal plan. From the cabinet above my stove I pulled my popcorn popper, and as I lifted it out, a bag of pasta came tumbling out along with it, thunking me in the forehead. When I pushed the pasta back in, a bag of potato chips took a dive, so I relocated the chips next to my protein bars and cornflakes in the oven.

I congratulated myself on my newly reorganized
kitchen, popped the popcorn, covered it with a smidgen of butter and dusting of parmesan cheese (your essential dairy family, and who doesn’t need calcium?) then headed into the living room to watch
Ghost
for the thousandth time. The combination of a nice merlot, the steady rhythm of rain tapping against my windows, and the hunky Patrick Swayze lulled me into a state of relaxation and I slept like a baby.