Getting to Happy (31 page)

“Nope. You’ve been quite helpful.”

And off she goes. She sits in an empty chair, crosses her legs and prepares to people-watch. I pick my dress up and take it to another register out of her line of vision.

“Yes, I’d like to get this dress,” I say to the new clerk, whose hair is feathered like Farrah Fawcett wore back in the seventies. I didn’t know that look was back! “I love your hair.”

“Thanks. It’s supposed to look like Farrah Fawcett. You know, from the seventies or eighties.”

“Well, it works in 2005, too.”

“Thanks again. Shall I put this in a dressing room for you?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like to try it on first?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’ll fit.”

“Okay. This is a final sale, which means the dress can’t be returned, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want to try it on?”

“I’m sure. I think it’ll fit. What is the sale price?”

“Well, you’re in luck today. This gorgeous dress has been marked down from two hundred eight to one forty-eight!”

“Wow, that’s super! But tell me something . . .” I say, looking at her name tag “. . . Claudia. May I use this twenty-five-dollar coupon in addition to the sales price?”

“You most certainly may! Wow. You’re quite the smart shopper, because you are now getting this lovely dress for the super-deluxe low price of one hundred twenty-three dollars. Would you like another shopping bag?”

“No, this one’s fine.” I open my bag wide enough for her to drop the now tissue-papered dress right on in.

“Enjoy!” she says. “I hope you’re going somewhere nice to wear it!”

If only.

I’ve been trying not to remind myself I got stood up by somebody I never even met. Sparrow didn’t bother to ask how it went, because she saw the look on my face when I stormed past her and went into my room and slammed the door. I also didn’t bother to mention I’d run into her trifling father. The first thing I did was wipe off my makeup. Then I took an extra-long shower and put my favorite yellow jammies on. I sat on the bed with the television off and called Dark Angel. He actually had the nerve to answer.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Tiger Lady?”

“Expecting someone else? How many of us have you stood up, Dark Angel?”

“Whoa. Wait a minute. I thought our date was tomorrow.”

“That is so not true. That is so lame. What do you take me for?”

“Seriously. Maybe I’m tripping, but I’ve got you in my Blackberry for tomorrow.”

“Is that a baby I hear crying in the background?” I get up and take the portable down to my office. Sparrow had set the mail on my chair. I put it on the desk and sit down.

“That’s my sister’s baby.”

All of this was just a little too shaky. “Look, Dark Angel, I’m curious about something.”

“I’m listening, baby.”

“Please don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, I’m listening, Tiger Lady.”

“My name is not Tiger Lady. It’s Robin.” This was when I saw that manila envelope I sent him a couple of weeks ago. “No Such Address” was stamped on the front. I opened it, took out the copy of
Selected Poems of Langston Hughes
and ripped up the three-hundred-dollar check I thought might help him self-publish his book.

“Okay, Robin, Tiger Lady, whatever works for you.”

“Did you ever get the book I sent?”

“Of course I did.”

“Have you had a chance to read any of the poems?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Tell me one of your favorites.”

“I’ve got lots of them, Robin. Tell me one of yours.”

“ ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ ”

“I loved that one, too. It was beautiful.”

“So, Dark Angel . . . who is that I hear talking in the background?”

“That’s my sister.”

“Are you at her house?”

“Yes, I am.”

“In Phoenix?”

“Glendale.”

“She sounds upset about something.”

“She’s always upset.”

“And where is it you live again?”

“Well, I have more than one residence.”

“Oh, really? Funny, you never mentioned that in any of your e-mails.”

“I didn’t think it was important. So look, I’m kinda in the middle of something and I’m wondering if we can get a rain check. I’m feeling a little under the weather.”

”So, you can’t say thank you for the check?”

“What check?”

“I put a three-hundred-dollar check inside the book of poems to help you get yours published. Didn’t it fall out when you were reading?”

“I didn’t notice it. Let me give you a different address. Maybe you could stop payment on that one and resend it.”

“Oh, my bad. I think I’m looking at it right here. Looks like I sent it to the wrong address. So you know what, Dark fucking Angel, tell your wife and baby I said ‘Hey.’ ”

He chuckled. “Well, this has been fun, Tiger Lady. No harm done. I’m glad you dug that poem. Good luck on your search. And by the way, do yourself a solid and stop lying about your age. You look fifty, not forty-two.”

“Then you should do yourself a favor and stop writing such infantile, sophomoric, sentimental, corny and just plain bad poetry. In case you weren’t aware, this is not a game, Dark Angel. There are millions of women out here hoping to meet a decent man online, and if your behavior represents what’s out there, I’m bowing out now. I’d also change my screen name if I were you because I’m going to post it as one to avoid. Enjoy your life.” And I hung up.

Since then, I’ve been wondering just how common it is for these guys to manufacture a personality and a life to see who takes the bait. I don’t want to find out. I thought online dating was meant to save you time and help you get around the riffraff and avoid playing the usual games so you’d stand a better chance of meeting that special someone. Maybe I’m turning into a skeptic. I don’t think so. I’m too old for this shit. That much I do know. I’m bored on top of being tired of wading through hundreds of e-mails week after week only to realize how much time I’d wasted. It’s felt like I’ve been preparing for a test I’m never going to take, which is ridiculous. Dark Angel is my last icebreaker. I didn’t bother to erase his number. I used the remaining twenty-nine minutes, then hit the phone with a hammer a few times and tossed it in the trash. If I ever meet someone who truly is worthy, I’ll be more than happy to give him my home number.

“Sparrow! Have you eaten anything?” I’ve just come in from the gym. The dogs, of course, rush to greet me. I forgot about their vet appointment this morning. Things have been crazy at work. Looks like there could be a merger, but no one’s saying anything. Even Norman is mum these days. Lucille is still beating everyone in. Her loyalty is sickening sometimes.

“No, I haven’t, Mom! I’m on the phone! I’ll be down in a few!”

I feed the dogs, and out of sheer habit, I’m about to head upstairs to log in. I stop myself. I’m not that hungry. I had a late lunch.

“You want me to order something in?”

She doesn’t answer. I curl up on the sofa. I don’t want to watch another stupid anything on television tonight. I look at the coffee table, which offers a few magazine options. I decide on
Bark
. It’s the only one free of violence and bad news.

“Hey there, Mom. How was your day?” Sparrow bends down and lays one on my forehead. I’m surprised she’s in her pajamas already. Or, I should say, the plaid pajama bottoms she probably wore to school, over which is a T-shirt meant for football players.

“I had a hectic day at work and then had to return a dress, which turned out to be a very smart move. It was marked down and they were nice and gave me the sale price. Anyway, what do you feel like for dinner?”

“I ate after practice.”

“Good.”

“You’ll never guess in a million years who I was just talking to, Mom.”

“I can’t begin to guess, Sparrow, so spare me.”

“My dad.”

I sit up.

“Your who?”

“You heard right.”

“He called you?”

“No, I called him.”

“How’d you know he was out? And how’d you get his number?”

“You told me the approximate time, remember? I Googled him and found him in the white pages.”

“But what made you call him?”

“I just wanted to reach out.”

“But why, Sparrow?”

“Why not? Because he’s my dad.”

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“That was when I was young and stupid.”

“It was a few months ago.”

“You know what occurred to me? That my very own father lives in the same city as I do, and I’m his daughter and I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street.”

“I understand. But this is just not at all what I was expecting from you. This is quite a shock, to be honest.”

“He’s actually a nice person who made some stupid choices and he’s paid for them. I want to get to know him.”

“I think this is a really nice gesture, Sparrow.”

“Gesture? His blood flows through my veins, Mom. Just like yours. And don’t worry, he’s not going to be coming over or anything.”

“You mean you’ve made plans to see each other?”

“Duh. Not like tomorrow or anything. He says he wants to get himself grounded and get used to the idea that I don’t hate him and that I really do want to see him.”

“That’s touching,” I say. “It really is.” I’m trying to sound sincere.

“You have to open your heart and learn how to forgive others when they disappoint you, Mom. Haven’t you always told me that?”

“I have. And I subscribe to it.”

“Cool.”

“Just keep him away from me.”

“No problem. So you’re really not upset about this, are you, Mom?”

“No. Like I said, I’m just a little surprised.”

“Good. Because this isn’t an act of betrayal. It’s just that I have two parents and I might finally get to know the other one.”

She darts off.

I sit here and read about more dogs. I’m trying not to think about Russell eking his way back into any crevices of my life. But my daughter is right. She should be able to find out who her father is and what parts of him she might be able to love.

I doze off for a solid hour. I’m now starving. While I microwave a Healthy Choice chicken-something I run up and get the mail. There’s a flyer for the upcoming winter schedule for the black ski club I belong to. I’m excited. I missed out last season and promised myself I wouldn’t miss the next one. I scroll down until I find Vail, my most favorite ski area of all. After fifteen years you’d think I’d be doing black diamond runs. Not even. I ski blue. I’m what’s called a PI: permanent intermediate. I know my comfort zone. I’m not trying to win a slalom. I just like to inhale the thin air, spread my arms and shake out all the tension and stress before I dig my poles into the snow and sail down that mountain.

Sparrow, of course, thinks belonging to anything based on race is racist. That skiing is a bourgeois sport because you need to have money to burn. I earn a decent salary and I don’t feel guilty spending a little on recreation. This is such a done deal. I eat my bland dinner and chase it with a Heineken. I go upstairs to my office but this time when I go online, it’s to renew an annual membership for something I know exactly what it is I’m going to get in return.