INTERNET DATES FROM HELL (11 page)

It was then time to make the trip out to Long Island to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. Marc said he wasn’t feeling well and would accompany me only if I insisted. I told him to go home and get rest. I added that we’d talk tomorrow. The ride in Charlene and Jared’s SUV was a comfortable one. Charlene’s inspiration and “attagirl” attitude made me feel good about my decision regarding Marc’s proposal. Even Jared agreed that six weeks was way too soon to propose and added that it was also inappropriate and presumptuous of Marc on all fronts. Believe it or not, I didn’t miss Marc at all at my parents’ house, and no one asked where he was. Ironically, my brother John was also there alone and we had time to catch up on literary topics. I told him about Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the bizarre incident that I just endured hours before, and he laughed and stated simply, “Sometimes life imitates art, Trish.” I smiled and shook my head and made a beeline for another helping of stuffing.

During the next two weeks, I heard nothing from Marc. As a matter of fact, it was December 14 when he contacted me, strangely enough, via e-mail. The message said: “If you’re interested, my holiday office party is on December 21, and there are people I’d like you to meet. I reluctantly agreed, but told him that the week before Christmas was busy for me. I would meet him at the party. I got the address and the time and the attire, which was surprisingly formal. December 21 came, and I found myself on Park Avenue at a hotel bar waiting for Marc. It didn’t strike me at first, but soon I realized that I was the only female there. He told me 8:00, and by 8:35, I was ready to leave. Although the men in the bar all seemed professional, they were casually dressed, which made me feel silly in a gown. Maybe this wasn’t where the party was. I looked around again and there wasn’t another woman in sight. It looked like a yuppie bachelor party.

As I made my way toward the door, Marc came through it. He had on a sweater, jeans, and loafers.

“Why are you dressed like that?” I asked him.

“Like what?” he snapped.

“Like that,” I said pointedly. “You said it was formal.”

“Oh, I meant casual.”

“Where’s the party?” I inquired.

“You’re in it,” he snickered.

“Fellas, I want you to meet someone.” I heard him laugh as he was walking away.

I was hot, red hot, with anger. Between my red face and my pale blue gown, I felt like a human Orange Bowl parade float on New Year’s Day. That float was not going to be paraded for that jackass any longer. Even with three-inch heels, I made it out of that bar faster than I thought my legs could carry me. My nostrils never stopped flaring until I was in a cab heading home. To this day I don’t know if I imagined it, or heard the men laughing in unison. But it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have anything to do with that joker again.

12
 

If Something Smells Fishy, It Usually Is
 

April 2000

The following three months were some of the coldest winter months I had ever experienced. Between the freezing temperatures and frequent snowstorms, I rarely went out at night. I found myself reading voraciously while sporting my flannel nightgown. I couldn’t stop! Reading was addictive, especially during the winter months. I remember one particular week in February, just after my birthday, when I was in the middle of three different novels: one romance, one detective, and one British classic. I finally found out what a pip was, other than one of Gladys Knight’s singers. Charles Dickens was right; Great Expectations was his best novel. I knew I was getting bad when I borrowed Melville’s Moby Dick from the public library. But I’m glad I did because what a whale of a tale I found myself in, only five weeks later. Captain Ahab couldn’t have prepared me any better.

April of 2000 was much drier than the previous year. It was so dry that the Easter plants looked puny and unhealthy. For the first time in years I didn’t buy any and felt bad as a result. My cheesy silk flowers would have to hold me over till summer. Late one evening, toward the end of April, I accidentally stumbled upon the Discovery Channel. The show devoted itself to deep-sea fishing, namely marlin, swordfish, and tuna. I normally don’t watch this sort of thing, yet found myself enthralled. It kept reminding me of Ishmael’s faithful journey in Moby

Dick. The sheer strength of these great fish was outstanding. Not only did the fight of these fish fascinate me, but also the deep determination of the fishermen was interesting.

It was at that time I received an e-mail from New Rochelle. The sender was Jay, an avid fly fisherman. I laughed at the coincidence, for it was only weeks ago that I struggled through the nearly 600 pages of Moby Dick, and now I had a fisherman on the line myself. He stated in his note that he enjoyed fishing in general, fly-fishing in particular, and was currently making a living from it. “Hmm, a rugged outdoorsman,” I thought, which reminded me of my childhood days of watching Grizzly Adams on television. My mind’s eye saw a muscular, six foot tall, bearded, adventurous daredevil who knew the aquatic life. Maybe this was just what I needed—a break from the hustle and bustle of the city streets and the overdressed “glitter boys” who were unsuccessfully trying to impress me.

I responded to Jay’s e-mail and requested a recent photo. He sent me what appeared to be a photo of a face behind a counter in a bait shop—a counter full of fishing paraphernalia and crab cages. To make matters worse, he had a baseball cap on, which appeared to have a variety of hooks hanging from the sides of the hat. The picture was obscured by all the crap on the counter, and the image quality was poor. I decided to decline.

Now that I think of it, he was as relentless as Ahab himself, yet unfortunately I was his great white whale. Each time he contacted me, he described himself differently. One time he described himself as five foot eleven inches with brown hair and blue eyes. Another time he described himself as funny and cuddly. I should have realized that “cuddly” is also a euphemism for someone who is overweight. I didn’t mind a few extra pounds, for I was over the normal weight for my height, but I didn’t find that we had much in common from reading his note, so I didn’t respond. After two more e-mails from Jay, imploring me to give him a chance, I thought a phone call couldn’t hurt. After speaking with him for more than an hour, he had me in stitches. So we arranged a date for a few days later.

He picked a seafood restaurant in the South Street Seaport—how apropos. I took a cab to Harbour Lights (a renowned seafood restaurant in the district). It had been some time since I had been down to South Street. Ironically, in the previous ten years I think I had been to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco more often. It was good to be back. Although heavily laden with tourists and the fish industry itself, I enjoyed the great ships and shops of the district.

I was so taken with the surroundings that I had not noticed the cabdriver had stopped his cab. “Harbour Lights, ma’am. We’re here.”

“Oh,” I awoke from my daydream. “How much do I owe you?”

“That will be twelve dollars, “he responded.

As I attempted to exit my cab, I was shocked at what I saw: the most enormous, obnoxious, big-wheeled, pickup truck sat on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the restaurant. Along the side of the front fender, driver’s door, and back bed fender, spelled the letters JAY—, PROFESSIONAL FLY FISHERMAN. “Oh my God,” I said to myself. “That must be him!”

I couldn’t believe it. How tacky (no pun intended). As I walked closer, I noticed that Jay was still in the pickup truck. He spotted me and began waving wildly. He motioned me over and I reticently walked up to the driver’s side. The vision of what I saw next is unfortunately etched forever in my mind. I wasn’t sure which was worse: the size of his huge beer belly behind the steering wheel or the dashboard that was laden with hundreds of colorful flies adhered with Velcro. Realizing my astonishment, he proceeded to tell me that not only were these examples his finest craftsmanship, but his truck also doubled as his showroom. He even referred me to his Web site, where he sells custom-made flies for fly fisherman all over the world. At this point, something smelled fishy (this time pun intended)! For obvious reasons, the date took a plunge. There was no chemistry, along with the lunacy of it all, and I began writing about the experience as soon as I got in a cab to go home. Once home, I looked up the Web site to see if it was just a big joke. To my surprise, it really existed.

13
 

If It Looks Too Good to Be True, It Usually Is
 

June 2000

No sooner did I let the big fish get away, than I decided to deviate from the normal Internet dating site that I had been using. I posted a profile on a Christian singles site. With my mom being a devout Catholic, I thought maybe it would be better to follow her advice. I assumed that most of these men would be family oriented, religious, and spiritual, and they would be the least likely to have a sexual perversion of some kind. I am a little less naive today than I was back then.

By mid-June I had received no e-mails worth mentioning. Joe, on the other hand, drew my attention. His e-mail portrayed him as a family oriented, fun-loving, outgoing guy. He stated that he prayed the rosary daily. Other than his excessive praying, I sensed a down-to-earth, regular guy. As a rule, I normally don’t entertain potential dates outside a fifty-mile radius (due to my past perilous experiences). Mapquest claims that Anaheim is 3,100 miles away. I was never good in math in high school; however, that’s far more than fifty miles! Duh! Nevertheless, Joe’s piercing blue eyes and flaxen hair lured me (no pun intended).

Three weeks later, after we had spoken on the phone and exchanged photos, Joe flew east for a weekend visit. He was half Irish, half Mexican, and stood five foot ten inches. As a college-educated private investigator, Joe’s expertise was in insurance fraud. Since insurance fraud is among the top ten felonious activities in this country, I thought this was an admirable vocation. He asked if it would be acceptable to fly to New York, as he had just solved a big case. He claimed he needed some time to clear his head, since the case took nearly two months to crack, and a weekend away from it all would be advantageous. In addition, he wanted to meet me as soon as possible.