Love for Scale (2 page)

“Hi, I’m here for the speed dating thing,” Rachel said, feeling like the queen of the obvious. What else could you say?
Hi, I’m desperate and hoping for love and my mother signed me up for this? You’ll see my name under the fat loser column on your little sheet there.

Blissfully married lady on the left who wore a name tag professing her name to be Bonnie smiled and picked up her sheet. “Great. Did you pre-register?”

Good question. “I’m not sure.” How could she tell the woman her mother had signed her up? “Um…A friend made the arrangements……”

“That’s okay, your name?”

Rachel paused as the man who had held the door for her walked up to the table and stood beside her. “Hi” he said to the other woman behind the table, “I’m Jacob Shapiro.”

Welcome, Jacob Shapiro
. Rachel looked over at him and smiled, feeling the blood in her body defy gravity and rise to her face and neck.
May as well stay there
, she told her feisty platelets,
it’s going to be one of those nights
.

“Um, your name?” Bonnie repeated.

Rachel shook her head and turned back.

“Uh sorry, it’s Rachel Stern.”

Bonnie looked down her sheet, tracing the names with her highlighter. “Oh, there you are.” She pulled off the highlighter’s cap and dragged the fluorescent pink ink across Rachel’s name. “Have you ever been to speed dating before?”

The question must have been a formality; Rachel was sure she was oozing of newbie. “No, I haven’t.”

Bonnie picked up two narrow pieces of printed cardstock from neat piles on the table. “Okay, so the rules are on this sheet and here’s your scorecard. Each date is four minutes long and you’ll hear the bell after each one is over. You stay seated, the men come to you.”

Men coming to me, there’s a new concept.
Rachel nodded, looking down at the scorecard.

“Make sure you read the rules, but in a nutshell, no last names, no asking about jobs and you can’t exchange contact information, that’s what you’ve paid us for. Speaking of payment…how would you like to handle that?”

Rachel watched Jacob Shapiro disappear into the social hall, wondering if all women got to meet all men. She sure hoped so.

“Um, my friend said he paid already,” Rachel said, trying to hide her humiliation.

Bonnie began to flip through a stack of Visa receipts.

“Yup. Here you are. The name on the Visa is Harold Stern.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” Rachel attempted a smile. She felt like Tzeitel, the daughter in the
Fiddler on the Roof
; her father having plunked down his Visa card to the modern day yentas in hopes of finding his daughter the perfect match.

She could hear the music in her head, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match…” She grabbed a marker and a name tag, scrawling her first name in big block letters. Taking the label from its backing, she stuck it on her blouse, high enough to discourage lingering eyes on her right breast, but low enough that it might spark some interest. She pitched the backing in the garbage, took a deep breath and walked as tall as she could toward the social hall.

The aromas of coffee and pastries (her left Achilles heel: the right one being anything deep fried) wafted toward Rachel’s nose as soon as she was inside the social hall. She automatically turned toward the refreshment table but then stopped to survey the room. Tables were set up around the perimeter. At first glance, she estimated about twenty-five, each having two chairs, facing each other on opposite sides of the table. She swallowed when she realized that she would be planted at one of those tables, talking to each man for precisely four minutes.

Back in high school, a part of the English curriculum was researching, writing and performing four-minute speeches. Although she no longer had braces and wouldn’t be standing in front of thirty jeering teenagers, the premise she was facing was just as nerve-racking. No subject, even the one she had chosen badly in grade ten (female anatomy – what had she been thinking?), could be as torturous as talking about herself for four whole minutes. She feared boring her four-minute dates to death, similar to how she had spoken in grade eleven for four full minutes on Artists of the Renaissance and had lost most of the class and even the teacher to fits of yawning and total distraction. She would never forget when she had looked up from her neatly typed index cards to see Mr. Blundell alternately chewing and inspecting a particularly stubborn hangnail.

Some of the tables already had people sitting at them, looking as nervous as Rachel felt. She hoped she didn’t look as terrified as she was, but was at least comforted by the fact that she was not the only one in the room feeling tense.

Maybe I’ll stake out a claim on a table
, she thought.
Best to have a good vantage point if I’m going to be here all night
. Of the tables she would have liked, her two top picks were already taken: coats over the chairs, marking territory. Rachel headed toward one in the far corner where she would still be able to see the door and was close to the bathroom in case there was a massive rush during breaks. Especially since she had a notoriously nervous bladder.

Putting her coat over the back of the chair, she looked around at the other participants as they milled around. A couple of women, also appearing to be in their twenties, stood at the refreshment table, stirring the non-dairy creamer into their coffees and surveying the herd. They weren’t being too subtle about it either, looking the men up and down as they walked past. Rachel was scared and she wasn’t their prey, just the competition. Another pair of women sat across from one another at one of the dating tables. They too were surveying the men, but much more discreetly. They seemed too calm, as though they were there shopping for pantyhose, not a husband. Neither was anything more than average looking: both were brunettes, one with shoulder-length hair, the other’s was in a short bob. They wore Gap standard issue and looked more comfortable than stylish. Regulars, Rachel gathered. She was glad that there were no supermodels in the room, the closest being a six-foot tall woman in stiletto heels, although, between her big features and heinous use of make-up, she looked like a drag queen. Couldn’t be too much competition there, unless any of the men played for
that
team.

Rachel sat down in her chair, deciding to forego the coffee which would only make her mouth drier than it already was. Anyway, no one should go on
one
date with coffee breath, let alone twenty. As for the food, well, there was no way she wanted anyone seeing her eat. And then there was the chance that she might stain her top, as if attending this event wasn’t humiliating enough.

She looked down at her scorecard. Her name was preprinted on a label at the top. Rachel, Participant number 27 F.

“Rachel? Rachel Stern?”

Rachel froze, every muscle in her body becoming immediately rigid.

“Rachel? That is you!”

Rachel looked up to see Aviva Zimmerman, the prettiest girl who ever went to the synagogue’s Sunday school. She pasted a half smile onto her face. “Oh hi, Aviva.”

“I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Aviva blurted out, rolling her eyes.

“Not really.” Although Rachel vaguely remembered she had heard a couple of years ago through the grapevine (okay, Pearl had told her) that Aviva had gotten married to some wealthy stockbroker.

Aviva went on as though Rachel had solicited an answer. “Well Sid and I are on a trial separation right now and I just wanted to see what else was out there.”

“Um, okay.” Rachel shrugged, not sure why Aviva felt she needed validation from her.

“So I guess you never found anyone, huh?”

Seriously?
“Not yet.”

“Well good luck, I’m sure someone will pick you.”

It all came fleeting back to Rachel just why she had hated Aviva. “Yeah you too.”
You bitch.

She watched Aviva bounce away, thankfully to take up residence at her own table at the other side of the hall.

Why on earth did I agree to come to this?

Glancing at her watch, her heart began to skip when she realized she was only seven minutes away from date number one.

* * *

By the time Rachel looked down at her full scorecard at the end of the night, she couldn’t imagine being more drained even if it was the Friday of March break and she was the only one working the children’s desk in the library. She had never had so many questions, (even though many of them were the
same
questions) fired at her in such a short period of time. And, she was expected to be
on
and ask her own questions. She wasn’t just a drooling and hopeful dog in the window; she was making selections of her own. Darwin would be weeping, she was sure, if he had been witness to the pathetic dating ritual that had surfaced in the social hall of the Beth Tikvah Synagogue.

Bonnie was at the microphone thanking everyone for participating and reminding the participants that they would be able to see their results on the website by Tuesday at noon and to make sure they dropped their score cards off in the box in the foyer.

Rachel’s score card looked neat and tidy. It was filled with mostly NOs and two YES answers: only two men that she thought she could stand being with for more than another four minutes had showed any real interest in her.

Rachel’s
mental
scorecard looked very different:

YES:
Sam, (not the Rabbi). Seemed nice, had really deep blue eyes, even though he stared a little too much (not just at cleavage). Said he had never had a
big
girlfriend, but don’t think he meant it in a mean way. Not sure what he does for a living, but wore a good suit that didn’t look like just a wedding/funeral suit.

NO:
Finn (what kind of name is Finn?) Seemed nice but a little insecure. Kept looking down and apologizing for being nervous. Turn off. He was chubby even though he had a nice face (ugh, how terrible am I?). He cracked a few pretty funny jokes, and we talked about our favorite books for most of the time, but there was definitely no spark.

NO:
Rabbi, can’t seem to call him Sam. The rabbi was certainly out of his element. Shook my hand, his was wet and clammy, gross. We talked about my mother, but it was okay; I was happy for a topic to fill the four minutes until it was over.

NO:
Jacob, the guy from the door. Turns out he is a doctor that drove a Mercedes and made sure everyone knew it. He had the worst attitude I’ve ever encountered on a guy who smelled that good. Too bad, as my mother would have surely
plotzed
from joy. (I definitely won’t tell her about that one).

NO:
Dave number one, actually called himself
Daveed,
as in the Hebrew pronunciation of his name. Sounded religious, ‘nuff said.

NO:
Jeremy. This guy was way too much like my brother, really immature and kept making self-deprecating jokes. I am not into self-deprecating humor unless it is delivered by me, about me. Also, bit his nails right down to the quick. YUCK!

YES:
Dave number two. Sandy brown hair, said he is an accountant (he volunteered the information, I didn’t ask). Said he is into movies. Kept looking at my cleavage, but that was after the break when I’d undone the top two buttons on my blouse, so it was to be expected.

NO:
Shmuel. Yes, really:
Shmuel
. Maybe it’s shallow, but I could never introduce this guy to anyone without laughing. The personality didn’t seem much better than the name, anyway.

NO:
Zachary. This guy was so rude and mean I almost cried just sitting there. He was obviously into another girl and kept asking me if I thought she’d be into him. It was like he thought I was his sister or something. I never thought guys like this really existed. Apparently they do. Oh, but he was kind enough to let me know that he wouldn’t be picking me on his scorecard. Thanks for the heads up, Prince Charming.

The rest were a blur of sweaty palms and awkward small talk. Some of the people stayed around at the end and mingled some more, finishing off the rest of the surely lukewarm coffee and rapidly drying-up pastries. Rachel was exhausted and still feeling awkward so she put on her coat and made her way out to the lobby to drop her scorecard in the box.

“Hey, are you leaving already?” a voice behind her said.

Rachel turned. It was Finn. “Yeah, I’m really tired and I’ve gotta work in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Finn looked at his shoes. “Well, it was really nice meeting you, Rachel.” He smiled. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

Oh my God. This guy picked me.
Rachel tucked her scorecard discreetly behind her back so Finn wouldn’t be able to see the big NO next to his name. What should she say? Should she tell him now she didn’t pick him or just let him find out on the internet once the Blissfully Marrieds tallied up the scores?
This is so awkward,
Rachel thought.

“It was nice meeting you too.” She smiled at him, hoping her smile would communicate no sexual attraction whatsoever, like the kind you got from your dentist right before he’s going to put a drill in your mouth. “Well, good night.”

He looked like he was going to say more, but thought better of it and nodded.

She turned before he had a chance to change his mind again. She walked up to the reception table, now empty except for the box where participants were to deposit their scorecards.

Should she change her card to include him in her YES column? He wasn’t terrible. Sure he had a weight problem, but she was no Kate Moss. Maybe he figured that she was the only one there in his league. Or maybe he was like all the other men from her past: just pretending to like her to get her into bed. Did it matter? Fighting the urge to turn around to see if he was still standing there, she glanced at her card. Two YES votes. Two men out of over twenty. Those were not great odds. She had to bank on them choosing her also, which reduced her chances significantly. Maybe she should have said yes to everyone just to cover her bases.