Romantically Challenged (28 page)

I agreed, and Marty pulled out his Palm Pilot and entered my name and number into his electronic black book. When we arrived at Todd’s SUV, Marty said goodbye and continued down the driveway to his Porsche.

Simone didn’t even wait for me to close my car door before she began interrogating me. “So? What did you think? Do you like him?

“He has potential,” I said. “He certainly kept me amused.”

“I know. I could tell.”

“Simone, you promised you wouldn’t spy on us.”

“I didn’t. I could hear the two of you laughing from the other end of the table.”

“Were we really that loud?”

“Not really. I was sort of listening. I know Marty can be really funny when he turns on the charm. So when are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know. All he did was ask for my number.”

“I’m sure he’ll call you. Don’t you think so Todd?”

“Sure,” Todd said, and switched tracks on the car stereo.

If he didn’t meet someone better on the ski slopes first. Marty was amusing and very charming, but definitely a player. I figured the odds were 50-50 that I’d ever hear from him again.

Played

It’s amazing how quickly the weekend passes. Even a four-day weekend. It was already Monday again and I was back at the office. I wasn’t feeling particularly motivated to work, so I flipped through my desk calendar hoping to find some inspiration. Maybe a looming deadline or a hearing I’d forgotten about. What I found was my trial date against Just A Date, which was only three days away!

It was personal, and it was only small claims court, but it was still a trial. I pulled the folder out of my desk drawer where it lived under a pile of take-out menus. I wasn’t going to leave this one in my file cabinet where anyone might discover it. Simone was the only one in the office who knew I’d joined Just A Date, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Small claims court was much less intimidating than state and federal court, the only other courts I’d argued in. Instead of days or weeks, a small claims court trial lasts half an hour at most. But I still had to prove my case. So far, all I had for evidence was my contract with Just A Date and my sworn statement that I’d only had two dates before the company folded. I needed more.

I called Just A Date’s former phone number and reached the same recording telling me that the number had been disconnected. I called the phone company and asked the customer service representative if they would put that information in writing. After being transferred to five different departments and agreeing to pay a $15 service fee, the phone company agreed to fax me a letter stating that Just A Date’s phone number had been disconnected.

Next I called the management company for Just A Date’s former office building. I wanted a similar letter from them stating that Just A Date had been evicted from its office space. They were less cooperative. Their leasing agent told me it was their policy not to provide any information about their past or present clients without a court order. No exceptions.

If I hadn’t waited until the last minute to prepare, I could’ve mailed a letter to Just A Date’s offices. Then, if the post office did its job, the letter would’ve been returned to me marked “Addressee Unknown.” Now I was going to have to do this the hard way.

I left the office at noon and headed over to Just A Date’s former offices. I parked on a side street and walked the three blocks to the building just to avoid having to explain myself to the parking attendant.

I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and followed the hallway to Suite 504. The eviction notice was no longer posted, but it didn’t look like a new tenant had moved in yet. All that remained of Just A Date was a dirt outline on the office door. No one had bothered to clean the spot where their gold lettering had been removed.

I pulled out my cell phone and tried to remember how to use the built-in camera. I was still playing with it when a woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five came striding down the hall. I was surprised when she stopped in front of Just A Date’s door. She tried the handle, but of course it was locked.

“Do you know if they’re closed for lunch?” she asked.

“They’re closed permanently,” I said. “They’re out of business”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” I pointed to the dirt outline that once held their name.

The woman introduced herself as Molly Truitt. She told me she was a journalist working on a story about dating in Los Angeles.

“Who do you work for?” I asked.

“I’m freelance.”

“Which magazine?” Maybe when the article came out, I could pick up a few pointers.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I’m writing the article first, then I’m going to submit it for publication.”

“I thought magazines commissioned people to write articles they wanted to print.”

“Only when you’re established. When you’re starting out, you write the articles first and hope to get them published later.”

I finally pushed the right button and the screen on my phone converted to a viewfinder. I took three quick photos. When I confirmed the outline of the words JUST A DATE were clearly visible in two of the three, I shut my phone, wished Molly luck with her story, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Molly said. “Why did you come down here if you knew they were out of business? Are you a client?”

“No, I’m just helping out a friend.” I wasn’t about to explain my situation to a reporter. The last thing I needed was my name in a quote. “Julie Burns, disgruntled dater.” No thanks. I stuck my phone in my purse and started walking toward the elevator.

Molly followed. “Why are you taking pictures of the place if they’re out of business?”

I pushed the elevator call button and looked at my watch. “Sorry, I really have to get back to work. Good luck with your story.”

When the elevator arrived, I stepped inside and pushed the button marked LOBBY. Molly jumped in as the doors were closing.

“Just tell me why you were taking pictures,” she said.

I looked straight ahead at the closed doors and tried to ignore her.

“Then just tell me who you’re taking them for.”

I stared at my fingernails and picked at the chipped paint. When the elevator doors opened, Molly followed me through the lobby shouting her same two questions. People were starting to stare.

“Please,” I hissed, “just leave me alone.”

“As soon as you answer my questions I will.”

“No,” I said and started walking again. Molly followed me through the building’s entrance and out onto the street.

I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and held it in front of her. “If you don’t stop following me I’m going to call the police and have you arrested.”

“For what?”

“Harassment.” I didn’t think police actually arrested people for harassment, but Molly must have. Her big brown eyes filled up with tears that quickly spilled onto her cheeks. She sat down on the curb with her head in her arms and sobbed.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop crying. I’m not going to have you arrested. I just want you to leave me alone.” I fished through my purse for a clean tissue and handed it to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said and stood up. “It’s just that I can’t get anyone to talk to me, and I can’t sell a story, and my boyfriend moved out without paying his half of the rent, and I can’t ask my parents for the money because they didn’t even know I was living with my boyfriend, and….”

Did I need this? “Okay, I get that you’re having a bad day. But you’re wasting your time. There’s no story here.”

“Then why won’t you tell me why you were taking those pictures?” She said, wiping her eyes.

“If I tell you, will you promise to leave me alone?”

“Yes,” she said and sniffed loudly.

“I was taking the pictures for a friend. She’s suing Just A Date and needs proof that the company’s out of business.”

“How does taking a picture of the door prove that they’re out of business?”

“It doesn’t by itself. It’s just one piece of evidence.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

“Why?”

“Because you sound like a lawyer. And you’re dressed like one too.”

I looked down at my gray pin-striped pant suit. I suppose I did look like a lawyer. No point in denying it. “Yes, and now we’re done.” I started walking toward my car again.

Molly followed. “Are you suing the company? For your friend, I mean.”

“No.” I crossed to the other side of the street and Molly did too.

“Then who’s her lawyer?” Molly asked.

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“Because its small claims court. They don’t allow lawyers.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I replied and unlocked my car door.

“How come?”

What was this, twenty questions? “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask them that.”

“Can I get your name and number so I can call you if I have more questions?”

“No!”

“How about your friend’s?”

“Molly, you promised if I told you why I was taking the pictures you’d leave me alone. I told you why. Now go away.”

“I can’t. I smell a story.”

“There’s no story.”

“Then why is your friend suing them?”

“Because they breached their contract.”

“How?”

I shook my head and climbed into the car. I’d already said too much. Molly was still standing in the street shouting questions when I pulled away.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Even when she started crying, I should’ve kept on walking. She probably faked the tears and the whole story about her boyfriend just to play me. I must have the word “sucker” written across my forehead. Thank God at least I hadn’t given her my name.

The Trial

I arrived at the courthouse Wednesday morning with the usual nausea that accompanied me whenever I went to court. Those were the times I always wondered why I went to law school. I hate public speaking. Fortunately for me, I don’t go to court very often.

When I walked into Courtroom 3, the judge was hearing another case. My trial was scheduled for 10 a.m. I still had another fifteen minutes, so I sat down in the gallery and listened.

The judge was in her early sixties and maintained an all business demeanor. She probably wished she could just retire instead of listening to people’s petty disputes all day. I know I would if I were her.

The judge rapped her gavel and the clerk called the next case. The parties for Hills v. Sparkling Dry Cleaners took their places. The judge allowed each party a few minutes to tell their side of the story, asked one question, then told both parties they would receive her ruling by mail.

The judge rapped her gavel again and the clerk called out, “Burns v. Just A Date, Docket Number 62397N.”

I stood up and walked to the table on the right behind the sign marked PLAINTIFF. The clerk collected my documents and handed them to the judge. She skimmed them for maybe thirty seconds before she looked up. The table marked DEFENDANT was still empty. The judge glanced at the wall clock. It was already five minutes after ten.

The judge told the clerk to check the hallway. I turned and watched the clerk walk to the back of the courtroom and stick his head out the door. That was when I noticed Molly Truitt sitting in the last row of the gallery. What was she doing here? The last thing I wanted was an audience.

Molly looked older today. When I’d met her on Monday in her jeans and T-shirt and her hair pulled back in a pony tail, I’d guessed her age as twenty-three. Today, in her black pants suit, high heeled shoes, and full hair and makeup, she could’ve passed for thirty-five.

The clerk returned to his seat next to the bench sans defendant.

“Well, Ms. Burns,” the judge said, “today’s your lucky day. Since the defendant has seen fit not to join our gathering, I’m entering a default judgment in your favor. You’ll receive written notification of my ruling by mail.”

The judge wrapped her gavel and the clerk called the next case. I never even had to open my mouth. I wish I could win all my cases so easily. I gathered my notes and extra set of documents and headed out to the hallway. Molly and the two men sitting next to her followed me outside. The younger man was carrying a large black case. When he reached the hallway, he opened it and pulled out a video camera which he handed to the older man, and a microphone which he handed to Molly.

I kept on walking. Molly and her entourage followed.

“So tell me, Ms. Burns,” Molly shouted at my back, “do you feel vindicated by this judgment?”

I ignored her and picked up my pace.

“You’re an attractive woman,” she shouted again. “Why did you feel the need to join a dating service?”

I could feel my blood pressure rising, but I kept moving.

“Do you believe all those statistics that say a woman over thirty-five has a greater chance of being hit by a bus then getting married?”

She had to be making that one up!

“Tell us, Ms. Burns, do you agree that women who join dating services are desperate?”

I stopped to turn and look at her. Then I looked at the camera. Don’t go there, Julie, you’ll regret it. I turned back and continued walking down the seemingly endless hallway.

“You must admit,” she said, “it’s certainly a sign of desperation when you have to pay someone to get a date?”

That got me.

I turned and faced her, ignoring the camera 8-inches from my face. “First of all, I’m not desperate. Second of all, I’m only thirty-two. And third, I’ve got plenty of dates, with or without Just A Date.”

“How many dates?”

“Lots,” I said and started walking again.

“How many? One? Two? Maybe three in the last three years?”

“I’ve probably had twenty-five dates in the last six months.” I hadn’t actually counted, but it certainly felt like that many. Of course it wasn’t twenty-five different men, just twenty-five dates. I’d probably only dated ten or twelve men.

“That is a lot. I guess I had you all wrong.”

“Yeah,” I said without thinking, “I’m not desperate, I’m just romantically challenged.”

She paused a moment then smiled. “You’re right.”