As I pressed the “Save” button a sense of doom washed over me.
“How the hell do I cancel this?” I muttered and mercilessly banged on the keyboard.
Too late, my information had disappeared into that vacuum known as cyberspace, that mysterious nothingness, which greedily sucks up all the information it can accumulate and stores it in some ethereal filing system. And now I was out there, floating somewhere in that black space. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” I thought.
That was a few years ago. Now I’m a seasoned “internetter and I’ve met some really nice people through “match.com”, one of the more worthwhile singles site - people like me, who don’t want to hang out at bars or other popular watering holes hoping to meet that special someone.
I’ve tried the bar scene a few times and only once did I meet a man whose interests matched mine, who had the same philosophical approach to life, and whose grasp of English was a bit more than “Yo, babe, wanna go back to my place?” Almost everything about him was great ….you feel a “but” coming on, don’t you? And you’re right… he wasn’t quite the hunchback of Notre Dame, but he was a close second! Okay, so call me shallow, but I like a man to be a good looker as well as having it all.
“Can’t be done,” said one of my less optimistic friends, “where are you going to find a man who’s charming, kind, gentle, romantic, philosophical, witty and gorgeous?”
“You can’t still believe in all that romantic crap,” said yet another of my friends, “life isn’t that simple.”
Sure, life isn’t that simple. I’ve had to wade through some pretty murky waters, sorting out the good from the bad, bypassing the potentially dangerous, kissing a couple of frogs, and generally learning from my mistakes.
Take Jimmy, for instance - we met online, chatted for a few days on the phone and then he suggested we meet. All I knew about him up till then was that he was Greek, had a lot of investments and worked on his own portfolio for a living. He had a good voice, a nice sense of humor and lived in a good neighborhood. We met for lunch in a Mall nearby where I lived and when I saw him I thought, “Nice! Good looking, thick black hair, tanned, well dressed.” I straightened my shoulders, shook my hair beguilingly, and strode up to this Adonis. I too had dressed up for this date, black jeans, a gray cashmere top and my favorite Bruno Magli loafers.
“Jimmy, I presume?”
He unfolded his lean frame and stood up. 6’. 1” and all of those 72 inches were very, very nice.
“That’s me,” he said and wrapped a warm hand around mine. “It’s so good to meet you. Can I get you a drink?” He looked steadily into my eyes and I felt my toes curl.
“Wine would be great,” I whispered huskily. “Yummy,” was the only word that popped into my head.
“So, what’s wrong with Jimmy?” I hear you ask. Nothing, so far.
We sat at a secluded table at the rear of the restaurant, and being a typical Greek, Jimmy took over the ordering. I found this quite refreshing for a change, and I let him order what he wanted. Then we settled down to some serious conversation.
The waiter arrived, straining under a large silver platter heaped with seafood. A seductive smell of roasted garlic drifted from the steaming dish. Suddenly I was starving and I happily smiled at my date.
“I hope you like seafood,” Jimmy said, as he picked up a plump red lobster claw and expertly cracked it open. “For you,” he said and handed me the succulent white flesh. His fingers accidentally caressed my hand.
“This is delicious,” I said, and felt my heart skid. I think that the endless supply of wine helped a lot in making me feel extremely receptive to Jimmy. When the table had finally been cleared of the lucculan meal, Jimmy spoke quietly to the waiter who nodded and whisked away the remnants of our feast, returning a moment later with a bottle of vintage Moet and Chandon champagne and two crystal flutes.
“To meeting you,” Jimmy smiled across the table at me.
“Yes, to our meeting,” I toasted him back, and we clinked glasses.
“So?” I hear you mutter impatiently. “What’s wrong with this man?”
Here it is… the unacceptable imperfection…. Perhaps it had been there all along and I hadn’t seen it. Maybe I’d been distracted by his physical beauty and his impeccable manners. Or perhaps it hadn’t happened before now.
As he spoke and sipped his champagne, a build-up of white foam steadily collected at the corners of his mouth. The more he spoke, the thicker the build-up. Just then, thankfully, he picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth.
I sighed, relieved that this may have been a temporary imperfection, but a moment later the foam was back, and my eyes were riveted on the white dribble of viscous spittle nestling at the corners of his mouth. He wiped his mouth again and I went to find the bathroom, feeling quite nauseous by this time. I stood staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, the muted sounds from the restaurant making everything seem surreal. For an insane moment I toyed with the idea of climbing out the bathroom window and escaping.
“Not possible,” the angel on my shoulder admonished. “Think of something else.”
“Screw that”, countered the devil perched on my other shoulder, “just walk out, girl, and let him stew in his own juices.” I dabbed some lipstick and reluctantly left the safety of the bathroom, the angel having won the battle. Besides, my jeans were too tight to allow me to climb out through the narrow window!
“While you were in the bathroom,” Jimmy said when I sat down, “I called some of my friends and booked a table for dinner at The Clay Oven.”
“For when?” I asked. His saliva had dried slightly and now resembled streaks of cracked white chalk. I felt the lobster make its way back up my throat.
“For tonight,” he replied.
“No, sorry, no,” I said, “I’m busy tonight.”
“No, you’re not,” he smiled teasingly and the chalky cracks widened, “When we spoke about us meeting today, you said you were free either for lunch or dinner. Don’t worry,” he reassured me, mistakenly thinking that the flush on my cheeks was caused by some covert shyness, “you’ll like my friends. And they’re dying to meet you. I’ve told them all about you. And the restaurant is preparing a special Greek meal for us.”
“How long was I in the bathroom??” I wondered.
“Sounds good,” I said with a grim smile, “I’ll go home and change and meet you there.”
“Oh, don’t worry about changing,” he said, “You look perfectly fine. We’ll just leave from here.”
“No,” I replied firmly, “I’m going home to change and feed my animals.” I must’ve suffered a moment of temporary insanity just then, because I added, “Pick me up at seven.”
“Of course,” he said seriously, “I’m a gentleman. I wouldn’t let you drive around on your own at night.”
“Now I’ve really done it,” I thought. It didn’t bother me that he might turn out to be a rapist, or even a murderer. Nope, just that thick layer of foam lurking at the corners of his mouth.
“Wonderful,” he replied and leaned over to kiss my cheek. I hastily ducked down under the table, looking around desperately for something to pick up. “Where’s that damned messy floor when you need it??” I came up empty handed and scrambled to my feet.
“Gotta go,” I said, and moved away from him. “See you later. By the way,” I continued, “thanks so much for lunch. It was fun.” Damn that good angel!
But I had no intention of having dinner with him. As soon as I got to my car I’d leave a message on his mobile and beg off. So what, if he knew my address? I had electric fences around the whole area, electric gates, and two dogs. He couldn’t get in if he tried.
Feeling like a death row inmate who’d received a last-minute reprieve; I jumped into my car and locked the doors. “Too bad,” I muttered, “he’s a nice man, good looking, rich, charming, well mannered…. pity he’s a ‘froth mouth’. This could turn into a Seinfeld episode!” I thought and laughed ruefully. “Just my luck! I meet a man who is all that I desire, and he has to go and spoil it all!”
A moment or two later I realized I couldn’t cancel the dinner arrangement. Jimmy had been perfectly civil, charming, and understandably enamored of me. Who was I to make him look like an idiot in front of his friends? I’d worry about the saliva if, and when, the unthinkable happened.
Jimmy arrived promptly at seven to pick me up. “I want to go home for a quick minute,” he said some time later as we were driving along a dark road. He parked in front of a garage resplendent with four huge carved wooden doors.
“Come on in,” he said, “my son should be here. I’d like you to meet him.”
“This guy’s crazy,” I thought as I stepped from the car and followed him down a perfectly manicured driveway. The house was ultra modern, with wooden French windows and doors; each upstairs room had a sliding door leading onto its own small wrought-iron balcony. Exotic plants and palm trees were artfully scattered around the exterior of the house and in the background I heard the tinkling of water falling from an unseen fountain.
Jimmy opened the front door and I stepped into sheer luxury. The floors of the huge entrance hall were laid with pale pink marble, Persian rugs scattered all around. To the left was a wooden staircase swooping upwards. A huge chandelier hung majestically from the high ceiling, its crystal prisms reflecting the rich pinks and yellows of the room. An array of objets d’art was tastefully arranged around the room, giving me the eerie sensation that I was visiting a European museum.
“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly, as he ushered me across the room and slid open the French doors leading into a private garden.
“It’s nice,” I replied, noncommittally. I wanted nothing in my demeanor to give this man any ideas.
“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he said, “I need to change.”
“Sure,” I replied, and settled down in an easy chair.
“Come on, girl,” I berated myself, “you could be living in all this luxury. What’s a little froth, huh?” I shuddered. “Why am I even thinking this?” I thought, “I’m not looking for wealth, I’m looking for happiness and love. And Jimmy certainly isn’t the man I want.” I went to inspect one of the bookcases that lined an entire wall of the spacious room. Each leather-bound book was exquisitely tooled and the exact same size as the next one; none of them seemed to have ever been opened. There was a cluster of photographs on a shelf and as I peered down I saw a much younger Jimmy proudly standing next to an exotically beautiful woman who was holding a little boy’s hand.
Jimmy came back, smelling of some expensive aftershave, and I noticed that the dark five o’clock shadow of his beard was gone. “Let’s go, shall we?” he said, and led me back out to the car. “My son Dimitri is out. But you’ll get a chance to meet him in the next day or two.”
I remained silent, although my red devil clawed at my shoulder, urging me to shout out “over my dead body!” but I managed to restrain myself.
At the restaurant we were greeted by a plump, dark skinned woman who kissed Jimmy noisily on the lips and then led us to a long wooden table, ignoring me completely. “Special for you, Jimmy,” she smiled ingratiatingly at him, and I noticed a thin line of dark hairs on her upper lip. A moment later, Jimmy’s friends arrived. The women glittered with diamonds and bad taste and the men happily slapped Jimmy on the back.
The table groaned with the weight of the food that was tirelessly paraded in front of us to sample. This was all washed down with endless beers and wine and small glasses of Ouzo. The entertainment was made up of a mandolin player, a bouzouki player who seemed at death’s door with a cigarette hanging from his shrunken lips, and a drummer; they belted out a continuous stream of Greek music which the patrons seemed unable to resist as they scrambled to their feet and danced the dances of their ancestors. Jimmy, too, was unable to resist the urge to gyrate and I reluctantly followed him onto the dance floor. Two dances later and Jimmy was soaked. His shirt stuck to his chest and his hair hung around his head in greasy strands. A pungent smell of sweat encased his contorting body and I wanted to gag. “No one else is sweating like this,” I thought resentfully as I looked around at the progeny of Athena, who were breaking plates and shouting raucously as a young woman danced nimbly between the sharp shards of broken china.
At last the long evening began to wind down and I worried again about the trip home and “the kiss”. How was I going to sidestep that? And another thing – by now Jimmy was quite drunk, and I sure didn’t want to drive home with him.
And then a small miracle happened! One of the couples at the table saw the state that Jimmy was in, and suggested they drive me home, as they lived nearby. I was saved!
Eventually we all wandered outside to the parking lot and I ducked into the car just as Jimmy bent down to kiss me goodnight. “Thanks for a wonderful evening, Jimmy,” I said and slammed the door shut.
I never took any of Jimmy’s calls after that evening and eventually he gave up calling. Thus ended the Greek tragedy.
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