In Search of My Soulmate- Bachelors No. 3

The Blind Dates:

Everyone had a friend, friend of a friend, brother, uncle, cousin, son or whoever and every one of them wanted to set me up on a blind date. Nice person that I am, I didn’t want to hurt any feelings so I went – how bad could it be?

Blind Date No. 1: The doorbell rang. I drew a deep breath and marched forward. My source said he was newly single, had one child and was looking to date again. Okay. Sounded interesting. I opened the door and. . .a young woman was standing on the porch. I gawked in surprise. Omigawd! I was horrified. Did my source think I was gay? How awful!
“Hi,” she smiled, holding out her hand. “My name’s Mary. I know this is really weird, but my brother’s so nervous, he was too scared to come to the door. I’m really sorry about this.”
I shook her hand, breathing a sign of almost relief. “Um. . .no problem whatsoever. Did he even come with you?” I asked, leaning around to look.
“He’s out in the car. We thought we’d go to Dino’s for dinner—if that’s okay with you?”
I grabbed my purse and followed her off the porch. Sure enough. There was a male sitting in the car. Not bad. Normal, but sort of pale and shaky looking.

I opened the back door and climbed in. Might as well keep this on a “friends only” basis.
Dino’s is a nice place. Italian food and good music. A nice start.
We were seated and the waitress brought menus.
“Do you see the prices?” he grumbled, frowning at the list. “I only brought twenty dollars.”
“That’s okay,” I was quick to reply. “I’m more than happy to pay for my own.”
“You will not,” Mary gasped. She scowled at her brother. “I’ll lend you the money until pay day.” I was so embarrassed. “No. Really! I don’t mind.”
“See,” he said. “She doesn’t mind. I think it’s great.”
“She. Will. Not. Pay.” Mary slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a date—remember?
I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu and water to drink. Blind date No. 1 - No.

Blind Date No. 2: My brother Kev set the date up--an old friend of his, Taylor. My brother said it would be fun. Okay. I was game. I didn’t live in the same town so I drove up and decided to spend the night with my parents.
“You aren’t going to like him,” my mother murmured, concern written all over her face. “He just isn’t somebody you’d date.”
“He can’t be that bad, Mom,” I replied, my naiveté showing. “Kev wouldn’t set me up with a creep or anything.”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “He just doesn’t seem right for you.”
We agreed to meet downtown. My brother, another friend of his, Lowell, and I headed out. I wasn’t nervous. After all, my brother set up the date. I trusted him.
Lowell nudged my arm. “You aren’t going to like him.”
The second person in less than a half hour to say the same thing. Okay, I’m getting anxious now.
The bar was in full swing when we arrived. Kev cased the place, looked for his friend. Growing more anxious by the minute, I found a chair and sat down. Lowell plunked down next to me.
“Why won’t I like him?”
“He’s just…different.”
I’m only five foot two inches, but Taylor was shorter than me—and probably three times as broad. Long hair and sideburns reminded me of a homely aging Elvis, complete with bell-bottomed pants, an open white silk shirt with a leather vest, and more chains than I could count covering his flabby and overly hairy chest.

He stuck out his hand. “See that ring.”
I did. Pretty impressive. More diamonds than I’d seen in awhile.
“Every time I get engaged and we break up, I get the ring back and add the diamond to my ring.”
Let me see! There had to be at least twenty diamonds on that pudgy finger.
A big-bosomed girl passed our table. His eyes devoured her. He whirled, running after her. That was the last I saw of him.
Later I asked my brother why?
“He hasn’t had a date in quite awhile.”
Was I happy? Blind Date No. 2 – Really! No!

Blind Date No. 3: “He’s perfect for you. He’s really handsome, looks like Tom Selleck.”
Hmmm. Tom Selleck? That I could handle. Without further hesitation. “Okay.”
Now I should’ve paid more attention. My co-worker’s husband looked like Don Knotts with a whole lot less hair. But she said her friend was handsome, had a job, and had been divorced for quite some time.
I waited outside. The moment arrived. A beat-up dirty old Buick drove up. The driver leaned over and shoved the door open.
“You Patsy?”
Uh. This had to be the wrong guy! Never in my wildest nightmares would I compare this guy to Tom Selleck. Tom Selleck’s mutt maybe--but not Tom Selleck!
Empty beer cans and garbage littered everything. Spots of liquid and food stains covered the seat. I brushed a small space free and climbed in, full of dark misgivings.
“I thought we’d go play some pool,” he said, popping open a Bud. He took a long swig. “You any good at pool?”
His foot punched down and the car jumped away from the curb. We flew towards the intersection and careened around a corner.
I held on, scrambling for my seatbelt. “Do you think you should be drinking and driving?” I asked, whispering the Lord’s Prayer to myself. “Might want to slow down.”
Cans and bottles rolled and bounced against my legs and feet, spewing liquid on the hem of my best jeans and drenching my sandaled toes.
“No cops around,” he coughed, spitting fluid. He wiped his face with his hand. “Not worried anyway.”
“Well, I’m worried.” Worried for my safety, my self-preservation, the lives of my children if I died. Mundane, everyday thoughts.
I wasn’t a pool player, so I was more than happy to let him find another opponent. The pool game dragged for hours it seemed. He drank like a fish, burping and laughing at his own coarse humor.
I wanted to kill my co-worker. How dare she put me in this situation!
Finally. “I need to get home,” I said. “My sister’s babysitting and I promised her I wouldn’t stay late.”
‘No problem.” His drunken eyes leered at me. “I’m ready to go myself.”
Crap! “No. No,” I said. “You’re having a good time and I don’t want to ruin it for you. I’ll call a cab.” And save myself some grief.
He stroked my arm. I thought I’d puke.
“I’ll take you home, baby,” he whispered. “We still have some talking to do.”
Omigawd!
He was insistent and I was still too stupid and scared to stand up for myself. I followed him out the door, my heart thumping in my chest. Did I dare get in the car again?
He drove like a maniac, skidding to a stop, punching the gas and zipping through traffic. I prayed the whole way home.
The car swerved, jumped the sidewalk and stopped. Panicked, I threw myself out the door.
“Thanks,” I yelled over my shoulder, not forgetting my manners.
I ran up the steps, fumbling for the keys. He was right behind me.
“Don’t I get a kiss goodnight?” His hand stroked my butt cheek.
“Uh. I don’t kiss on the first date.” I wiggled the door handle
“Aw, come on, baby. I deserve a little kiss.”
I was going to faint. I knew I was—but if I fainted, I’d be fair game. What to do?
The door opened. My sister’s sleepy face peered out. She looked at me and then at him, realization dawned in her expression. The door opened wider.
I slipped through. She slammed the door in his face.
Blind Date No. 3 – Definitely--No.

Blind Date No. 4: “You have to meet my uncle. He has his own business. He’s rich.”
Rich was good!
First impressions were not bad. He took me to a nice place for dinner and we were seated. From earlier experiences, I was ready to pay my own way and I made sure he knew it.
“It’s a date,” he objected, smiling. “Later down the road, if you want, you can treat once in awhile.”
Okay, he was looking better!
“I live in a singles only apartment complex down by Julia Davis Park.”
“Oh. How…interesting.” Singles apartment?
“Yeah,” be continued. “We have a big hot tub and we all like to get naked and jump in.”
“Oh,” I fiddled with my fork. “Sounds. . .” Creepy—yeah, creepy. That’s the word I’m looking for.
The food arrived.
“Maybe you’d like to come over sometime.” He started eating. “Afterwards, me and a few of the girls like to play.”
“Play?” I asked, not really wanting to know what he meant.
“Yeah. I like threesomes, with me in the middle. A human sandwich,” he laughed.
Omigawd! Not again! Blind Date No. 4 – Hell No!

My search for the perfect soulmate suffered some horrendous setbacks. But I wasn't ready to give up yet.

In Search of My Soulmate- Bachelor No. 2

The Fisherman

Charged with nervous energy, I waited, excited and impatient. I could hear him rustling around in the back room.
“You’re gonnal love this,” he called. “I got it on sale and it’s perfect.”
My excitement rose. A Christmas present from a guy! Almost as good as flowers on Valentine’s Day.
He peeked out the door. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you.”
I obliged, shutting my eyes tightly, but the suspense was killing me. What could it be? Jewelry? New clothes? Something wonderful I just knew.
“Okay, you can open them now.” He sounded so pleased.
My eyes popped open.

I stared at the object. What the hell was that?
It was an inner tube! An inner tube?
“Uh,” I stammered, at a loss. “Thank…thank you.”
“It’s a float tube,” he grinned. “We can go fishing together.”
“Fishing? In that?”

Now I don’t know about you, but my idea of fishing is standing on the bank, forcing unwilling worms onto a hook and casting out. Reeling slow and, if luck was with me, I’d snag a fish. But a float tube?

I studied the item a little more carefully. There was kind of a seat thing in the middle, with holes for my legs to drape down. Didn’t look safe to me. I’m not much of a water person and I sort of figured I’d have to go out on the water in this thing.
“You’ll still need to get waders and flippers,” he explained, still so pleased. “Soon’s it warms up, we’ll go.”
Oh joy! I’m excited—not.
***
March came far too soon for my comfort. The fishing trip was on the schedule. Some obscure reservoir or lake out on the Camas Prairie near Fairfield, Idaho.
“You can borrow my husband’s waders and flippers.” My friend Carol fairly bubbled. She threw up her hands. “Those things are too expensive to buy until you’re sure you want to keep floating.”
Expensive was the key word. A single mother struggling to make ends meet, I didn’t need a costly hobby. Hobbies were to be enjoyed, treasured, moments of personal pleasure. I didn’t see this as falling into any of those categories.
“Thanks,” I said, with about as much enthusiasm as I could muster. I didn’t want to go in the first place so buying the gear was out of the question.
“It might be fun,” she commiserated, knowing I hated the idea. “Keep good thoughts.”
**
Before daylight we headed out on our less than grand adventure. It was a cold morning. The wind was blowing, the sky was overcast. Rain drizzled the bleak landscape. Not a good day to be out fishing—even less for float tubing. I kept hoping the truck would break down, he’d suddenly fall sick or that I’d awaken soon from this horrible nightmare. But fate was against me, we arrived without incident.

The reservoir was small, but certainly big enough. Mr. Fisherman threw on his gear and waded out, leaving me to decipher the complexities of the confusing equipment. There were no instructions. I had no manual. Why was I doing this? Why hadn’t I just said no? Because you’re an idiot. That’s why!
False starts and many minutes later, I was ready.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever float tube fished, but imagine loaded down with a pole, a fish bag, drinking water, my small cache of makeup, hanging onto both sides of the float tube, hampered by flippers which I have never worn before and trying to walk. Get the idea?

I stumbled towards the water on feet suddenly larger than Shaquille O’Neal’s. The voice of impending doom whispered its insidious words of disaster to my terror-fogged brain. I shivered in the icy wind. The moment was upon me.
Okay, let’s do this. I waded into the water. Farther. Deeper. In the distance, Mr. Fisherman waved, giving me the thumbs up. Asshole!
The water rose to the bottom of my tube. Okay, I can do this. I stepped forward. With the strength of super glue, the muddy bottom clung to my feet. One of my flippers slipped off! Omigawd! I’d lost one of Darrell’s flippers. I couldn’t afford to replace the item!
I leaned out, as far over the edge of the float tube as I could get, dipping the edge as I frantically groped for the flipper. No luck! I forced the tube further down, stretching out as far as I could.
The tube flipped! Freezing water enveloped my head, shoulders and chest area. I was hanging upside down in the water! Dirty water rushed into my silently screaming mouth. I was drowning. Upside down in a freakin float tube! My thoughts ran rampant. My children. My family. I’d never see them again. And they’d be left with the details of my ignoble death. Shameful and embarrassing. The local newspaper would pick up the story—I could see my epitaph—The float tube won!
I fought, but there was nothing I did that changed the situation. I was growing tired of struggling. Death loomed its ugly face.
A hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me upright. Water streamed from my hair. The waders filled with icy water.
Materializing in front of my watery eyes was the face of an elderly gentleman. “Are you okay?”
I gazed into his face, too shocked to speak.
“Are you okay?” he asked again.
I nodded, strands of wet hair flapping my face.
“Let’s get you back to the bank.”
It was only then I noticed my savior had waded out, without protective gear, to save me. He was almost as wet as I was.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I sputtered, slogging to the bank, burdened by the added weight of the now full waders. “I…”
He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
In the distance, Mr. Fisherman waved again, thumbs up. He is so dead!
“You need to get dry—so do I,” my savior chuckled. “Didn’t expect to go swimming.”
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized again. “I feel terrible.”
“You look terrible. Go get dry.”
I stripped off the waders, noting a long tear in the right leg. Great! Now I’d have to buy waders and flippers. My gross national debt was growing by the second.
In a rash moment of clarity, I had packed a second set of clothing—in the off chance I’d need them. Finally dry and sitting in the truck, I waited for Mr. Fisherman, fuming and ready to attack.
It was then the truth finally sank in. Mr. Fisherman believed whatever was good for him was good for me. Wasn’t it? I looked back over the preceding months. We did what he wanted to do, ate what he wanted, tried to enjoy what he enjoyed, and I realized--I was nothing but a second thought when he was in the mood.
Several days later, walking down Main Street, a couple walking ahead of me were sucking face and groping frantically. It was Mr. Fisherman!
Months later, I ran into him again. He asked me if I'd ever gone float tubing again. "Sadly," I said. "A friend borrowed the tube, left it in the back of his pickup and lost it driving down the freeway." Secretly I smiled. That fifty bucks in my checking account just about paid for the
flippers and waders.
The vote was in. Mr. Fisherman? Definitely a “No.”