Just A Regular Guy

I want to go all over the world
And start living free
I know that there’s somebody who
Is waiting for me
I’ll build a boat, steady and true
As soon as it’s done
I’m going to sail along in the dreams
Of my dear someone

One little star, smiling tonight
Knows where you are
Stay, little star, steady and bright
To guide me afar
Rush, little wind, over the deep
For now I’ve begun
Hurry and take me straight into the arms
Of my dear someone

Hurry and take me into the arms
Of my dear someone

I’m practicing this sweet little Gillian Welch song for my upcoming guitar lesson, the guitar being something I’ve taken up again as another channel for my energies in the wake of my last failed romance. (I decided: If I can’t make music one way, I’ll make it another.) I’m working on a new picking pattern and noticing—with no minor satisfaction—that the steel strings no longer feel like they’re shredding my fingertips, when I’m interrupted by the phone.

“Hello, Ms. Wench?” It’s Minnie from the dating service. “I’m calling to tell you we have a match for you!”

I signed up for It’s Just a Nooner a couple of weeks ago, after my friend Mick suggested it was time to pick up, towel off, and jump back in the ring. “You need to get out on some dates.”

“Eh.” I said, adding that I’d rather have a couple of root canals, or maybe redo my taxes for the last decade.

“No, really,” said Mick. “You were in a good place. You had some good momentum going. You’re ready to rumble. And it’s a numbers game.”

“Oh, and I thought it was a question of timing,” I said. “Or of not looking but letting love find me. Or some other such clichéd, trite truism.”

“Bitter, Party of One!” said Mick. “C’mon, Wenchie. Move on. Get going. Next chump!”

“Whatev, Pollyanna,” I sneered.

But I thought about it for a few weeks more, and then chatted it over with a couple of my girlfriends. “On the one hand, Mick may be right,” I said. “On the other hand, my heart’s not in it.”

“So figure out some way to stay open but not invest any time or effort in searching,” suggested Zoe. “Make the boys come to you. Or better yet, get someone to bring the boys to you. Friends, family. . . ”

. . . Or a matchmaker, I thought suddenly. I found the idea intriguing. Maybe somewhere out there was a wee little dried-apple-faced, babushka-headed old woman, ready to pair me up with a good man. So I did a little Google-fu, searching on terms like “yenta for goy,” until I finally ended up at the service’s Website.

The staffers weren’t a wizened bunch. Instead, as I discovered when I ventured into their offices for an interview, they were a gaggle of perky, upbeat young women, most only a few years older than Harrison. I wondered how the heck these fluffy little chicks could have the skill and insight required to successfully pair up men and women in their 40s and 50s—most heavily armored after failed marriages, broken families and financial setbacks but still, probably “against their better judgement,” holding onto a slim shred of hope that they might, just might, somewhere, someday, somehow, meet The One, or at the very least, someone with whom they might like to spend some time.

But then, it would probably take a SWAT team of highly trained psychotherapists to do justice to such a midlife matching challenge, and I didn’t think there was a dating service like that anywhere on the planet. It’s Just a Nooner was meant to be low pressure – a casual daytime meal for busy professionals—and if one found a friend, companion, lover, or mate while lunching, well then, that was an unexpected bonus. And if, to ply yet another trite cliché, it’s all just a crapshoot anyway, why not see what these kids could come up with?

On the phone now, Minnie sounds giddy with joy. No kidding; she is gushing. “Steve is tall, attractive, and smart.”

Whatever, I’m tempted to say but don’t. Skip the descriptors. Except for “tall,” they’re all subjective anyway. And even “tall” could be subjective. Besides, I’ll know it when I meet it. So let’s just cut to the chase. “Nice,” I say aloud and “Thank you,” after Minnie finishes briefing me on my prospective date’s marital status (divorced), family (two children), and his work (financial services).

“Oh, and we’re a good match because . . . ?” I ask just before we hang up.

“Well, you’re both smart and energetic,” she says.

Whatever that means.

Minnie tells me when and where our meeting will be. It’s an evening rather than a noontime tete-a-tete, due to our work schedules, and Steve is happy to come down to my neck of the peninsula. I decline, because I have a new rule: I refuse to either date locals or to go on dates in my town; it takes too long to clear out the memories if things go south. So, I ask instead to meet in the City, but I do give Steve points for being willing to drive.

A few days later, I’m waiting at the restaurant, a quiet little place in North Beach. I’ve made an effort to look cute, hair down in loose curls, leg showing in skirt and heels, cleave showing in a wrap top. I’ve applied perfume and goosed myself along with another cliché: You just never know.

A tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, not unattractive guy approaches me, “Ms. Wench?”

“Steve?” I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He gives me the quick head-to-toe once-over, and I must I meet his minimum requirements for attractiveness because he suggests dinner, rather than drinks. I find myself noting his precisely clipped and edged haircut, crisp collar, and very white smile. There’s a lot of tidiness going on there.

Seated at the table, we open with the textbook moves: Hellos, cursory comments about the weather and the day’s events, work. He offers the first compliment early in the game: “You’re just so warm and genuine.” He could be on the make, but I give him the benefit of the doubt; “You seem pretty nice yourself,” I return.

“I am,” he says. “I’m just a regular, nice guy.” And he flashes the dazzling white smile.

Yellow flag. Proceed with caution, Wenchie. I’ve learned to be particularly alert any time a person tells me what they are; there are usually sharks swimming in those waters.

“You say you’re in analyst relations. That’s so interesting,” Steve says. “Because I work with analysts often in my line of work.”

“Ah,” I say, “I think we work with different types of analysts. You work with financial analysts; I work with industry and technology analysts.”

“Oh,” he says. But he doesn’t seem interested in learning more. I switch into interview mode and learn pretty quickly about his success in the industry, the company he owns, how little work he does himself these days, how good he is at identifying talent to work for him, how much he enjoys being interviewed on television (it means he has to think fast on his feet) and how he’s going to write a book about his theory on building wealth (it’s an attitude). A look of annoyance crosses his face when the waiter interrupts to describe the day’s specials and take our orders.

“So,” I say after we’ve ordered, “Given all the opportunities you must have to meet people in your line of work, why did you sign up for It’s Just a Nooner?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m pretty well known, and people tend to put me on a pedestal. And then they’re not themselves with me. They just don’t get that I’m a regular guy.”

Oh really?

Over dinner, I ask the Regular Guy (his new moniker, I’ve decided) about his children. It seems that although he has joint custody, the kids don’t actually live with him regularly. Instead, he lets them visit when they want to–which doesn’t sound like it’s very often – and he takes them to Beverly Hills for the occasional shopping spree or to Disneyland for play weekends. Regular Guy doesn’t participate in the day-to-day childraising, although he does acknowledge that his children’s mother is wonderful.

“Why did you split up?” I ask.

“My needs changed. For years, I was a complete Type A, driven to establish myself, focusing on getting the prizes—money, prestige, the house, the car. You know. And then, once I had those things, I realized I needed something more.”

The waiter comes to clear our plates and offer us coffee and dessert. I ask for a cup of coffee, black, and the Regular Guy orders a decaf latte, double shot, extra hot, light foam, soy.

“And so you took stock of your relationship and realized that something important was lacking?” I continue to plumb the depths.

The Regular Guy pauses to reflect. “The best analogy I can give is this: One day I walked into the BMW dealership, and I took a look at one of their top-of-the-line cars, starting at 125 grand, and I realized, I could buy this, right now, with cash, but then I’d be on that treadmill of upgrading every year or so to get the latest and the greatest, and what a rat race that would be . . .”

“And at that point you realized the emptiness of pursuing things – and how important a good emotional connection is?” I’m trying to follow along, but I’m not sure how the BMW experience relates to the end of the Regular Guy’s marriage.

“No,” he says, and I’m left to puzzle what it all means, because just then the Regular Guy’s cell phone rings, and glancing at the display and without excusing himself, he picks up. It must be very important, I think. An important client perhaps.

“Yes,” he says, not bothering to modulate his voice. “My assistant should have been there to pick it up at 5. I’m not sure why she didn’t make it, but if she’s not there by 7, I will personally come by and pick it up tomorrow morning at 9. I will, yes.” He pauses. “I will personally ensure that it is picked up.”

The waiter serves our coffee as the Regular Guy finishes his conversation.

“Excuse me,” the Regular Guy says when he repockets the phone. “I had to take that call. My personal assistant – I have an assistant – was supposed to pick up a suit for me this evening. And that was my seamstress. She’s one of those big, scary Middle Eastern women – you know the kind – and you just don’t want to be on the wrong side of them.”

Mmmm hmmmmm.

“And what is this?” he continues, gesturing at his latte. “Why are they serving coffee in a bowl? How pretentious. I really can’t stand this kind of thing. I mean, I’m just a regular guy, and I just want my coffee in a regular mug. Waiter!” The Regular Guy calls our waiter over and speaks to him as if he’s talking to a three-year-old, his annoyance thinly veiled. “Can I get just a regular, normal coffee mug for this?”

“Thank you very much,” I add, making eye contact with our waiter and catching his fleeting look of annoyance just before he turns away from the table.

Mr. Regular Guy turns back to me, and says, “So, dinner’s almost over, but I’d like to hang out with you a little longer.”

Seriously? Surely you’re joking, I think. But before I can answer, the Regular Guy continues, “So, what do you say to a stroll, some ice cream, maybe a drive somewhere, or maybe – ,” he pauses, “And I gotta warn you, I’m a very spontaneous kind of guy—but if you don’t have anything else going on tonight, we could hop in the car, head to the airport, take the next flight to Vegas and get there for the 10 p.m. show of Cirque du Soleil’s Love. We could stay at the Wynn – separate rooms if you absolutely insist – and I could have you back for work tomorrow by 9. What do you say?”

Regular Guy has rendered me speechless. And not in a good way. “Thank you for your generous offer,” I say, finally, playing it polite. “But I really have a ton of work to do tonight.”

“Really? What do you have to do, really?”

I bite my tongue – hard–because he’s just so not worth it.

Bringing our dinner to a swift and very final close, I rise and thank the Regular Guy for the evening. At the door, just before we step outside, he pauses. “Tell me,” he asks, “Would you have gone with me to Vegas if you didn’t have work to do tonight?”

I stare at him and try to conjure compassion for this person who, I remind myself, will be just the right spice for someone’s life. But mostly I feel compassion for me, and I think to myself, Someday, someday, I’m going to be met by my equal, a man who’s willing to take the time to learn me, who’s willing to let me learn him, and who’s willing to learn what might be possible between us. But it’s not this man.

I sigh, and then I turn back to face the Regular Guy. “Three things you ought to know about me,” I say. “One: I hate Vegas with a passion. Two: I’m very spontaneous, but only once I feel trust. Three: I’m part Middle-Eastern.”

And then I walk away.

Back in the comfort of my safe little home, I strip out of the skirt and pantyhose, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and don my sweats and wifebeater. Next chump, I say out loud, to no one. And then I pick up the guitar and resume practicing. And once again, I marvel at how thick my calluses are becoming.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com