Kismetology

by Jaimie Admans

  The leader turns out to be a fifty-something man himself, dressed in light jeans and a green shirt with a big cardboard sign that reads "50" in big letters around his neck.

  "Hi." I sidle up to him innocently. "I hope you don’t mind, but I’m just letting you know that I’ll be joining the fifties group myself, seeing as I’m looking for a date for someone else, not myself."

  He stares at me distastefully. "That’s not really allowed."

  I hand him a business card. One of my funky business cards that I got twenty of printed up for free in a special offer online. I didn’t dare to get more than twenty in case the whole thing doesn’t work out.

  "Kismetology." He begins reading aloud. "What’s that then?"

  "I’m a professional matchmaker," I say. "That’s the name of my business."

  "Oh no," he says warningly. "You’re not scouting for men here. If you want to be a man pimp then go out and join the prostitutes."

  "No, I mean I have one woman in particular, one client, who I have to find a decent man for. I’m not here on business tonight. This is strictly on a personal level."

  "Hmm," he eyes me suspiciously.

  "I won’t cause any problems," I say. "And if any man objects to having to talk to a twenty-nine-year old, then I’ll leave."

  The leader suddenly bursts into laughter. "I don’t think any fifty-year-old man is going to complain about talking to a girl half their age." He carries on laughing. "Okay," he says finally. "You can go in. But I don’t want to see you handing out these cards. If you want to solicit business, you can do it in your own time. And make sure you explain to every man why you’re there, I don’t want any men thinking they have a shot with you if they really don’t."

  "Thank you," I say. "Not single yourself, by any chance, are you?"

  "Married fifteen years," he says. "But thanks for asking. I must say I’ve never heard of a matchmaker who actually goes on dates for her clients."

  "I just try to figure out whether a man is compatible or not, the rest is up to the client."

  "An interesting approach," he says.

  I thank him and quickly rush to my place at the back of the line before he asks any more questions about my so-called business that doesn’t actually exist yet. Apart from in my head and on twenty business cards, obviously.

  Each group consists of forty people—twenty men and twenty women. A few give me a strange look when I stand next to them, and I have to admit that I feel like the proverbial sore thumb. I’m obviously not a part of their group, and they might be wondering what I’m doing here. The women probably think that I’ve come to steal men right from under their noses. And in a way, I have. Just not for myself.

  All the groups are led into different rooms, following one another like sheep.

  The room that opens up in front of us looks like a supersized game of musical chairs is about to take place. And maybe in a way, it is. Two rows of ten chairs are set up back to back down the middle of the room. In front of each chair is a small table and another chair facing it.

  "Ladies, sit!" The "50" leader announces so loudly he may as well have used a megaphone.

  We all dutifully traipse to the centre row of chairs, while the men stand in a gang salivating over who shall be their next meal like a pack of wolves. Wolves are very much like men, and in some cases, more attractive.

  The leader walks down the room and gives each woman a badge with a number on it, and a sheet of paper with a pen to write down names and contact information for any men we wish to meet up with afterwards. Glancing at the shifty looking group in the corner, I think my answer will be zero. I glance at my badge. I got number seventeen—my lucky number. Once again, I glance at the selection of men in the corner. I think it may not be so lucky anymore. The leader is now giving numbered badges and paper to the men as well.

  I can’t help feeling like I’m in the middle of a cattle market with nineteen other prime cows. The men will walk around, talk to us for five minutes (if we’re lucky) and then mark us down based on our looks. Then they’ll bid for us like we’re prime slices of beef. This was a bad idea. I don’t know why I let Jenni talk me in to this. I could be at home right now watching a good movie with my boyfriend. Okay, it would probably be a crappy movie about serial killers, but it would be better than this. And if I was home right now, I’d actually be hiding out in the kitchen while Dan got increasingly pissed off and my mum commandeered the sofa and had Emmerdale on, but that’s not the point. It would be better than this.

  "Please write your name on the name card provided and place it on the table in front of you," the "50" leader yells. I do as he says, feeling more and more like a statistic than a person.

  "When I ring the bell, man number one go to woman number one, man number two to woman number two, and so on until every number is at a table with a date. When then bell goes again, move on numerically to the table next to you. Keep doing this when the bell rings until you’re right back to where you started. Don’t forget to get contact information for any date you connect with. And…" He rings the bell loudly, and I am taken right back to my school days at break time.

  "Go!" He yells loudly, making me think that if there is ever an opening for a town crier anywhere, he’d be perfect for the job. Or he could work at sporting events. He’d save them a fortune on loudspeakers. They’d never need one again.

  Number seventeen sits opposite me.

  "Alright," he begins. "I’m Louis."

  "Mac," I say.

  "How are you doing tonight?"

  "I’m good," I smile. "Yourself?"

  "Pissed off," he says. "I was working on my car today and it didn’t go very well."

  "Oh right. What’s wrong with it?" I ask, as if I know a thing about cars. If something goes wrong with mine, it’s call Dan time. And then The AA. In that order.

  "Nothing is wrong with her," he says. "I’m trying to do her up like a racing car. You know, with big wheels and stripes and flames on the bonnet. But I cut the wrong cable to the engine today and it pissed me off."

  I nod. "So, what kind of car is it?"

  "She is an Escort."

  Oh, I just love blokes who refer to their cars as women. It’s right up there with men who refer to women as "broads".

  "Okay," I say, wanting to change the subject. "What do you do for work?"

  "I’m unemployed," he says. "But I want it that way. Now I get to spend all my time working on my car. It’s my life’s goal."

  "Really?" I wonder if he can tell how unimpressed I am.

  "Oh yes. There’s nothing I want more than to drive down the road in my fancy car like David Coulthard."

  "I don’t think David Coulthard drives an Escort," I say.

  "Well, who needs a Ferrari when you’ve got painted flames on the bonnet?"

  I could think of a few ways to get flames on the bonnet without involving paint.

  As I’m chatting to number seventeen, I have an idea. It might just be genius. I decide that I’ll get contact info from every man that comes by this table. I may just have to use it later. If my mum’s brain works the same way as mine does, at least.

  I make sure to write my comments about their personalities next to their names as well, just in case I forget which one is which. It must be easy to do so when you’re meeting twenty people in less than two hours.

  Thankfully number seventeen’s time is up. I quickly get his phone number and feel very glad to see the back of him.

  Number seventeen: Louis—goal in life is to paint stripes on his car.

  Number sixteen is next as they’re moving around anticlockwise. The whole thing will end when number seventeen is back opposite me, but I have to get through nineteen other men first.

  Number sixteen sits down opposite me and stares.

  "Hi," I say after a few seconds of him staring at me has been sufficient enough to creep me out. "I’m Mackenzie."

  "You’re not fifty-something," He announces, like it was something I didn’t alre
ady know.

  "No," I explain. "I’m here to find a date on behalf of someone else. I’m a matchmaker."

  "Oh," he says. "So will you date me? I’ve always wanted a younger woman."

  "No," I say. "I’m taken," and wouldn’t date a man so far in to his fifties in a million years, particularly when he looks like you do. "But my client is fifty, that’s why I’m here."

  "Oh, okay."

  "So, what’s your name?" I ask.

  But number sixteen ignores me. Instead he is looking around the room at every other woman in here. Obviously checking out which tables look most promising for him.

  I’ll be glad when his five minutes is up.

  Number sixteen: Nameless—doesn’t quite grasp the concept of eye contact.

  Number fifteen is next. At first glance he seems a little more normal than the rest. Marginally.

  "Hi," he says. "I’m Stud."

  "Stud?"

  "It’s what my friends call me. Because I am one."

  "I see."

  "Oh, The Stud loves the ladies. I’m a big guy, if you know what I mean, so the ladies love The Stud too. And occasionally the men, but we won’t go in to that, eh?" He guffaws.

  I’m quiet for a while, trying to think up a suitable response.

  "So, d’ya wanna know how many women I’ve had?"

  "Not really."

  "Two thousand. Pretty good for a fifty-year-old, don’t ya think?"

  I shrug.

  "I am fifty, you know. I mean, I know I don’t look it. You were probably surprised to see me in this group, weren’t you?"

  "Yes, I was, actually." I thought you’d be in the over seventies group.

  He grins. "I was doing a broad last night, and she told me that too. I think I look about thirty, what do you think?"

  "If it makes you happy."

  He ignores this.

  "You were lucky to meet me tonight, you know. I had a prior engagement. Nudge nudge, wink wink, if you know what I mean."

  I shudder. But he doesn’t notice.

  "There was this bird who phoned me this afternoon and said, ‘Stud, please come and fuck me tonight, I really need your big dick in me,’ and do ya know what I said? Do ya?"

  I shake my head, really not wanting to know, but I have a feeling that he’s going to tell me anyway.

  "I said, ‘d’ya know, Becky, The Stud has got to go out and see to twenty lovely ladies tonight, but I’ll see to you in the morning,’ and that was that. She hung up on me, obviously doesn’t like sharing The Stud, eh?"

  I raise my eyebrows at him.

  "But I see why. I mean, who’d wanna share this body, right?" He flexes a bicep to show off.

  I’ve never been so glad to hear the bell in my life. But I get his phone number anyway. The Stud is prime material for what I might need him for.

  Number fifteen: The Stud—there are no words.

  Number fourteen sits down heavily. Oh, wait, I recognise him. I think he may have had a part in The Addams Family TV show. Or maybe he’s on his way to a Halloween party, even though it’s January. What other explanation could there be for the distinct green tinge to his skin?

  "Evenin’." He grins, revealing a gold tooth. "You like the older men then, huh?"

  "I’m here on behalf of someone else," I say. "She’s almost fifty."

  "That’s cool," he says. "Is she hot?"

  "It depends on your definition of hot, but yeah, in her own way."

  "Cool. So you’re like some kind of matchmaker or somethin’?"

  I nod.

  "That’s cool."

  We sit in silence for the remaining four minutes.

  Number fourteen: Frankenstein’s long-lost son, but missing the neck bolts.

  Number thirteen, unlucky for some, starts off well, so maybe he won’t be so unlucky after all.

  "Hey." he smiles as he sits down. "I’m Nate, and you’re way too young to be here."

  "I’m here on someone else’s behalf," I tell him. "I’m a matchmaker."

  "Okay, cool. I’ve never met one of those before."

  "What, like we’re some sort of different species or something?"

  "Yeah, kinda. What’s your name, sweet thing?"

  What’s your name, sweet thing? Oh yeah. This one’s a winner.

  "Mackenzie," I say.

  "Mackenzie," he repeats. "Do you know what that means?"

  "No," I admit.

  "It means handsome. And you are very handsome, my dear. You fit the name well."

  "Thank you," I say. I’ve never heard such a creepy compliment in my life. "What does Nate mean?" Because I’m thinking "slimeball" is involved in there somewhere.

  "It’s short for Nathaniel. It’s biblical, means ‘God has given’. Kind of appropriate, don’t you think?"

  Would have been more appropriate if it meant arrogant moron.

  Thankfully our five minutes are up before I’ve thought of a suitable answer. I don’t even bother to get his number. As bad as it sounds, even he is not horrible enough for the purpose I want him for.

  Number thirteen: Nate—Biblical named conceited prick.

  I’m quickly realising that my initial assessment of these guys was spot on. Apparently you only need to meet twenty women in one go if you’ve tried your luck with twenty other women the normal way and they’ve turned you down flat because you’re terribly unpleasant.

  Man number twelve looks like he belongs in a motorcycle gang. Judging by the long hair, beard the same length as the long hair and the tattoos showing on his arms, peeking out from underneath the leather vest, I’d say he probably does. He’s probably come straight from a gang meeting. Unless he’s deluded enough to think that is cool fashion these days. I’m not entirely sure which one would be better.

  "Hey, young ‘un." He smiles, revealing a desperate need for dentistry.

  "Hi, I’m Mackenzie," I say.

  "So," he says. "You must be brave, being in amongst all these older men. Fancy a sugar daddy, do you?"

  "I’m here on behalf of someone else."

  "Oh right. Well, I don’t date disabled women."

  "Huh?"

  "Well, if she can’t get here herself, she must be disabled, right?"

  Oh. Well, that’s an obvious one. "No," I say quickly. "It’s a new kind of matchmaking service. I’m here on behalf of one of my clients… Who is not disabled," I add quickly.

  "It’s not a man, is it? Because I don’t date the men."

  "No, it’s not a man."

  I decide not to elaborate, because this guy isn’t going to make the grade. We sit in silence until the bell rings for the next guy.

  Number twelve: Nameless—would fit right in to one of The Crow movies.

  Number eleven looks a few steps short of a staircase before he’s even sat down.

  "You’re pretty," he says, leering at me. "Aren’t you in the wrong room?"

  "No, I’m—"

  "Oh, you’re into that cosmetic surgery thing you chicks are so fond of. I get it. Hush hush, and all that. Face lift, was it? Liposuction?"

  Ugh. I wonder if I can ring the bell myself, just to get this guy to move on.

  "Not gonna talk to me, huh? Is it coz of the surgery? You've had too much of that Botox stuff injected so you can’t move your lips?"

  "No, I’m—"

  Interrupted, once again. "How old are you, anyway? Fifty? Fifty-one? Fifty-two?"

  "I’m twenty-nine," I say very quickly, before he has a chance to interrupt me again. "I’m a matchmaker. I’m working for someone else."

  "Oh, yuck. Who’d wanna do that?"

  Number eleven: No name, no personality, no manners.

  Number ten can’t get to my table quick enough. I’ve been keeping an eye on him as he’s edged along the row towards me. He keeps winking at me.

  "Wow," he says when he finally sits down. "I can’t believe my luck. I always wanted to date a younger woman, but I really didn’t think I’d find one here."

  "I’m not here fo
r me," I say. "I’m looking for a date for a fifty-year-old."

  "Oh," he says, obviously disappointed. "What’s your name?"

  "Mackenzie," I say.

  "I’m Jack. Can I tell you something, Mackenzie?"

  I shrug. "Sure."

  "Lean forward. Let me whisper it."

  I lean across the table a little way, making sure to keep enough distance between us so that he can’t grab me or anything equally disturbing.

  "Sssh," he puts his fingers on his lips.

  I nod.

  "I like to watch women urinate."

  Oh fuck. I’m like a bloody magnet for the freaks.

  "I really don’t think you’ll be suitable," I tell him, sitting back. But then I think better of it. "Actually, you might be perfect. I’ll take your phone number, if you want."

  "Cool," he says. "Then will you come to the bathroom with me?"

  "Not tonight," I say. "But I can think of a client who might be interested. I’ll let you know."

  Boy, was my mum going to be sorry that she’d let Ron go.

  Number ten: Jack—likes to watch women pee.

  Number nine looks promising. He smiles at me as he approaches, and I have to admit that he’s one of the first men tonight who doesn’t look like he needs an urgent trip to the dentist.

  "Hello," he smiles. "I’m Noel, number nine."

  "Mackenzie, seventeen," I greet him.

  "Your age or your badge number?" He jokes.

  I find myself laughing even though it’s not particularly funny.

  "I’m a matchmaker," I say, before he gets a chance to make any more bad jokes. "I’m here to find a date for a client."

  "Oh, well, that’s different. An interesting approach."

  I nod.

  I feel kind of positive about being a matchmaker now. I mean, I’ve said it so many times tonight that it’s almost become true. And I will be a professional matchmaker soon enough. I just have to figure out the owning your own business technical side. And find some paying clients, obviously.

  "So, Noel," I say. "What do you do for work?"

  "I’m a teacher," he says. "I teach at a primary school."

  "Yikes. That must keep you busy."