Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

by Peter Svenson

  Budge acknowledges that he does.

  “Look up a singles website—there are hundreds of ’em. Give it a shot. Good luck!”

  Budge drives back to Rock Hall in a mood of rare elation.

  Never was there a simpler or more elegant solution to friendlessness! Why didn’t I think of it before? A few keystrokes, and I can hand-pick the partner of my dreams. What could be easier? Message to all the lonely women in North America: I’ll soon have you in my crosshairs and one of you is gonna get lucky—maybe tonight!

  When the writing day is done, he fires up the search engine and starts clicking through the websites. Women are everywhere, brilliantly bracketed between pop-up ads. On first glance, the postage-stamp-size cameos nearly overwhelm him with their variety. Scrolling with a novice’s inquisitiveness, Budge evaluates them at his leisure like a pasha inspecting his harem. Yes, no, no, no, yes, no, maybe. One after another, the tiny lipsticked smiles glint back at him. Never before have so many women vied for his attention. The relational reaching out across this great land is far more widespread than he would have imagined. He’s strongly tempted to insert his own image in this human meat market stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, up into Canada and down into Mexico.

  It makes him reflect, too, on the myriad ways relationships end and single lives begin. Each cameo is a story—likely as not, a painful one—that continues to supply confusion, resentment, and depression in large inchoate doses despite the glinting smile.

  Upon closer inspection, certain patterns demarcate the decades. Women in their 30s look best—trim, lank-haired, easy on his defect meter. In their 40s, they’re wearing loosely fitted blouses and their hairdos have become artful helmets. Sexiness is no longer inherent, but packaged as a commodity (come and get it, I’ve still got it). In their 50s, they’re permed-up grandmas hiding themselves in muumuus or flaunting their figures in décolleté party clothes—either way, they look unappetizing.

  Budge is taken aback.

  These gals are my age. These are the ones—seasoned veterans of life’s vicissitudes—I should identify with the most, yet I pass by their pictures as quickly as possible. Heaven forbid I should wind up with one of these creatures! Nevertheless, guilt suffuses me. I feel as if I should castigate myself but on what grounds? Because their physical appeal is lacking? If a female contemporary said that of me, I’d take great offense. Because they’ve got a used-up look? I look at myself in the mirror and think exactly the same thing. Because they’re doing the best they can with what they’ve got, and it’s not good enough? I’m a prime example of a has-been who won’t give up.

  In rejecting them, I’m rejecting myself, and it makes me feel like a shit. A worthless fraudulent fooling-nobody-but-himself shit. Our society’s youth culture clutches me—and you too, dear reader—by the balls. I want a tight-assed high-breasted chick (I don’t want a dowdy brood hen). I can’t function unless I think of myself as young. Consumer products and services have drugged me to the point that, without them, I’d wander around in circles, aimlessly searching for validation. We all need wooden daggers thrust into our vampire hearts to put us out of our materialistic misery.

  A cogent enough rant, but does Budge practice what he preaches? No, not at all. In a man like him, ageism and sexism can’t be extirpated overnight. Despite what his moralistic brain propounds, his discriminating eye holds sway. He is looking for a femme fatale who’ll knock his socks off.

  So there he sits, poring over the numerous offerings in the aforementioned age brackets (wisely, he passes up the twenty-somethings, but only because he fears becoming a laughingstock). He reads a sample biographical sketch or two; he is particularly titillated by the “I’ll tell you later” entries for weight, income, favorite TV shows, desire for children. Even going this far, Budge is picky. If she smokes, he’s not interested. If she’s the slightest bit pious, ditto. If she likes pets, that’s fine, but if she’s a Chihuahua fancier, forget it. He is gratified to see that so many women like to dance (could this have been a factor in breakups—the uptight hubby who refused to twirl his missus ’round the floor, even on anniversaries?).

  Most of the women classify themselves as light-to-moderate social drinkers. Most list “long walks in the rain” and “listening to opera” among their favorite activities, followed by watching sunsets (he can relate to that!). There is frequent mention of sharing “quiet intimate moments,” or simply “dinner by candlelight.” A surprising number of women are interested in men younger than themselves. About half have no objection to dating outside their race.

  He clicks further to read in-depth self-advertisements, sections variously titled, “Who I Really Am,” “What Turns Me On,” and “What I’m Looking For In A Man,” but the webserver automatically cuts him off. He’s had his free introduction, now he’s got to pony up. Only by typing in I.D. and address info, plus those all-important credit card numbers, will he be allowed to proceed through the electronic portal. Membership is only $9.95 a month, with unlimited access to chat rooms and private e-mail with hundreds of gorgeous available women. The computer will instantly match him to female club-members who share similar interests and expectations—within whichever mile radius he chooses. He can search close to home or across the entire continent. Insistent, throbbing icons urge him to start typing. Once he is a member, he won’t regret it. Loneliness will be a thing of the past.

  But Budge hesitates. The invisible wall of his anonymity holds him back. He also knows that he can ill afford the additional monthly expense. Moreover, the women undergo a subtle transformation when he clicks to enlarge their images. Every face appears slightly desperate. This in itself isn’t a negative attribute—he is desperate, too—but credit card debt is hard to justify under the circumstances.

  Scrolling down the search engine links, he finds another website that shows more promise—“Free Basic Membership With No Obligation!” It’s a Canadian singles club featuring comely women and a less hyper format. Heartened, Budge clicks to enter. This won’t cost him anything, so it’s worth a try. To hell with anonymity!

  Without hesitation now, he fills the boxes with relevant data. A nickname is required; after giving it some thought, he types BetweenBooks. He congratulates himself for setting the perfect tone—it shows that he is an established intellectual, a serious-minded individual, and it also implies, with panache (so he thinks), that he is finished with one relationship and ready to start another. Oh, he’s clever at double entendre! This will put him in contact with a real highbrow, somebody of his caliber, a woman who reads books—possibly even writes them!—and can hold an intelligent conversation. Maybe a Ph.D., maybe a University of Toronto professor of English Lit. who lives in a high-rise overlooking Lake Ontario. A willowy brunette with glasses, someone on the order of Victoria Sinclair of Naked News. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself occupying the high-rise with her, acclimatizing to the cold weather and taking up winter sports. A stint in Canada would broaden his heretofore limited horizon. It could lead to bi-lingualism, dual citizenship, an expanded market for his books.

  Enthusiastically, he checks off the appropriate boxes. He, too, is a light-to-moderate drinker. He is nonreligious, has one pet, likes children (and leaves open the possibility of having them), doesn’t do drugs, and is willing to move anywhere to start a new life. He will reveal his estimated salary later. He is not sure whether to say he is bald or has gray hair—he is a combination of both but can check only one—so he admits to the latter.

  Then comes the creative part, the anticipation of which causes Budge to smack his lips. “Please Describe Yourself in 300 Words or Less.”

  He will shine at this; fifty-five years of self-knowledge should provide plenty of input.

  I’m a guy who lives life in large draughts. I enjoy almost everything, as much as I can get. I love people, good times, food & drink (candlelit dinners a specialty), movies, classical music (including opera), baseball, politics, travel, history, big cities, small towns, and t
he great outdoors (esp. long walks in the rain). I love curling up before a fireplace with a good book (if I’ve got someone to curl up with, that’s even better). I keep abreast of current events. I have a hearty sense of humor. I’m honest, non-judgmental, patient, caring, and forgiving. I don’t play the blame game and I don’t hold grudges. I make friends easily and am a trusted confidant.

  An author by profession, I’m an acute observer of what goes on around me as well as an experienced partaker, so I consider myself something of an expert in this oneway self-aware journey through time that we call life. This also means that I’m a good listener. I deal with situations as they arise and make the best of them. I’ve had my share of troubles—who hasn’t?—but I’ve always approached their solution with optimism and have, by and large, succeeded. I’m a stickler for good health and clean living; I don’t believe in hobbling myself with bad habits. I look only on the bright side.

  I believe in a Supreme Being, miracles, angels, the Toronto Bluejays, motherhood & apple pie, the coming of universal peace & prosperity, and the infinite resourcefulness of the human spirit. I believe the power of love is transcendent, and that the human touch is the most healing quantum we know and will ever know. I believe that a soul-mate is out there waiting for me, and when we make the connection, her personal sphere will overflow with gratification and fulfillment. She will be enveloped in respect and tenderness and affection, and I solemnly promise—even before we meet—that I will never let her down. If you happen to be reading this and think you are she, please get in touch. Otherwise, I will find you. Don’t be discouraged.

  Have I exceeded 300 words? Well, it shows that my personality doesn’t fit narrow confines. I’m a lover plenipotentiary, a millennial Byron, a student of the wide romantic world. I may be the only one left, so don’t delay in your response!

  In the onscreen box provided, Budge reviews and refines his sentiments. Some classy babe will bite, he tells himself. This is no minor league con job. The time and effort he is putting into this project ought to snag a “ten” for sure.

  Similarly, he tackles the second 300-word essay, “What I’m Looking For in a Woman.”

  The woman I seek must be true to herself, not a composite of other peoples’ expectations. If you’re neurotic and dependent on approval, or if you lie about your age and lack the basic confidence to give 100% of yourself in a secure relationship, read no further.

  Having addressed these negatives—I’m sorry they had to come out first, but I got burned in an LTR recently by someone who exhibited all these traits (yes, I should’ve known better)—let me concentrate on the positives. You’re trim, educated, orgasmic, witty, faithful, forgiving, a fashionable dresser, a reader (editing skills a plus), a good writer, a good sport, a birdwatcher (novice status okay), a willing dance-partner, and a decent cook (that’s the skill level I claim, and that’s good enough). You’re easygoing around animals, you’re not freaked by spiders, bats, or snakes. You’re helpful around the house because you understand that a woman’s home is her castle, too. You’re not stuck on yourself, but you exude a sense of pride. You don’t object categorically to a man’s point of view, which you know is bound to be different from your own.

  You see the man in your life as a complement to you, not a tolerated adversary. You don’t exclude him from activities you enjoy. You try to take pleasure in the same things he does, but if for some reason you can’t, then you don’t hold it against him. You like sex, but what’s more, you understand how important it is for a man, and so you encourage him both as a lover and an object to be loved. You don’t hold yourself back.

  You are inventive, energetic, self-motivated, flexible, and willing to cope with the lows as well as the highs. You, too, want a soul-mate, not just an arm trophy.

  If you can truthfully, joyously admit that all the above applies to you, then what are you waiting for? Let’s find each other and share the rapture—forever, if it works out.

  Well, that ought to do the trick. He has made himself irresistible. “I can expect a full inbox tonight,” he gloats aloud.

  He scrolls back through the application, making sure he answered everything. Oops, he forgot to give the age bracket for the women he’s seeking. He punches 30 to 39, but has immediate misgivings; it looks superficial, coming from a man of his years. He corrects the numbers: 39 to 55. Yes, that’s better, it makes him look like a real connoisseur. This way, he is neither robbing the cradle nor desecrating the grave.

  Satisfied, he goes back to the bottom of the text and clicks the enter button. “Welcome home, BetweenBooks,” the next screen blares, listing the basic membership options he can avail himself of right away to get started on his quest for companionship. For openers, he can post a picture of himself and check his website mailbox for messages. Presumably, the main-frame has already matched him to likely candidates. Suddenly, a full-screen advertisement pops down: “Apply For Premium Membership Now! Only $9.95 Per Month Including Our Free Newsletter!”

  It turns out that basic membership offers little, if anything. He can look at the same tiny portraits he has already seen. He can read the women’s thumbnail bios, but nothing more detailed. He can receive e-mail, but he can’t send it. He can amend his application (but why bother?).

  Premium membership, on the other hand, really gets the ball rolling. There’s online chat, direct emailing, geographical searching and winnowing, full access to personal essays (like what he just labored over), plus exciting games and full-screen photos.

  But his pecuniary situation can’t be ignored. For the moment, he has to forego premium membership. His finely wrought expository prose has been in vain!

  Dismayed, Budge closes the window. So much for the online freebie. Over the next two weeks, he logs on a few times, hoping that he has been discovered, but there is nothing more than the chummy, “Welcome home, BetweenBooks!” and an empty inbox save for the initial message congratulating him for signing up. Like a guillotine, the premium membership ad descends, and he is cut off once again.

  The day soon arrives when he is fed up with the whole computer match-up business. It’s just another scam; he should have known better. Loneliness has left him vulnerable, and now his privacy—online and in real life—may be imperiled. Moreover, he’s ashamed to have written the things he did. How dare he quantify himself—or worse, an imaginary woman—for all the world to see? Where is his natural reserve, his dignity? Those highfalutin sentiments revealed his own insecurities and ignorance. What does he really know about who he is or what he wants?

  He logs on, repulsed by the bursting salutation that now offends him with its hyper-familiarity. What impudence!—to be welcomed by a machine. This isn’t his home, not by a longshot. And what in the world made him give himself such an idiotic nickname? But wait! There is a new message.

  “Hi BetweenBook my name is Tiffani you sound like you are ok we might hit it off you never know I am fun.”

  Budge looks out to the water and shakes his head sadly.

  Tiffani, wherever you are, please understand that it’s nothing personal. I’m not answering because I know with 99.99% certitude that you and I have absolutely nothing in common, nothing to build on. You wrote a brave inquiry, and I wish you luck. Please accept my silence and do not bother to write again.

  Well, at least he examined the ethereal avenue—Thoreau would approve. But he’d better backspace out of the club right away lest he be suckered, in a weak moment, into a membership upgrade. Who knows what danger is lurking—viruses electronic and venereal, stolen identity, a deluge of spam, cookies, worms …

  Budge clicks on the “Admin.” button and locates the delete prompts. He then sets about obliterating every box he filled in, including the two that took him at least an hour apiece.

  “We’re sorry to see you leave, BetweenBooks,” the next screen reads. “Reason for terminating membership?”

  “Found someone,” he types.

  Chapter 8

  It can be inferred,
then, that Budge badly needs to get out of town. He has made no discernible progress with the local available women and he is no longer tempted to seek romance over the Internet. Working day after day on his roman à clef is beginning to drag him down. His compulsive writing habit is robbing him of leisure time. The beach activity and bay view aren’t holding his interest like they used to. Even the incessant presence of the ospreys aggravates him.

  I’m belatedly realizing that ospreys are stupid birds, perhaps the stupidest around. Their peep-peeping has got to be nature’s most idiotic vocalization, and once they’re started, they can’t stop. They just perch on a snag or piling and peep their pea-brains out—it’s not a mating call or a call to dinner or a communication of any kind. It’s a “here I am” affirmation, lasting for minutes on end, and it drives me bonkers.

  Ospreys look stupid, too—they’re pinheads. Small-beaked, with white and brown stripes, heads poke above their large brown bodies like misshapen periscopes. Also ridiculous-looking are the talons, oversize scimitars that resemble those of certain ladies competing for fingernail length in the Guinness Book of Records.

  Okay, the big birds soar elegantly enough—what avian of prey doesn’t?—but they regularly drop the fish they snatch. An osprey’s clumsiness manifests itself in other ways, too. The other day I watched one trying to land in a dead tree at the edge of the backyard, and it took three swooping tries to get vector and airspeed right. The bird had chosen the tip of a near-vertical branch to alight upon—a lousy choice for a landing zone—necessitating two awkward bailouts. Finally, the osprey came in just right; its talons clutched the branch and with a great clumsy flapping, it gained balance. It then proceeded to eject a whopping white spatter, narrowly missing me.

  Nature’s entertainment value aside, Budge is running out of steam. Along with his writing notes, his desk is cluttered with reminders of things left undone—queries to submit, bills to pay, quarterly tax forms to fill out. He desperately needs a change of scene, if only for a day.