by Jennifer Cox
The next five days were magical.
The rest of that day passed in a blur. I had to work in the Costco Store (where old Soul Mates were traded for new) and Garry had to organize dinner for forty people that night.
This was a good thing, partially as it gave me a chance to get my head around the last twelve hours and also because the desert by day was very different from the desert at night.
The heat was overwhelming. Dust storms would sweep across the Playa, blinding and choking you. The dust was abrasive and invasive: It coated your body and hair, got in your mouth, your eyes, made your nose suddenly gush blood. You had to constantly remind yourself to drink as the heat brutally sucked moisture and minerals from your body, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. Sometimes I’d get terrible cramps. On the worst day, I was so overwhelmed by heat I couldn’t remember what I was saying, and sentences would just trail off. Some people collapsed; everyone kept an eye on everyone else, alert for the first signs of dehydration and ready to share precious water.
Twice a day, trucks would drive along the main roads spraying water behind them in an attempt to keep the dust down. That was always a carnival-like atmosphere: People would stream out of their tents, running naked behind the trucks, cooling off in the al fresco shower.
Over the next five days, I’d see this all from the Store as I worked to help people find their Soul Mates.
The way it worked: People brought in a Soul Mate they didn’t want and both answered questions on a form that would help us find one they did want. The forms recorded where they were camping (vital if Soul Mates were to find each other) and included questions like: What do people say is your most annoying habit? What’s the one class you regret not taking at school? Are you or have you ever been a slut?
Using their answers, interviewers would further probe the applicants. They would then pass their conclusions on to the matchers, who would use all this information to identify the applicant’s ideal Soul Mate from among the hundreds of other interviewed applicants on file. People would return the next day to find out who they’d been matched with and then go to their Soul Mate’s camp to introduce themselves.
Costco was one of the oldest and most popular theme camps on the Playa; every day hundreds of people turned up to have a fun experience, but also seriously hoping we could help them find their Soul Mate.
And we took it just as seriously.
Working in two shifts from 10 a.m. until 6 p.m., we sat every day in the sweltering tent, literally sweating over the completed forms of hopeful applicants. Tears welled up in the heavily made-up eyes of a dreadlocked pixie as she confided how she hoped to find a man who loved welding as much as she did. A Frenchwoman told me she had been matched with a fabulous “Playa lover,” last year and wanted one just as good this year. Naked but for a Viking helmet, one man suddenly got really upset after twenty minutes of banter and told me he just wanted a woman he could trust.
I was surprised by how similar the hopes and needs of the people here in BRC were to those of the men I’d already dated on my travels.
As countless people, dressed as fairies or undressed as nudists and every possible combination and permutation in between, sat across the table and talked, I heard the same heartfelt story each time. It didn’t matter that some had extreme tastes or habits; whatever the personality, the aims were the same: to find someone who was like them. They wanted a companion who shared their interests, someone who would understand and cohabit in their world.
More than anything, people didn’t want to be alone.
Listening to people talk honestly and vulnerably about what they hoped for in a Soul Mate was exhausting but humbling. Of course, I knew exactly how they felt (with the possible exception of the man looking for a Soul Mate who would lock him in the trunk of his car) and I wanted to do all I could to help.
Sometimes this worked, for example with the lovely artist guy and Welding Woman. They came to see me at the end of the week, still delighting in each other’s company, and thanked me for helping them meet. Sometimes it didn’t work, like the nervous mid-thirties teacher, who anxiously told me that he was always unlucky in love. I was so convinced he was gay it didn’t even occur to me to ask.
As I happily told him I had the perfect man for him (a sweet scientist from the day before), his face crumpled; his chin jutted in and out dangerously, like a cutlery drawer possessed by demons.
“But I’m not gay!” he told me incredulously.
“Are you really sure about that?” I wanted to ask, but his eyes beseeched me to say I had made a mistake. I wanted to help him find happiness (with his gay Soul Mate), but seeing him look so miserable, I lost the courage of my convictions. Patting his hand, I guiltily told him I was sure we had a ton of suitable women for him.
He sniffed tearfully, still looking shocked and upset. Quickly scanning his application form in the hope of changing the subject, I hit the Talents section and started talking as I read. “Oh, that’s interesting,” I said heartily. “It says here, you do an extremely lifelike impersonation of…” My voice trailed off, “…a…ummm…frog?” I finished weakly, looking up to check I hadn’t misunderstood.
The man looked at me steadily. Still swathed in misery, he nevertheless cleared his throat and—wobbly at first, then louder as his confidence grew—started to impersonate a frog. He sat staring at me, unblinking. Croaking. Although he still looked completely wretched, he clearly had been unable to resist the opportunity to show off his party piece. Watching, I struggled to arrange my expression into one that (I hoped) conveyed both enjoyment and admiration.
After a couple of minutes, his croaking crescendoed, then came to an end. I thanked him for sharing (a popular ritual in America) and told him we’d do our very best to find him his Soul Mate. Revitalized by his impersonation, he thanked me sincerely and left the tent. I reached for my water bottle and took a deep swallow. Perhaps I was suffering from heat exhaustion and had just imagined the entire episode.
The days were filled with incidents like this and interspersed with a kaleidoscope of impressions and adventures shared with the other Costco-ers.
One day, Jennith and I ended up on the Spanking Machine.
I had never tried or even been curious about S&M, but as Jennith and I came across the Bike Mistress sitting on her saddle, hard wire bristles radiating out from the front wheel, we thought, Why not?
I went first, standing in front of the bike, the scary wheel a few inches from my bottom. Bike Mistress demanded in a strict voice: “How bad have you been?”
Even though I’d never experienced recreational beating, I knew instinctively my reply would impact very directly on what happened next. I thought carefully before answering. “Well, on the whole, actually I’ve been pretty good,” I prevaricated, “but…you know…possibly a bit bad toward the end?”
Hoping I’d said the right thing, I heard Bike Mistress turn the pedals over. And as she started to pedal, the wire spokes gently slapped against the back of my combat shorts.
As Bike Mistress began cycling harder, though, I could feel the wires start to sting. I let out a gasp: It hurt. Bike Mistress was in her element by now and pedaling faster and faster; the wire switches started slapping and biting hard into my skin.
As the pain increased, I opened my mouth and let out a shriek that grew louder and louder as the bike went faster and faster. By now the pain was intense, and I shrieked unreservedly, like a kettle boiling near to the point of death.
Then it stopped.
I stumbled forward from the sudden change in pressure; then, realizing it was over and how much my bottom hurt, I started laughing. I don’t know why I found it so funny—maybe because why anyone would do this for pleasure was now truly a mystery to me, or because I was happy I’d tried something new. I turned around and saw Bike Mistress looking at me with respect. “That was really awesome,” she said. “You did well.”
I grinned and looked at Jennith, who—in complete contrast—looked mort
ified. “Come on, 80 Dates,” she said, grabbing my arm and hustling me away. “You’re making so much noise.”
“But, Jennith…” I protested in astonishment. “You’re next. You’re going on too, aren’t you?”
Pretending she hadn’t heard, Jennith was already on her bike and cycling determinedly away. I gingerly climbed onto my own saddle and pedaled after her, shouting unconvincingly: “It didn’t hurt that much. Come back, you baby….”
I loved having these experiences with the Costco-ers; they were warm, wonderful people, a community I instantly belonged with.
The time we all felt this most strongly was at the communal dinners each night. Dinner was always accompanied by speeches: Rico thanking us for all our hard work; Garry and the kitcheners being told what an amazing meal they’d made; Hank sharing an experience he’d had in the Store; Elvis telling us about a fantastic theme camp she’d discovered. It might sound gushing and maudlin, but having a brilliant time in an ultra-extreme environment was only possible because everyone worked so hard as a team; sharing a good meal and making speeches was a way of acknowledging that.
And I especially loved this time of night because Garry and I were off-duty. We’d pop in and see each other during the day, but, busy as we were working in the kitchen and store respectively, it wasn’t until the evening that we could spend more than a couple of minutes together.
Some nights we’d stay with the whole group, dressing up in ball gowns and going to the Prom a couple of camps down, or cycling around with OB and showing each other parts of the site that had been built that day, or watching the world go by from the dusty comfort of one of the Costco sofas.
It’d always end up just the two of us, though. Caught up in conversation with each other, we sometimes just didn’t notice when the group moved on. Other times, we wanted to be on our own, to hold hands and walk through a neon maze or marvel at the people scrambling over vast granite obelisks impossibly suspended from thick iron chains.
And the whole time we’d be talking about everything and nothing, laughing at silly jokes we now shared, stopping in the dust and kissing each other with a hungry passion.
And, of course, we talked about my journey. Garry understood absolutely why I had decided to embark on it. Being a career junkie himself, he’d started to lose hope of meeting anyone he really cared about, too. “Until now,” he told me as we sat by the Temple of Remembrance, looking up at the stars over the desert.
After just four days together, it seemed crazy to say that I had met and was falling in love with my Soul Mate. But that’s how it felt. We’d clicked instantly, in a way that was powerful and very real.
But I was also painfully aware that I was going to have to leave soon. As well as a dating past, I had a dating future.
I couldn’t quite get my head around how I was going to incorporate the fact that I had met Garry—potentially my Soul Mate—into my journey, but I knew I had to. I was committed to my Dates: They weren’t just numbers, they were people I was involved with now, and I didn’t want to treat them badly. And I wanted to meet them, as well as do all those things my DWs and I had worked flat-out to pull together. And besides, leaving here would hopefully give me a chance to think about Garry and put everything that had happened between us on the Playa into perspective. Who knew, maybe I was just in denial and marching on with a business as usual attitude because I didn’t know how else to handle this new minefield of feelings.
Garry seemed much calmer about it all. “Don’t worry, Jen,” he said reassuringly, “I know you have to do this.”
I think one of the reasons he was able to be so reasonable was that our experience was so intense that we weren’t really able to imagine anything beyond it. Everything about now felt so right. Leaving Garry and the Playa seemed impossible, like this was our home and we’d stay here forever. Leaving Garry—the man I’d traveled the world to find—to go date other men seemed too bizarre for words. Like a parallel universe.
But I thought again of the couple in Vegas united through the dogged efforts of Fate: “Our entire lives were leading to our time together,” Hettie had told me.
Well, Fate had brought me on this journey and had led me to Garry; it would seem she had plans for our future, too.
Back in London, when I’d finally settled on my route through the U.S., I had decided to go from here to Missoula, then from Missoula on to Seattle.
Seattle was where Garry lived.
After I left the Playa, I’d see Garry again in Seattle five days later and stay with him for the duration of my visit.
We slept less as the time to leave grew closer. It wasn’t that we were consciously trying to cram in as much time together as possible, it was more that the better we got to know each other, the more hours we wanted to spend together.
The morning I had to leave, we’d been up all night.
It was 5.30 a.m. I’d said a tearful good-bye to the lovely Costco-ers the night before; Garry and I walked along the dusty road to the car with armfuls of my belongings that item by item had taken up residence in Garry’s trailer.
Usually when we went out onto the Playa together, we’d always be nudging each other to look at an incredible sculpture, an interesting theme camp, a crazy costume (or lack of it). But now we walked in silence. We didn’t notice the pink dawn blossom around us, or the dancers or the cyclists or the art. We were both quietly wondering how we were going to say good-bye.
Over the last week, I had lived in my boots, combat shorts, and bikini; I’d almost been embarrassed changing out of them into my regular jeans and a T-shirt half an hour earlier. Here for another three days, Garry was still in his crazy shorts and a Burning Man necklace while I was dressed for the real world and feeling as if I already had one foot out the door.
We dumped the stuff in the trunk of my dusty car and Garry walked me to the driver’s side, opening the door for me. I threw my bag onto the passenger seat and turned to face him.
We looked at each other in silence. Neither of us wanted to say the words, so we said nothing at all. Garry reached out and took me in his arms.
“I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry,” I told myself.
But strangely, in a way, I felt sort of all right.
I’d been on fifty-four dates and met no one. What were the chances of me meeting anyone else? In fact, considering the odds, I thought myself pretty lucky to have stumbled upon Garry at all. Also, I had talked so much to Garry, I now needed to talk about Garry. I wanted to ring and email my friends and tell them I’d met someone amazing; give them a blow-by-blow account of how gorgeous he was, what he’d said, what he was like, how he made me feel. Girl stuff. And I’d see him in five days.
Okay, I’d talked myself around. It was all right; it was all going to be fine.
“It’s all going to be fine, you know,” I said gently, moving my head from Garry’s shoulder and looking up at him. “We’ll see each other in five days and you can show me Seattle.”
But Garry didn’t look fine; he looked tired and sad. I could tell he was thinking about how it was going to be when I was gone. But he forced a smile and narrowed his eyes, studying me intensely. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes. It’ll be fine.” Then, determined to be strong, he straightened his shoulders and stopped frowning. “Now, you drive safely and have a good flight.” I nodded dutifully. “I’ve got your hotel number in Missoula,” he continued. “I’ll call you on Monday when I’m on the way back to Seattle.”
Now that he was suddenly fine, I started getting upset. The tears ran down my cheeks as I buried my face in his shoulder.
We held each other tightly as all around us BRC geared up for another hot day on the Playa. But I had a long drive to Reno and a plane to catch, so with one last kiss and one last promise to call, I got in the car, got out of the car, gave him another kiss and a hug, got back in the car. And drove away.
I kept looking up at the rearview mirror. Garry stood on the side of the road and watched for a l
ong time as I drove out of BRC, past the greeters and away. A part of me was saying, “Oh bugger the Dates, I’m staying,” and thinking of turning back. But I knew I couldn’t. And I knew I mustn’t. Garry lived in Seattle, I lived in London.
If we really were Soul Mates, this would be the first of many good-byes.
Chapter Ten
U.S.A.—Missoula, Montana
Me with real rodeo-ers, Bill and
Ramona Holt, at the Holt
Heritage Museum, Missoula, USA
In the heart of the Rocky Mountains that run southeast from Alaska all the way down to Mexico, Missoula was one of those places where it was hard not to have a good time. The University of Montana’s campus was here, so there was always a decent band playing, plus with all the rivers and trails dotted around, you could pedal, paddle, and promenade to your heart’s content.
That was one of the reasons I’d planned to come here on my dating tour: Missoula has always been one of my feel-good places and, even before I’d met the Love Professor, I’d known that happy people are luckier in love. The other reason was a bit sillier but no less heartfelt. Nicholas Evans’s book The Smoke Jumper was based on the Missoulian firemen who fight the huge fires that ravage the surrounding area each summer by jumping out of planes directly into the path of the blaze.
It was a classic, sappy love story full of fearless, athletic, yet imperceptibly vulnerable men doing a real and dangerous job. I was in a romantic daze as I read it and—since it was set in my beloved Missoula—wanted to see for myself if the real smokejumpers were just as dreamy.
Of course, all this was before I met Garry.
For the ten hours I’d been traveling, I could only think of two things: how much I needed a bath and how much I missed Garry. The notion that I had Dates waiting for me at the end of the journey (the smokejumper plus a rodeo rider and possibly Cam, an American friend of Jo’s) was not so much unwelcome as unimaginable.
