I start to raise my hand to flag her down, but she sees me first and smiles.
She’s walking back here toward the table.
Holy shit!
“Edward, I’m so happy to meet you,” she says, offering a handshake as she sits down.
I accept and try to remember to shake firmly.
“Have you been waiting long?”
I look down at my watch: 7:13:57…7:13:58…7:13:59…
“Fourteen minutes. We were supposed to meet at seven, correct?”
“Yes. I am so sorry. I left Broadview early so I could get here in plenty of time, and then there was a big wreck on Highway 3—a really bad one—and that slowed me down, and then when I got down here, I had a really hard time finding a place to park. It’s busy here on a Friday night.”
“I parked right across the street.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Edward, I’m glad I’m here now.” She looks me over. “I like your suit.”
“Yes.”
I reach down on the bench seat beside me and pick up the rose, which I’ve been hiding. I set it on the table across from Joy. “This is for you,” I say.
She picks it up. “Thank you so much. It’s beautiful. You’re so sweet.”
The server comes by again to drop off menus and take our drink order. Joy orders a Gewurztraminer, which appears to be some sort of wine. I order a glass of water. I’ve never had wine, and I don’t drink alcohol. Or, at least, I haven’t.
“You’re not having wine?”
“No.”
“I love Gewurztraminer. I like sweeter wines—Rieslings and chardonnays. Not so much red wines. Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”
“I’ll try it, I guess.” When the server walks by, I ask her to bring me a glass of Gewurztraminer. Even if I don’t end up liking the wine, I sure like the word.
“We didn’t really talk about eating, but this menu looks yummy,” Joy says. “Would you like to have something to eat?”
“Yes.”
When the server comes back with the Gewurztraminers and the water, she asks us if we would like something to eat. Joy orders the lobster mac ’n’ cheese. I order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken.
“A salad?” Joy says. “You’re going to make me look like a pig for ordering a big, hot meal.”
“I’m interested to see your mac ’n’ cheese. I can’t decide if it sounds good.”
“I’ve heard that it’s fantastic. Would you like a bite when it comes?”
“No. I couldn’t do that.”
– • –
Over dinner, Joy asks me a few questions but mostly talks about herself. She is surprised when she asks what I do for a living and I say “nothing.” I then tell her that I’m living on my investments, which is a little white lie. I’m living on my father’s investments.
She launches into a story about growing up on a farm outside Broadview and how her parents were mean to her and her and brothers and how eventually she ended up living in town with her aunt and uncle, who were very nice people and—
The Gewurztraminer makes me belch. It’s not loud, but it interrupts her story.
“I burped,” I say.
“Yes, well,” Joy says, looking momentarily annoyed, and then she’s off and talking again. I like listening to her. Her story doesn’t have a lot of structure—she jumps around a lot in time and place and goes on little side stories called tangents—but she is so demonstrative in telling the story that I just shovel salad into my mouth and listen.
“Edward, I’m sorry, I’m dominating the conversation,” she says. “I’d like to hear what you think of all this.”
“I think it’s nice that your aunt and uncle took care of you.”
“No, I mean about this,” she says, waving her right hand in a parabola over the table.
“It’s good food.”
“No, about us, about being here,” she says. “Were you nervous? I was.”
I think about her question for a few seconds before answering.
“I guess I was a little nervous. I woke up really early this morning, at five fifty-seven. I usually wake up at one of four times—seven thirty-seven, seven thirty-eight, seven thirty-nine, or seven forty—but today I woke up at five fifty-seven thinking about tonight.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if we were going to have sex.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but I wondered what would happen if we did.”
Joy looks cross. “We are not having sex.”
“I know. That’s what I decided, too.”
“Well, I’m glad.”
“I just don’t see how it could happen. I would miss Dragnet.”
“That’s not the only reason it’s not going to happen. And listen, I read up on Dragnet. Why do you keep talking about a forty-year-old TV show?”
“I always watch Dragnet, every night at ten.”
I look down at my watch. It’s 8:04.
“I’m very uncomfortable with this conversation,” Joy says.
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe you brought up sex. That’s really out of line.”
“I was just being honest about what I was thinking of, because you asked me.”
“I don’t know. I’m really uncomfortable. I think I’m going to go.”
Joy flags down the server and asks for a box for her lobster mac ’n’ cheese and for separate checks. When they arrive, she puts cash on the table to cover her check, and then she stands up.
“Well, it’s a long drive back to Broadview,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.” And she pivots and walks out.
I reach into the breast pocket of my suit jacket to fish out my wallet, and I realize that I never gave her the mix CD.
– • –
By the time I get home, I have replayed the whole scene in my head, and I am frantic. Joy thought I wanted to have sex with her, and she wigged out. I didn’t want to have sex with her. I told her that. She didn’t understand what I was saying.
And then there was that last line: “I’ll talk to you soon.”
She’s just not that into me.
– • –
I make a bold decision: I am not going to watch Dragnet tonight. I don’t have the energy for it.
It’s too bad, too, because the fourth episode of the first season, “The Interrogation,” is not just one of my favorites, it is my favorite. Kent McCord plays a rookie cop named Paul Culver who is mistaken for a liquor store robber while on undercover duty, and Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon, now working in internal affairs, try to wring the truth out of him: Did he rob that liquor store or not?
In this episode, which originally aired on February 9, 1967, Sergeant Joe Friday gives a speech that I think should be printed out and passed out to anyone who wants to be a policeman. It goes on for several minutes, and it never gets boring. Paul Culver sits rapt (I love the word “rapt”) as Sergeant Joe Friday tells him that being a cop is hard work, that people don’t treat cops very well, that he will never make very much money, that his uniform will get torn up by bad guys, and that he will write as many words in his career as there are in a library. He tells Paul Culver that he will see things that break his heart and that bad people will try to do bad things to him.
None of it sounds very appealing, but Sergeant Joe Friday says he is proud to be a cop, and in the end, Paul Culver is proud to be a cop, too. Sergeant Joe Friday convinced him that he ought to stick with it, even though Culver got agitated when he was falsely accused of a crime.
Sergeant Joe Friday always says exactly what he wants to say. I wish I were he tonight.
– • –
I also take a pass on writing my letter of complaint. I don’t know who the target should be.
Is it I for chasing Joy away? Is it the vintner of the Gewurztraminer for making me burp? Is it Joy for showing up late and overreacting?
Is it I for thinking that she overreacted?
I lack the clarity for a letter of complaint.
Internet dating has wrecked all of the things that I rely on.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25
Here are today’s numbers:
Woke up: 7:37 (seventeenth time this year out of 299 days, because it’s a leap year).
Yesterday’s high temperature: forty-four degrees.
Yesterday’s low temperature: twenty-four degrees.
Today’s forecasted high temperature: forty-eight degrees.
But forecasts, as you know by now, are notoriously off base. I shall wait for the facts, which I prefer.
Here’s a fact: I hate online dating.
– • –
After breakfast, I log on to Montana Personal Connect one last time to wipe out my account, and I see this:
Inbox (1).
I click the link.
Edward:
I wanted you to know that I am not feeling “the click” factor with you. I dont really know how to explain it but I feel as though we would not be compatable because I felt at Bin 119 that you were not interested in learning anything about me. When I was telling you about my uncle adopting me you said “I burped” and then didn’t follow up on anything about what I was saying regarding just getting to know me. I guess I feel shut down with you and I dont enjoy feeling that way. I am not saying I wouldn’t want to be friends but I dont want to date. Its a different level and I dont feel it with you.
I can’t really put my finger on it and this is just a lame example of what I am trying to say but I am a very intuitive, sensitive (clearly), sensual and “musical” kind of person and you are more a “TV guy” and not as much of those things…and I have met men who are and I am looking more for that because around gardeners I open up and blossom and that’s how I like to experience life.
When you brought up sex, that freaked me out also but Im willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that your nervous about meeting. I was too.
Anyway those are my thoughts and I share them with you with respect and I hope you will understand that this is a gift, to share anything is a gift…and my hope is you will treat it as such. But thats up to you.
I just don’t see us being more than friends and since we live so far apart I don’t see that either.
Sorry.
Joy
I don’t keep records on such things, but surely 9:12 a.m. is the earliest I’ve ever written a letter of complaint. I prepare a new green office folder, put a tab titled “Joy” on it, and sit down at the computer to type.
Joy:
Thank you for your e-mail of the twenty-fifth. Please allow me to retort.
First, I don’t know what “the click” factor is.
Second, I burped because of the wine, which I’d never had before and you were insistent that I try.
Third, you spelled “compatible” wrong.
Fourth, you need to learn how to use apostrophes correctly and consistently.
Fifth, I was listening to your story.
Sixth, I don’t know what a “TV guy” is.
Seventh, your note doesn’t feel much like a gift.
Eighth, why say you don’t see us being more than friends and then say you don’t see that, either? It makes no sense.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
I print out the letter and file it away, then come back to the computer, pull up Montana Personal Connect again and see this:
Inbox (1).
Edward:
I had high hopes for this. I really did. Dating men in Broadview is so hard because there are only a limited number of cool places to go here and I always run into someone. I am an extremely private person and so I generally like not being around town and the rumor mill. Also I meant to tell you this last night but didn’t and I feel I should now: my first name is actually Annette. I didn’t want to have my real name for my e-mail so I created this account with my middle name. I figure that anyone reasonable will understand and believe me it has kept me safe.
Annette
I go back to my files, pull Joy’s folder, take out the tab, and add this to the “Joy” that’s already there: “aka, Annette.”
Then it’s back to the computer for another letter.
Annette:
I am flabbergasted by this latest revelation. I was honest about my name. Why couldn’t you do the same? Frankly, I find that our correspondence has taken an ugly turn. Please refrain from contacting me further.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
I file the second letter, then put the green office folder back in the filing cabinet and return to the computer.
Inbox (1).
Holy shit!
Edward:
The guy Ive been writing to didn’t show up last night. All in all, you seemed like a nice guy but not easy to talk to in person…for whatever reason. I don’t like having to work this hard at something. Im sorry if my perceptions sting and they may be inaccurate as hell, I’ll give you that.
I don’t have it in me to wait for you to show up…and that you never commented or supported me on anything that I said about my life was very revealing that you thought you were the only one nervous or needing to feel put at ease. I gave you that, you didn’t. It made me sad and angry a bit because I thought more of you.
Annette
I retrieve the green office folder yet again.
Annette:
I do not know why you insist on continuing to write to me. Your complaints are heading into bizarre territory now. Dr. Buckley says that when I start to feel overwhelmed or out of control, I should take a deep breath and focus on a path out of the chaos. I rather think you should take that advice now.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
Annette, or Joy, or whoever she is, writes three more times, and my green office folder begins to fill up.
Edward:
I was going to write and see if we could work something out but I think that it is better to let it go. I think that at this point, any making up would just lead to more of the same kind of misunderstanding and “drama.” I think your substantial, kind-hearted, sweet, beautiful in your own way, and so much more you will never know. But I cant go into something this emotional. My last boyfriend, whom I dearly loved and completely supported through so much stuff, took it and then he slammed another girl just a few short months ago. Therefore, I am looking for a less dramatic deal right now.
Annette
Annette:
My head is swimming. You’re looking for a less dramatic deal? Somehow, I find that hard to believe.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
Edward:
I wish you would write back. I need to know what your thinking about all of this. Maybe there’s a way we could start over. I don’t know. Write me back and lets talk about it.
Annette
Annette:
I think it’s funny—not funny “ha-ha,” but just funny—that I’m the one with a mental illness.
Regards,
Edward Stanton
Edward:
Your an asshole. I pour out my heart to you and you say nothing. Good-bye, looser.
Annette
Annette:
Good-bye. And it’s “loser.”
Regards,
Edward Stanton
I put the green office folder called “Joy—aka, Annette” away for the last time. It’s nearly noon, and I’m headed back to bed.
– • –
I stir at 6:03 p.m. and pad into the kitchen for dinner. In addition to all the other ways in which this thing with Joy-Annette went sideways, my meal schedule is fouled up. I didn’t have lunch, and now it’s dinnertime. Consequently, I will have one extra meal in the house when I return to the grocery store next week. These are complications I do not need.
I cook my Banquet fried chicken dinner in the microwave and try to, as Dr. Buckley says, find a route back to normalcy
.
I can’t see that road.
– • –
At 10:00, I play tonight’s episode of Dragnet.
I am irritated that I have missed the fourth episode of the first season, “The Interrogation,” as it is my favorite of all ninety-eight color episodes. But I decide that sticking to my schedule is more important than making up the lost ground. As it turns out, I will see “The Interrogation” again on January 4, 2009, as I reset from the beginning of these series on the first day of every year. That is not so far away now.
The fifth episode of the first season is called “The Masked Bandits,” and it is one of my favorites. It originally aired on February 16, 1967, and involves a gang of young punks who wear red masks and hold up cocktail lounges.
One of the punks is a seventeen-year-old kid named Larry Hubbert (played by Ron Russell, in his only Dragnet appearance). Larry is married to an older woman named Edna (played by Virginia Vincent, who made six Dragnet appearances). Edna took Larry in when his parents left town, and she wants what is best for him, even though he wants to rob cocktail joints.
At one point in the episode, Edna tells Sergeant Joe Friday that she’s as entitled to love as anybody is. Sergeant Joe Friday doesn’t disagree.
I don’t, either, but I have news for Edna Hubbert: love isn’t easy to find.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 26
Do you know that gauzy feeling that comes from having not too little sleep but too much? Everything seems a little fuzzy, there is a faint headache, and things seem to move in slow motion but still too fast. That’s how I feel today at 7:37 a.m., when I wake up. It’s the eighteenth time in 300 days this year (because it’s a leap year) and the second morning in a row for that time. Of the range of my four most common wake-up times—7:37, 7:38, 7:39, and 7:40—7:37 is the least frequent of the bunch. Maybe 7:37 is staging a rally.
I record my waking time, and my data is complete.
– • –
I’m still agitated and flummoxed by Joy-Annette’s behavior yesterday. She seemed nice in our initial e-mails, if a bit sloppy and unfamiliar with proper punctuation. She even seemed nice at our abbreviated dinner, until the misunderstanding about sex. When she left so abruptly, I thought that it was my fault, even though she had asked me what I was nervous about and I answered her honestly, which I thought is what I should do.
600 Hours of Edward Page 13
