Dating Without Novocaine

“Hoo-rah!” Scott said.

“Oh, stop it,” Louise scolded. “You’re not nearly the animal you think.”

“Ha. What do you know?”

“You’re a ‘nice guy,’” I said, feeling wicked. “You’re the type that women like to have as a friend.”

“Kee-rist! Thanks a lot! Could you be a little more insulting?”

I gave a toothy grin.

“When’s the last time you had a checkup? Maybe it’s time for some dental X rays.”

“Don’t be mean.” Memories of hard cardboard edges poking my gums filled my mind, and the heavy weight of the lead apron on my chest. The smell of alcohol, the taste of the latex-gloved fingers against the edge of my tongue…

“The thing about the physical attractiveness,” Louise said, “is that we go for someone as attractive as we think we can get without risking rejection.”

“That must be why handsome men are so terrifying,” I said.

“I scare you that much?” Scott asked.

I snorted.

“Come on, Scott, you’re the same way,” Louise said. “I’ve been with you when you’ve refused to approach a woman because you thought she was too beautiful for you.”

That was interesting. I never thought of Scott thinking himself not good enough for anyone. Who wouldn’t want a good-looking guy who was a reliable provider? What did he have to be uncertain about?

“You know,” I said, “you see rich, ugly men with beautiful women, but you never see a rich, ugly woman with a handsome man. Never. The closest you get is a famous, rich older woman with a young guy, but even then she’s got to still be looking pretty good.”

We looked at Scott.

“What? I didn’t do anything.”

“Guilt by association,” I said.

“I thought I was a ‘nice guy.’”

“So you’d date a woman less attractive than yourself?”

“That’s not a fair question.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I answer honestly, I’ll sound like a pig.”

“What’s unfair about that?”

“You already know the answer. Everyone knows, you don’t need a scientific study to prove it. Guys are visual. We want someone good-looking, if we can get her.”

“And even if you can’t,” I said, beginning to get steamed by the injustice of it. I hated caring about my appearance as much as I did, I wanted to believe it didn’t matter, that it was inner beauty that counted, but every time I almost started to convince myself of that, something came along to say I was wrong.

“I saw an interview on TV,” I said, “with some guy who said his only intimate relationships were with prostitutes, because the women that he found attractive in daily life did not find him attractive in return. So he’d rather pay for it, and have it fake, than get to know a real woman he could maybe build a life with.”

“For God’s sake, Hannah. Now you’re comparing me to a guy who sleeps with hookers? All I said was that I’d prefer someone attractive. So would you. So would anyone. Listen to Louise, she’s the one who read the study!”

“I’m putting that in my profile,” Cassie said. “‘Must have no history of dating prostitutes.’ Do you think that will put anyone off?”

The tension broke, and I relaxed back against the futon. Scott nudged my knee with his foot, and I slapped it lightly away, looking at him from the corner of my eye and not quite able to keep from smiling.

“If it does,” Louise said, “it’s just as well. Think of the diseases! Bleh!”

Five

Mourning Clothes

M y mobile phone rang as I slowly cruised the residential street of tract mansions looking for Kristina DeFrang’s house. She was a new client, referred by Joanne of the muffins and too much clothing.

I pulled to the curb and stopped before answering, having promised myself when purchasing the thing that I would not annoy the rest of humanity by driving and talking at the same time. I’d come near to breaking the promise a hundred times, and who would know? But I didn’t want to be one of those cell phone users. I wanted to be one of the good ones, who when in public huddled in a corner and whispered a brief conversation, then hung up quickly.

Perhaps that was another criteria to put in the personal ad, besides no history of dating prostitutes: does not use mobile phone while browsing at Barnes & Noble or standing in line at Starbucks. Cassie would qualify that with: prefers independent businesses to chains, and does not know the difference between a Grande and a Tall.

I, on the other hand, thought Starbucks and Barnes & Noble were both good places to look for guys. Some guys apparently thought the same thing about bookstores: I’d once been followed aisle to aisle by a lummox carrying a copy of Chicken Soup for the Single’s Soul.

“Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hannah! Are you on the phone?”

It took a daughter to translate Mother-speak correctly. “Hi, Mom. I’m on the cell phone, in my car.”

“You aren’t driving, are you? Should I call back?”

“It’s okay, I’m parked. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Nearly to Camas, looking for a client’s house.” Camas was across the river, in Washington state, about half an hour from Portland. “She’s supposed to have a big job for me, something about redecorating her second house.”

“Dad can’t get the VCR to work.”

The abrupt change of topic was nothing new, and I tried to not take offense at her apparent lack of interest in my work. And it was only an apparent lack: I knew that she cared how I was and that I was able to make ends meet, but the specifics of that struggle and of my work were beyond her present life.

Mom and Dad were nearly seventy, having had me late and as a bit of a surprise. Mom was a retired grade school teacher, and Dad had been a carpenter and was now a housing inspector. He talked about retiring, but I doubted he would unless forced to. They lived in the house I had grown up in, in Roseburg, three hours south of Portland. It wasn’t the boonies, but it was pretty close.

“Put him on,” I said.

There were scuffling sounds, muted voices, then Dad. “I followed your instruction sheet, but it didn’t work, and now I can’t get the regular TV stations, either. I think the remote’s batteries need to be changed.”

I stifled a sigh. How could a man who could spot the first faint signs of dry rot and tell the exact remaining life span of a roof be stymied by a couple of black buttons?