“I am only a very conscientious recorder.”
–Vladimir Nabokov
I am a widow, a frequent visitor of online dating sites who has trolled profiles and offered daily penitence in the form of ubiquitous flirts and smiley faces, messages extolling the virtues of a nearly beloved’s profile, the way he gazes into an ocean, or in other cases, sheltering a grandchild, or with the affectionate fingers of a daughter, son, or former wife draped along his shoulder whose faces have been excised from the frame so as to highlight the smile of the subscriber; hoping to find a photo that did not feature the usual backdrop of the last European vacation, swimming pool and skyline of a four-star hotel awash in the distance, yet to simply (finally!) locate a person smiling at me with loving eyes.
Geographical location alone cannot be counted upon in this slippery world of online dating for I have received messages from men whose profiles have indicated that they lived within a 50-mile radius, but upon first contact, revealed that they were actually based in Dubai, Singapore, or Istanbul and planned to return sometime in the next six months to meet at any coffee shop of my choosing.
I am not looking for pity, support, or disgust. I only offer the above as the hard facts of finding love in the age of the Internet and as a prelude to that day when I happened to stumble upon a posting from Edmond, aka Widower-Soon-to-Be, a unique proposal that I had never before encountered, a handsome-looking man anticipating his wife’s imminent death and was seeking a friend through the tough times, possibly leading to a LTR connection. He had described himself as a smart, creative individual who owned a home on the quiet side of town with solar panels. Politically progressive, he drove an electronic vehicle and owned two Labrador retrievers (one bIack and one golden). Edmond was looking to find a long-time companion as his wife funneled through the last rounds of chemotherapy.
By the time I had made up my mind about responding, most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons. Maybe I was hoping that Edmond had found his match, a lady-friend who would take turns at his wife’s bedside while they reconvened later in the evening for cocktails. We did exchange several emails with the possibility of getting together but left things fluid. It was easier that way. After all, all I’d be doing would be waiting for his wife to die. Plus, I did not know if Edmond would like me, or I him; furthermore, I would have to receive the stamp of approval from his current wife who might whisper in his ear from a fluffed-up pillow that I was not attractive enough or too short, or some other thing to which she took umbrage, a case of double-trouble when online dating itself is rife with trouble, so why would I wish to take on more anxiety when my own relationship history had been fraught with men who were not emotionally available and how would this situation be any different when it necessitated that Edmond divide his attention between two women, one healthy, and the other withering on the vine, a woman who might be playing the role of a saint, but in reality, a succubus who didn’t want to let go of her husband or of life, and how could I blame her? I did contemplate the fiction of how easy it would be to inject poison into her catheter, but ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I never killed her.
Weeks before Edmond had contacted me, I was taking walks behind my condominium where a natural stream plummets alongside a major highway and dog walkers escort their flock up the canyon, uttering encouragements of Good boy and flinging fluorescent green balls up the path for their dogs to fetch, but since I am a cat and not a dog owner, I was one of the few people alone on the trail, a friend to dog walkers with their colorful tattoos and piercings. Coming back from one of these invigorating walks, I’d received a message from Edmond who wondered if I’d like to meet.
Never quick to discard any outlandish proposition, I head toward the gym to give the matter further consideration, remembering my more youthful days when I’d traveled across the Canadian border to help an Israeli soldier escape from the army only to discover that he was dealing drugs. How we originally met is a blur, but I do recall arriving at a gorgeous home set back from an orchard where I met an even more gorgeous young man who took my hand as we walked through the hills as he demonstrated the best way to climb down a mountain, which was sideways. He explained how he’d been trained as a member of Israel’s elite intelligence force, the IDF, but had been struck by conscience and was going to seek asylum. I respected his choice. The plan was for me to help him slip across the Canadian border, where he would then hand over a paid one-way ticket for me to return home, helping him to evade the IDF, which was looking to intercept a single young man, and not one traveling with a companion. His plan was to reach the international court in the Hague.
After we’d made love in a creaky motel bed at the edge of Seattle’s red light district and he stroked my back with feathers (I don’t recall where they came from), he opened a brown suitcase that was filled discs of hashish the size of cupcakes. He claimed that the drugs were for the sole purpose of currency, safer than Traveler’s Checks and accepted in every country. I saw myself being arrested with him as soon as we landed on Canadian soil. Unfortunatley, I don’t remember smoking any of his hashish, and despite his pleas to continue our journey together, I demanded my one-way ticket, which he reluctantly handed over. Some time later, I received a phone call; he pleaded with me to rendezvous in another country so we could travel the world together. He said he loved me. It was tempting, but I turned down the offer. How could anyone feel love after one night?
As I continued on the elliptical machine, my thoughts drifted back to the Edmond couple as they sailed toward Lethe’s waters. Noting that I had ten more minutes to pump my arms back and forth like a wooden puppet on the elliptical, I was surrounded by men in T-shirts and hoodies checking cell phone messages as they did sit-ups, one guy practicing rap lyrics as he lifted fifty-pound weights, curling his arm on the downbeat, many women in leggings patterned or not, training along side a girlfriend with encouragements about just one more and keep going. I completed my 30-minute walk to nowhere, and resolved to tell Edmond I would meet him, but hoped it wouldn’t be in a hospital cafeteria.
We made plans to rendezvous at a nearby coffee shop. I pulled on a pair of jeans and kept telling myself that I was only meeting him to satisfy my curiosity about a man (really a couple), who were seeking a surrogate to usher them through the ravages of terminal cancer, and at the end, walk away with the prize of a grateful mate, at least that’s how I initially conceived of the proposal. It was unusual to say the least and in some way marked, I thought, by extreme hubris, counting on Edmond’s good looks to attract a candidate who might double as a hospice worker and potential lover. I must emphasize to the jury that I had no designs on Mrs. Edmond’s Cartier pearls, nor her gold necklaces bought in India and appraised for millions. I was attracted to Edmond as a character portrait—writers inhale people if only to exhale them on the page.
Octopus Salon reading (Pandemonium Press) January 4, 2018