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Adventures
in Internet Dating
By
Claudia Graziano
I knew I liked James the first time he emailed me. It’s true, email is a misleading indicator of overall personality and date-ability. Just because someone’s a decent speller and can make you laugh in 50 words or less doesn’t necessarily mean he or she is capable of charming your socks off in person. In fact, the first time I actually met James I have to admit I was a little disappointed.
The picture he emailed me had been taken a few years earlier, when (I later learned) he was still living with his ex-girlfriend, Heather. In the picture James is leaning against a dusty red pickup, two attractive girls (neither of whom is Heather) on either side. James’ arms are folded across his chest and he’s wearing dark sunglasses so you can’t see his eyes, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips. His hair is spiked and dyed red, and he’s easily 20 pounds heavier. He and his “friends” are supposed to be at Burning Man, that infamous desert free-for-all, which may explain the bad-boy look he is sporting. The fact that James had been to Burning Man wasn’t exactly a point in his favor, but his apology for sending me a picture of himself with two girls made me laugh. What was I supposed to do, paint black bars over their eyes? Deal with it, he told me. And so I emailed him my phone number.
James called on a Saturday, just before Halloween. We were both a little nervous, but I knew inside ten minutes that the self-assured guy with the spiked hair and the red pickup wasn’t the guy on the phone. James was shy, at a loss for words. He told me he was in the middle of making pumpkin pies from scratch, and that his girlfriend of five years had moved out three months ago. There were a few long, uncomfortable silences.
I probably wouldn’t have agreed to meet James for a drink except for a little story he told me on the phone about his Dad. James Sr., it seemed, had a fascination with Italian culture. So who doesn’t? you may ask. The wine, the food, the tempers, the gelato. For someone of actual Italian descent (my father was born in Sicily), I found this fairly mainstream. But James (whose last name is so English it may as well be Mayflower) explained that his Dad’s fascination with all things Italian went beyond
The Sopranos and spaghetti Bolognese. The signs were small at first—a signet ring worn on his pinky, a new black Oldsmobile Cutlass, tickets to see Tony Bennett. He listened to language tapes, and although he never managed to pick up much Italian, he acquired somewhat of an accent. He began making references to “the old country.” Then one day, almost without warning, James Sr. (I am not making this up) changed his legal name to Guido something-or-other and moved to Costa Rica, explaining to his new acquaintances that he was, in fact, Italian-American.
In addition to the story about his Dad, James told me a story about a friend of his named Lucky, who was short and fat and lived with his parents, but to whom women were mysteriously attracted. (Hence, the name, I suppose.) Lucky was so skillful with the ladies, he’d managed to paint himself into that unenviable corner of dating two women at once and not being able to decide which one to choose. As it happens, both women were named Tiffany. James said Lucky worried incessantly about running into one while out on a date with the other. I said Lucky was in fact pretty lucky to be dating two women with the same name. If nothing else, I decided, James was going to be good for material.
We agreed to meet at the Zodiac Bar in the Castro, since it was a short walk from both of our houses—up the hill for James, down the street a few blocks for me. According to his profile, James lived exactly 1.2 miles away from me. Since I walk everywhere, I saw this proximity as a plus. Even when it comes to relationships, location is everything. I was late, having spent too much time trying not to look like I’d spent too much time on my appearance. James was sitting at the bar, red spikes gone, cocky half-smile absent, spine rounded in submission. He had the look of someone who had lost weight too quickly. James had been watching the door for me, and he knew me immediately when I walked in. (My picture wasn’t taken at Burning Man two years ago.) There was no sneaking away. The date was on.
The Zodiac Bar turned out to be the kind of bar only a non-drinker like myself could love. Theme drinks that tasted like pop rocks and came with plastic swizzle sticks topped with monkeys’ and rams’ heads, and cocktail napkins printed with horoscopes. After a Moon Child and a Scorpio Sting, James was laughing at my jokes and no longer leaning on the bar for support. After a Blue Aquarius I was inching my bar stool closer to his and The Zodiac Bar seemed a little darker. Then the moment came.
I made a comment about James being on what I call the breakup diet. What’s that supposed to mean? He said. Oh come on, you can admit it, I teased. We’ve all been there. Nothing kills an appetite like a relationship gone bad, I said. Things got quiet, and pretty soon James stood up to go. I told him to invite me over for pie sometime. He smiled and I smiled and we both knew that he wouldn’t. I silently wished him luck as I watched him zip up his jacket, hunch his shoulders, and start his walk up the hill.
James wasn’t my type romantically, but I knew what it felt like to have your confidence erased by a member of the opposite sex who was supposed to have been your best friend. Besides, I felt bad for bruising his ego. I decided to call him the next day while waiting in line at the drive-thru car wash. A man’s voice picked up.
Hi, can I speak to James please? I said. A short silence. You want to speak to James? Yes, I said. Is he there? This must be the roommate, I thought. You’re joking, the voice came back. You sure? Well…, I began, not even sure now that I’d dialed the right number. I’d scrolled through my “recent calls” list and picked what I thought was the one from James the other day. Are you James’ roommate?
Ho, roommate! He snickered. Hang on a minute, I’ll get James (emphasis on James) for you. Wait, I said, convinced now that I’d made a mistake. The voice was familiar, but something wasn’t right. Hey—I started again, but the guy had already put the phone down. The car in front of me entered the car wash and I steered my own car into the tracks and rolled up my windows. Maybe I should just hang up.
In the background I could hear the guy calling loudly, hey James? You want to take this call? Or are you busy at the moment? More snickering. Who WAS this guy?
Hey, I said again, louder. Who is this? Who’s this? The voice on the other end countered. You called me, remember? Just then the green light for the wash turned on. Look, I said, I’m about to go through the car wash so I have to hang up now. Wait a second, the guy said slowly. I know who you are. You’re the girl I met online.
Shit! Of course. This was that British guy, Adam, I’d talked to on the phone a few days before James called me. I’d only talked to him once—I remember a short conversation about sex, which I remember thinking was a little inappropriate for our initial conversation. He had wanted to make it clear to me that he was “really into it,” and if I wasn’t than our relationship wasn’t going to work. I promptly deleted all of his emails.
Adam! I said. He laughed. You had me going there for a minute. How did you know my dog’s name was James? Sort of Seinfeld-ian—
Adam, I have to go. I’m in the car wash. Bye! I rushed him off the phone, the brushes and soap swirling around me. Whatever else I learned that day, I know you still have reception in the car wash. I decided to wait until I got home to my computer to look up James’ number. At the very least, I thought, James would get a kick out of my story. I also hoped it might add a little levity to our last conversation. I hate ending things—even minor encounters—on a bad note.
He seemed amused when I told him about car wash incident, but overall James had a sense of humor failure and I never ended up dating him, although we stayed in touch for a few months after that. The last time I saw James was in the Castro on Halloween, exactly a year later. He was dressed in an all-beige track suit, with a beige cap on his head. He was still skinny, and still a little hunched. I wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be at first, but then I figured out that he was dressed as a penis. A tall, skinny, sad penis.
Copyright ©
2003 Claudia Graziano
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