by David M. Howell ©2004
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
My inner voice was upset. I thought I could say anything to myself, but it turns out, on the inside, I’m thin skinned. I’m not sure when my inner voice turned on me, but with all the contempt of a jilted lover, I lashed out at myself. Now, as I rode the El in silence, I was afraid to say anything to anyone fearing a reprisal from myself. Standing mute, I grasped the overhead rail to steady myself around the North Avenue curve. My eyes caught a glimpse of my thin arms.
“You need to workout,” I heard myself say. But I ignored me. I was always trying to get at myself. My ex-wife had constantly criticized me about everything including gaining a little weight. The inner voice was disappointed when we split up…it often agreed with her criticisms.
My inner voice and I argued constantly over the divorce. For every reason I had for moving on, I would counter with a shortcoming that furthered the tumult. This went on for several months after the divorce until in a crowded theater, the emotional volcano erupted.
“I’m through!” I shouted and stormed out.
Out in the lobby, I faced myself in a showdown.
“You can’t shut me off. I’m you! I’m your deepest, most inner self. You can’t ignore me…and you’re not gonna get rid of me like a bad marriage.” My inner voice planted its feet.
“Shut-up, shut-up?” I told myself not caring that people were beginning to stare. “I don’t need this now. Goddamn, you’re so insensitive.”
“Well suck it up, big boy. Just because you’re insecure doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to speak your mind,” the inner voice raised. “Fuck you. You could have done more to save the marriage. But no…now look at you, alone in a theater like a loser. And Madellyn would have liked this movie.”
“Stop it. I know I did everything I could… Madellyn left me…remember?” A mother pulled her young children away.
“Well, maybe if you’d listened to me for a change Madellyn would still be here. And we’d be enjoying this movie…” My inner voice crossed its arms and pouted.
About this time the theater manager came up to me and explained that I was disturbing the other moviegoers. Hell, I was disturbing myself.
I was trying to keep my voices down—even silence them—but it was always there, hiding just out of sight like a conscience.
I walked into the summer night’s air and was immediately engulfed by the traffic, crowds and commotion of Chicago’s Michigan Avenue. Despite the cacophony, all I could hear was my inner voice berating me.
“Oh you’ll never date again…no one could ever like you…lose some weight…god you look hideous in that color.” It just never seemed to end. I walked home, dejected.
That was over a month ago and even though I had accepted my vocal inner voice, I was finding it exceedingly hard to live with. Now, on the train heading to Janie’s party and all I could do was remind myself that I have scrawny arms.
The night was cool for a July in Chicago, perfect for Janie’s Bastille Day Party. Ironically, she wasn’t French, it just seemed that decapitation was a good excuse for a party, at least to her way of thinking. Janie was a sales rep for one of the many vendors the ad agency I worked for used. But she always seemed to bring her work relationships to a personal level and we became almost instant friends. Even my inner voice liked her, though seemed a bit cooled by her boyfriend, Bogart. He was as unpredictable as Crispin Glover—his every movement was a convulsion of flaying arms and legs.
With all this self-doubt flaring up lately, I was reluctant to go out, but I sold myself on the need to have a decent conversation with some one, anyone other than myself. Besides, Janie had promised there’d be tons of babes at her party. Given her intimate knowledge of the Chicago advertising scene, I was confident there would be plenty of “attractive” people in attendance.
I reached the gray door of Janie’s three flat and buzzed 2S.
“Bonjour, welcome to Janie’s…” a static voice said. It wasn’t Janie, but she sounded cute. Already this evening was getting better.
“Hi, it’s David,” I said.
“Hello,” the inner voice chimed in.
“Great come on up.” The unlock buzzer jolted the doorknob.
I loved these old Chicago walkups. The stairs were worn and creaked, they usually had a musty smell to them and the hallway carpet was bristly like a wall-to-wall Brillo pad. The door at the top of the stairs had an old brass ‘2S’ that was nearly completely covered by layers of gray paint. The door was also ajar and I grabbed the wobbly, baseball size knob and pushed. I could hear the Kid Rock’s “I Wanna Be A Cowboy” from the street, but now, inside, it was as if I’d stepped into the concert. I was met at the door by a stunning woman every inch as tall as me with perfect complexion and very long, jet black hair that seemed to dance all on its own. She could have been, should have been a model. Every curve was geometrically perfect. Her deep, dark blue eyes grabbed me and held me like a mother to a babe. She extended the most perfect long, thin arm offering me her hand. I wanted more.
“I’m Xavier,” her perfect voice sang. It was the voice from the entry buzzer without the static or distance. It was everything I could do to keep myself from saying Hollander?
“Xavier Mordarician…I know, it’s Turkish…everybody asks.”
“Hi…I’m David…” I said taking her hand.
“…Janie’s friend.” my inner voice seemed to always need the last word.
“Yes, Janie told me about you…you’re a creative director at Ogilvy & Mather?”
“Yes...”
“…that’s right.” Again with the last word.
“Well, Janie asked me to baby sit you in case you got here before she got back,” Xavier said as she took my elbow and lead me into the room. “She and Bogart went to get some thing for the dip.”
This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me. If this were a sock hop, I’d usually end up near the shoe pile trying to match the dancers with their foot wear—with relative accuracy. There was definitely chemistry here. It was as if she could read my thoughts…before my inner voice said them. There was a rhythm to our conversation, even the pauses seem comfortable and planned.
“And what do you do, Xavier?” I asked thrilled by her nearness.
“How do you know Janie?” My inner voice butted in. I wanted it out of the conversation.
“I work with her, I’m Lizard Scales new office manager.”
Lizard Scales was a music house that produced sound tracks for TV and radio commercials. I’d worked with them on several campaigns and liked their composer, Rick. Janie also made doing business with them fun.
“Janie tells me you’re single,” Xavier said handing me a salsa dipped chip.
“Yeah, I’m divorced…”
“…eight months ago…I can’t even remember her name,” the inner voice jokingly finished.
She laughed at my inner voice’s joke. I was losing her already and it wasn’t even to some other guy, it was to another voice.
I saw those blues eyes pierce me. If I could only shut me up. This was one encounter I did not want to blow. I began struggling to say things that were simple and not open-ended.
“Oh, I love this song,” she said. Someone had just put Golden Earring’s “Radar Love” on. “Wanna dance.”
“Uh…”
“…absolutely.”
Now wait a minute, you can’t dance to “Radar Love” but I give my inner voice a lot of credit, it…I jumped at the offer and here I was shakin’ and groovin’ on an old uneven hardwood floor with Xavier. It was then that I began to really notice her short black dress, one piece cut low to reveal abundant cleavage. She was as agile as a tightrope walker in her high-healed, open toed shoes. It was as if Xavier had attended some charm school where she mastered the graceful flow of impractical women’s footwear.
“You dance great!”
“Love your dress,” I heard my inner voice say.
“You’re very smooth, I’ll bet you could do a cart wheel…right here in the living room.” There was a mischievous sparkle in her eye.
“Oh, no…I…”
“…Certainly can.” Shut-up! My inner voice was going to embarrass me for sure.
I stopped dancing.
“No, I mean, I can, but doctors advise against it,” I said as damage control. “Too, dangerous. A lot of head injuries you know…people getting half way and then—BOOM—they hit their head and are out cold. For weeks…like a coma.”
I waited for me to say more. I think I actually caught my inner voice off guard.
“You know, Janie was right about you. You’re not like other guys…there’s something inside you.”
I smiled uncomfortably, she got that right.
Janie and Bogart returned with a plastic Dominick’s bag. It was characteristic Janie who, at the threshold lifted her shred-tee for a nano-second glimpse of her perfect breasts. She picked me out of the crowd as she pulled her shirt back down.
“David, darlink,” she said with a faux Natasha voice as she leaped the three giant steps from the door to hug me. The plastic grocery bag flew around my neck and something solid hit me hard on the right shoulder blade. That was gonna leave a mark.
“I see you’ve already met Xavier…isn’t she special?”
“You were right, Janie, he’s cute and funny.”
I was never much for compliments, no matter how sincere they always came off insincere.
“Good to see you, Janie.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” my inner voiced still needed to be heard.
Janie turned to Bogart, but he was already in the kitchen rolling a huge joint and holding a long-neck Bud.
“Boggie,” Janie yelled. “You promised me…where’s my beer?”
“Right here,” he said gesturing with the elbow of the hindered hand so as not to disturb the delicate rolling process.
“I’m so glad you came,” Janie said turning back to me. “Let me put this sour cream down and we’ll get drunk. Oh, did you meet Diane? In the bedroom? She’s doing temporary tattoos tonight.”
With that Janie was gone. Xavier pulled the strap of her dress down revealing the top of her right breast and a spiral sun tattoo that looked like a crop circle.
“If you got one on left side,” she said placing her hand over my left chest. “We’d match up when we…dance.” Her eyes just kept twinkling.
“Show me the way.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” my inner voice said to me.
Diane was just starting on a halo around a young woman’s navel when we walked in. She was an older artist with the bright red straps of her bra hanging out of her cut down black tee-shirt that must have had over 500 safety pins adorning it in neat premeditated rows. Her red dyed hair matched the straps except for gray strands ran through it like irregularly placed ribbons that seemed like artistically planned chaos. Diane couldn’t move her thin arms without sending up an alarm due to the near wrist to elbow beads and bracelets. Looking up to greet us as we creaked our way into the bedroom I noticed several eyebrow piercing, a nose ring and one entire ear festooned with hoops, dangling bobs and a monkey clinging to a vine that swung from her lobe. The woman had more metal than most Detroit cars today. A lone pin on her shirt red: SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT.
It struck me as I watched her that artists seem to pierced everything, dye their hair unnatural colors and dress like distressed highway billboards, yet insisted that the rest of us accept nature as it is and leave it alone.
Xavier took a seat at the end of the bed and I joined her. Together we watched as the temporary tattoo made its debut on a young flat tummy.
“What do you want to get?” Xavier asked excitedly as she picked up three-ring binder of selections.
“I don’t know…”
“…what do you think?” I heard me say jumping on my indecision.
“I think you should get a Celtic cross. It would be the perfect complement to my Druid Sun.”
“I don’t know…I’m really not religious…”
“If you like the cross, then that’s what it will be,” echoed from inside me cutting off my hesitation.
I stopped myself. “Wait, I said, I’m not sure…I don’t know what I want.”
“Okay, that’s fine we can look at others,” Xavier said not wanting to get in the middle of an argument.
“She likes the cross,” my inner voice tried to explain. “I think it’s cool…I think she’s cool…I say get the cross.”
“Shut-up, I just want to think about it is all,” I tried to reason with myself.
“I didn’t say anything,” Xavier said.
The artist just smiled. She was following my inner dialogue.
“No, Xavier…I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud,” I said softly trying to mend this awkward dialogue.
“Thinking out loud? Listen, it’s all this excuse making that’s gonna blow it for you with this babe.” My inner voice thrusted to my parry.
Now I was getting upset. There was no reason to bring Xavier into my inner conflict. Just then, Janie walked in.
“Hey Diane, gonna give David, here, a big skull and cross bones?” she said jokingly sitting down to make a sandwich of me.
Diane looked up from her one of the few works of art that would leave her. “I think a Ying and Yang would be perfect.”
Xavier sat, her palms out behind her on the old colorful quilt that Janie said was her grandmother’s, but really came from a rummage sale. Janie took the black binder from me.
“Ying and Yang are in the back,” Diane said not taking her eyes from the supple navel that was her canvas.
“You don’t strike me as a Ying kinda guy,” Janie said. I looked back at Xavier.
“What did you get?” I let my inner voice ask.
She pulled down her shoulder strap again revealing the tattoo as well as the edge of her areola.
I felt myself quiver. I heard my inner voice say: “Whoa.”
Janie was quick to notice. “You’re showing us your nipple, Xav.”
“Oh,” she said looking down but not attempting to cover up. She then pulled her strap back to her shoulder and looked mischievously at me.
“I didn’t see anything, really.”
“The hell we didn’t…”
That is it. I could see where this was going and it had to stop.
“I’m done with you,” I told myself. “That’s it…shut-up or I’m leaving.”
“Me shut-up…I’m out here flirting while you keep staring at her tits. Come on man, she digs you and you’re acting like a pubescent teen.” My inner voice was taking a stand.
Diane stopped. Janie looked up from the binder. Xavier’s eyes lost their sparkle.
“You are out of line. You can think what you want but you don’t have to say it…” I was staring out into space, but my focus was inward.
“What, you know what you want…just listen to yourself. But no, you have to keep putting yourself off. Making small talk instead of taking chances. Geeze, you’re never gonna get laid if you keep this up.”
I wasn’t sure what I meant, but I knew that if I kept talking to myself all I could hope for from this evening was a straight jacket. I wanted to get to know Xavier but I didn’t want to come on too strong. As if I was reading my own mind, my inner dialogue picked up again.
“You don’t want to come on too strong? Right now you’re not even in the right area code for the mildly feeble. Shit, you’re so boring I don’t even wanna talk to you.”
“Then shut-up!” I shouted.
The woman with the belly tattoo in progress excused herself. Diane looked at me stunned. Janie shook her head. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Xavier.
“Man, did you smoke some of Boggie’s weed? You’re totally out of control, dude,” Janie said shifting slightly to look into my eyes.
I broke down.
“I’m not smokin’ anything. I’ve been having this argument with my inner voice for months now. Nothing ever seems to be working out for me.”
“I think I need a beer,” Xavier said and got up and headed out of the bedroom.
“I could use one, too,” Diane said and followed Xavier from the room.
“Work kind of stressing you out?” Janie put her hand on my shoulder.
“I guess…that must be it.”
“No that’s not it…I’m a nervous whimp.”
Finally, I sat silently looking around the low-budget decorating. I mean she actually uses a lava lamp as a source of light. That and Italian Christmas light stapled to the crown molding. It was then that I realized the queen-size mattress and box spring sat directly on the floor.
“I really thought you and Xavier would get along. She just moved her from New York…she’s been absolutely great at the studio.” Janie was really trying, but I was afraid to say anything.
Finally, “I…I think she’s…”
“Oh come on,” the inner me blurted out. “You dig her. But if you’re gonna be such a wimp nothing’s gonna happen.”
“Okay, David, who are you talking to…me or…or you? This is too weird.” Janie got up to go.
“Wait, Janie…I’m sorry I don’t know what’s going on. Lately I’ve been having these conversations with myself. I used to think they were silent, you know, internal. But I guess they’re not…”
“Oh, she’s gonna think I’m nuts now.”
“See, see that wasn’t me…but it came from me…but that’s what I was thinking. You know, the stuff you’re not meant to say.”
Janie just looked at me. My inner voice continued:
“Who says you can’t say it? Maybe we’d all be better off if we just said what was on our mind instead of hiding inside our heads.”
“No,” Janie said. “You have to keep some things to yourself. That’s the editing process. If you don’t edit, you just spout crap…like you’re doing.”
“Oh great now she thinks I spout crap.” I put my hand over my mouth. I watched Janie as she walked to the door but before she could open it, the door swung open.
“I’ve got a lot of customers out here waiting for tattoos,” Diane said holding a can of beer. “Is your group therapy about over?”
Janie looked back at me. Diane stared in at me. Xavier was nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe I should go…” I waited for myself to chime in. Nothing came.
Diane pushed her way in and stood beside Janie. Interesting how both women were strongly artistic, yet Diane went out of her way to show it, while Janie relied on her virtual acceptance of just about everything—including her lifestyle which sometimes brought another woman to share her bed with Bogart. How was it that she could be intimate with more than one person at a time, but a person could not be more than one person at a time?
“I’m going to check on Boggie…I hope you don’t leave but you’ve got to straighten out your head.” Janie left the bedroom. Diane walked over to me and sat back down on her little artist stool. Our knees almost touched.
She pulled a Celtic cross from her file and gestured for me to open my bowling shirt. Her bony fingers felt like delicate tools as she applied the henna tattoo to my left chest.
“I know what’s going on,” She said. “I do.”
Something didn’t click just then.
“Your emotional distress looked for comfort and turned inward. Now, you’re blaming yourself for the distress.” She smiled at me. I couldn’t help imagining that Diane would be crashing here tonight fulfilling the Bogart, Janie triangle. But for some reason I didn’t say it. “You’ve let your inner voice out of its box and it wants to live as your real voice.”
“How do you know?”
“Yeah, what makes you the expert?” I shock my head at my own forwardness.
“Because I used to have two voices,” she said. Then added with a wink, “And sometimes I still do.”
“What did you do…” I said almost in unison with my inner voice.
The door opened and a young couple poked their heads in.
“Tattoo time?” he said as she giggled.
“You’re next, come on in,” Diane said before looking back at me with her deep black eyes. Yes, I mean black, she wore these black contact lenses on purpose. She refocused on finishing up my temporary cross.
“Ignore it…it’s like an inner child, it will eventually go out and play by itself. But be attentive to it, inner voices have a way of uncovering your soul.”
“Is that what you did?” I asked standing up to make room for the couple that eagerly wanted to adorn themselves.
“No…my inner voice is my critic. Like her or not, she knows good art.” Diane smiled. She’d finish the Celtic cross and looked me in the eye approving her work.
“I want a butterfly…what are you gonna get?” the young blonde asked.
“A heart with Debbie in it…” They cooed and knocked heads.
I slid ten dollars into her fedora tip basket. She reached out to my hand.
“It’s all part of life,” she said. “Listen to yourself…we all have critics…we just can’t let them live our lives. But sometimes they give us direction.”
I grabbed my second loose doorknob of the night and left Diane to her art. The living room had filled considerably both with people and dissonance. Someone had turned on a disco ball that was reflecting another set of Italian lights around the room like snowflakes. Xavier held a plastic cup of beer and a wedge of cheese. Three clean cut Porche-types fluttered around her like moths to a porch lamp. She causally looked away catching my eye.
She wants to be rescued, I told myself without uttering a word. I swallowed hard and tasted confidence. I looked at the perfect haircuts atop empty voices and realized that it wasn’t about looks, it was about self-assurance. It was the inner me that made me real. I walked up to Xavier. She watched me, the boys ignored me.
“Need a beer?” I asked seeing her filled glass.
“Yeah…yeah I do,” Xavier said with a smile. “Excuse me boys, I need to get fresh.”
She took my arm and we walked into the kitchen that was still filled with the sweet scent of Bogart’s joint.
“Thanks, they were so boring. You feeling better?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just had to get some things straight in my head.”
She handed me a beer fresh from the pump. “Good, then we can start having some fun…I need someone who’s got a life inside ‘em.”
I pulled open my bar-issued, black bowling shirt from Southport Lanes to reveal the Celtic cross over my left breast. “What about on the outside?”
Xavier’s eyes flashed as a mischievous smile slowly curved across her face.
We danced, karaoked and laughed like the entire world was a comedy. It was early Sunday before the party thinned out. Xavier and I said goodbye to Janie, Bogart and Diane.
Outside, the pre-dawn air was cool and fresh without cigarette smoke. Xavier and I walked to the corner to grab a cab back to my place. As we passed a small patch of grass I did a cartwheel falling on my ass at the end. Her laughter, and shear delight of her eyes it will live with me forever. As will the tiny voice inside me that said, “nice job.”
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Matchme.com
by David M. Howell ©2003
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
What’s going on out there? Many of my friends, now entering the single scene for the second or third time, have repeatedly asked me this question. Having written on dating after divorce (see “Soul Mate Survivor” 1999) I thought it was time to revisit the subject to see how the Internet has changed things. It was eye opening.
When I first started exploring the dating scene after divorce seven years ago, the Internet was too new and many of the dating sites were raw and unrefined. Today, dating services seem antiquated, personals come across as desperate and the only people my friends can introduce me to are their baby sitters. Online dating seems to be the answer.
So who’s on line? What are they looking for? And how easy is it really to meet your future SO?
I was about to find out. Now, for privacy reasons, I’ve changed all of the names, including the service I joined. What’s unchanged are the profiles, my inquiries and the responses they generated.
For a mere 26 bucks, I joined Matchme.com with all the anticipation of a schoolboy expecting to be picked first for a dodge ball team. This was going to be great, women who have outlined their wants and needs matched up to my wants and needs. I registered as: citykidchicago. Now, I know I’m going to get a lot of hits because of this article. Probably some death threats as well. But dating is risky in this day and age. And writing about it even riskier.
Here’s the study. I approached this like a party scene. If a woman—or in this case here profile—caught my eye, I responded. Like the party scenario, I tried to introduce myself in the least, non-threatening way. Innocent, just testing the waters, kind of messages. I sent out 30 introductions. I only heard back from 5 women. That means that at the Matchme.com party, 25 women rudely turned their backs and walked away without saying a word. Ouch, now that made me feel rejected. That is until I started actually getting responses. For sake of space and time, I will focus only on those who responded. First, here’s me:
MATCHME: citykidchicago
Laughing Matters
Second City grad, dabbled in standup, I've made a career out of comedy and writing. Quirky, funny I'm always looking for the subtle differences in things. There's comedy everywhere and I choose to see the humor in life. I'm comfortable with long walks, biking and camping. Basically, outdoor activities are my preference, but I can and do dress up for charity events and romantic evenings out. I love Celtic music and can often be found at the Irish Oak taking in a weekend band. I'm looking for someone who lives for the now and isn't afraid of life. I'm sensitive, caring and enjoy a good conversation as much as I do just quite contemplation. Life's entertaining, let's go have some fun.
Here’s who I’m looking for:
Who are you?
You love life and laughing. You are capable of seeing the lighter side of things and don't take yourself too seriously. Spontaneity is a way of life. You have a common sense about you. Saturday mornings can mean anything from a drive to the country to quite coffee in a cafe. From biking along the lakefront to just curling up and talking. You're well read but not necessarily contemporary fiction, you love history and non-fiction. A good conversation fascinates you. You do your own thing and at the same time appreciate the company of your SO. You're not afraid of intimacy while at the same time respect yourself and your partner. You appreciate honesty and expect the same in return.
Yeah, pedestrian, but my intent was to be broad and at the same time honest about what I enjoy and appreciate. Now there’s also a questionnaire that covers a variety of points too numerous to mention. Salary, political and religious views, kids/no kids, height, body style. The kind of standard stuff that you can either see or take in within a short conversation at a party. There’s also a picture. Yep, I put one up. Not necessarily the most flattering, but not that bad either. It was a wintertime pool party at Corner Pocket (on Halsted—great bar, fun people). I was sporting a beard at the time (now gone) and am dressed casually. I could have used a shot of me in a tux accepting a creative award for writing taken two months later, but that seemed pretentious.
I decided to let Matchme.com’s “connect” service pick the most likely matches. I got 12 pages of ten matches each—pretty impressive for a 10-mile radius of my ZIP code. The service also gave me a percentage of match, the highest being 100% and dropping off to around 82%. Since I was putting a picture out there I decided to only answer those who had the courage to do the same.
What follows then are the top people I selected as a good match. I have not altered their profiles. Misspellings, run-on sentences and grammar are all left as I found them.
My first page of 10 revealed one very cute smile.
MATCHME: singular614:
Make me laugh
I love to laugh until my belly aches. I'm appropiate almost all of the time, but once in a while the sillyrebellious side can sneak out and do the unexpected. So, don't be surprised, just go with it and it'll be a lot of fun. I'm a mix between the East and the West, motion and rest, impulsive and reflective. I'm sincere and true to myself and try to do the right thing and be a good person. So, if you like the versatility and the range and not afraid to be a bit outside of the box, we should talk.
Who are you?
I know that my soulmate and Prince Charming is out there, he's just a little "directionally challenged" and hasn't found me yet. He is in touch with his feelings and not afraid to communicate them. He wellcomes changes but his integrity does not falter. He communicates with an intend to understand rather than dissect and analyze. Etc..
I decided “singular614” would be my first response. She certainly sounded like fun and from her picture, she was really cute. Yeah, this is a woman I want to meet.
REPLY: singular614
Your smile caught me. When I read your profile and realized you were all about the comedy, well I couldn’t resist. I’ve re-directed myself and am setting a course for a dialogue with you. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
All that was left was to hit the send key. My cursor hovered. I questioned myself. What are you doing? Is this really the way to meet women? There was only one way to find out. With a gentle push of my index finger I introduced myself to singular614. I anxiously waited for a reply. That was in May, at this writing in mid-July, I have yet to receive a response from singular614. Maybe her bellyache turned into something more severe.
But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, I moved on to a delightful head of curls.
MATCHME: brbcdr
Independence Dame
Been a little cranky for a few years since that house fell on my sister. But, I am finally getting over it. I have been told by various men that I am very independent. And that I work and travel a lot. I live and work in the city, and am always up to something. I love my job and in my free time I love to cook, garden, spend time with friends, yoga and running and of course, the ultimate, shopping. I am not looking for a man to lean on, but, rather, someone who adds another dimension to my already happy life.
Who are you?
It's pretty important to me that you are not an ex-convict or on a current crime spree. Employed is generally a good thing too. Very important that you do not take yourself too seriously. I am seeking a male that is energetic, not needy, likes to spend time together but also independent. Someone who has his own life and interests, but would not mind adding something to them. Most importantly, I would like to meet someone who truly sees, appreciates and enjoys the funny and ironic sides of life.
She was a 100% match. I could do no better. brbcdr felt right. She was going to be the one.
REPLY: brbcdr
I have to admit you sound funny and energetic as well as independent. My only concern, how do you qualify “employed?” I’m a freelance writer…I only know I’m employed when the residual checks arrive. Other than that, no real criminal record to speak of, although I was considering a career in politics at one time…I’d love to hear from you…especially if I can buy your vote.
David
Not sidesplitting comedy, but it was charming. I was demonstrating a sense of humor. Little did I know I was opening the back door to some demonic charm school.
Two days later:
REPLY: citykidchicago
I went to your profile and the only thing funny I found was your picture. Why did you see us as a match anyway? Never mind, I jusst a soon not here from you again.
Ouch, I think I’ve just been rejected by a Manson Family member. Dignity prevented me from sending a follow up response, though I was itching to tell her that I saw us as a match because I was in dire need of some bitch to hen peck me for the rest of my life. I’d say the house fell on the wrong sister.
So much for the 100% matches. Maybe if I let my standards slip a notch to 99% I’d meet a normal woman who could appreciate a quick smile and witty repartee.
MATCHME: pstheresmore
More about the laughs
I love to laugh and have a very positive attitude about life. I am divorced with no children and work downtown. I love everything about the city - the restaurants, the culture (museums, galleries, opera etc), sporting events (I am a big baseball fan), outdoor dining, summer festivals and the lakefront. I enjoy good food and wine, trying new restaurants and new types of food. I try to stay healthy and work out 3/4 times per week, but I don't let it consume my life. I have a great sense of humor, can take it as well as I give it out. People say I am pretty easy to get along with and am usually smiling or laughing. Life is too short not to enjoy to the fullest - and I try to incorporate that philosophy into my life.
Who are you?
Someone who makes me laugh and knows how to treat a woman. Someone who makes the effort to take care of himself physically, yet can still have a good time. Someone who is comfortable dressing up to go to dinner, yet can throw on a pair of jeans to go to a ballgame. This person should also have a good sense of humor, like to have a good time and share my positive attitude about life.
She mentioned laughing or humor five times. Could this be the woman of my dreams? Judging by her picture, she’s very attractive and she seems like someone I could just hang with indefinitely.
REPLY: pstheresmore
It sounds like there’s a lot more! I really enjoyed reading your profile. I think if nothing else, we could begin a humorous email dialogue and see what evolves. I look forward to hearing from you as much as I look forward to hearing your laughter.
David
I didn’t have to wait long. But it wasn’t laughter I heard. Late in the afternoon I got this response.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some kind of psycho? I read your profile and you didn’t mention a thing about baseball. How you could imagine that we could ever be a match is beyond me. Although, you did miss my laughter…when I looked at your picture.
Pandora lives! I’m starting to really develop a complex here. I’m now beginning to appreciate the rudeness of the majority of women who didn’t respond because they saved me from the agony of total, in your face rejection. It’s almost like I’ve selected abused women whose only goal is to inflict cruelty on all of mankind. The poor dumb bastard who ends up with one of these women has few choices beyond suicide. I mean, I’m really depressed about this. I’d rather join a holy order of celibate monks than respond to one more Internet Medusa.
I call my friend Cathy for a little pep talk.
“You’re not ugly, will you stop,” she says while preparing power point presentation for one of her marketing clients. “I have your picture in my office, from that time we took the boat cruise? Remember, the architectural thing-am-a-giggy?”
“That was fun…”
“Yeah, and you looked hot. David, listen these women are all psychos. Why else are they looking for their perfect Adonis online? Because they’ve pissed off all the men they’ve met in person.”
“Yeah, but they can’t all be bad…can they?”
“Listen, you want a woman to talk nicely to you, you want some one to appreciate who you are, to laugh at all your jokes?”
“Ideally…”
“Then call an escort service. You’ll spend less money ‘cause you won’t be blowing it on women who just want to see how much they can dig you for. And the sex will be better.”
“How do you know…”
“Would you hire an beautician to rewire your house? No, you want things done right you go to a specialist. Online dating is for shut-ins.”
Cathy always had a way of putting things succinctly. But I had the idea for this article and so pressed on.
This time I randomly selected someone by their picture. Superficial, yeah, but I learned from studying psychology that the universal rule isn’t “do unto others as you would have done on to you” but rather, “do on to others as you have had done on to you.” It was my turn to pick someone based solely on looks. And at the very top of the third page was a very attractive candidate.
Matchme: CiceroSiren
Open To Possibilities
I am open-minded, warm, friendly and compassionate. I'm a great listener and a loyal friend-always there for the important people in my life. I like witty conversation and challenging my mind and have a great sense of humor. I enjoy biking along the lakefront, going to movies (especially independent films), listening to live music, yoga and working out. I also enjoy eating at ethnic restaurants and I love to travel (last year I went to Hudson Bay and Equador and also spent a week skiing in Van Couver). My goal is to visit every county in the world at least once. I also like relaxing at home with a good book or a movie from Blockbuster. I grew up in Chicago and Los Angeles and also spent a semester living abroad in London during law school. If the opportunity presented itself I would love to live abroad again. I enjoy my work but I am willing to make room in my life for a relationship.
Who are you?
Someone who is adventurous, high-spirited, energetic and has a great sense of humor. He is also athletic, open-minded, intelligent and able to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He enjoys his work and his hobbies and has a positive attitude toward life. Someone who genuinely cares about other people and who is willing to make a relationship a priority in his life.
Though I didn’t believe she would ever actually visit every “county” in the world, she sounded interesting. Okay, she didn’t sound all that interesting but she at least didn’t sound like they type of woman who would be rude. She’s open minded…she was a goddamn lawyer. They’re never rude. She would at least respond politely.
REPLY: CiceroSiren
I have to admit, what caught my eye was your perfect smile. Going further to read your profile, I was intrigued by a woman of adventure. Well, this could be a fun escapade. I would like to get to know you better. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
I had decided that by ending every email with my name I was at least attempting to establish trust. By giving a prospect my name, I was revealing a little bit more about myself. Turns out, this had nothing to do about trust.
A reply arrived three days later.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some down and out actor? Second City? Standup comedy? A writer? Your picture looks like your waiting tables somewhere. I deal with deadbeats everyday as a lawyer, I haven’t got time to date one. And your bald…where do you get off emailing me?
This from a lawyer? Hey, CiceroSiren, listen, take that huge paycheck you’re earning and run out and buy a dictionary! And while you’re at it, your grammar could use a bit of polishing. Something tells me you’re going to be spending a lot of time in divorce court pleading your own case. Look, I may be bald, but I’m not malicious. I’ll bet you run up to cripples and make fun of their wheelchairs.
One more chance…I decided to find one more person. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, I was determined to find one decent woman. She was out there I scrolled down the page.
I discovered Emily about half way down. She was only a 98% match but, well I’m a sucker for her name and I loved her photograph.
emily773
Are you up for the challenge?
I know who I am, what I want, and who I am looking for but that doesn't make expressing it any easier in this...hmmmm... uninspired online form. Friends describe me as sharp as a tack, quick on my feet, a charmer with an attitude...but, I get away with it because of my great smile and heart of gold. Actually, I consider myself grounded and passionate. I love the outdoors - hiking, camping, biking and spending time at the lakefront. I am a sort of twisted romantic...give me “When Harry Met Sally,” a glass of Merlot and a box of Raisenetts and I am in heaven. But leave it to Monty Python to bring out my devilish and slightly quirky sense of humor.
How she describes her ideal match.
Two important attributes of any date of mine must be intelligence and a sense of humor. We have varied interests but similar ideals. I am a true blue liberal and appreciate others with a penchant for a progressive and flexible worlview. If you think I am the wittiest person you've ever met, we'll get along just fine. Back on the subject of ideals...I enjoy meeting people who are kind, compassionate toward others, somewhat silly, passionate and persuasive, but not rigid in their opinions. I am looking for a partner in crime...a challenge...a spark.
I rolled the dice again. With fingers crossed, I typed my introduction.
REPLY: emily773
You want a sense of humor, you want intelligence? I think I can handle that…but are you up for the challenge?
You’re also looking for kind and compassionate toward others? Let’s see, just this morning I rerouted the floods in Texas, planted a forest of trees devastated in the Colorado fires and still had time to attend a wine tasting on the off-chance I have an opportunity to impress a date with my vino skills. As far as “are you the wittiest person I’ve ever met?” Well, let’s meet and find out.
David
All right, this has got to get better. I can’t strike out all the time. My friends love me…they don’t think I’m a hideous freak. Oh sure, I catch them laughing behind my back but that’s usually because I’ve sat in something.
Several days later, I got an email from matchme.com. I had a response from emily773. I just felt this was right. I said all the right things. I just had a good feeling about her. Besides, I just love the name. Sure that’s no excuse for a lasting relationship, but come on, how could anyone named Emily be cruel?
REPLY: citykidchicago
You think you’re funny? People died in Texas and Colorado. That’s not funny. Yuck. It’s insensitive idiots like you that ruin the internet for everyone else. And shave, you look like a wooly mamoth.
Two things Emily, start watching Leno, Letterman or the Daily Show, and borrow CiceroSiren’s goddamn dictionary.
That’s it. I stopped checking the available women that matchme.com said I was a match with. 12 pages of ten women each and I barely got to page three. I’m curious, is this just Chicago arrogance or has this distemper infected the entire country? I’m tempted to try other ZIP codes but I’m not sure if I can handle rejection from Ohio or Nebraska. I closed out the account and figured I was better off meeting women the old fashion way…I grabbed a copy of the Chicago Reader and turned to the escort ads.
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
What’s going on out there? Many of my friends, now entering the single scene for the second or third time, have repeatedly asked me this question. Having written on dating after divorce (see “Soul Mate Survivor” 1999) I thought it was time to revisit the subject to see how the Internet has changed things. It was eye opening.
When I first started exploring the dating scene after divorce seven years ago, the Internet was too new and many of the dating sites were raw and unrefined. Today, dating services seem antiquated, personals come across as desperate and the only people my friends can introduce me to are their baby sitters. Online dating seems to be the answer.
So who’s on line? What are they looking for? And how easy is it really to meet your future SO?
I was about to find out. Now, for privacy reasons, I’ve changed all of the names, including the service I joined. What’s unchanged are the profiles, my inquiries and the responses they generated.
For a mere 26 bucks, I joined Matchme.com with all the anticipation of a schoolboy expecting to be picked first for a dodge ball team. This was going to be great, women who have outlined their wants and needs matched up to my wants and needs. I registered as: citykidchicago. Now, I know I’m going to get a lot of hits because of this article. Probably some death threats as well. But dating is risky in this day and age. And writing about it even riskier.
Here’s the study. I approached this like a party scene. If a woman—or in this case here profile—caught my eye, I responded. Like the party scenario, I tried to introduce myself in the least, non-threatening way. Innocent, just testing the waters, kind of messages. I sent out 30 introductions. I only heard back from 5 women. That means that at the Matchme.com party, 25 women rudely turned their backs and walked away without saying a word. Ouch, now that made me feel rejected. That is until I started actually getting responses. For sake of space and time, I will focus only on those who responded. First, here’s me:
MATCHME: citykidchicago
Laughing Matters
Second City grad, dabbled in standup, I've made a career out of comedy and writing. Quirky, funny I'm always looking for the subtle differences in things. There's comedy everywhere and I choose to see the humor in life. I'm comfortable with long walks, biking and camping. Basically, outdoor activities are my preference, but I can and do dress up for charity events and romantic evenings out. I love Celtic music and can often be found at the Irish Oak taking in a weekend band. I'm looking for someone who lives for the now and isn't afraid of life. I'm sensitive, caring and enjoy a good conversation as much as I do just quite contemplation. Life's entertaining, let's go have some fun.
Here’s who I’m looking for:
Who are you?
You love life and laughing. You are capable of seeing the lighter side of things and don't take yourself too seriously. Spontaneity is a way of life. You have a common sense about you. Saturday mornings can mean anything from a drive to the country to quite coffee in a cafe. From biking along the lakefront to just curling up and talking. You're well read but not necessarily contemporary fiction, you love history and non-fiction. A good conversation fascinates you. You do your own thing and at the same time appreciate the company of your SO. You're not afraid of intimacy while at the same time respect yourself and your partner. You appreciate honesty and expect the same in return.
Yeah, pedestrian, but my intent was to be broad and at the same time honest about what I enjoy and appreciate. Now there’s also a questionnaire that covers a variety of points too numerous to mention. Salary, political and religious views, kids/no kids, height, body style. The kind of standard stuff that you can either see or take in within a short conversation at a party. There’s also a picture. Yep, I put one up. Not necessarily the most flattering, but not that bad either. It was a wintertime pool party at Corner Pocket (on Halsted—great bar, fun people). I was sporting a beard at the time (now gone) and am dressed casually. I could have used a shot of me in a tux accepting a creative award for writing taken two months later, but that seemed pretentious.
I decided to let Matchme.com’s “connect” service pick the most likely matches. I got 12 pages of ten matches each—pretty impressive for a 10-mile radius of my ZIP code. The service also gave me a percentage of match, the highest being 100% and dropping off to around 82%. Since I was putting a picture out there I decided to only answer those who had the courage to do the same.
What follows then are the top people I selected as a good match. I have not altered their profiles. Misspellings, run-on sentences and grammar are all left as I found them.
My first page of 10 revealed one very cute smile.
MATCHME: singular614:
Make me laugh
I love to laugh until my belly aches. I'm appropiate almost all of the time, but once in a while the sillyrebellious side can sneak out and do the unexpected. So, don't be surprised, just go with it and it'll be a lot of fun. I'm a mix between the East and the West, motion and rest, impulsive and reflective. I'm sincere and true to myself and try to do the right thing and be a good person. So, if you like the versatility and the range and not afraid to be a bit outside of the box, we should talk.
Who are you?
I know that my soulmate and Prince Charming is out there, he's just a little "directionally challenged" and hasn't found me yet. He is in touch with his feelings and not afraid to communicate them. He wellcomes changes but his integrity does not falter. He communicates with an intend to understand rather than dissect and analyze. Etc..
I decided “singular614” would be my first response. She certainly sounded like fun and from her picture, she was really cute. Yeah, this is a woman I want to meet.
REPLY: singular614
Your smile caught me. When I read your profile and realized you were all about the comedy, well I couldn’t resist. I’ve re-directed myself and am setting a course for a dialogue with you. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
All that was left was to hit the send key. My cursor hovered. I questioned myself. What are you doing? Is this really the way to meet women? There was only one way to find out. With a gentle push of my index finger I introduced myself to singular614. I anxiously waited for a reply. That was in May, at this writing in mid-July, I have yet to receive a response from singular614. Maybe her bellyache turned into something more severe.
But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, I moved on to a delightful head of curls.
MATCHME: brbcdr
Independence Dame
Been a little cranky for a few years since that house fell on my sister. But, I am finally getting over it. I have been told by various men that I am very independent. And that I work and travel a lot. I live and work in the city, and am always up to something. I love my job and in my free time I love to cook, garden, spend time with friends, yoga and running and of course, the ultimate, shopping. I am not looking for a man to lean on, but, rather, someone who adds another dimension to my already happy life.
Who are you?
It's pretty important to me that you are not an ex-convict or on a current crime spree. Employed is generally a good thing too. Very important that you do not take yourself too seriously. I am seeking a male that is energetic, not needy, likes to spend time together but also independent. Someone who has his own life and interests, but would not mind adding something to them. Most importantly, I would like to meet someone who truly sees, appreciates and enjoys the funny and ironic sides of life.
She was a 100% match. I could do no better. brbcdr felt right. She was going to be the one.
REPLY: brbcdr
I have to admit you sound funny and energetic as well as independent. My only concern, how do you qualify “employed?” I’m a freelance writer…I only know I’m employed when the residual checks arrive. Other than that, no real criminal record to speak of, although I was considering a career in politics at one time…I’d love to hear from you…especially if I can buy your vote.
David
Not sidesplitting comedy, but it was charming. I was demonstrating a sense of humor. Little did I know I was opening the back door to some demonic charm school.
Two days later:
REPLY: citykidchicago
I went to your profile and the only thing funny I found was your picture. Why did you see us as a match anyway? Never mind, I jusst a soon not here from you again.
Ouch, I think I’ve just been rejected by a Manson Family member. Dignity prevented me from sending a follow up response, though I was itching to tell her that I saw us as a match because I was in dire need of some bitch to hen peck me for the rest of my life. I’d say the house fell on the wrong sister.
So much for the 100% matches. Maybe if I let my standards slip a notch to 99% I’d meet a normal woman who could appreciate a quick smile and witty repartee.
MATCHME: pstheresmore
More about the laughs
I love to laugh and have a very positive attitude about life. I am divorced with no children and work downtown. I love everything about the city - the restaurants, the culture (museums, galleries, opera etc), sporting events (I am a big baseball fan), outdoor dining, summer festivals and the lakefront. I enjoy good food and wine, trying new restaurants and new types of food. I try to stay healthy and work out 3/4 times per week, but I don't let it consume my life. I have a great sense of humor, can take it as well as I give it out. People say I am pretty easy to get along with and am usually smiling or laughing. Life is too short not to enjoy to the fullest - and I try to incorporate that philosophy into my life.
Who are you?
Someone who makes me laugh and knows how to treat a woman. Someone who makes the effort to take care of himself physically, yet can still have a good time. Someone who is comfortable dressing up to go to dinner, yet can throw on a pair of jeans to go to a ballgame. This person should also have a good sense of humor, like to have a good time and share my positive attitude about life.
She mentioned laughing or humor five times. Could this be the woman of my dreams? Judging by her picture, she’s very attractive and she seems like someone I could just hang with indefinitely.
REPLY: pstheresmore
It sounds like there’s a lot more! I really enjoyed reading your profile. I think if nothing else, we could begin a humorous email dialogue and see what evolves. I look forward to hearing from you as much as I look forward to hearing your laughter.
David
I didn’t have to wait long. But it wasn’t laughter I heard. Late in the afternoon I got this response.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some kind of psycho? I read your profile and you didn’t mention a thing about baseball. How you could imagine that we could ever be a match is beyond me. Although, you did miss my laughter…when I looked at your picture.
Pandora lives! I’m starting to really develop a complex here. I’m now beginning to appreciate the rudeness of the majority of women who didn’t respond because they saved me from the agony of total, in your face rejection. It’s almost like I’ve selected abused women whose only goal is to inflict cruelty on all of mankind. The poor dumb bastard who ends up with one of these women has few choices beyond suicide. I mean, I’m really depressed about this. I’d rather join a holy order of celibate monks than respond to one more Internet Medusa.
I call my friend Cathy for a little pep talk.
“You’re not ugly, will you stop,” she says while preparing power point presentation for one of her marketing clients. “I have your picture in my office, from that time we took the boat cruise? Remember, the architectural thing-am-a-giggy?”
“That was fun…”
“Yeah, and you looked hot. David, listen these women are all psychos. Why else are they looking for their perfect Adonis online? Because they’ve pissed off all the men they’ve met in person.”
“Yeah, but they can’t all be bad…can they?”
“Listen, you want a woman to talk nicely to you, you want some one to appreciate who you are, to laugh at all your jokes?”
“Ideally…”
“Then call an escort service. You’ll spend less money ‘cause you won’t be blowing it on women who just want to see how much they can dig you for. And the sex will be better.”
“How do you know…”
“Would you hire an beautician to rewire your house? No, you want things done right you go to a specialist. Online dating is for shut-ins.”
Cathy always had a way of putting things succinctly. But I had the idea for this article and so pressed on.
This time I randomly selected someone by their picture. Superficial, yeah, but I learned from studying psychology that the universal rule isn’t “do unto others as you would have done on to you” but rather, “do on to others as you have had done on to you.” It was my turn to pick someone based solely on looks. And at the very top of the third page was a very attractive candidate.
Matchme: CiceroSiren
Open To Possibilities
I am open-minded, warm, friendly and compassionate. I'm a great listener and a loyal friend-always there for the important people in my life. I like witty conversation and challenging my mind and have a great sense of humor. I enjoy biking along the lakefront, going to movies (especially independent films), listening to live music, yoga and working out. I also enjoy eating at ethnic restaurants and I love to travel (last year I went to Hudson Bay and Equador and also spent a week skiing in Van Couver). My goal is to visit every county in the world at least once. I also like relaxing at home with a good book or a movie from Blockbuster. I grew up in Chicago and Los Angeles and also spent a semester living abroad in London during law school. If the opportunity presented itself I would love to live abroad again. I enjoy my work but I am willing to make room in my life for a relationship.
Who are you?
Someone who is adventurous, high-spirited, energetic and has a great sense of humor. He is also athletic, open-minded, intelligent and able to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He enjoys his work and his hobbies and has a positive attitude toward life. Someone who genuinely cares about other people and who is willing to make a relationship a priority in his life.
Though I didn’t believe she would ever actually visit every “county” in the world, she sounded interesting. Okay, she didn’t sound all that interesting but she at least didn’t sound like they type of woman who would be rude. She’s open minded…she was a goddamn lawyer. They’re never rude. She would at least respond politely.
REPLY: CiceroSiren
I have to admit, what caught my eye was your perfect smile. Going further to read your profile, I was intrigued by a woman of adventure. Well, this could be a fun escapade. I would like to get to know you better. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
I had decided that by ending every email with my name I was at least attempting to establish trust. By giving a prospect my name, I was revealing a little bit more about myself. Turns out, this had nothing to do about trust.
A reply arrived three days later.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some down and out actor? Second City? Standup comedy? A writer? Your picture looks like your waiting tables somewhere. I deal with deadbeats everyday as a lawyer, I haven’t got time to date one. And your bald…where do you get off emailing me?
This from a lawyer? Hey, CiceroSiren, listen, take that huge paycheck you’re earning and run out and buy a dictionary! And while you’re at it, your grammar could use a bit of polishing. Something tells me you’re going to be spending a lot of time in divorce court pleading your own case. Look, I may be bald, but I’m not malicious. I’ll bet you run up to cripples and make fun of their wheelchairs.
One more chance…I decided to find one more person. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, I was determined to find one decent woman. She was out there I scrolled down the page.
I discovered Emily about half way down. She was only a 98% match but, well I’m a sucker for her name and I loved her photograph.
emily773
Are you up for the challenge?
I know who I am, what I want, and who I am looking for but that doesn't make expressing it any easier in this...hmmmm... uninspired online form. Friends describe me as sharp as a tack, quick on my feet, a charmer with an attitude...but, I get away with it because of my great smile and heart of gold. Actually, I consider myself grounded and passionate. I love the outdoors - hiking, camping, biking and spending time at the lakefront. I am a sort of twisted romantic...give me “When Harry Met Sally,” a glass of Merlot and a box of Raisenetts and I am in heaven. But leave it to Monty Python to bring out my devilish and slightly quirky sense of humor.
How she describes her ideal match.
Two important attributes of any date of mine must be intelligence and a sense of humor. We have varied interests but similar ideals. I am a true blue liberal and appreciate others with a penchant for a progressive and flexible worlview. If you think I am the wittiest person you've ever met, we'll get along just fine. Back on the subject of ideals...I enjoy meeting people who are kind, compassionate toward others, somewhat silly, passionate and persuasive, but not rigid in their opinions. I am looking for a partner in crime...a challenge...a spark.
I rolled the dice again. With fingers crossed, I typed my introduction.
REPLY: emily773
You want a sense of humor, you want intelligence? I think I can handle that…but are you up for the challenge?
You’re also looking for kind and compassionate toward others? Let’s see, just this morning I rerouted the floods in Texas, planted a forest of trees devastated in the Colorado fires and still had time to attend a wine tasting on the off-chance I have an opportunity to impress a date with my vino skills. As far as “are you the wittiest person I’ve ever met?” Well, let’s meet and find out.
David
All right, this has got to get better. I can’t strike out all the time. My friends love me…they don’t think I’m a hideous freak. Oh sure, I catch them laughing behind my back but that’s usually because I’ve sat in something.
Several days later, I got an email from matchme.com. I had a response from emily773. I just felt this was right. I said all the right things. I just had a good feeling about her. Besides, I just love the name. Sure that’s no excuse for a lasting relationship, but come on, how could anyone named Emily be cruel?
REPLY: citykidchicago
You think you’re funny? People died in Texas and Colorado. That’s not funny. Yuck. It’s insensitive idiots like you that ruin the internet for everyone else. And shave, you look like a wooly mamoth.
Two things Emily, start watching Leno, Letterman or the Daily Show, and borrow CiceroSiren’s goddamn dictionary.
That’s it. I stopped checking the available women that matchme.com said I was a match with. 12 pages of ten women each and I barely got to page three. I’m curious, is this just Chicago arrogance or has this distemper infected the entire country? I’m tempted to try other ZIP codes but I’m not sure if I can handle rejection from Ohio or Nebraska. I closed out the account and figured I was better off meeting women the old fashion way…I grabbed a copy of the Chicago Reader and turned to the escort ads.
The Work Bench
by David M. Howell ©2004
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
Through the weathered metal screen, lightning flashed on the black southern horizon. Somewhere over South Bend or Elkhart, Indiana a storm was raging. I sat on my father’s lap watching this magnificent performance too far off to hear the crescendos and thought how lucky the people were who lived under the lightning to be in the front row. My father and I relegated to the edge of the arena could only catch glimpses of nature’s grand symphony.
I was all of seven at the time putting my father at just 36 years old. A young man. And here he sat at his bedroom window with its chipping white lead-based paint explaining the phenomena of lightning to a child.
Storms have always held a special fascination for me. My mother tells the story of my birth on a blizzard so fierce my father couldn’t get out of the driveway to take her to the hospital. I was born at home. This very home. In this very room. Whether snow or rain, I can sit and watch them with equal enthusiasm. There’s an energy to a storm as it spills the contents of its life accenting and modifying the landscape beneath it. Not unlike birds over freshly washed cars or patio furniture.
Storms were a part of my father’s life. He worked a full-time job and managed the growing acreage of our farm. Along the way he and my mother raised seven children. It seemed that there was always something growing in and around our house.
My brother Tom and I would follow him to the remote corners of the fields. We’d sit atop fifty pound bags of 12-24-12 fertilizer and sacks of orange-coated seed stacked neatly in the bed of the beige GMC pickup as our father relentlessly passed over the freshly turned soil. Dust kicked up as if to get out of the way of his John Deere tractor and four-row planter. Corn in one field, soybeans in another. He was his own storm leaving the barren ground renewed with life and purpose. That’s what he did. That’s what he was good at. He planted seeds and then nurtured the crop into something of substance.
He did that with his children as well. Across my family there are three teachers, an engineer, a paralegal, a state trooper and a writer. That’s a good harvest and skillful crop rotation.
The phone rang just before eight on the morning of June 3rd. It was my sister, Kathy.
“Dad’s Dead,” she said. Two words that differ only by a single vowel now separated our father from the rest of our lives.
You don’t think much about who you are until such moments. I, of course, asked the necessary questions. When, how. who knows, who should I call? But the real question I wanted to ask but couldn’t was, why?
My father had lived exactly 75 years and one month the morning he died. But to me, he will always be that young, 36-year old man. He will always be there with a silly comment or the opposing view of a contrarian. He will always seem to have the right answers. Even though we’ve grown apart and our worlds are so different. I know that the fears and struggles he experienced as he looked out that window so long ago are the same fears and struggles I face today. On this moving sidewalk of life, all of us get on and off at different times but while we’re on board, we see the same things, share similar experiences. It’s our vantage point that shades our perspectives.
I gathered myself up, called my mother and listened with the absent mind of a child. There are some things in life you hear but don’t totally comprehend. Like the far off lightening, I could see the storm but could not feel the storm. The reality of the last 40- minutes had not percolated to my consciousness. I talked to my mother as if I was gathering facts for ad copy.
Heading east the Skyway out of Chicago one an hour later I contemplated the why. We are creatures of superstitions. We live our lives through myths, metaphors and allegories. Everything has to mean something. The Titanic was built by professionals. The Ark by armatures. We constantly look for parallels and connections often at the risk of ignoring the coincidence of any given situation.
It’s our superstitions that give us permission to fool ourselves. They provide comforting answers to the question of “why?” This self-imposed structure give us the latitude to move on. Breathing room in the confined claustrophobic isolation of our emotions.
This is the reason babies are born all wrinkly and pudgy. So they can be molded. Shaped and crafted into an individual with programmed superstitions and beliefs that act like water wings when we wade to the deep end of life. It has to be a labor of love because who would spend all that time and energy perfecting something that’s only going to disagree with you later. A sculptor can take confidence in that his work will never argue a political or religious philosophy. It won’t break curfew or listen to “that music.” It just sits there as a demonstration of skill and ability.
My father was such an artisan. With his own hands he molded and transformed seven of us from infant piles of people stuff into blocks of solid independent sometimes secure human beings.
At my folk’s house I sat with my mother and youngest sister, JoAnn as the morning events were retold. Mom waking on cue to make the morning coffee while dad slept in. When it was time for him to join her in the kitchen she crept up the stairs to wake him.
When she couldn’t she called my sister who was there before the first police car could arrive. We talked about “things” when my brother Tom was going to get in from Houston. When Kathy would be there. What arrangements needed to be made. All the while I stood at the kitchen counter waiting for my dad to come into the room, sit in his favorite chair and tell us what to do.
It was all so surreal. You can imagine yourself dealing with life issues but when you face them they become the dark storm clouds standing at the edge of reality. The only shelter available is memories—those moments etched into our soul. Like visiting a familiar place, they act as havens of reflection. We uses them to direct us in times of stress, when making difficult decisions, they confirm we’re doing the right thing.
Memories aren’t all institutional. Some are just postcards of our life. Fond reminders that we’re not alone. That we’ve shared something, a moment, a laugh or even a tear. These are the escape hatches I lurch to now. Remembering my father playing kick-the-can with us one August evening. Firing up the bright lights of his Super 8 camera to capture the excitement of Christmas morning. Or just watching him pass the picture window of our tiny living room as he pulled up the driveway returning from work hoping he brought home some Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. Memories are the paint on life’s canvas.
The phone kept ringing distracting my mother from our conversation driving her back the event that now stood as a directional change in our lives. TJ, JoAnn’s son was just learning to walk so he alternated between crawling and stumbling away. Both of which drew her attention to the management of the next generation. Left alone, I sought refuge in my dad’s workshop.
He’d spend hours here in the basement fixing, building or just tinkering with things. The palm-oiled tools now rested long in cobwebs. They have sat idle for some years. Though inanimate, they longed for the leathery grasp of his well-exercised hands. They will never be used with such precision ever again. And yet proof of their experience is not in the worn smooth handles or scared workbench, but in the bookshelves, cabinets and very soul of the house. You cannot take the craftsman out of a creation. There is the soul.
It was here amid these oxidized implements of creation that I came to realize the gift that my father carved into the landscape of his life. Us.
What greater achievement can one man claim then to have given life. With diligence and patience he sat unselfishly tooling our beliefs and behavior, slowly crafting each one of us into the work of art we are today.
There are no monuments that can compare to my brothers or sisters. They are the legacy of a life’s achievement without equal.
The last time I saw my father was at my brother Jim’s wedding a month earlier. We gathered around the hotel dinning room to have breakfast as a family. It’s been at almost thirty years since we all sat together. There were thirteen of us with extended families creating a three-generation timeline. My father joked with us all. Smiling, his inner smile, at the masterful display of his workmanship. I’m sure, watching us interact, he felt the same tug of pride as Michelangelo when looking up at the completed Sistine Chapel or as Mozart when he heard an allegro played for the first time.
Thinking back on it, I now understand there is no “why.” In the search for answers we conjure the “why” to avoid the answer we already know. Because. We experience death because we experience life. They are inseparable. None of us are getting out of this alive. Death is a stage, like pregnancy before birth only the gestation period is longer. Yet we seek to explain it in order to comfort ourselves. To appease the superstitions. We ask why to understand the mark drawn in the sands of time. Because solves the unsolvable. It’s every child’s answer when escape is futile.
“Why can’t I hear the thunder?” I ask from my father’s lap.
“Because the storm is far away.”
“Will it come here?” I ask in anticipation.
“No…not this time.”
“Why?”
“Because,” my father said not taking his eye off the horizon.
“Storms are random…but eventually, one will find you. That’s nature’s way.”
Leaving the workshop, I headed back upstairs. My sister Kathy and her daughter Erica have arrived.
Half way up the stairs I passed the bows and arrows that my father once used as sport. He’d set up bales of straw in the yard and taught Tom and I how to shoot. The now unstrung bows made me think again, why? But this time my father answered me. Because, I heard my father whisper. That’s nature’s way.
I knew he’d planted into the texture of my soul the ability to weather this storm. I’m thankful to harbor the spirit of such a craftsman.
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
Through the weathered metal screen, lightning flashed on the black southern horizon. Somewhere over South Bend or Elkhart, Indiana a storm was raging. I sat on my father’s lap watching this magnificent performance too far off to hear the crescendos and thought how lucky the people were who lived under the lightning to be in the front row. My father and I relegated to the edge of the arena could only catch glimpses of nature’s grand symphony.
I was all of seven at the time putting my father at just 36 years old. A young man. And here he sat at his bedroom window with its chipping white lead-based paint explaining the phenomena of lightning to a child.
Storms have always held a special fascination for me. My mother tells the story of my birth on a blizzard so fierce my father couldn’t get out of the driveway to take her to the hospital. I was born at home. This very home. In this very room. Whether snow or rain, I can sit and watch them with equal enthusiasm. There’s an energy to a storm as it spills the contents of its life accenting and modifying the landscape beneath it. Not unlike birds over freshly washed cars or patio furniture.
Storms were a part of my father’s life. He worked a full-time job and managed the growing acreage of our farm. Along the way he and my mother raised seven children. It seemed that there was always something growing in and around our house.
My brother Tom and I would follow him to the remote corners of the fields. We’d sit atop fifty pound bags of 12-24-12 fertilizer and sacks of orange-coated seed stacked neatly in the bed of the beige GMC pickup as our father relentlessly passed over the freshly turned soil. Dust kicked up as if to get out of the way of his John Deere tractor and four-row planter. Corn in one field, soybeans in another. He was his own storm leaving the barren ground renewed with life and purpose. That’s what he did. That’s what he was good at. He planted seeds and then nurtured the crop into something of substance.
He did that with his children as well. Across my family there are three teachers, an engineer, a paralegal, a state trooper and a writer. That’s a good harvest and skillful crop rotation.
****
The phone rang just before eight on the morning of June 3rd. It was my sister, Kathy.
“Dad’s Dead,” she said. Two words that differ only by a single vowel now separated our father from the rest of our lives.
You don’t think much about who you are until such moments. I, of course, asked the necessary questions. When, how. who knows, who should I call? But the real question I wanted to ask but couldn’t was, why?
My father had lived exactly 75 years and one month the morning he died. But to me, he will always be that young, 36-year old man. He will always be there with a silly comment or the opposing view of a contrarian. He will always seem to have the right answers. Even though we’ve grown apart and our worlds are so different. I know that the fears and struggles he experienced as he looked out that window so long ago are the same fears and struggles I face today. On this moving sidewalk of life, all of us get on and off at different times but while we’re on board, we see the same things, share similar experiences. It’s our vantage point that shades our perspectives.
I gathered myself up, called my mother and listened with the absent mind of a child. There are some things in life you hear but don’t totally comprehend. Like the far off lightening, I could see the storm but could not feel the storm. The reality of the last 40- minutes had not percolated to my consciousness. I talked to my mother as if I was gathering facts for ad copy.
Heading east the Skyway out of Chicago one an hour later I contemplated the why. We are creatures of superstitions. We live our lives through myths, metaphors and allegories. Everything has to mean something. The Titanic was built by professionals. The Ark by armatures. We constantly look for parallels and connections often at the risk of ignoring the coincidence of any given situation.
It’s our superstitions that give us permission to fool ourselves. They provide comforting answers to the question of “why?” This self-imposed structure give us the latitude to move on. Breathing room in the confined claustrophobic isolation of our emotions.
This is the reason babies are born all wrinkly and pudgy. So they can be molded. Shaped and crafted into an individual with programmed superstitions and beliefs that act like water wings when we wade to the deep end of life. It has to be a labor of love because who would spend all that time and energy perfecting something that’s only going to disagree with you later. A sculptor can take confidence in that his work will never argue a political or religious philosophy. It won’t break curfew or listen to “that music.” It just sits there as a demonstration of skill and ability.
My father was such an artisan. With his own hands he molded and transformed seven of us from infant piles of people stuff into blocks of solid independent sometimes secure human beings.
****
At my folk’s house I sat with my mother and youngest sister, JoAnn as the morning events were retold. Mom waking on cue to make the morning coffee while dad slept in. When it was time for him to join her in the kitchen she crept up the stairs to wake him.
When she couldn’t she called my sister who was there before the first police car could arrive. We talked about “things” when my brother Tom was going to get in from Houston. When Kathy would be there. What arrangements needed to be made. All the while I stood at the kitchen counter waiting for my dad to come into the room, sit in his favorite chair and tell us what to do.
It was all so surreal. You can imagine yourself dealing with life issues but when you face them they become the dark storm clouds standing at the edge of reality. The only shelter available is memories—those moments etched into our soul. Like visiting a familiar place, they act as havens of reflection. We uses them to direct us in times of stress, when making difficult decisions, they confirm we’re doing the right thing.
Memories aren’t all institutional. Some are just postcards of our life. Fond reminders that we’re not alone. That we’ve shared something, a moment, a laugh or even a tear. These are the escape hatches I lurch to now. Remembering my father playing kick-the-can with us one August evening. Firing up the bright lights of his Super 8 camera to capture the excitement of Christmas morning. Or just watching him pass the picture window of our tiny living room as he pulled up the driveway returning from work hoping he brought home some Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. Memories are the paint on life’s canvas.
The phone kept ringing distracting my mother from our conversation driving her back the event that now stood as a directional change in our lives. TJ, JoAnn’s son was just learning to walk so he alternated between crawling and stumbling away. Both of which drew her attention to the management of the next generation. Left alone, I sought refuge in my dad’s workshop.
He’d spend hours here in the basement fixing, building or just tinkering with things. The palm-oiled tools now rested long in cobwebs. They have sat idle for some years. Though inanimate, they longed for the leathery grasp of his well-exercised hands. They will never be used with such precision ever again. And yet proof of their experience is not in the worn smooth handles or scared workbench, but in the bookshelves, cabinets and very soul of the house. You cannot take the craftsman out of a creation. There is the soul.
It was here amid these oxidized implements of creation that I came to realize the gift that my father carved into the landscape of his life. Us.
What greater achievement can one man claim then to have given life. With diligence and patience he sat unselfishly tooling our beliefs and behavior, slowly crafting each one of us into the work of art we are today.
There are no monuments that can compare to my brothers or sisters. They are the legacy of a life’s achievement without equal.
****
As I sat on my father’s lap watching that distant July storm I was really sitting on his workbench. He wasn’t explaining the lightning, he was cultivating a passion for knowledge. I was just one of seven do-it-yourself projects he worked tirelessly on throughout his life.The last time I saw my father was at my brother Jim’s wedding a month earlier. We gathered around the hotel dinning room to have breakfast as a family. It’s been at almost thirty years since we all sat together. There were thirteen of us with extended families creating a three-generation timeline. My father joked with us all. Smiling, his inner smile, at the masterful display of his workmanship. I’m sure, watching us interact, he felt the same tug of pride as Michelangelo when looking up at the completed Sistine Chapel or as Mozart when he heard an allegro played for the first time.
Thinking back on it, I now understand there is no “why.” In the search for answers we conjure the “why” to avoid the answer we already know. Because. We experience death because we experience life. They are inseparable. None of us are getting out of this alive. Death is a stage, like pregnancy before birth only the gestation period is longer. Yet we seek to explain it in order to comfort ourselves. To appease the superstitions. We ask why to understand the mark drawn in the sands of time. Because solves the unsolvable. It’s every child’s answer when escape is futile.
“Why can’t I hear the thunder?” I ask from my father’s lap.
“Because the storm is far away.”
“Will it come here?” I ask in anticipation.
“No…not this time.”
“Why?”
“Because,” my father said not taking his eye off the horizon.
“Storms are random…but eventually, one will find you. That’s nature’s way.”
****
Leaving the workshop, I headed back upstairs. My sister Kathy and her daughter Erica have arrived.
Half way up the stairs I passed the bows and arrows that my father once used as sport. He’d set up bales of straw in the yard and taught Tom and I how to shoot. The now unstrung bows made me think again, why? But this time my father answered me. Because, I heard my father whisper. That’s nature’s way.
I knew he’d planted into the texture of my soul the ability to weather this storm. I’m thankful to harbor the spirit of such a craftsman.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Gift Card of the Magi
by David M. Howell ©2004
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
The impending Valentine’s Day haunted me like the gallows of an innocent man. There was no escaping my fate, I was going to have to venture out into the great unwashed and search for a gift that was itself insignificant, yet steeped in sentiment.
Was I buying love? All I was really doing was making a financial outlay for services rendered or purchasing future affection. Giving a gift wasn’t that much different than paying a prostitute. Well, except for the sentiment. Like underbody coating or Simonizing, sentiment isn’t something you install it’s embedded deep in the fibers. Neither seltzer water nor modern dry cleaning can get it out.
Looking into my dark closet reveals past sentinels of relationships. Hanging as if at attention are the gifts so tenderly given by past SO’s. They linger with the scent of sentimentality. A soft, button-down, flannel shirt kept prisoner forever condemned to a life of solitude until the eventful day when it is delivered to the Salvation Army. Schmaltz its only offence.
The Super Bowl reminded all of America that diamonds are forever. I guess it’s because once given you’re forever paying for their emotional value. Though my ex-wife absconded with her engagement ring, I still feel the anguish of giving something so precious to someone who only cherished it for it’s perceived financial value. These artificially induced precious stones carry more baggage than the cargo plane that delivered them. If you give a woman a diamond you’d better be prepared for what it signifies. You’re trapped. There’s no turning back. She can add 40 pounds and stop waxing her mustache hair, but you’re trapped like an unsuspecting dolphin in a tuna net. Like cigarettes, diamonds should come with a label: WARNING—may cause permanent damage leaving you helplessly emasculated and at the mercy of the wearer.
So I ruled out a diamond anything immediately. Not because I didn’t want to express feelings toward Gwen but precisely because I wanted to do that when I was ready and not let a piece of carbon do the talking for me.
Taking in the crisp February air, I walked up a crowded Michigan Avenue to meet some buddies for lunch. Leaping out like a hungry puma was Victoria Secret. With windows dressed in virtually undressed mannequins these scantily clad vixens—with nipples erect—revealed to the world lacy red scrapes of clothing that would be considered risqué on TV, but perfectly acceptable for the window shopping public.
I could picture Gwen wearing something as shear and revealing as the faceless mannequin. But here again, what was the message? That our relationship was based on sex? Well, it was. The dating only seemed to be foreplay to the real reason we saw each other. An intimate gift, especially from Victoria Secret could only reinforce this conclusion. Which then begs the question if our relationship is so shallow, why are we dating? I toyed with the idea of just arranging sexual encounters that could even replace one or two of my weekly gym workouts. On the surface this seemed like a healthy consideration. But then the only real difference between Gwen and a treadmill would be the handles.
I pulled open the side door to Flapjaws and stepped out of the cold into the cacophony of the crowded lunchtime bar. Like a fortress in the center the dark wood of the bar took the majority of the space. Surrounding the bar like lost children were two and four top tables all crowded with loose menus, condiments and fliers for upcoming events. Chuck and Val were already at the table when I arrived.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” we greeted ourselves like men as I pulled out my chair.
“Chuck here thinks the religious right is secretly part of the Ku Klux Klan…” Val said before I could even unwrap my scarf. Val was every woman’s catch. Tall, athletic with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact, he’d married right out of college to a writer he’d met at a small market ad agency. Vaughnda was a whimsical companion to his moody nature. They had three wonderful kids and were actually living comfortably in suburban Chicago. Together they’d pursued and wrangled in the American dream.
“Are you kidding, of course they are…just listen to them, though I can’t believe anyone would. Look at all the idiots who followed Wallace in ’63 when he tried to bar blacks from the University of Alabama! How stupid is that, and yet people rallied to him. The religious right is just a bunch of ancient segregationalisit looking for a cause. Gay rights gives them a reason to live. What they ought to be concerned that their own clergy is behind the pulpit buggering little boys.”
“Too easy, man. You can’t blame the religious fanatics for the Catholic priests.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But the problem with marriage in America today isn’t gay rights, it’s divorce.”
Chuck nodded, “The army of god seems to foster a don’t ask don’t tell policy.”
Chuck and Sylvia had married a few months after me. Though instead of lasting only 8 months, they we’re now on their 8th year. Living downtown, both had built successful careers. Chuck as an advertising account executive, Sylvia in the financial industry. They talked about having kids, but the reality is the clock had run out a year ago. They were content with their lifestyle and would probably fulfill the fantasy of retiring early to a warm climate.
“Well, accept to tell on others,” I said stopping to order a burger, rare as you dare. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Valentine’s Day?”
“What, the committed bachelor having trouble?” Chuck said always looking to poke fun at the fact that I was the only one among us single and without kids.
“Not trouble so much as what’s the big deal.”
“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Val assured the table. “Vaughnda expects something that sparkles every year. Last year I told her we’d just dropped some major coin on Beatrice’s braces. And they were “sparkling” enough.” He even made the little quote sign around sparkling. “Whoa, she was pissed…”
“I remember that, Val,” Chuck added. “You ended up getting her a broach or something…”
“…a locket. I put a picture of the kids in it and Beatrice smiling through her mouth full of tinsel.”
“My point is Valentine’s Day gifts seem to carry more weight than say a birthday present or Mother’s Day…”
“What do you know about shopping for Mother’s Day gifts? Huh, ya brie eatin’, single bastard,” Val said in the bad Scottish brogue of Willy from the Simpsons. “Mother’s Day is the mother of gift holidays. Hell, Valentine’s Day is just a rehearsal compared to the thought and preparation you gotta put into a Mother’s Day gift.”
“Yeah, yeah. Val’s right. But sounds like you got a dilemma, buddy.” Chuck could read the concern on my face.
“Well, I don’t want to imply anything…you know by giving too much of a gift or too personal of a gift.”
“You’ve got a problem there, my friend,” Chuck leaned back in his chair as his burger arrived. “Too much gift and you’re bachelorhood is dead. Too little and your relationship is iced.”
This was useless. These guys were so far removed from dating they were more like spent chess pieces restricted to watch the game from the sidelines. They had their mates. Compared to marriage, dating was just a long job interview with heavy petting. There was nothing I was going to learn from them.
Like a heroine addict fresh from rehab my senses were filled with the glaring retail assault that plied my flanks as I walked back to my office. Signs and banners screamed, “Tell her you love her” from every window. But what if it wasn’t love? What if we just had a very strong mutual attraction? And why would that be bad? I just had lunch with my only two friends who were still in their original marriages. Even I was divorced which meant I’d played the game and to some degree won a hand. But in the end left more money on table than I’d started with. I think that’s what was actually creating my dilemma. I know the sentimental value of a Valentines and could no longer just give a gift-wrapped time bomb of emotional baggage.
Back in my office I surfed online for ideas that wouldn’t imply commitment and at the same time satisfied the relationship. The first thing I Googled was “The Vermont Teddy Bear.” How did this idea ever catch on? Sure I could see it for a sick child….
“Eddy, Philbert, your conjoined life is about to end. When the doctors finish, you’ll be separated.” The boys’ mother consoled stroking the soft curls of their heads. “You’ll sleep in your own beds and sit in your own chairs. And to keep you company, your dad and I got you these cute Teddy Bears.”
“Look, they’re sown together at the buttocks…just like you,” their dad would say.
“Holy crap…we’re ten…we want a PlayStation!”
No, this was not an adult gift. Teddy Bears are the last bastion of the unimaginative.
Then I remembered an article on a day spa in town. “This Valentines, give her soothing hands.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do, pay some other guy to give my SO pleasure. Oh sure, Gwen would enjoy the day and she’d thank me for the gift, but in the end, a day spa was nothing more than small appliance for the soul. I could just as well give her a mini-vac. It’s good around the house, takes care of small jobs leaving you feeling good about yourself. And it’s a lot cheaper to recharge its batteries than to recharge your own at a day spa. In the end, the mini-vac is more practical and makes clean up after the mudpack a cinch.
The other absurd aspect of this bombardment was the huge savings all the retailers were touting. Save $100, save $75 dollars, buy now and save an additional $150. If I did math the same way retailers did I’d be broke in no time. Saving always screamed that you’re paying too much in the first place. It’s like shouting, hey, we couldn’t get any one to buy this crap at the original price, so we’re lowering the price by $50…if that doesn’t work we’ll lower it some more until you buy it. Here’s a bold idea, offer the merchandise at the lower price in the first place and maybe you’ll sell more, faster. Retail is just a legalized shell game.
That’s about the time it hit me. The only thing that had any real value was a gift card. A gift card is worth exactly what you pay for it. There’s no discount attached, no hidden charges. And it would always retain its value. Best of all a gift card was carte blanche to get whatever you want. Store discounts didn’t matter because the gift card had value. It was cash in a plastic form.
I was excited about the idea. I could give Gwen anything she wanted. Well, up to a pre-determined value. But wasn’t that the whole gift idea anyway? Office gifts exchanges set limits…nothing over $25 dollars. Husbands and wives set limits—let’s not spend too much on each other this year…we’re saving to carpet the garage. (Another practical use for the mini-vac.) A gift card was a ticket to shop—what woman could refuse that? The only thing that remained was the amount. I wanted to say I care about you, but not you’re all I care about. There had to be away to put a dollar value on that.
$50 just sounded cheap. $100, better but expected. $150 seemed to say I like you, but you’re only good for sex. $200 now that feels right. It says “honey, you have value to me.” If I dropped 200 bucks on a nice sweater, shoes or a skirt, it would be received well…provide the color, style and size were right. You risk a lot shopping for clothes for a woman. Too big and she thinks you’re telling her she’s fat. Too small and it says, lose some weight. But a gift card says I want you to have something that’s just right for you.
With my head high, I felt a tinge of pride having found the perfect Valentine’s gift. Now all that remained was where to get the gift card. My options were endless. Even Victoria’s Secret had a gift card. Gwen could pick out her own dainty under things. Of course then I’d seem lazy because I could have gotten something sexy. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, women never wear the lacy crap guys get them. It all goes into box on the back shelf of their walk-in closet. It’s a nice thought, she feels sexy, but would never be caught dead in anything so derisory. Sure, some women might humor their SO by wearing it once but then it retreats to the back of the closet. Victoria’s Secret was not a secret women kept.
I ran down the list of possible retailers and all presented their own set of drawbacks. All except one. Borders. Gwen knew how to read…or at least I think she does. I’ve never actually seen her with a book, but she had a few in her apartment. At restaurants, she could order off a menu that didn’t have pictures. (Thanks Denny’s for helping the illiterate enjoy a meal.) But I’m not sure what she’d like to read. She’d have to pick something out. It works! A Border’s gift card it would be.
I picked out a shirt-size box at the Hallmark store along with a cute gift card—Be an organ donor, give your heart to someone this Valentine’s—and some wrapping paper. Stuffing the box with newspaper, it made a lightweight yet generous gift. Now all that was left was the presentation.
Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, perfect. I picked up a bottle of her favorite Shiraz, ordered in some sushi and lit every candle in my condo. The warm glow of the candles created a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps too romantic. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. This was to be a nice evening not a proposal. I quickly switched the CD’s from Sinatra to Coldplay, Zwan and Foo Fighters.
Gwen stopped by after having drinks with some girl friends. The dim glow of the living room told her everything.
“David?” she said as if expecting me not to be home.
“Hey, Gwen…” I stepped into the hall. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She held a shopping bag with tissue paper overflowing the top.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said with a hug. She set her bag down gently and I took her coat.
Conversation flowed slower than the Shiraz. Finally, I jumped up to retrieve her gift. In the thin glow of the candles the red hearts of the wrapping paper become pools of blood. I suddenly began to think this wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking, a gift card… How impersonal. How thoughtless. I wanted to take the gift back, but it was too late. Gwen was already inspecting the package. With an anticipatory smile she read the unimaginative card.
She handed me the shopping bag.
“Happy Valentine’s,” we said in unison.
She ripped open the paper as I pulled at the tissue. The bag revealed a wrapped shoebox. Did she get me the Nike’s I’d been eyeing on Michigan Avenue?
I tore at the paper…it was indeed a Nike box. Gwen had her box open and was plowing through the crinkled newspaper. She found the envelope. My Nike box was too light to be shoes, I opened it to find packing peanuts, thousand of them. With one hand, I plunged into the white sea of weightlessness. There was an envelope at the bottom. I pulled it out spilling peanuts on the hardwood floor just as Gwen opened here envelope and pulled out the gift card.
“Oh, Borders…I love that store…” she said.
I opened the envelope from the shoe box. Inside was a $150 Home Depot gift card. I looked up at her.
“I need the shoebox back for bills,” she said.
The sex was great.
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
The impending Valentine’s Day haunted me like the gallows of an innocent man. There was no escaping my fate, I was going to have to venture out into the great unwashed and search for a gift that was itself insignificant, yet steeped in sentiment.
Was I buying love? All I was really doing was making a financial outlay for services rendered or purchasing future affection. Giving a gift wasn’t that much different than paying a prostitute. Well, except for the sentiment. Like underbody coating or Simonizing, sentiment isn’t something you install it’s embedded deep in the fibers. Neither seltzer water nor modern dry cleaning can get it out.
Looking into my dark closet reveals past sentinels of relationships. Hanging as if at attention are the gifts so tenderly given by past SO’s. They linger with the scent of sentimentality. A soft, button-down, flannel shirt kept prisoner forever condemned to a life of solitude until the eventful day when it is delivered to the Salvation Army. Schmaltz its only offence.
The Super Bowl reminded all of America that diamonds are forever. I guess it’s because once given you’re forever paying for their emotional value. Though my ex-wife absconded with her engagement ring, I still feel the anguish of giving something so precious to someone who only cherished it for it’s perceived financial value. These artificially induced precious stones carry more baggage than the cargo plane that delivered them. If you give a woman a diamond you’d better be prepared for what it signifies. You’re trapped. There’s no turning back. She can add 40 pounds and stop waxing her mustache hair, but you’re trapped like an unsuspecting dolphin in a tuna net. Like cigarettes, diamonds should come with a label: WARNING—may cause permanent damage leaving you helplessly emasculated and at the mercy of the wearer.
So I ruled out a diamond anything immediately. Not because I didn’t want to express feelings toward Gwen but precisely because I wanted to do that when I was ready and not let a piece of carbon do the talking for me.
Taking in the crisp February air, I walked up a crowded Michigan Avenue to meet some buddies for lunch. Leaping out like a hungry puma was Victoria Secret. With windows dressed in virtually undressed mannequins these scantily clad vixens—with nipples erect—revealed to the world lacy red scrapes of clothing that would be considered risqué on TV, but perfectly acceptable for the window shopping public.
I could picture Gwen wearing something as shear and revealing as the faceless mannequin. But here again, what was the message? That our relationship was based on sex? Well, it was. The dating only seemed to be foreplay to the real reason we saw each other. An intimate gift, especially from Victoria Secret could only reinforce this conclusion. Which then begs the question if our relationship is so shallow, why are we dating? I toyed with the idea of just arranging sexual encounters that could even replace one or two of my weekly gym workouts. On the surface this seemed like a healthy consideration. But then the only real difference between Gwen and a treadmill would be the handles.
I pulled open the side door to Flapjaws and stepped out of the cold into the cacophony of the crowded lunchtime bar. Like a fortress in the center the dark wood of the bar took the majority of the space. Surrounding the bar like lost children were two and four top tables all crowded with loose menus, condiments and fliers for upcoming events. Chuck and Val were already at the table when I arrived.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” we greeted ourselves like men as I pulled out my chair.
“Chuck here thinks the religious right is secretly part of the Ku Klux Klan…” Val said before I could even unwrap my scarf. Val was every woman’s catch. Tall, athletic with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact, he’d married right out of college to a writer he’d met at a small market ad agency. Vaughnda was a whimsical companion to his moody nature. They had three wonderful kids and were actually living comfortably in suburban Chicago. Together they’d pursued and wrangled in the American dream.
“Are you kidding, of course they are…just listen to them, though I can’t believe anyone would. Look at all the idiots who followed Wallace in ’63 when he tried to bar blacks from the University of Alabama! How stupid is that, and yet people rallied to him. The religious right is just a bunch of ancient segregationalisit looking for a cause. Gay rights gives them a reason to live. What they ought to be concerned that their own clergy is behind the pulpit buggering little boys.”
“Too easy, man. You can’t blame the religious fanatics for the Catholic priests.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But the problem with marriage in America today isn’t gay rights, it’s divorce.”
Chuck nodded, “The army of god seems to foster a don’t ask don’t tell policy.”
Chuck and Sylvia had married a few months after me. Though instead of lasting only 8 months, they we’re now on their 8th year. Living downtown, both had built successful careers. Chuck as an advertising account executive, Sylvia in the financial industry. They talked about having kids, but the reality is the clock had run out a year ago. They were content with their lifestyle and would probably fulfill the fantasy of retiring early to a warm climate.
“Well, accept to tell on others,” I said stopping to order a burger, rare as you dare. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Valentine’s Day?”
“What, the committed bachelor having trouble?” Chuck said always looking to poke fun at the fact that I was the only one among us single and without kids.
“Not trouble so much as what’s the big deal.”
“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Val assured the table. “Vaughnda expects something that sparkles every year. Last year I told her we’d just dropped some major coin on Beatrice’s braces. And they were “sparkling” enough.” He even made the little quote sign around sparkling. “Whoa, she was pissed…”
“I remember that, Val,” Chuck added. “You ended up getting her a broach or something…”
“…a locket. I put a picture of the kids in it and Beatrice smiling through her mouth full of tinsel.”
“My point is Valentine’s Day gifts seem to carry more weight than say a birthday present or Mother’s Day…”
“What do you know about shopping for Mother’s Day gifts? Huh, ya brie eatin’, single bastard,” Val said in the bad Scottish brogue of Willy from the Simpsons. “Mother’s Day is the mother of gift holidays. Hell, Valentine’s Day is just a rehearsal compared to the thought and preparation you gotta put into a Mother’s Day gift.”
“Yeah, yeah. Val’s right. But sounds like you got a dilemma, buddy.” Chuck could read the concern on my face.
“Well, I don’t want to imply anything…you know by giving too much of a gift or too personal of a gift.”
“You’ve got a problem there, my friend,” Chuck leaned back in his chair as his burger arrived. “Too much gift and you’re bachelorhood is dead. Too little and your relationship is iced.”
This was useless. These guys were so far removed from dating they were more like spent chess pieces restricted to watch the game from the sidelines. They had their mates. Compared to marriage, dating was just a long job interview with heavy petting. There was nothing I was going to learn from them.
Like a heroine addict fresh from rehab my senses were filled with the glaring retail assault that plied my flanks as I walked back to my office. Signs and banners screamed, “Tell her you love her” from every window. But what if it wasn’t love? What if we just had a very strong mutual attraction? And why would that be bad? I just had lunch with my only two friends who were still in their original marriages. Even I was divorced which meant I’d played the game and to some degree won a hand. But in the end left more money on table than I’d started with. I think that’s what was actually creating my dilemma. I know the sentimental value of a Valentines and could no longer just give a gift-wrapped time bomb of emotional baggage.
Back in my office I surfed online for ideas that wouldn’t imply commitment and at the same time satisfied the relationship. The first thing I Googled was “The Vermont Teddy Bear.” How did this idea ever catch on? Sure I could see it for a sick child….
“Eddy, Philbert, your conjoined life is about to end. When the doctors finish, you’ll be separated.” The boys’ mother consoled stroking the soft curls of their heads. “You’ll sleep in your own beds and sit in your own chairs. And to keep you company, your dad and I got you these cute Teddy Bears.”
“Look, they’re sown together at the buttocks…just like you,” their dad would say.
“Holy crap…we’re ten…we want a PlayStation!”
No, this was not an adult gift. Teddy Bears are the last bastion of the unimaginative.
Then I remembered an article on a day spa in town. “This Valentines, give her soothing hands.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do, pay some other guy to give my SO pleasure. Oh sure, Gwen would enjoy the day and she’d thank me for the gift, but in the end, a day spa was nothing more than small appliance for the soul. I could just as well give her a mini-vac. It’s good around the house, takes care of small jobs leaving you feeling good about yourself. And it’s a lot cheaper to recharge its batteries than to recharge your own at a day spa. In the end, the mini-vac is more practical and makes clean up after the mudpack a cinch.
The other absurd aspect of this bombardment was the huge savings all the retailers were touting. Save $100, save $75 dollars, buy now and save an additional $150. If I did math the same way retailers did I’d be broke in no time. Saving always screamed that you’re paying too much in the first place. It’s like shouting, hey, we couldn’t get any one to buy this crap at the original price, so we’re lowering the price by $50…if that doesn’t work we’ll lower it some more until you buy it. Here’s a bold idea, offer the merchandise at the lower price in the first place and maybe you’ll sell more, faster. Retail is just a legalized shell game.
That’s about the time it hit me. The only thing that had any real value was a gift card. A gift card is worth exactly what you pay for it. There’s no discount attached, no hidden charges. And it would always retain its value. Best of all a gift card was carte blanche to get whatever you want. Store discounts didn’t matter because the gift card had value. It was cash in a plastic form.
I was excited about the idea. I could give Gwen anything she wanted. Well, up to a pre-determined value. But wasn’t that the whole gift idea anyway? Office gifts exchanges set limits…nothing over $25 dollars. Husbands and wives set limits—let’s not spend too much on each other this year…we’re saving to carpet the garage. (Another practical use for the mini-vac.) A gift card was a ticket to shop—what woman could refuse that? The only thing that remained was the amount. I wanted to say I care about you, but not you’re all I care about. There had to be away to put a dollar value on that.
$50 just sounded cheap. $100, better but expected. $150 seemed to say I like you, but you’re only good for sex. $200 now that feels right. It says “honey, you have value to me.” If I dropped 200 bucks on a nice sweater, shoes or a skirt, it would be received well…provide the color, style and size were right. You risk a lot shopping for clothes for a woman. Too big and she thinks you’re telling her she’s fat. Too small and it says, lose some weight. But a gift card says I want you to have something that’s just right for you.
With my head high, I felt a tinge of pride having found the perfect Valentine’s gift. Now all that remained was where to get the gift card. My options were endless. Even Victoria’s Secret had a gift card. Gwen could pick out her own dainty under things. Of course then I’d seem lazy because I could have gotten something sexy. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, women never wear the lacy crap guys get them. It all goes into box on the back shelf of their walk-in closet. It’s a nice thought, she feels sexy, but would never be caught dead in anything so derisory. Sure, some women might humor their SO by wearing it once but then it retreats to the back of the closet. Victoria’s Secret was not a secret women kept.
I ran down the list of possible retailers and all presented their own set of drawbacks. All except one. Borders. Gwen knew how to read…or at least I think she does. I’ve never actually seen her with a book, but she had a few in her apartment. At restaurants, she could order off a menu that didn’t have pictures. (Thanks Denny’s for helping the illiterate enjoy a meal.) But I’m not sure what she’d like to read. She’d have to pick something out. It works! A Border’s gift card it would be.
I picked out a shirt-size box at the Hallmark store along with a cute gift card—Be an organ donor, give your heart to someone this Valentine’s—and some wrapping paper. Stuffing the box with newspaper, it made a lightweight yet generous gift. Now all that was left was the presentation.
Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, perfect. I picked up a bottle of her favorite Shiraz, ordered in some sushi and lit every candle in my condo. The warm glow of the candles created a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps too romantic. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. This was to be a nice evening not a proposal. I quickly switched the CD’s from Sinatra to Coldplay, Zwan and Foo Fighters.
Gwen stopped by after having drinks with some girl friends. The dim glow of the living room told her everything.
“David?” she said as if expecting me not to be home.
“Hey, Gwen…” I stepped into the hall. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She held a shopping bag with tissue paper overflowing the top.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said with a hug. She set her bag down gently and I took her coat.
Conversation flowed slower than the Shiraz. Finally, I jumped up to retrieve her gift. In the thin glow of the candles the red hearts of the wrapping paper become pools of blood. I suddenly began to think this wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking, a gift card… How impersonal. How thoughtless. I wanted to take the gift back, but it was too late. Gwen was already inspecting the package. With an anticipatory smile she read the unimaginative card.
She handed me the shopping bag.
“Happy Valentine’s,” we said in unison.
She ripped open the paper as I pulled at the tissue. The bag revealed a wrapped shoebox. Did she get me the Nike’s I’d been eyeing on Michigan Avenue?
I tore at the paper…it was indeed a Nike box. Gwen had her box open and was plowing through the crinkled newspaper. She found the envelope. My Nike box was too light to be shoes, I opened it to find packing peanuts, thousand of them. With one hand, I plunged into the white sea of weightlessness. There was an envelope at the bottom. I pulled it out spilling peanuts on the hardwood floor just as Gwen opened here envelope and pulled out the gift card.
“Oh, Borders…I love that store…” she said.
I opened the envelope from the shoe box. Inside was a $150 Home Depot gift card. I looked up at her.
“I need the shoebox back for bills,” she said.
The sex was great.
Everybody's Smart
by David M. Howell ©2006
(From the collection shorts stories “Not In Your Life”)
A group of senior business executives, all touting MBA credentials, struggle to make the simplest of decisions. Should their national spokesman wear flannel or not. They asked themselves if the public would think less of their national spokesman if he were dressed like a common truck driver.
It was a wonder to me, listening to this inane diatribe that these people could ever have achieved a GED. For all the brain wattage in the room, the discussion was dim at best. And yet, when outside this temple of strategic thinking my clients are quick to refer to their customers as rubes. Sadly, it’s the same for my own agency. One of the largest and most prestigious advertising agencies in the world, renowned for it deft at understanding the consumer market, we often belittle our audience either when observing them through the one-way focus group mirror or with the crap we rush to primetime as if world peace were within our tendrils reach.
And yet, we don’t even know or would even recognize our customer. Not even if he or she walked up to us on the street and bitch slapped us pandering marketing strategies before them at an elementary school level. It’s unclear who blinked first the marketers or the public, but the dumbing down of America prevails in the narcissistic towers of modern advertising.
Having grown up in a rural village on the Michigan frontier where the Friday night high school football game was the emotional and social event of the week, I was every bit the closet rube of my colleagues contempt. My home town was a place where farmers, fresh from their autumnal harvest could park their machines in the appropriate “farm utility” restricted area just to see the game. These real people, who actually labored for a living, were our customers.
They shopped at Sears, used Kleenex and Bayer, believed in American made automobiles all because they were told to. Their ears that rang with advertising truths about which deodorant would elevate your status, or which dinner rolls derived the most appreciation. As if climbing from the open-air seat of his John Deere 2030 the leathery stubbled face of John Q. Public gave a rat’s ass about whether United Airlines was ready to fly.
The difference was we were talking to ourselves. And all America or the world for that matter, could do was suffer like Guantanamo Bay fugitives. Sure we noted sales increases when spots ran but that only substantiated that the comatose masses were driven like lemming to the cash register. We pounded our chests with the successes of giving humanity a reason to go to the bathroom during primetime.
“Mabel, you’re not going scrub those pots with that old dish rag again are you?”
“Why yes, Sylvia…you think I shouldn’t?”
“Well, I saw a commercial that said a soiled diaper cleans better.”
“Where can I get some of those?”
“Oh, Mabel, I’m wearing one right now. Here, let me help.”
And so it goes. Every 30 seconds another story is played out to the masses trying its best to sound authentic when in reality, it was only endorsing the benefits of another needless product. Come on, do we really need plug-in air fresheners, aerosol cheese or the Flo-Bee? Does lite beer really taste great, will the world end if I miss the white sale at JC Penney’s, can our children possibly have a future safe from halitosis?
What turned me off on the industry that has been very generous to me was the legalization of drug ads. Now the public could be diagnosed during a rerun of CSI Miami and sold a cure. Just ask your doctor. Right. And if the plumbing institute could shake off the shackles of its own ethics, they could wax longingly about the benefits of papier-mâché pipes. Ask your plumber if papier-mâché is right for you. We were legally extorting money from people by massaging claims or presenting disasters in the best light.
From the looks of things, people are pretty stupid—why would anyone buy this crap? And in numbers large enough to make the marketing of uselessness so profitable?
Well, the industry was about to give me an invaluable education. Following the merger-mania that was sweeping the ad industry, I found myself on the street a victim of corporate cut-backs. The industry was purging itself of seasoned professionals for the inexpensive rookie. It would save them millions but in the end cost them billions.
Finding myself ejected from the ivory tower was actually comforting. It gave me an opportunity to catch my breath and enjoy a little of what I’d stashed away. But I was restless. I needed to reconnect with my youth. To go home as it were to the people I once knew. After all, even though I was out of work, I was a success story. Small town kid made it big in the big city. I was preparing myself for a hero’s welcome. What I learned was while I was a way searching for a life, everyone I'd grown up with had long since found theirs. No one cared what I'd done in the fabled glass towers of business. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was who you were. That’s when I decided to drive a semi.
Truck driving gave me access to grassroots America. The least understood marketing segment. Grassroots folks were the real trendsetters. Bucking conventional wisdom for something more elusive—what just felt right. We referred to this segment often in boardrooms with polished tables and pneumatic chairs. We knew they controlled the larger mass audience. And we felt we controlled them. If we could start a grassroots movement for a specific product, we could win the marketing war.
Here I was fresh from the business that attracted the best and the brightest, where I’d spent 25 years aligning my messages to this elusive audience only to realize the audience was like an ocean wave. Constantly moving, never the same, building momentum without ever being noticed until it hit the beach. Who were these people and were they really as stupid as we continually convinced ourselves?
When I arrived in Green Bay for my training with Schneider/National I was filled with confusion about what I’d gotten myself into. Still harboring the illusion that anyone not in advertising had no idea what was going on in the real world, truckers were not high on the intellectual hierarchy. And here I was fresh from conversations about Nietzsche and Voltaire or reading Stephen Pinker and Brian Greene and I was now facing an audience that could work the word pussy into more conversations than Dennis Hof. But wait, isn’t that the prejudice of my colleagues speaking? Colleagues…friends really who were not very supportive of my quest to touch Indians.
“What,” one good friend said to me. “Why don’t you just go bum around Europe?”
Or an old girl friend who said: “I guess you have to get this out of your system.”
Like this was a virus that was running it’s course and nothing but pure Alpine air and time would cure it. No, it was about being sheltered from the great unwashed. I grew up with these souls. I knew them. I had lunch with them every day. And then I abandoned them. I got a piece of parchment that said my thoughts and ideas were superior to those without one.
I looked around the lobby of the Best Western where Schneider was putting up the class. Almost all men, mostly my age—that was a surprise—who had worked the same job for the same employer until they were laid off. Sounded familiar. They stood or sat around drinking coffee under the blaring glare of the morning news all of them dressed in jeans or overalls. They were rough guys who were familiar with their local hardware store and had the hands to prove it.
They’d made their own way not counting on a college education to propel them into a selective club. They used simple words but communicated effectively. Their attitudes ranged. Some were conservative. Some liberal. All aware of the world around them. They were real. They lived in the real world. They just accepted their place and grizzled about events knowing that the big picture really didn’t mean anything to them. It’s not that they didn’t feel apart of the world, just that they knew what we in business keep denying. The crystal ball we viewed the rest of humanity through was badly smudged. If only we’d paid attention our own propaganda for Windex.
These were not stupid people. They were here to find an answer to the question of downsizing. They had families—most anyway—they had to take care of them. Driving a truck for whatever reason seemed like the one job they could get. Not because of their education, but because there were just no jobs in their communities. Trucking is a job that’s everywhere.
So here was my audience. Watching TV night after night finding a cerebral pause during commercial breaks to comment on Monday Night Football, the day behind the wheel or about their families. Anything, but the painstakingly strategic commercial with a flannel-clad spokesman. No once noticed and certainly no one cared.
Suddenly I felt free. I was about to travel the country as a professional driver and not worrying about the idiotic world of consumer behavior. Here’s how the consumer was behaving. He was out having a life. And it didn’t stop for the President’s Day Toyota-thon or even put it on hold for clumping cat litter. The consumer as a person was smart. Articulate. Which, by the way means: 1. to utter intelligible speech and 2. to express thoughts, ideas, or feelings coherently.
Left to the intelligencia, articulate was something only we had exclusive right to. Articulating was about communicating. Our audience didn’t communicate, they only listened to what we told them. We were tastemakers to a nation and that was leaving a bad taste in the mouth of consumers. Because, as it turns out, everyone communicates. Even without an education.
One man I met at Schneider/National training was an aged farmer from Iowa. Rail thin with a face of sagging leather, he told me in the study suite one night that he was having trouble with the tests because he couldn’t read.
My first reaction was how could anyone not know how to read? That was inconceivable. There’s no way you can make it through life without being able to read. But the real world rang loudly the next morning in class when we began reviewing the DOT rules for driving and he was called on to read the 10-hour rule. It was like being in second grade again, everyone heaving a collective sighed when the teacher picked someone else to read a difficult passage. But here was this grown man—a grandfather—who struggled with the simplest of passages. His words were like fingernails on a chalkboard. Patiently, the room fell silent as he wrestled the text to the mat only to be pinned by phonics.
Late into the evenings after class, I tried to help him by having him read (or with my help struggle to read) every question in the study guide. During a break he told me he’d worked for a grain elevator operator in Iowa his whole life. He’d quit school to help his family having lost his father and an older brother to World War II. He wanted to go to war, but the government told him as the only man in the household, he’d have to stay home. So he took a job as a laborer at a grain rail yard. His job didn’t require he be able to read. Just push a button and do physical labor.
Along he way, he did the things a man does in life. Married the girl two farms over. Had children. Worked hard to put them through school. And eventually bury his wife after the ravages of cancer. He didn’t need to be able to read to do all those things. Just live.
When the grain elevator closed its doors he had no place else to go. With no savings—he was not paid well, even by Iowa standards—he would not be able to support himself or keep up the payments on the few worldly possessions he’d been able to acquire.
He was not stupid because he couldn’t read. He understood issues that affected him. He knew how to ask for help, something I’ve seen even the smartest people struggle with. There was compassion in his voice mixed with confusion. He asked me, “When is it my turn?” He’d given up so much over the course of his life for others and now he was cast out like a worn cog. He did not feel stupid. He felt left out. There was a party going on his entire life, but because he made a commitment to help his family, he couldn’t read the invitation. And now it was too late. He was at the door, but no one would let him in. He’d lived the life he was cast and suddenly was told he should have done it differently. That’s stupid.
A few days later he was released from the training. There was too much paperwork involved in trucking for him to succeed. I don’t blame Schneider/National for making the choice they did. Hard decisions happen every day. We all have to make them. None of us could do anything at that moment to fix the situation. I was not the only person helping him during his short time in training. And no one, not one person made a joke about him. Yet, had he shown up for a focus group in my old ivory tower we would have had a field day belittling him while elevating ourselves to a god-like level of reverence and intellect. The more I was around truckers, the more I came to appreciate their worldview. Life’s authenticity was not hidden among the platitudes that powerbrokers and dealmakers shower upon themselves. It existed in the cockpit of an eighteen-wheeler rolling across Nebraska with a load of material goods to the elite.
I regret now that my time with Schneider/National was limited. Cut short when the industry called on my talents to help out on two new business pitches for a small Chicago ad agency. I won them both for them…and…paid handsomely for the effort. Then promptly let me go. But my experience on the road brought me to a much larger shop where I landed on, of all things, a trucking account. But a day doesn’t go by that I don’t envy those mariners of the concrete sea. They live life, one day at a time. One destination at a time.
Yeah, everybody’s smart. We’re all the best and the brightest. We just have bad days. Problems arise that make any of us feel inadequate or even stupid. Whether you’re Bill Gates or George Bush, you’re still going to get your penis stuck in your fly every once in awhile. And sure as shit, it’s gonna hurt and you’re gonna say, “damn that was stupid.” Like the client aching over the flannel decision, it wasn’t flannel that was at the heart of the issue, but the insecurity of sounding stupid. As long as everyone sounds stupid, I don’t sound so stupid. And that makes me smart. But it’s specious logic. To be truly smart, you only have to be honest with yourself. You only need to be real.
(From the collection shorts stories “Not In Your Life”)
A group of senior business executives, all touting MBA credentials, struggle to make the simplest of decisions. Should their national spokesman wear flannel or not. They asked themselves if the public would think less of their national spokesman if he were dressed like a common truck driver.
It was a wonder to me, listening to this inane diatribe that these people could ever have achieved a GED. For all the brain wattage in the room, the discussion was dim at best. And yet, when outside this temple of strategic thinking my clients are quick to refer to their customers as rubes. Sadly, it’s the same for my own agency. One of the largest and most prestigious advertising agencies in the world, renowned for it deft at understanding the consumer market, we often belittle our audience either when observing them through the one-way focus group mirror or with the crap we rush to primetime as if world peace were within our tendrils reach.
And yet, we don’t even know or would even recognize our customer. Not even if he or she walked up to us on the street and bitch slapped us pandering marketing strategies before them at an elementary school level. It’s unclear who blinked first the marketers or the public, but the dumbing down of America prevails in the narcissistic towers of modern advertising.
Having grown up in a rural village on the Michigan frontier where the Friday night high school football game was the emotional and social event of the week, I was every bit the closet rube of my colleagues contempt. My home town was a place where farmers, fresh from their autumnal harvest could park their machines in the appropriate “farm utility” restricted area just to see the game. These real people, who actually labored for a living, were our customers.
They shopped at Sears, used Kleenex and Bayer, believed in American made automobiles all because they were told to. Their ears that rang with advertising truths about which deodorant would elevate your status, or which dinner rolls derived the most appreciation. As if climbing from the open-air seat of his John Deere 2030 the leathery stubbled face of John Q. Public gave a rat’s ass about whether United Airlines was ready to fly.
The difference was we were talking to ourselves. And all America or the world for that matter, could do was suffer like Guantanamo Bay fugitives. Sure we noted sales increases when spots ran but that only substantiated that the comatose masses were driven like lemming to the cash register. We pounded our chests with the successes of giving humanity a reason to go to the bathroom during primetime.
“Mabel, you’re not going scrub those pots with that old dish rag again are you?”
“Why yes, Sylvia…you think I shouldn’t?”
“Well, I saw a commercial that said a soiled diaper cleans better.”
“Where can I get some of those?”
“Oh, Mabel, I’m wearing one right now. Here, let me help.”
And so it goes. Every 30 seconds another story is played out to the masses trying its best to sound authentic when in reality, it was only endorsing the benefits of another needless product. Come on, do we really need plug-in air fresheners, aerosol cheese or the Flo-Bee? Does lite beer really taste great, will the world end if I miss the white sale at JC Penney’s, can our children possibly have a future safe from halitosis?
What turned me off on the industry that has been very generous to me was the legalization of drug ads. Now the public could be diagnosed during a rerun of CSI Miami and sold a cure. Just ask your doctor. Right. And if the plumbing institute could shake off the shackles of its own ethics, they could wax longingly about the benefits of papier-mâché pipes. Ask your plumber if papier-mâché is right for you. We were legally extorting money from people by massaging claims or presenting disasters in the best light.
From the looks of things, people are pretty stupid—why would anyone buy this crap? And in numbers large enough to make the marketing of uselessness so profitable?
Well, the industry was about to give me an invaluable education. Following the merger-mania that was sweeping the ad industry, I found myself on the street a victim of corporate cut-backs. The industry was purging itself of seasoned professionals for the inexpensive rookie. It would save them millions but in the end cost them billions.
Finding myself ejected from the ivory tower was actually comforting. It gave me an opportunity to catch my breath and enjoy a little of what I’d stashed away. But I was restless. I needed to reconnect with my youth. To go home as it were to the people I once knew. After all, even though I was out of work, I was a success story. Small town kid made it big in the big city. I was preparing myself for a hero’s welcome. What I learned was while I was a way searching for a life, everyone I'd grown up with had long since found theirs. No one cared what I'd done in the fabled glass towers of business. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was who you were. That’s when I decided to drive a semi.
Truck driving gave me access to grassroots America. The least understood marketing segment. Grassroots folks were the real trendsetters. Bucking conventional wisdom for something more elusive—what just felt right. We referred to this segment often in boardrooms with polished tables and pneumatic chairs. We knew they controlled the larger mass audience. And we felt we controlled them. If we could start a grassroots movement for a specific product, we could win the marketing war.
Here I was fresh from the business that attracted the best and the brightest, where I’d spent 25 years aligning my messages to this elusive audience only to realize the audience was like an ocean wave. Constantly moving, never the same, building momentum without ever being noticed until it hit the beach. Who were these people and were they really as stupid as we continually convinced ourselves?
When I arrived in Green Bay for my training with Schneider/National I was filled with confusion about what I’d gotten myself into. Still harboring the illusion that anyone not in advertising had no idea what was going on in the real world, truckers were not high on the intellectual hierarchy. And here I was fresh from conversations about Nietzsche and Voltaire or reading Stephen Pinker and Brian Greene and I was now facing an audience that could work the word pussy into more conversations than Dennis Hof. But wait, isn’t that the prejudice of my colleagues speaking? Colleagues…friends really who were not very supportive of my quest to touch Indians.
“What,” one good friend said to me. “Why don’t you just go bum around Europe?”
Or an old girl friend who said: “I guess you have to get this out of your system.”
Like this was a virus that was running it’s course and nothing but pure Alpine air and time would cure it. No, it was about being sheltered from the great unwashed. I grew up with these souls. I knew them. I had lunch with them every day. And then I abandoned them. I got a piece of parchment that said my thoughts and ideas were superior to those without one.
I looked around the lobby of the Best Western where Schneider was putting up the class. Almost all men, mostly my age—that was a surprise—who had worked the same job for the same employer until they were laid off. Sounded familiar. They stood or sat around drinking coffee under the blaring glare of the morning news all of them dressed in jeans or overalls. They were rough guys who were familiar with their local hardware store and had the hands to prove it.
They’d made their own way not counting on a college education to propel them into a selective club. They used simple words but communicated effectively. Their attitudes ranged. Some were conservative. Some liberal. All aware of the world around them. They were real. They lived in the real world. They just accepted their place and grizzled about events knowing that the big picture really didn’t mean anything to them. It’s not that they didn’t feel apart of the world, just that they knew what we in business keep denying. The crystal ball we viewed the rest of humanity through was badly smudged. If only we’d paid attention our own propaganda for Windex.
These were not stupid people. They were here to find an answer to the question of downsizing. They had families—most anyway—they had to take care of them. Driving a truck for whatever reason seemed like the one job they could get. Not because of their education, but because there were just no jobs in their communities. Trucking is a job that’s everywhere.
So here was my audience. Watching TV night after night finding a cerebral pause during commercial breaks to comment on Monday Night Football, the day behind the wheel or about their families. Anything, but the painstakingly strategic commercial with a flannel-clad spokesman. No once noticed and certainly no one cared.
Suddenly I felt free. I was about to travel the country as a professional driver and not worrying about the idiotic world of consumer behavior. Here’s how the consumer was behaving. He was out having a life. And it didn’t stop for the President’s Day Toyota-thon or even put it on hold for clumping cat litter. The consumer as a person was smart. Articulate. Which, by the way means: 1. to utter intelligible speech and 2. to express thoughts, ideas, or feelings coherently.
Left to the intelligencia, articulate was something only we had exclusive right to. Articulating was about communicating. Our audience didn’t communicate, they only listened to what we told them. We were tastemakers to a nation and that was leaving a bad taste in the mouth of consumers. Because, as it turns out, everyone communicates. Even without an education.
One man I met at Schneider/National training was an aged farmer from Iowa. Rail thin with a face of sagging leather, he told me in the study suite one night that he was having trouble with the tests because he couldn’t read.
My first reaction was how could anyone not know how to read? That was inconceivable. There’s no way you can make it through life without being able to read. But the real world rang loudly the next morning in class when we began reviewing the DOT rules for driving and he was called on to read the 10-hour rule. It was like being in second grade again, everyone heaving a collective sighed when the teacher picked someone else to read a difficult passage. But here was this grown man—a grandfather—who struggled with the simplest of passages. His words were like fingernails on a chalkboard. Patiently, the room fell silent as he wrestled the text to the mat only to be pinned by phonics.
Late into the evenings after class, I tried to help him by having him read (or with my help struggle to read) every question in the study guide. During a break he told me he’d worked for a grain elevator operator in Iowa his whole life. He’d quit school to help his family having lost his father and an older brother to World War II. He wanted to go to war, but the government told him as the only man in the household, he’d have to stay home. So he took a job as a laborer at a grain rail yard. His job didn’t require he be able to read. Just push a button and do physical labor.
Along he way, he did the things a man does in life. Married the girl two farms over. Had children. Worked hard to put them through school. And eventually bury his wife after the ravages of cancer. He didn’t need to be able to read to do all those things. Just live.
When the grain elevator closed its doors he had no place else to go. With no savings—he was not paid well, even by Iowa standards—he would not be able to support himself or keep up the payments on the few worldly possessions he’d been able to acquire.
He was not stupid because he couldn’t read. He understood issues that affected him. He knew how to ask for help, something I’ve seen even the smartest people struggle with. There was compassion in his voice mixed with confusion. He asked me, “When is it my turn?” He’d given up so much over the course of his life for others and now he was cast out like a worn cog. He did not feel stupid. He felt left out. There was a party going on his entire life, but because he made a commitment to help his family, he couldn’t read the invitation. And now it was too late. He was at the door, but no one would let him in. He’d lived the life he was cast and suddenly was told he should have done it differently. That’s stupid.
A few days later he was released from the training. There was too much paperwork involved in trucking for him to succeed. I don’t blame Schneider/National for making the choice they did. Hard decisions happen every day. We all have to make them. None of us could do anything at that moment to fix the situation. I was not the only person helping him during his short time in training. And no one, not one person made a joke about him. Yet, had he shown up for a focus group in my old ivory tower we would have had a field day belittling him while elevating ourselves to a god-like level of reverence and intellect. The more I was around truckers, the more I came to appreciate their worldview. Life’s authenticity was not hidden among the platitudes that powerbrokers and dealmakers shower upon themselves. It existed in the cockpit of an eighteen-wheeler rolling across Nebraska with a load of material goods to the elite.
I regret now that my time with Schneider/National was limited. Cut short when the industry called on my talents to help out on two new business pitches for a small Chicago ad agency. I won them both for them…and…paid handsomely for the effort. Then promptly let me go. But my experience on the road brought me to a much larger shop where I landed on, of all things, a trucking account. But a day doesn’t go by that I don’t envy those mariners of the concrete sea. They live life, one day at a time. One destination at a time.
Yeah, everybody’s smart. We’re all the best and the brightest. We just have bad days. Problems arise that make any of us feel inadequate or even stupid. Whether you’re Bill Gates or George Bush, you’re still going to get your penis stuck in your fly every once in awhile. And sure as shit, it’s gonna hurt and you’re gonna say, “damn that was stupid.” Like the client aching over the flannel decision, it wasn’t flannel that was at the heart of the issue, but the insecurity of sounding stupid. As long as everyone sounds stupid, I don’t sound so stupid. And that makes me smart. But it’s specious logic. To be truly smart, you only have to be honest with yourself. You only need to be real.
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