The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman (8 page)

Sal allowed me a moment of silence. It was not a pretty memory.

“The giant waxy whale remained a thorn in my mother’s side for years to come. No matter what cleaning solution she used or how thick the re-paint, the whale would surface in all its greasy splendor.”

“And so...?”

“The moral is quit while you’re ahead or you’ll end up with a whale on the wall.”

“Get a grip,” Sal laughs.

“It’s easy for you. You’re not out there. My pajamas feel too tight, I have a headache. I’m hungry but I have no appetite.”

“There’s something else. What is it?” Sal asks.

I reach to my nightstand and pick up a weathered black and white photograph of a guy with freckles and a smile that could still light up my world.

I speak softly, “The more I dig into men’s histories, the more I think we only get one chance at real love. I think I used mine up a long time ago.”

“The
First Love
thing?” I can hear the ice tinkle in Sal’s glass as he pauses to wet his smoky throat.

“That’s the only one that feels real.”

“Go to sleep,” he tells me. “Have a happy dream.”

I sleep fitfully. I dream I am driving a Winnebago on the information highway. The vehicle has no front windows. It is out of control and I can’t see the road ahead.

“Women seem to like their men to treat them terribly. I’m not like that. One time I tried to be mean to a woman. She just laughed at me.”

~ Ronnie, 46, divorced twice

Case 405 / Ronnie

In response to his personal ad trolling for dates in a local rag, I agree to meet Ronnie in a beer parlor north of Charlotte. I have a general idea of where it is.

It takes a few minutes for my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the emporium Ronnie has designated for our rendezvous. The beer logo, encased in a clear plastic block of pretend ice, casts just enough illumination for me to find my way to the counter.

Ronnie looks like an oversized owl perched on a barstool, his amber eyes glowing and a string of blond hair stretched and glued over his bald head. A frequent user of classified ads, this forty-six year old Carolinian has had seven meeting-dates this week, nine the week before.

“What was it about my ad that made you call me?” He questions, locked and loaded. “Was it the mention of the hot tub or the fireplace? Because I have to confess, I don’t really have either one.” He takes a swig of his beer and reluctantly asks if I’d like anything to drink.

When I tell him it was neither of those turn-ons he seems disappointed. “See, my buddy Mac writes the ads for me.” He quickly divorces himself from the printed lie. “I don’t have a way with words like he does. He’s a guidance counselor. I’m just a music teacher.”

Ronnie moves on, forgetting I’m not a potential date. He’s on automatic pilot. “If we were to go out, you should know that I like inexpensive places with live music.” He rattles off a list of threadbare bars.

The bartender offers us a sticky card listing half a dozen fried munchies. This burnt-out, would-be Romeo brushes it aside. I slide the signed agreement to him, promising to never contact him again and to disguise his identity. He appears to accept that I’m here strictly in the interest of research and not as date material.

“Like how do guys meet women anymore, besides clubs?”

I suggest the various dating services to him. He asks the cost. I give him my guesstimate. He chokes on his draft stepping off the barstool to cough.

“Mac recommended I use internet dating.” He stares at his empty beer glass possibly searching for the meaning of life. Once a woman responds to my ad, I like to talk to her a few times on the phone before I even think of asking her for a drink.” He waits for my feedback.

“Do you ever ask them to dinner? Or lunch?”

“A guy could lose a lot of money that way. No. I wait. I’m not gonna drop twenty or thirty dollars on dinner and find out there’s no chemistry.”

I’ll bet he uses coupons.

Desperate to get a handle on where to meet women, ‘owl-man’ pushes on. “When you interview have you found one thing in common with all the men?”

I hesitate. “Do you really want to know?”

His eyes stare in terror, “Uh ... sure ...”

“Most people, not just the guys, are looking for love but they don’t have a clue what love is.”

He orders another brew as he thinks on what I’ve just told him. He seems relieved I didn’t use the other “L” word... loser. Then he says, “I guess I always thought of love as having someone who shared your interests.”

“And what are your interests?”

“Well ... I just told you. You know hanging out – listening to music.”

As I dismount the barstool my boots crunch on the peanut shell floor. I wave Ronnie off and crunch out the door into the sunlight.

Could it be that simple? Love equals shared interests? That would mean ... the more interests you have, the greater your chances of finding love? I scrape my boot bottoms on the asphalt, freeing the broken shells that cling to my soul.

“All dressed in white...”

~ Barbara Silkstone, mother of the bride

Hundreds of pearls have fallen onto and into the white carpet in my house. My eyes will need corrective vision surgery to recover from the hours of hand stitching. After weekly fittings and nerve-fraying adjustments, the wedding gown is finished. It’s lovely and all that I thought it could be. I would pat myself on the back but the pinch in my neck is too painful.

There have been food tastings for the reception and guest lists to mull over, bridesmaids’ tantrums and groom melt-downs, and wedding photographers who insist on large deposits then fail to return my calls. Why would anyone put their mother through this? It must be revenge for giving birth.

I’m into my fifth year of interviewing and can’t see any way out except to finish the adventure.

“The death of my mother was the greatest loss I have ever suffered.”

~ John, 38, married

Case 421 / John

I first saw John when he played a character in a film that was so powerful it was nominated for multiple Academy Awards. His portrayal was fierce, violent, and loathsome.

Recorder in hand, I brace to meet this seemingly terrible man at his home in Hollywood Hills. I park my car on a driveway and gather my notebook and tape recorder then trot up a steep incline to his house. Two thoughts trip through my brain: how am I getting away with this gig and how have I not been killed or savaged at this point? You’ve been bloody lucky, I tell myself. Strange men are opening up like flowers and women are throwing their men at me hoping I’ll share what I gather – I won’t.

I knock on a heavy old Spanish Mission style door. Anticipating his film persona, I’m surprised when the door swings open revealing a dad with a baby in his arms and a five year old girl, who clings to the pocket of his pants.

We shake hands. I’m embarrassed because my palm’s a bit sweaty. This interviewing stuff can be stressful. John offers me a cold drink as I follow him to the backyard. We sit at a table on a deck overlooking a forested valley.

He settles the baby on a blanket at our feet. The little girl scrunches down engrossed in drawing crayon pictures. Sitting across from me, John begins our chat by interviewing me. “Why did you start your quest? What’s your motive?”

Surprised, I verbally stumble then answer, “I wanted to find out all about love. Who men love and why and how they stay in love.”

As I gaze into his bright blue eyes I wonder why he’s so comfortable with me. What did I do to inspire such confidence that he lets me into his home and around his children? This is the good part of the interviewing – being welcomed as an authority or an old friend.

“Why did you agree to this interview?” I ask.

“When we spoke on the phone you said you were collecting thoughts about men, women, and love. I have some unusual thoughts and I care enough to share. You sounded sincere. I go by my gut a lot.”

“Mind if I record?” I give him my professional smile as I blot the drips off my ice tea glass.

“First,” he says, “I believe we carry around love-frames that come from our childhood or lost first loves. We spend our lives trying to fit people into these frames. This forced perspective can really mess up our lives.”

The baby fusses. He lifts her up and into his lap. Balancing his time lovingly between his daughters and my questions, he never loses a beat.

I feel light headed with the surrealism of the scene. I’m expecting something edgier. The last time I saw John, he was beating some guy into a bloody mess on a wide screen, now he’s coaxing burps out of a tiny infant.

John continues, “Love-frames can work if we find someone who is on a parallel journey, but frequently the journey changes. One partner doesn’t continue to back the other’s dreams.”

“Do you think marriage sometimes stifles growth?”

“I think a lot of people make a commitment to marriage not realizing all the implications. They begin to think there’s something better out there. The frame starts to squeeze the picture. I guess that can cramp your growth. That and a partner who’s not one-hundred percent in your corner.”

He strokes the light blond fuzz on the baby’s head. “I think they should really make it harder to get married, as difficult as they make it to get divorced. People have been saying that since they first invented marriage, but no one’s perfected the system.”

“Is a happy marriage the hardest thing for a man to achieve?”

“No, the toughest challenge a man has to face is raising children and making sure they’re equipped for the world.” The baby lets out a protest. He raises her to his shoulder and rubs her back. She relaxes into a quiet sniffle.

This tableau sets a mind-scene I will replay when I see a particularly great piece of acting. How awesome to hold so much love and yet be able to portray so much anger. Good actors are worth what they get paid. The only way I could pretend to beat the poop out of someone was if he looked like the judge who granted my ex his cushy divorce.

A question pops into my mind and out of my lips. “Tell me about your mother and how she may have affected your relationship with women.”

John looks down at his little artist who has nodded off. Her blond head rests on the picnic table, her small fist clutches a red crayon. The baby is asleep in his arms.

“I was five years old when my mother was taken from me, so I never really related to a woman in that way. I knew my mom loved me, but she was someone I had to come to understand. It was hard.”

There is a yearning in his voice. He hesitates and then decides he can trust me with what is a really painful memory. “My mother was permanently institutionalized because she was schizophrenic. Two decades she spent staring at walls and hearing the screams of the other patients. I would visit her and come away with a cold lost feeling in my heart. She would rarely recognize me. The final weeks before she died, she was the most lucid I had ever seen her in my life. I thought perhaps...”

He pauses and looks out over the hills. “I was blown away because suddenly she was speaking with such clarity about everything that had happened. I was twenty-six when she finally came around. For twenty years of my life I had wondered when my mom was going to get out. I actually had an epiphany when she passed away. It was a spiritual thing. I was in an airplane coming back home from her funeral. I had been sitting back and quietly crying. I had my eyes closed, but I saw clouds and my mom’s face. My mother spoke to me, she said ‘Honey, don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.’ At that moment, the burden I had carried since I was a small child left my shoulders.”

Gently he brushes the fine golden hair from the baby’s forehead. She wrinkles her nose.

“I accepted that my creative spark was due to all those years I spent desperately wanting to be successful for my mother. I always had this dream as a kid that I was going to become really wealthy and take her out of the hospital and buy her a home, because all she really needed was love.”

We sit silent for a moment. I dare not speak.

“Now I realize my mom was ill. She would never get well enough for me to rescue her. She never saw me become successful. She never saw me act, but ... whenever I fantasize about the Academy Awards I know I would thank my family, but certainly my mom because she is a big part of who I am. She was my first love and my driving force.”

The baby whimpers in an infant dream.

John walks me to the door and thanks me for listening. I thank him for sharing. My emotional state is one of complete exhaustion. Without laying a hand on me he has savaged me.

“My mother is the center of my emotional growth.”

~Fred, 37, married

Case 440 / Fred

I’m still in L.A. and the opportunity presents itself to interview a well-known, successful film producer. Famous for shunning publicity, Fred agrees to talk to me.

This producer’s personal office is the size of a small subdivision. A cream-colored leather sofa dominates the room. I can imagine a dozen film executives sitting around, putting together a major motion picture deal.

Greeted with a handshake, I’m offered a beverage and accept a bottled water. Fred directs me to a seat on the monster sofa and then settles in five cushions away from me. This seating arrangement is not going to work. I need intimacy.

I pop up all perky and lovable and plop down smack next to Fred. I put a sofa pillow on my knees and use it to support my notebook.

Mr. Movie Mogul is thrown off for an instant by my bold move, but then he grins. “Where do we start?” He nods at my feet, “Nice boots.”

“Tell me your vision of a woman worth your love.”

I take a sip of water and place the bottle back on an expensive looking coaster. I feel him judging me.

“As I experience women, I feel quite badly in many ways for them because many times this feminism or women’s movement or whatever it is that you want to declare it, did not give them the liberation one would have hoped.”