The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series) (25 page)

“You
’ve
got company, hooker,” an officer says as she opens up my cell and pushes three other women in with me. They’re overgrown, scary, dirty women who are way past their eyebrow waxing sessions and hair appointments. One of them doesn’t even look like a woman. She’s more ape-like than anything. I gulp.

“Hi,” I say, smiling. “Welcome to cell number nine.” One of the women pulls down her pants, sits on the toilet, and pees. She’s obviously drunk because she begins to sway back and forth on the toilet seat. I see a mouse scurry across the floor and I jump. I grab onto the jail bars and begin to yell some more. “This isn’t even sanitary!” I say. “You have a rodent problem! This isn’t safe for anyone,
not
even the common criminal!”

Another guard walks pass my cell and I attempt to reach out to her. “Officer, I need to use the phone!” I say quickly and she ignores me. Why am I being ignored? Are these what the conditions are in jail? I’d rather be homeless than live in these cells.

The guard walks back to my cell and opens it. “Leslee Robinson, you can make your phone call now,” she tells me and I sigh a breath of relief.

“Thank God!” I say aloud as I rush out of my cell.

“Robinson?” a woman from my cell says. “Are you the daughter of Wayne Robinson?” she asks me.

“Why?” I ask as the guard shuts the cell door.

“My sister was locked up by Judge Robinson.”

“Really?” I ask. “What did your sister do?”

“She killed her husband after she found him cheating,” she tells me. “That motherfucker gave my sister twenty years to life.”

“Well, your sister probably deserved it,” I say.

“What did you just say?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say quickly fearing the consequences of my big mouth. “Officer, can we go?” I whisper as the officer pulls me to the phone area.

“Three minutes,” the officer tells me. “That’s all you get.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I reply.
This place is so disgusting.
I can’t believe that even mice live here. There has to be cleaner places for rodents to live.

I pick up the phone to collect call my father. He’s gonna be so pissed at me.

“Hello?” my dad answers.

“Dad, it’s me,” I say. “Don’t be mad.”

“Do you know what time it is, daughter?” he asks me, obviously irritated.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “One in the morning, maybe?”

“What do you want?”

“Now, Dad, don’t get mad,” I say. “I only have three minutes to talk.”

“What? Where are you?”

I begin to sob. “Daddy, I’m in jail and I scared as shit right now!” I say, screeching.

“You’re
WHAT
?!” he yells through the phone. “Jail? What in God’s name did you do?”

“Daddy, I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent!” I yell through tears.

“Calm down,” he tells me. “Which jail are you at?”

I sniffle for dramatic effect. “The one on Race Street,” I tell him. “Get me out of here! These women are crazy and they tried to feed me bad cheese sandwiches!”

“All right,” he tells me. “I’ll call the chief of police and he’ll get you out of there.”

“If I don’t make it out of here,” I start, “I just want you to know that I love you, Daddy!”

“You’ll be fine. It’s just a bunch of drug users and prostitutes in there,” he reassures me, but I beg to differ. Why do the women (dare I even call them women?) in my cell look like they’ve just killed someone?

“Daddy, hurry!” I say as the young Leslee emerges in my voice.

“I’ll be there. I’ll call the chief of police.”

“Thank you,” I say and I hang up the phone. I wipe away the tears from my face to try and toughen myself up. The officer walks me back to my cell, pushes me in, and locks the door. I just gulp. “So, um, what are you in for?” I stutter, trying to use the jailbird lingo.

“I set my ex-boyfriend’s house on fire,” the woman on the toilet says.
Psycho pyromaniac.

“I left my kid in the car in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart,” another one says.
Responsible ‘Mother of the Year’…not.

“I slit some bitch’s face with a razor,” the last one says.
Crazy, dramatic, overly tempered assclown.
“What are you in for?” She looks me up and down. “Let me guess: prostitution?” she asks and they all laugh at me.

“No,” I say quietly as I sit on the metal bed. “I’m
a sociopath and a serial killer,
” I tell them and they look at me in awe. “I killed three cops with my bare hands tonight, and then I ate their legs for dinner.” Yup, I’m totally hardcore. I could never kill anyone, but I damn sure can pretend. The women move away from me in fear and decide not to look in my direction.
Yes,
I think to myself,
lie to survive, lie to survive.

So, since being back to Philadelphia, I’ve been on this incredible journey to find a man, a boyfriend, my
soulmate
if you will (all for scientific purposes, of course). On this journey, I’ve taken some pretty drastic measures to complete this never-ending task including speed dating (which has scarred me for life in the worst way—I will never look at my feet the same again), video dating (worst idea in the world which led me to an unlawful arrest) a personal ad in the paper from which I’ve gotten no results, and consistent bar and club hopping which has gotten me nowhere,
nowhere
! As my final attempt to finding the
one
, I’ve decided to go ultra technical … OK, maybe it’s not
ultra
technical, but it is technical. I’ve decided to take my chances online, or as Dr. Phil would say, I am now “fishing with a ‘net.’”

Online dating is the new black. It’s perfect and it’s easy and it’s convenient. I can post up breathtaking pictures of myself, write out an impressive, perfect girlfriend profile (girl loves football and baseball, likes to cook hamburgers and steak, and enjoys having sex all the time—in various positions), and just chat it up with different men in the tri-state area, all the while sitting at Karen’s computer in a t-shirt, some unflattering granny panties, and my favorite pink fluffy slippers. It’s perfect! How come I didn’t do this first? I may have already found my happy ending like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in that Internet-based movie
You’ve Got Mail
. What the hell was I waiting for?

“Karen, I think I’m going to Plan E now,” I say and take a big bite of my Caesar salad. Since Karen has been on this crazy exercise and nutrition kick (if you want to call it that, practically starving herself for her wedding so she can fit into the perfect dress), the only thing that’s been in our kitchen has been vegetables, fruits, and almonds. I had to sneak in some croutons and salad dressing just to keep Russ and me from going insane.

“What’s Plan E?” Karen asks from across the kitchen table as she eats one of the five almonds on her plate. It’s sad the lengths people will go for a wedding. Then again, I’d p
robably go a little crazy, too,
considering it is a very special day in some people’s lives.

I do a fake drum roll on the table and Karen laughs. “Ladies and gentlemen
…” I say in my announcer voice,
“I bring to you the wonderful and spectacular world of …
Internet dating
!” I smile excitedly as Karen looks at me as if I’ve just gone crazy.

“Please tell me you’re not serious,” she responds and my confidence almost drops.

“I am serious,” I tell her.

“Do you know what kind of people are on the Internet?” she asks and I shrug. “Perverts and cheaters. I have yet to find one person that has success through online dating unless they were just looking for a quick one night stand.”

“I don’t know why you’re not being supportive of me.”

“It’s not that I’m not being supportive of you, Les. I’m being realistic.”

“I don’t see any harm in Internet dating,” I say defensively. “We’re in the twenty-first century. Things are supposed to be technical. I can’t help it that every time I see an eHarmony or match.com commercial, I shed a tear and wish that it was me so happily in love with someone that I met through the great graces of the Internet. Even if it sounds borderline pathetic, I don’t care. This is my last resort, and I will catch a man with the ‘net.’” Karen rolls her eyes. I know she’s not buying what I’m saying, but she doesn’t understand. She’s not single. “Besides, I’ll be doing this as an experimental thing. You know, for my project.”

I continue to devour my salad without the slightest emotion on my face. Karen not helping me with this is just crazy to me. She’ll go bar hopping with me, help me pick out clothes for my dates, but won’t help me with this? It’s like she’s too good for my dating tactics now. I take a sip of my water and attempt to give Karen the guilt trip. Puppy dog eyes: check. Loud sighing: check. By the look on her face, I can tell that I’ve hit a sensitive nerve in her.

“Now you’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she asks and I say nothing. “Leslee, it’s not that I’m not supporting you,” she assures me. “It’s just that now you are being a little ridiculous with this whole ‘finding the perfect man’ experiment thing.” Karen cuts an almond in half with a knife, and then proceeds to pop it in her mouth. I try to steal an almond from her plate, and she smacks my hand.

“I just want you to back me up, that’s all,” I tell her. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“A man doesn’t make you happy,” Karen says to me. “Only
you
can make yourself happy.” I begin to pout, and she throws her hands in the air. “Fine,” she replies. “I’ll help you.”

“Yes!” I squeal in excitement as I jump up to hug her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Sure,” Karen says. “My laptop is in the living room.”

“Great!” I exclaim as I run into the living room and retrieve Karen’s computer. I plop in the seat next to hers and turn it on. “This is going to be so much fun,” I tell her. “You’re assisting me on my cyber journey to love. So, where should we start?”

“Well, what Web site do you want to use?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I know anything about Internet dating because I’ve always had a boyfriend.”

“OK, what about eHarmony?” she asks. “You did say you saw that commercial on TV.”

“That’s true. We can start there,” I say as Russ walks into the kitchen. He makes a beeline for the refrigerator.

“What are you two up to?” he asks as he grabs an apple from the fridge drawer.

“Leslee wants to start Internet dating,” Karen informs him and he laughs.

“I don’t think my struggling dating life is amusing, Russ,” I tell him.

“I don’t think it’s amusing either,” he says and smirks.
What the hell does that mean?
“What site
are you planning on using
?”

“EHarmony,” I tell him. “I saw a commercial.”

“That’s old school,” Russ says. “You don’t want to do that. Why don’t you try Plenty of Fish? That’s a good dating site.” Karen shoots Russ a dirty look.

“How would you know about Plenty of Fish, Russ?” she asks him which sounds more like an interrogation.

“There’s this guy at my work who went on there and found his
fianc
é
e
,” Russ tells us, “and when I tell you he’s an ugly bastard, he really is an ugly bastard. Anyone can go on there and find someone.”

I type ‘plenty of fish’ in the computer and the Web site pops up. The starter page looks quite minimal. This shouldn’t be that difficult of a task. “OK,” I say, “so where do I start?”

“It looks like you have to start a profile first,” Karen tells me.

“OK, a profile,” I say aloud. “What’s that?” Karen shuts her eyes and starts to shake her head.
Did I miss something?
I think to myself. She knows that I’m not into all this technology stuff, let alone for dating. I don’t know anything about online dating at all.

“Wow,” Karen says. “You are definitely on the old school boat. You mean to tell me that you don’t have a
MySpace page, a Facebook account, Twitter
…”

I shake my hea
d. “Sweetie,
I worked in a law office and we were highly encouraged not to own social networking accounts to preserve the reputation of the employees that worked there. Plus,
I lived in Manhattan
and I was fabulous. Who needs to be technical when you are envied by all those around you?”

“I’m
aware that you lived in Manhattan
,” Karen says, “but I can bet that ninety-five percent of the city has either a MySpace, a Facebook, or some other Intern
et
account that somehow ti
es them to the rest of civilization
.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but only a small porti
on of the ninety-five percent were
fabulous like me.” Karen rolls her eyes.
Maybe she’s jealous.
There has to be a small part of her just wishing that she could’ve walked a few city blocks in my Jimmy Choos. Hell, I wish right now that I could walk in those shoes again. “Anyway, how do I do this?”