The Wedding Bet (9 page)

I gasped taking in a deep whiff of his forest-scented cologne. “Oh! Hector. How can I take you from these two admiring ladies?”

“Ladies?” Hector nodded to both Cynthia and Olivia, as he pulled me down the hallway back to the gymnasium floor of the Joinrite City Grantor’s Orator’s hall.

PR Man showed me a brochure map of the Joinrite City Orator’s Hall the day before. Now being in the hall things came back to me visually. From my recollection, as Hector’s romantic smile shooed away one woman and then another, I remapped the Grantor’s Hall into safe zones like in high school or college girl should do any place. The dance floor was definitely the red zone. Yet I was headed right for it. The ladies bathroom was a green fully safe zone. The hallway was yellow. I realized by the drinks was a yellow zone. Talking to the matrons who put on the Lover’s Dance would be a green zone. The parking lot should be a green zone for leaving, but after my disastrous entrance, I remapped it a red zone. So as we entered the center of the dance floor, Hector pulled me gently to him. I realized staying single was going to get a lot harder.

Hector refrained from pulling me too close. And I recoiled against any feelings of regret for not feeling sufficiently guilty about my own yearly non-wedding goal. This wasn’t the way things were suppose to go. And my fake broken arm only made all the other women dancing about me see our situation as more romantic.

Before I went out like a whiny wimp, and fell into the marriage trough, I decided to wipe the glare and bitter-sweet taste of maleness from my eyes. “So how often do you go around in shining armor O man of steel chasing down damsels in distress?”

Hector stopped slow dancing. But his smooth stop only stirred up more drama from the women watching our every move. His black curly hair and suave manner hid the surprise on his face. Yes, the surprise on his face never fully manifested. I wanted to stomp my feet and exclaim no fair! I gotcha!

“How often? As often as you wear a fake broken cast on your healthy arm.” He raised his left eyebrow in that knowing way that male heroes in those romantic novels do.

“I sprained my arm.” I said pushing back a little. His pleasant, intoxicating cologne soothed my nerves. “Whenever I get stressed out about dating my left arm goes on the blink.”

“Must be so terribly, terribly hard, then, fair maiden to carry all those wedding cakes all over town.” He pulled me closer again.

I whispered into his ear. “I didn’t think a sprained arm might stop you from wanting to get into my pants.”

“You modern girls, Megan, don’t wear pants for aesthetic reasons.”

“Under my dress, then. And I’d think as a famous plastic surgeon, Hector Contofalsky, you’ve seen enough female flesh to bore a thousand men.” He couldn’t possibly see that I wasn’t wearing any pants under my flowery dress. That’s why I wore it—as a form of sexual protection. He really tried hard to get on my radar by annoying me. This is how countless other failed marriages started. Not from some kindness or commonality, but by the pearl necklace of little irritations.

“A thousand men could never find you boring, Megan Bedrosian. You’re smart. Run your own business. Fiercely independent. You’re every man’s fantasy. Tell me, before this song ends. How have you come to detest and avoid marriage?”

Before I could answer another man’s voice and fingers tapped on Hector’s shoulders.

“You!” Hector stepped aside, startled then smiled as if he expected the stranger’s arrival. “You nearly killed me out there jostling me on my steed.”

“I teach riding classes at Vassel Riding Farms on Southbank, if you’re familiar with our city, Sir. Be a pleasure to give you equine pointers.” PR Man slid in front of me and he raised my right hand kissing it, gently.

“I have a good mind to—”

“Challenge me to a duel.” PR Man snapped. “I teach that as well at the Renaissance Festival every spring.”

Hector slowly backed away and retreated into the crowd.

“I heard a rumor some strange knight from out of town arrived. I couldn’t let you be swept off your feet.” PR Man started in, his stock expression ever present.

“PR Man,” I smiled. “You—were!”

“I was!” He spun me about not worrying about my sprained arm.

“Be careful of my arm,” I said as he slowly pulled me close to him and the music stopped. “Quickly over to the yellow zone,” as I nudged him to the refreshment stands.

“There you are,” said Olivia. “I see you’ve managed to meet someone handsome and charming on your own. I might as well forget about the date I had in mind for you. He runs a catering business in New York City. He is looking for help.”

I never turned down an opportunity to talk shop, “Where is he?” I asked, as PR Man’s strained smiled formed on his lips.

“You rather go with someone capable of buying you out then continue building up your own business?” He replied.

“Relax PR Man. Olivia Swanson meet my Public Relations specialist. He’s going to make sure I don’t get married by the end of the year.” I looked around. “Now where is that New York catering giant?”

“Nice to meet you—” Olivia started speaking.

“Steve Laferte. She calls me that out of habit.”

“Must make being romantic difficult, Steve.”

“On the contrary, it solidifies our professional relationship.”

“This year, Megan, promised to reconsider all professional relationships!” Olivia smiled.

I turned back around. After flashing my beguiling, disarming cheek to cheek smile, I replied quietly, “I assure you I am not sleeping with my clients just so you can get me married off, Olivia!”

PR Man and Olivia laughed.

“You know what I meant!” Olivia said, and pouring a drink of punch and handing it to me. “See Megan, the yellow zone isn’t so safe after all. And hiring Steve to protect you is nearly almost, breaking your agreement to at least try to think about marriage this year. You owe it to Cynthia.”

I glanced at PR Man and he simply shrugged his broad strong shoulders.

“Just because I hired someone who thinks like me to help me get married doesn’t mean I’ve violated our trust, Olivia Swanson—Friend.” Then I stormed off leaving her to talk with PR Man. I went outside hoping for a breath of fresh air when an old geezer, almost ninety said, “I saw your picture on the bus. Nice mug shot for a virgin bride!”

“I’m no virgin.” I quipped, “Didn’t you see the condoms. I’m a slut.” And I stormed off with my fake sprained arm and got into my car and drove home.

Chapter Five

I walked around holding my cell phone as I tried to bake a cake. The man on the phone sounded sincere. He wanted to get to know me. Take me to dinner. I told him already I make dinners for a living. So that would be boring. Now he wanted to know if I seriously wanted to get married or not. “Right. See the bus advertisement is really a gag for a friend. She wants me to be married but I’m already a committed single person.”

I dumped two cups of sugar into the cake batter. Then realized maybe that was too much sweetness for the sixty-year-old couple reliving their sixtieth wedding anniversary.

“No. I am not a lesbian. I’m heterosexual woman who doesn’t believe in the feminine mystique. Betty Freidan. You know of her. No. Well...see...” I started stirring in the eggs when I realized today was blocked off in my electronic to-do list for answering personal ads. How this guy got my phone number baffled me. Of course, anyone can find anyone today over the Internet. “No. I don’t want you to watch me try lesbianism. I’m looking to get married not switch my gender identity!” I hung up the phone. I ripped off my banana color apron and dumped the cake mix into the trash can. I scrambled upstairs and changed into a widow’s outfit. All black. Blouse, knee-length skirt, stockings, low heeled shoes, but I left the veil. I don’t look good in veils though several actresses in the movies I like do. Ninja’s wore black, too.

The thought of violence crossed my mind before I crossed it out with another of my daily, prevent, set limits, repel, defend and aggress prayers (PSRDA). I figured out if the Great Goddess and the Great God gave men this obvious overt strength; they must have given women something to its equivalent, besides the ability to bear children. Women received inner strength of intuition or psychic ability. When I was younger than nine, I called this the power of the fairies; younger than 14, I called this the power of the angels, younger than 18, I referred to it as the power of the Witch; in college, I started calling it the power of the Goddess.

Now I believe I have seen this power at work in my life. I consider hand-to-hand combat the last attempt of defending myself. Daily PSRDA prayers should be done. But you can’t just go up to a Women’s Center and say “every female entering your door should be taught the power of the fairies, angels, Witch or the Goddess” even if it is true. Females love using PSRDA words, spells, and rituals for protection. And females should stop fantasizing about rape.

I learned this when I used to imagine a desolate world, everyone destroyed by myself running naked; my young breasts and ass swinging seductively in frustration, screaming “Someone rape me! Rape me!” When all of a sudden, one, then two men showed up in my desolated empty world and begin chasing my butt down the street for real—in the desolate dream world I made up! That is the power of the Witch gone haywire. Life is very much like a dream, if we were the only one in it we would have ultimate power! After that, I never fantasized about rape again.

* * * *

I opened the door to the small apartment and realized I needed some coffee. So I went to the office park across the street. Standing there I noticed a queue forming at the building. “Oh. That doesn’t look good,” I remarked.

The young, dark-haired Goth store clerk remarked, “I thought this was a good neighborhood. I noticed all those men lining up there too! Probably some hussy strung out on drugs. I don’t know which are worse people who don’t want to get married; or people who marry for the popularity or financial benefits.”

“Are people just marrying for the financial benefits these days?”

“Oh yeah,” said the Goth girl with a dozen earrings climbing up her cartilage. “I know a male friend of mine who married this old broad of twenty-seven for her money.”

That twenty-seven comment of hers sapped the ego out of me. Was I that old? When did twenty-seven get to be old? I decided to ignore her. Anyone wearing that many earrings probably had trouble hearing accurately. I turned back to my second apartment building and the queue only grew longer. I took a sip on the hot coffee.

“He’d marry you. Want his phone number?”

I almost spit out my coffee.

“I saw your picture on the side of the bus when I came to work. Nice touch the condoms.”

“I thought the rubber meets the road ad worked well. I’m trying not to get married.”

The Goth chick wiped the counter and nodded deeply. “That’s totally cool. More women should stay independent. Why spend all our time trying to keep a man interested in your mind, heart and soul?”

I waited until she finished her statement. I really needed to stay clean for my Personal Ad interviews. Who wants to date a woman who looked like she just burped a two year old? Her silence gave the all-clear and I took another sip of coffee. “Because women and girls are afraid of violence from men in this testosterone-driven sick world.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Goth chick added. “I know girls who puke thinking about love, but they are afraid of being or doing anything alone.”

“My sentiments exactly. The world is free of male violence against women and girls I say during my meditations. Women and girls live, work, play, explore the world free from male violence, especially sexual violence.”

“Air high-five,” Goth chick said, before I headed out the door.

I stopped and raised my coffee-free left hand. “Air high-five. Nice conversation Goth Chick.”

“Nice conversation, Conservative Chick Megan.”

When I got to my apartment, several men from the diverse group started talking at once and waving the diverse newspapers my personal ad had appeared in. I gave careful consideration to those that appeared in local art scene or travel papers. At least he’d be someone interested in music, concerts and travel.

“Gentlemen I’ll get to each of you fast as I can,” I commented putting my head down. Honestly did I have time to see them all? In the back of my mind, I knew finding a beau takes a lot of egg timer turns.

Before letting anyone in, I test ran the cameras. There were two main ones. The flower pot in the back facing the men. And a side view camera from the left wall behind the front door. The side view camera rested inside of the painting of a little girl taking a picture of her family in a cozy living room behind the front door. I also called PR Man’s number at Limber & Love to see if the visual feed recorded and stored the interviews. PR Man said we might find some good clips for a future television ad or infomercial later on. My skepticism of something humorous happening on my dates ranked high, nine out of ten. Nothing funny every happened on my dates—at least that I am aware of. I mean I’m interesting. But I don’t think I’m humorously funny.

Amy answered the phone, “Limber & Love. The advertising agencies sure to keep you single.” She joked.

“Amy, you’re crazy.”

“I know.” Amy continued, “PR Man,” she said with sexual overtones, “is in a meeting with another client. He’ll be available soon, though.”

“I need to know if the visual feed to the apartment works.”

“I can check that for you.” I heard Amy get up and walking down the hall and entering PR Man’s office. “Yep. I see you Black Widow.”

“I figured even if I sound hot, the black widow outfit sent the right message even if my body refused.”

Amy chirped, “I agree. It’s not fair a woman’s body can inadvertently sometimes send the wrong message. Men don’t have that problem, except on one hard occasion. And being unavailable for any near future with the girl after his deposit. If men banked their money like they did sperm, we could feed the hungry all over the world.”

She giggled. “I wanted to tell you a friend of mine from the Women’s Shelter hates your bus poster. She said saying, ‘You’re a nag, with hundreds of cats, who hates sex, promotes women as sluts who hate marriage. But they also agree a woman should use birth control whenever and as many times as necessary.’“

“I don’t know how safe this is if PR Man isn’t watching.” I paused listening to the men beginning to brag to one another about their marriage chances. Requiring Amy’s Women’s Center’s services might wipe me off her admiration list. Not that I wanted to be worship. I believe worship belonged onto the Great Goddess and the Great God—they’re there 24/7 regardless of the situation.

“Don’t worry, Megan, I’ll watch for you. We girls and women need to stick together. I can switch his computer feed over to my computer monitor.”

I heard Amy typing on PR Man’s computer keyboard.

“Done. Yeah. No problem. We do it all the time, if there is trouble with a client or something; if we need witnesses. PR Man’s going to be coming back very soon.”

“That’s...good,” I commented. “No watching and telling though—especially the Women’s Center.”

“Cross my fingers and hope to get accidentally pregnant if I do.”

“Do the big three after every completed session of sex, Amy?”

She giggled, “What’s the big three?”

“Morning After Pill, Birth Control Pill consistency, and Condoms. I call it the ABC method.”

Amy laughed so long and hard.

“The ABC method works.”

“The Women’s Center never endorsed the ABC method.” Amy giggled.

“Neither would the Great Goddess and the Great God want to endorse it publically. They want as many children as possible to grow up. They love raising children to develop into—into whatever it is—we’re supposed to be when we grow up.”

Amy kept laughing. Amy had a great sense of humor. Too bad she wasn’t a man. I sighed. “Thanks Amy for sticking together with me.” I hung up the phone.

* * * *

I sat across from the first guy. He was clean cut, wore a suit. I liked him honestly. But the first man doesn’t always get the woman. I reached into my purse and snapped open my white sheet of paper. I wrote down several questions to ask the men—200 in fact—to eliminate the crazy, the desperate, the going for my pants, and now I scribbled down, they want to marry me for my money men. Was forty thousand dollars a year a lot of money for a couple?

The more I thought of living on twenty thousand a year, the further I was convinced adding two more young mouths—ten thousand a year for each family member—didn’t make a bit of sense. Women and girls carried children to full live birth on divinely driven-instinctual faith. Because the law of diminishing proportions refused to make everything add up.

“I’d like to thank you for answering my personal ad.”

“It was a pleasure. I really liked the frog part. I can’t stand animals either.”

“Really you hate animals?”

“Dogs, cats, fish, gerbils, pandas, deer.” He smiled.

I was sure he made a perfect IT person. No contact with anything that was moving and alive.

“Personally, I like animals. I don’t have any yet. But with the two point one quarter children (adjusted for inflation), I sighed, they always have a white picket fence and a dog.”

“I never considered having more than one marriage partner. A dog would make two people to think about and care about.”

I rejected him right away. They say only serial killers hate animals. Or that if a man didn’t like pets; he was unlikely to possess the right emotional characteristics for a relationship.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” I always said this to assure the guy they never really had a chance to date me. I mean if you’re already forgotten in a current conversation. That’s a clear “no” signal.

“My name is Brad Carpenter.”

“I’m sorry Brad. I just bought a dog the other day. She’s a fox terrier and she loves to jump in people’s lap to huddle.”

He seemed a tad surprised. “That’s okay. At least I was the first one to try. I got that under my cap.”

I stood up to make my point.

Brad stood up following my lead, but he kept talking.