Hi Everyone. Heres an oddly funny tale of my dating adventures -- how I met a woman who could put up with me. My Search for a Completely Different Woman is the second in a series that retells, factually, events depicted in my upcoming novel (see last weeks post, How a Colombian doctor found herself in America -- with me.) Heres the link -- and the story. blog.timesunion/davidkalish/my-search-for-a-completely-different-woman/347/ MY SEARCH FOR A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT WOMAN For a time after my cancer diagnosis and divorce in 1994, I was brutally honest with my dates. Some blonde or brunette woman would be sitting across from me at a restaurant in Chinatown or Soho, when I’d say, sensitively as I could, “I have cancer.” Though I quickly added “it’s slow-growing,” she’d gaze at me sympathetically, with Mother Theresa eyes. Maybe she’d let me eat the extra fortune cookie. But things would often sour after that. Maybe she wouldn’t return my phone calls. Worse, she’d call to cancel plans, saying she’d enrolled in something like First Communion classes, where she planned to receive the body of Christ – instead of mine, I figured – by eating wafers. As far as I was concerned, good riddance. My first marriage collapsed, in part, because of the stress caused by illness, a wife who couldn’t cope with an uncertain future. Something she said haunted me: “I feel like a part of me is dying.” I never wanted to hear such words again. I figured if women couldn’t accept me as I was, well, fuggetaboutit. A buddy of mine who shares my first name, and worked at Bell Atlantic at the time, suggested a compromise strategy. Dave moonlighted as bartender and my de facto therapist at Z-Bar on the Lower East Side, where he poured mine for free. One night I staggered in, after a long day pounding out stories at The Associated Press fifty blocks north. He saw through my stoic weariness and joined me for a cold one on the customer side. As I emptied a pint, I vented my frustration about dating. Dave suggested I pull back. Wait until the fifth or so date to tell them about your tragic life. I scoffed, saying I wanted to separate the wheat from the chaff. “Let’s try something else,” he advised, clamping a brotherly arm around my shoulders. “There’s a new saying going around. Over the Internet no one knows you’re a dog.” Though I was resistant to the idea, I half-heartedly agreed to give Web dating a try. With Dave’s help, I devised an engaging description of myself that only vaguely referenced my past. Still, I sneaked in snippets of honesty. The photo of me I posted online, for instance – goofily smiling, stubble poking through my face — told people I wasn’t the sort of guy who put on a show. In addition – and this part was by accident, due to my high-tech ineptitude – the photo I uploaded to my computer came up sideways. My post received several responses, including one from a woman who’d evidently spent time trying to make sense of my crooked photo. “What’s with the photo? You want me to get a neck spasm?” The email was signed: “Ingrid, from Colombia.” Her photo captured my gaze. I felt drawn to the woman’s mischievous smile — her mane of wind-blown hair. Her exotic olive-toned face. Not just that, she was a doctor – potentially with a cold calculating view of medical issues. I thought to myself: Maybe there’s something to this Internet dating thing after all. I typed a reply. “Sorry about your stiff neck. At least you know where to massage yourself, as a doctor,” I wrote. “But too bad you’re in Colombia, Ingrid. Long distance relationships are, you know, tough.” Nearly immediately, a reply flashed back. “You should try harder to understand my English. I never said I’m in Colombia. I live in New Jersey. I came from Colombia last year.” Struck by her feistiness, I typed a reply saying her English was pretty decent for a recent Latin American immigrant. But a week went by without a response. Finally, I zapped her an electronic greeting card from Bluemountain. It portrayed a grizzled, emaciated man stranded on a desert island, waiting for a bottled message to float in. He evidently was in the first throes of death. “Please write back,” the card pleaded. She did. I told her, in turn, of my grudging respect, generally speaking, for doctors. I mentioned that my ex-wife hadn’t had a real career. I’d made Ellyn, a woman I dated, the PIN for my ATM card, and came to regret it. For a long time, fresh, crisp twenty-dollar bills smelled to me like breakup. I mentioned how I’d joined a writing group, putting emotions to paper, and began writing a memoir. I described my minimalist Park Slope apartment, and nearby Prospect Park, featuring the largest contiguous forest in Brooklyn. One could get lost there. From the roof of my apartment building, you could spy harbor ships coming in around the green copper lady, yelping into the vastness. The Gowanus Expressway in the foreground – and beyond, the Verrazano Bridge, touching its reflection, stringing a necklace of pearls to welcome all the immigrants. We exchanged many emails over the next few weeks. One evening Dave called my apartment, managing to get through my dial-up connection. “Hey! You on the computer again with that woman? All night your phone is busy!” “Can you call me back? I need to send this email.” “No way. I don’t trust you. You’ll blab. I’m afraid any minute you’re going to tell this chick – what’s her name, Ingrid? – all your dirty secrets.” “Of course not. I haven’t told her, yet. I have a much better idea,” I said. “Listen, gotta hang up now. I need to dial up so I can email her this invitation.” “What are you doing … ?” I clicked on the “Connect” button and ended the call, too preoccupied to care if I sent a screech into my friend’s ears. In fact, I was inviting Ingrid to attend a reading of my memoir-in-progress — but didn’t tell her the work was all about my cancer and divorce. She thought we were just meeting for cappuccino. NEXT: Ingrid hears all about my cancer
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 12:49:02 +0000
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