Misha Firer
Shy Men Anonymous
Jennifer paid two hundred fifteen dollars to have her black and white
photos
taken by a professional. He promised her that he would make her look
like a
movie star, and his impressive portfolio backed him up.
The photographer was true to his word. When Jennifer saw the pictures,
she
couldn’t believe it was her. Stripped of Technicolor and two
dimensions, her
flaws were eliminated and her assets amplified. She looked at least
five
years younger, and she had to confess she actually did look like a
superstar.
Jennifer selected the two most striking pictures and posted them on her
online dating profile.
Her profile needed to be filled up with information about her. She
searched
for words to single her out among millions of other profiles on the
site.
But everything that came to her mind sounded trite, insincere,
unappealing.
Where will you be three years from now?
The profile asked her. She
typed on
her laptop: I will be happy in love. I will be happy in life. I will be
happy altogether. Then she added a sentence she had read in one of
those
greeting cards she found in her local pharmacy. But I will be enriched
with
my soulmate’s love as the icing on my lovely cake of life.
Nickname. JSurprise.
That will do, she thought and wished herself happy Net-fishing.
Steven went through his old photo album, looking for an image that
caught him
in his heyday, when he was young and restless, bold and handsome. He
knew it
was somewhere there, a picture taken in a pre-digital, pre-mature age,
when
his age was not an issue, but a trampoline for life's enjoyment, for
satisfying his hedonistic hankerings.
And then he found it. Steven stared at his two-dimensional self,
imprinted
nine or ten years ago on the glossy paper. He was standing upright in a
small boat, stranded far from the shore, a fishing rod in his hand,
looking
at the camera with the self-assurance of a captain, the feigned
self-depreciation of an overly successful athlete.
He scanned the photograph and posted it on his online dating profile.
Then
he looked for words to illustrate that striking image from the past. Do
I
have to lie about the rest? Steven contemplated. The answer was too
obvious:
of course.
Age: match it to the date of the picture -- 30. Height: 6'1-6'3. Weight: 170-175. Nationality: That’s an easy one. American. Ethnicity: No need to lie either. White/Caucasian. Looks: That’s a tough one. But then again, there was a picture for those who doubted; it was better than a thousand words. Steven typed on his desktop keyboard -- Very Good Looking. At least I used to be, he thought. Now nickname. Sexybutcrazyme.
Jsurprise: Hazel eyes. Curvy; long wavy hair. Some college.
Steven was perusing a profile that the online dating site chose as one
of
his top ten, based on his likes and dislikes, location, age, etc. So
much
information to read, digest, make sense of.
Then he saw the pictures. Black and white. And they spoke more than a
million words, in fact more than all the information she had filled in
on
her profile.
He wrote her an e-letter. Hi, I’m this and that, a sportsman, a
successful
entrepreneur -- not too far from the truth, he did have a small business
selling refurbished tables to universities, and he did play golf quite
skillfully at the country club. What else? he thought. What else would
interest this drop dead gorgeous bimbo with wavy hair, skimpily dressed
in
black and white. You look great in this bikini. Yes, indeed. He typed
it.
The next day Jennifer received seventy-nine e-letters, of which
seventy-three were unabashed solicitations for sex. She deleted all of
those. And went through the rest. Of which there were two types. Very
young,
dumb, and obviously full of shit. And the phonies, who didn’t
even
bother to try to sound convincing. It was going to be frustrating,
Jennifer
thought, checking her last e-mail. She held her breath.
It was a (very) good-looking (young) man standing with a fishing rod at
the
helm of his boat beaming, literally, beaming with manliness, with
self-assertiveness. There was something attention-grabbing in his calm
stance, his sumptuous lips, his blazing eyes.
Immediately, without wasting any time, she wrote an e-letter in
response.
You sound (and look) intriguing. Why don’t you write directly to my
personal
e-mail address, rather than going through this dating site.
So he did.
Steven wrote a heroic account of his life on Earth, omitting his active
membership in Shy Men Anonymous, and his aged age, and some other less
prominent things that presented him in a less than glamorous light.
Steven
felt that he had been mining for copper, but stumbled upon gold.
Jennifer was likewise happy about receiving a letter from the man on
the
boat. It was her decision to switch to a more personal medium of
communication -- the telephone.
At first Steven panicked. He had expected there would be a dreary
exchange
of email back and forth for at least a month, and later ICQ
discussions. In
other words, an impersonal exchange of information, until he finally
got
used to the idea that he, Steve, was actually in contact with a young,
beautiful woman again.
Again -- he wanted to flatter himself with a half-baked truth. Yes, he used to be successful with
the
opposite sex, for a while, anyway. For a few years, when he was in his
early
twenties, doing well in his business, and keeping himself in good
physical
condition. There was that brief interval, when he enjoyed a certain
success
with beautiful, well, actually not that beautiful, women.
And then he derailed. Returned to his nature, which was introverted,
thoughtful, internal. That blissful interval of extroverted existence
was
far behind him. Now his reality, his better-looking reality, his
prospective
reality, was online. And wasn’t he achieving his objective now? But then
there was a question of the photo. The one he had posted. The one
which
wasn’t exactly him. When he met her, would she run away in
disappointment? Oh hell, I need to consult Shy Men Anonymous, Steven thought.
Jennifer thought: I’m rushing things. She thought, it’s not about the
fraudulent pictures, about the pictures not being the real me. It’s
just,
there are expectations, there are...yes, illusions, and some time is
required to make them lose their edge, their urgency, their necessity
of
coming true.
Just a phone call, that’s all, Jennifer reasoned, looking at her real
image
in the mirror. The first thing she noticed these days were wrinkles.
She was
thirty-two, and of course she had wrinkles. She wasn’t a movie star,
like
her black and white pictures suggested, she didn’t have money to pay
for
botox. It’s called aging. It’s a natural, irreversible process.
It seemed like yesterday, when she was in this pre-aging,
pre-irreversible
time, when time was on her side. Wasn’t she the high school prom queen?
Wasn’t she the princess at the university?
Just a phone call, Jennifer repeated to herself, but this time aloud. I
still look great, she said optimistically to her reflection in the
mirror.
She strained her lips to produce a smile. She was still ok. I need to
consult my best friend Lana.
Practice speaking into a tape recorder, the proprietor of Shy Men
Anonymous,
an infamous womanizer, suggested. Know thy voice. Make it sound
assertive.
You’re the master, remember? I am the master, Steven repeated docilely
after
his master in Matters Feminine. Good, the master said firmly, now get
yourself together and get a date with that Internet chick.
Don’t stress it, and you won’t mess it. Take it easy, he’s just another
guy. Be on top of it. Thanks for your help, Lana, Jennifer replied, and
disconnected herself from her best friend. Then she dialed
Steven’s home phone number that he had provided.
“Hello. Is this Steve?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Jennifer.”
“Oh hi Jennifer. How are you?”
“I’m fine. What about yourself?”
“Great. Great. So...ah, how’s your day?”
“Fine. This job tires me out.”
“What do you do?”
“Marketing. Advertisement. You?”
“Furniture sales. I own the company. It’s small, but makes enough to
live on.”
“Have you ever...dated someone you met on the Internet?”
“This is my first time. My friend suggested it. Internet dating I
mean.”
“Same here. This is kind of weird.”
“I know. So...ahem. Would you like to go out sometime this week?”
“I barely know you.”
“Yes. Sorry. You’re right.”
“I mean...you sound like a nice guy.”
“Thank you. I have an impression that you are a nice girl.”
“Thanks. Dinner? This Friday?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“OK, cool. We still have three days. So. Let’s talk. If you don’t
mind.”
“Sure.”
Steven was online, attentively re-reading Jennifer’s profile. I don’t
really consider it a date until we've met. Oh great, then what is it, if not
a date? So the first time is really a meeting. Meeting? Like in “business
meeting?” So frustrating. If we like each other, the second time is a
date.
Steven put on his best wool Armani sweater, black Banana Republic
pants,
Bostonian shoes, and rained it cats and dogs with his most expensive
cologne.
I’m going out for not a date, he thought disdainfully. Irritation over
an
insignificant piece of information on her profile took Steven’s mind
off his
worries about his lies being uncovered.
Corduroy blue blouse, Levi butt-tight jeans. Foundation and blush to
eliminate some of the deepest furrows. Atomize with the sexiest
chemical
aroma in the Western World. Perhaps he won’t notice the difference
between
the pictures and her corporeal self. Well, he will, eventually, but
she,
after all, was not bad looking. I’ll have to talk my way out of his
initial
disappointment, Jennifer reasoned. And then everything will be fine.
When Steven first laid his eyes on Jennifer, on the real Jennifer, he
remembered the words from her profile: the tongue is so small, but
weighs so
much; think before you speak. He thought, she’s not like the picture,
she’s
definitely not like her picture. Sometimes you think in order not to
speak,
that’s what they call being wise. Because he knew that the same thought
was
going through her head. The reverse was true. He wasn’t like the
picture
either...
Jennifer thought, my jaw just literally dropped, and that guy, that guy not
from
the picture, is staring at my not-so-white teeth and contemplating the
correspondence of our deceptions.
The belly. He is pudgy. His older face is in need of some ironing. Is
it him
at all? Looks like his father, or elder, worse-looking brother. I’m
bailing
out. But wait. Why is he staring at me like that? Is it because of my
two-hundred-fifteen-dollars-including-tax black and white photograph?
Maybe it’s not her, flashed through Steven’s mind. Wishful thinking
indeed.
It was her. He’s got that memory, photographic memory they call it. It’s
her,
only in color and four dimensions. I need to say something. It’s time
to
break the silence.
“You are Jennifer.”
Not a question, but an introduction of acceptance. He caught her lying
and
he forgave her. Now it was her turn. And then they were even. And maybe
on
the way to a date.
“Yes. Hello Steven.”
Thank you.
The waiter materialized out of the darker recesses of the restaurant,
their
rendezvous point. He led them through the candle-lit dungeon-style
décor,
away from the whispering couples, dates, to the farthest corner, as if
he
had full knowledge of their predicament.
They were seated and given menus. Jennifer dove into its centerfold,
avoiding eye contact. How embarrassing. Steven decided to be passive
aggressive to summon his courage. He looked at her closely. Her eyes
were
large, bugging out, probably from a TV addiction. They had absorbed
overdoses of visual stimuli and overheated her poor brain.
Jennifer was pretending to be interested in the menu. Her face hidden
behind
the expensive binding, she contemplated her course of action. Get up
and
leave, her inner voice commanded. Or get a free dinner, and then leave:
if
you can bear this loser for that long. But there was this nagging
"but." She
was no queen or princess anymore. She had lost her royal title to the
sweep
of time. She was no chooser anymore. Perhaps this guy is fine. He looks
decent anyway.
Steven released the tension of his face by smiling. Then he spoke, “I’m
glad
to meet you. Really.”
Her eyes leapt up from the menu, brow furrowed, her thin lips slid
apart.
She said, “Thank you. Do you want to order?”
Steven cast his eyes down and stared dumbly at his menu. Now he had to
pretend that he was interested. Play his role. Play along. They were
double-players. Not only did they have to go with the conventions of
the
first date, sorry, the first meeting, they had to pretend that they
hadn’t
been frustrated in their expectations. Which made them even. Steven,
uplifted by this thought said, “That blouse looks great on you.”
“Oh thank you. And I like your sweater. Is it from the Gap?”
“Banana Republic,” Steven said, and thought, probably from Bangladesh.
Jennifer opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it
immediately. She seemed to have absolutely nothing to say. Steven
panicked. I need to say something. The love guru in Shy Men Anonymous taught him
to
keep talking, chatting non-stop, doesn’t matter what, produce words,
sentences, incoherent, stupid, dull. Because words healed nervousness,
mellowed the heart, melted the ice, and paved the way to the bed.
The dinner was over. Steven tried to prolong it, to eat more slowly,
hoping
that inspiration would come to him, and his mouth would yawn open and
disgorge sounds, words, sentences, speech concocted to sweep Jennifer
off
her feet, make her dizzy, make her gasp, and long for more. Steven felt
a
creative block. The world was dull and silent that evening.
Talk, Jennifer beseeched him, doesn’t matter what. Talk. Goddamn you.
Steven opened his mouth, feeling his cranium tingle with a panic
attack.
Suddenly it was too late to stop; his mouth produced a sound, a human
sound,
in a masculine low-pitched bass. Steven heard himself saying, “I don’t
care
that you don’t look like your pictures.” He wanted to stop, he was
blushing,
and desperately wanting to stop, but he just couldn’t -- he had been
silent
for too long. “I’ve done the same to you. Tricked you. I’m sure you
noticed. So. I’m a shy man.” Stop this dangerous confession! “I’m even an active
member of Shy Men Anonymous. It’s a social yoga for my introverted
self. So I signed up for that online dating site. So I posted an old photograph.
I know you will leave now, get up and go. Maybe that’s why I’m telling
you all
this--“
“Can we have a decent conversation now? Like two adults? You know, just
talk
at ease? Get to know each other?” Jennifer asked.
Steven stared at Jennifer with disbelief. He saw whole chunks of ice
falling
off of her onto her empty plate. He saw her thawing, opening up. He
blinked.
“Oh jeez, sure.”
God Almighty, Jennifer thought, do I doubt his membership in Shy Men
Anonymous? But who freaking cares, right?
They stood outside in the cold, with wind abrading their bared nerves
and
faces, waiting for a taxi. The awkward, the disastrous meeting, turned
into a
fine date after all. At least they made friends.
“Where do you live?” Jennifer asked, cupping her ears with the warmth
of her
gloved arms.
“Avenue B.”
“Avenue B and what?”
“Avenue B and 16th Street.”
“Avenue B and 16th Street?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were two embrasures, her last line of defense, the tiny
entrance
into her world, which Steven shared for the evening. She asked
cautiously, “Are you kidding me?”
Steven’s heart skipped a beat. He had a prescient feeling.
“Don’t tell me you live there too.”
“Dear Steven, we live in the same apartment complex. And I bet that you
can
see my windows from yours.”
Jennifer would later tell her own version of how she met her husband to her
parents and friends. She claimed that they were destined to meet, being
neighbors and buying food in the same supermarket, and that the Internet
was
merely a shortcut. Jennifer always chose to omit the detour of her
professional pictures and Steven's visual blast from the past. Instead, she
spoke
of their first date. “That day I wasn’t much in the mood for a date,
I'd had
an exhausting day at work. Then my car broke down and I had to take a
taxi.
And then there was a traffic jam. I was late. And irritated. And to
tell you
the truth, I didn’t think much of my date when I first saw him. But then
we
sat and ordered food and chatted, and I liked him a lot. He was
outspoken, and warm, and likeable. We met a few times and then, just
like
that, boom, we got married.”
©2004 by Misha Firer
