Page 29 of Pity Present
“You’d think you’d have met a lot of available women, given your field,” I tell him.
He cringes. “I’m not interested in actresses.”
“I spent the last decade in Los Angeles. I just moved back to Chicago.”
Thor grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“About which part?”
“LA,” he says.
“It sounds like you know my pain.”
“I was there beforeChicago Flamegot picked up. While I never lacked for female companionship, the quality of conversation left something to be desired.”
“I wish someone would tell all those women searching for stardom that they don’t have to sell their souls to the devil to succeed.”
“But they really kind of do, don’t they?” he asks. “I mean, the whole business is based on superficiality, so by not being superficial, they wouldn’t be playing the right game to succeed.”
“That’s a depressing thought.”
He nods. “Which is why I don’t date actresses.” Briefly glancing to the left, he adds, “Or pet psychics.”
We talk for a few more minutes before I excuse myself. After meeting several other people, it occurs to me that there’s a wide spectrum of loneliness out there. I meet two doctors, a lawyer, a couple of schoolteachers and even a woman who owns a chain of car washes. I don’t connect with Krista again, but I manage to gather enough information to get back to work on my matchmaking exposé.
Once I get back to my room, I pull out my laptop and get busy.
What ever happened to meeting people the old-fashioned way? You know, in a bar or at a friend’s kid’s bar mitzvah? Don’t parents set their adult children up with their friends’ offspring anymore?
I just spent the last three hours at Trina Rockwell’s first mixer at the Elk Lake Lodge and I’m not full of optimism. Rather, I feel sorry for the singles of the world who feel it necessary toput themselves out there in such a blatant way. It’s almost like everyone was wearing the same sign around their necks: “I’m sad and lonely and I’m here because nobody else wants me.” At least that’s how I felt, and I’m not even looking.
That isn’t to say the participants were less attractive or accomplished than their non-intending counterparts—other than the fact they’re still single.
People from all walks of life are looking for love. The men ranged from blue collar jobs, like plumbers and contractors, to your college-educated careers of system analysts and architects. The women were equally impressive. I met a doctoral candidate who’s writing her thesis on black holes, another was a stock trader, and still another who taught martial arts during the day and moonlighted as a bartender at night. There appears to be no foolproof recipe for success in the dating world.
So far, Ms. Rockwell has used an array of interesting techniques to get people to talk to each other. She stopped the mixer several times and informed the participants to share secrets, to dance, and even to force them to complement one another. I thought it felt uncomfortably orchestrated, but many seemed to find her machinations positive and unique.
I suppose I might have a different take if I were here to find love for myself, but I inherently believe in fate, not forced communion. Having said that, this was only day one. I’m sure there’s more excitement to come, and maybe if people are lucky, some will find a happy ending.
I open another document for stories that I plan to weave in through the various articles. As of tonight, there’s only one that comes to mind. I find that I almost don’t want to write about it, but I have to because that’s my job.
Imagine coming to a dating event two hours away from your home and running into the man who left you for another woman. That’s what happened to one of the ladies at Trina Rockwell’s first singles get-together. Polly Anderson thought she was going to meet nice eligible men, when in fact she wound up running into the man who broke her heart …
By the time I get into bed, I feel borderline dirty writing about Molly. And even though I’ve changed her name—barely—if she ever reads my articles, she’ll know I was talking about her. While I’m attempting to be vague, most people probably won’t have a hard time discerning who they are. For instance, I’m making Olivia an animal massage therapist instead of a psychic. I’m sure she won’t need her sixth sense to decipher that one.
I briefly consider the ethics of what I’m doing, but after firing off an email to Gillian, she assured me that she’ll run everything through legal before it gets published. While that should bring me some peace, and it does for most of the folks I’ll be talking about, there’s still the small matter of Molly.
What in the world am I going to do about her?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MOLLY
When I got back to my room, I checked my phone and found out that I had four messages from Ellen. My sister seriously needs another hobby. Instead of calling her back right away, I take a bubble bath that’s so relaxing I nearly fall asleep.
When I finally get out, I wrap myself in the plush bathrobe furnished by the lodge. Then I rub a towel through my hair to soak up the excess moisture, before picking up my phone and climbing onto the bed.
I press the button with my sister’s face on it and barely have to wait a second before she excitedly answers. “How was tonight?” She sounds like she knew I was doing something other than eating dinner in my room, which is standard for me when I’m on a job.
