#14 Wade Wojosomething
Aspiring stuntman.
*Beep*
Hey, Darlin’! It’s Grandpa. Gloria and I got to Vegas safely. You should see where she lives. It’s way cool! It has a bunch of pools and rec centers that offer all kinds of classes. I’ve been thinking about taking a leather-carving class. I’d like to make myself a nice belt. Let me know if you want one.
Hate to cut this short, but I’m on my way to check out one of those golf carts I was telling you about. It’s street-legal, which means I can drive it right on the street with all the other cars. Ain’t that something? Call me! Love ya!
*Beep*
Hey, Delilah . . . it’s your neighbor Colin, you know, with the abs.
*Laughter*
That was a joke. Hey, I found four more of your fellas and e-mailed you the information. Ian Kesselman, Delaware Pepper, and two twins with the last name Thompson. They’re all single, in case you’re wondering. Give me a knock next time you’re around. Later.
ah . . . forget it
saturday, april 9
“Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shannen Doherty River . . .” Oops. That’s not right. I’m in Virginia, not West Virginia, but the highway runs right along the border of the two states, so I’m close enough to sing this song and mean it. “Country roads . . . where I roam, to the place, I call home!” Oh dear, that’s not right either. Anyway, rest in peace, John Denver, you musical genius you.
Even though Chattanooga’s a twelve-hour drive from Philly, the adrenaline from being angry at Rod, lots of coffee and sugar, and of course the motivational tunes keep me driving through the night and into the morning. I’m a little upset that my first try at this thing was a bust, but I can’t let one bad experience stop me from moving forward, so I let it go.
After a brief excursion to Dollywood, I arrive in Chattanooga around two o’clock in the afternoon.1 Even though there are a lot of inexpensive hotels to choose from, I opt to stay at a slightly more expensive Holiday Inn inside the old train station because there’s a real Chattanooga Choo Choo inside. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but who knew Chattanooga Choo Choos were actual trains? Not me, I thought it was just a song.
While checking in with an older woman at the front desk, I’m asked if I want a “thtandard room” or a “rethtored train car.”
“Pardon me?” I say.
“Well, in addition to the thtandard room, you can thtay in an actual rethtored Victorian railroad car inthide a train.”
I realize she has a lisp. “Really?”
“Oh, yeth,” she says, “they’re beautiful. They look jutht like they did at the turn of the thentury.”
Although the rethtored train car costs almost twice as much as a thtandard room that’s just a little more expensive than the inexpensive hotels, I decide to take it. I don’t see myself coming back to Chattanooga anytime thoon—I mean soon—so I doubt I’ll get another chance to do this.
The hotel/train isn’t dog friendly, so I sneak Eva inside in her new bag. My room/car is long and narrow, not much wider than the queen-sized bed inside. Its dark décor is nauseating. I’m surrounded by swirls, paisley, and plaid. In fact, if the car was moving, I’d probably barf. The only cool thing about it is the metal luggage rack that hangs above the window, so even though my bag is heavy, I lift it and store it up there just for kicks.
I plan to begin my search for Wade tomorrow, so after stripping the bed, I lie down and close my eyes. I have to admit, of all the people to come after Rod, I wish it was someone with a little more potential. Wade was always a bit odd, to say the least, and we didn’t exactly leave on the best terms. But people change, they do, and everyone deserves a second chance. So with that, I drift off to sleep and recall the last night we saw each other.
In my list of twenty men, Wade Wojosomething is #14. He came right before Rod, both literally and numerically, I guess. Unlike Rod, he was an actual boyfriend, not just a booty call. And yes, I know what his last name is, I just could never spell it or pronounce it correctly when I first met him, so I started calling him Wade Wojosomething as a joke and it stuck.
Even though Wade and I are the same age, he seemed much younger than me when we dated. I know I’m not exactly a vision of maturity, but Wade’s immaturity was different from mine. He liked to do little boy things, like go on scavenger hunts and play with Power Rangers. I mean, if there was Cub Scouts for men in their twenties, Wade would be a member, no doubt.
Initially, I found Wade’s boyish charm attractive, but eventually it annoyed me. One of the things that irritated me the most about him was that he loved playing a wide variety of mime games, especially charades. Now, I’ve played charades before, we all have, and the occasional game is fine. It can even be fun. But Wade didn’t want to play the occasional game, Wade wanted to play all the fucking time. Even something as simple as going to a movie turned into a game. One night I remember asking him what movie he wanted to see. Rather than answer me, Wade held up one finger (first word), pulled his ear (sounds like), crouched down and waddled forward, bobbing his head and flapping his arms.
“A duck? A swan? A turkey?” I guessed. Honestly, I had no idea. “A chicken? A hen?” (An idiot?)
I’m not going to make you go through what I had to— it was a goose, the first word that sounded like it was deuce, which meant that he wanted to see Deuce Bigalow. Since I wasn’t about to see Deuce Bigalow, ten minutes later we were back at square one as Wade started pulling his ear, trying to get me to guess his next movie choice. Honestly, what kind of person has time for this?
I think the reason Wade liked charades so much centered on the fact that he wanted to be a stuntman. So “pretending” to do something—whether it was falling down a flight of stairs or acting out a TV show title like Walker, Texas Ranger—was in his blood. It was his calling, his dream.
Yes, Wade was weird, so why did I date him? It’s simple: he was nice. He was nonthreatening. He was cute, in an Alex P. Keaton kind of way. He looked like he walked right out of a Sears catalog. Guys like Wade don’t care if you wear Keds or heels. Guys like Wade don’t care if you spill spaghetti sauce down the front of your blouse. Guys like Wade are easy to date.
The last time I saw Wade was Christmas Eve of 1999 when he invited me over to his family’s house for dinner. Things between us had been a little tense in the weeks leading up to it—we were growing apart, becoming less tolerant of each other—but neither of us had yet said anything about it. We were still going along like everything was fine, which is why I agreed to go.
From the moment I arrived at Wade’s parent’s house that night, I knew going was a mistake. Wade was rude to me, as was his entire family. He must have told everyone that we were having problems because no one talked to me. No one offered me a drink. No one took my coat—they all pretended like I wasn’t there. I felt like an invisible ghost floating around a strange family’s house.
And strange they were.
For some reason Wade’s family was obsessed with him. Obsessed. All night, his two younger sisters gazed at him with stars in their eyes, like he was a celebrity or something. His older brother kept shouting out requests to him like he was Wayne Newton. “Show Mom your Jim Carrey impression, Wade!” and “Show Dad how you can beatbox!” As for his parents, you would’ve thought Wade was a war hero the way they treated him. Every time they looked at him they got teary-eyed and would say things like, “We’re so proud of you, son!” and “We’re just so happy to see our boy!” Not to be mean, but I wasn’t sure what it was about Wade they were so proud of. Although Wade wanted to be a stuntman, he wasn’t—he was the assistant manager of a T.G.I. Friday’s. And also, Wade didn’t live in Russia. He lived in Manhattan and saw his parents every single weekend. Seriously. It interfered with our social life.
When dinner was served that evening, Wade’s feeble old grandma came down from upstairs to join the family at the table. When she did, no one spoke to her or even acknowledged her presence. I felt sorry for her—if only they loved her as much as they loved Wade. She sat next to me and since no one was talking to either of us, we bonded. Well, kind of. I kept trying to make conversation, but the concept of that seemed lost on her. She appeared to be listening to what I was saying all right, but when it came down to responding, she’d open her mouth like she was going to say something, but then wave her wrinkly hand in front of it and look away, as if to say, “Ah . . . forget it.”
After dinner Wade’s family had a tradition of “giving thanks.” Basically, this is how it worked: Everyone grabs a partner, and the family goes around the table one by one and tells their partner why they’re thankful for them. Wade’s mom chose his dad, his little sister chose his other little sister, and Wade, rather than choosing his girlfriend, the stranger he invited over for dinner, chose his brother. That left me with grandma.
Now, I appreciate a close family, but these people made me want to barf. For the next twenty minutes, I watched as everyone, with tears in their eyes, told their partner how special they were while Wade’s dad exclaimed, “The spirit of Christmas is in the air!” When it was my turn, I turned to Grandma and said, “You must be a really special lady to have raised such a loving family.” As I spoke, Grandma smiled and nodded, which made me feel good. From the look on her face, it was apparent to me that she didn’t get enough of this. When I finished, I waited for her to return the kind words and was shocked when she instead got up and left the table without saying anything. When she did everyone laughed they thought it was so funny. “That’s Grandma!” Wade’s dad yelled. For a minute I was somewhat relieved, thinking Grandma’s odd behavior might have served as an ice breaker between us all, but when no one stepped up to take her place, I realized I was wrong. After clearing the table, everyone rushed into the living room for the after-dinner festivities and left me sitting all alone. No one volunteered to tell me how special I was—I got gypped.
Needless to say, I was angry. What they did was just plain bad manners. Just as I was about to tell Wade that I was going home, his mom cracked open a bottle of wine and announced it was time to play charades. When I saw how the family reacted—they nearly peed their pants with joy; apparently Wade’s love of the game was inherited—I changed my mind. What better way to spend an evening than to get drunk and watch a bunch of people make asses of themselves, right? I grabbed an empty glass and told Wade’s mom to fill ’er up!
Since it was a holiday, Wade’s dad announced he was going to “spice up the game,” so he had everyone tear out random pages from old copies of Reader’s Digest and put them in a hat. “Instead of guessing the usual movie and song titles, we’ll act out the article titles!” he exclaimed. This threw the family into a frenzy. Everyone started wildly stomping their feet and clapping their hands.
As the hat was passed around the group, everyone took turns acting out their titles, titles like “Vacations on the Fly” and “Stop Cop Killers.” They were all having such a good time, miming and guessing, and likewise, I was having a good time drinking and heckling. Yes, heckling. I’d been taking cold medicine, and it must have interacted with the wine because one minute I was fine and the next minute I was heckling Wade’s family. Inappropriately heckling Wade’s family. Yelling things like, “How could you not get that, you dumb bastard?” and “You call that a rhinoceros, you stupid asshole?” I’m not proud of my behavior, but screw them—I was special too, damn it!
When the hat landed on my lap, I announced I was going to sit this one out and tried to pass it to the next person, but the family wouldn’t have it. Grandma was sitting on a La-Z-Boy in the corner, staring at the wall. She wasn’t playing—why did I have to? I made eyes at her, hoping to get her attention, hoping she’d stick up for me and tell them to back off since I told her how special she was, but no. She did the same thing she kept doing all through dinner. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then waved her wrinkly hand in front of her face and looked away, like, “Ah . . . forget it.” Needless to say, I had to play, so I reached into the hat and pulled out my title. Of all the titles in Reader’s Digest, of all the two-word and three-word titles, I got . . .
“Landing Pads for Extraterrestrials, Druid Temples, Sacrificial Altars: What Are These Monuments from a Prehistoric Culture?”
Seriously. The pros got titles like “Vacations on the Fly” and “Stop Cop Killers” and I got “Landing Pads for Extraterrestrials, Druid Temples, Sacrificial Altars: What Are These Monuments from a Prehistoric Culture?” Since there was no way I was going to act it out, I laughed and threw it back in, and then went into the kitchen to get some more wine. After pouring myself a glass, I turned around and found Wade’s mom standing behind me, holding my coat. Apparently it was time for me to go.
“I’m surprised you and Wade are a couple,” she said, as she ushered me toward the front door.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well, you don’t seem like a girl who wants to get her hair wet, and my Wader is such an adventurer!”
After she said this, I turned around to say good-bye to Wade, who was in the middle of doing the Macarena with his brother. I watched him for a bit, and oh . . . what an adventurer he was. The way he put his hands on his shoulders, then his head, and then his hips—he was a regular Indiana Jones. I opened my mouth to say good-bye, but then thought twice.
“Ah . . . forget it,” I said, then I turned around and walked out the door.
new beginnings
sunday, april 10
The ring from my cell phone wakes me up. For a moment I forget where I am, but then I remember—Chattanooga, Wade Wojosomething. I reach for the phone and answer.
“Are you alive?” It’s Michelle. She’s screaming.
“Yes,” I grumble. “I forgot to call you when I got in, sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says sarcastically. “I just thought you were dead, no biggie.”
I quickly realize it was a bad idea to tell her I was driving through the night. After apologizing, I assure her that I’ll check in more frequently and then change the subject. “So, have you started looking for jobs yet?” I ask.
“Kind of,” she mumbles. “I’ve updated my résumé. I just haven’t sent any out yet. But you know what I heard? You know Vintage Vogue?”
“Vintage Vogue the furniture store?”
“Yeah. I heard through the grapevine that they’re expanding their line to include all sorts of housewares to compete more with Martha Stewart and Elisabeth, and I think they’re gonna start interviewing soon.”
“Really? That’s cool. I like Vintage Vogue. They have nice furniture; it’s washable.”
“Yep. Aren’t you worried at all about a job?”
“To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it.” I can’t. I need to focus on this and only this.
“That’s just crazy to me,” Michelle says.
“Well, it’s not to me,” I sigh. “Anyway, good luck with the job search.”
“Thanks. And good luck to you with Wade Wojowhatever.”
“Wojosomething.”
“Whatever.”
I flip my phone shut and decide to get an early start on my day, so as Dolly would say, “I tumble outta bed and stumble to . . . err . . . my train car bathroom, pour myself a cup of . . . bad java brewed in a mini-sized Mr. Coffee and yawn, and stretch, and try to come to life.” Stalking nine to five, what a way to not sleep with any more men!
It’s a bright sunny morning in Chattanooga and the air smells like spring. I feel refreshed. Any memories of the R.O.D. are long gone. Wade lives about a ten-minute drive away from my hotel in a medium-sized subdivision filled with two-story white town houses that all look identical to one another.2 After figuring out which town house is his, I put on my hat and sunglasses and then, just like I did in Philadelphia, park out front and wait.
Wade’s car, a brown two-door Honda, is sitting in the driveway, so I’m pretty sure he’s home. The reason I know it’s Wade’s car is because when I Googled him, I found out that he won it in a radio contest about two years ago. For being new, it’s a total disaster. The sides are all scratched up, the front end is crumpled and the fenders are dented. It looks like someone’s a worse driver than me.
For the next hour, while I wait, I tell Eva all about Wade. She’s my partner in crime now, so it’s important she knows what’s going on. Although I can’t be certain, I think she’s listening because she keeps blinking incessantly and cocking her head. Even though going to see Rod was a big waste of time, if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have gotten her. Everything happens for a reason, I guess.
Around ten o’clock I see movement at Wade’s—the blinds open—and get nervous, so I pull my car a little out of the way into the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. After about thirty minutes, Wade emerges from his house and gets in his car. He looks more mature than he did the last time I saw him and I’m pleasantly surprised. When he backs out of his driveway and pulls away, I put my car in drive and slowly follow him. Lucky for me, the backseat of his car is jam-packed with stuff, so he can’t see me (or anyone) in his rearview mirror.
At the entrance of the subdivision, Wade makes a right onto the main road and, after a quick two-minute drive, pulls into the parking lot of a Winn-Dixie grocery store. He goes inside; I decide to follow.
As soon as I walk inside the store, I locate Wade in the produce section picking through some onions. Grabbing a basket, I head in his direction, stopping when I get to a wheelbarrow filled with vibrantly colored apples. Picking up a bag, I begin to read the nutritional label on the back and slowly inch my way toward where he’s standing until I end up bumping into him. Literally. “Oops, sorry,” I say, as I do.
Wade glances up. “Oh, don’t worry.” He looks back down, but then quickly back up. “Wait . . . Delilah?” Hearing him say my name, I stop reading the bag. When Wade and I make eye contact, I let out a fake gasp and press my hand to my chest for dramatic effect.
“Oh my gosh . . . Wade?” (I’d like to thank the Academy . . .)
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Gosh . . . so nice to see you!”
“You too!” I exclaim. I’m not sure why, but I throw my arms around him and give him an enormous bear hug. When I let go, I stand back a little and shake my head in disbelief. “What a coincidence—I can’t believe this.”
“I know . . .” he says. “Do you live here in Chattanooga?”
“Me? Oh, no. I’m still in New York. How about you?”
“Yeah, I live about five minutes down the street.” Actually, it’s more like two, but I don’t correct him. “Why are you here?”
“For work.”
I tell Wade the story about Elisabeth’s store and he believes me, like my mom and Daisy did, like Rod did. He asks where in Chattanooga the store might go, and since I’m not sure what to say, I tell him it’s top-secret.
“How about you?” I ask. “How long have you lived here?”
“A couple years. I love it here. I can’t imagine living anywhere else, especially back in New York. The people here are so nice and so much more approachable.” I’ve never agreed with this, that New Yorkers are rude. I’ve always found them to be the nicest people anywhere. But to each his own, I guess. Wade and I stare at each other for a few seconds in awkward silence.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” he eventually says. He then turns away, but doesn’t exactly leave. I remember him as being shy when we first met, and I have a feeling he doesn’t know what to do right now, so I decide to make the first move.
“Hey, Wade, before you go, I’m in town only until tomorrow and don’t have anything to do today. Are you busy?”
Wade turns back around and smiles. “That’s so funny—I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come for a bike ride with me. I mean, it’s so nice outside today, and I have an extra bike.”
I perk up. “A bike ride? That sounds like fun.” Suddenly I remember Eva. “Ooh, wait—I have a dog, though.” Looking down, Wade jumps when he sees Eva’s little black nose pressed up against the mesh pane of the bag.
“Oh my gosh, I didn’t know there was a dog in there!” he says. “I thought it was a purse.”
“That’s the point. I don’t think dogs are allowed in grocery stores, so I snuck her in.”
“She’s so cute,” he says, peering inside at her. “You know, the second bike has a basket in the front. Maybe you could put the bag inside the basket and I could strap it in.”
I make a face. That doesn’t sound safe. Wade senses my uncertainty.
“Come on . . .” he says. “I’ll make sure she’s safe and we’ll make it an easy ride. I’ll even pack a lunch and we can have picnic.”
After thinking about it, I give in. I’m sure Eva will be fine. I smile. “Yeah, okay. Sounds like fun.” I look at Eva. “Right?” She looks at me and blinks, which I think means yes.
After driving back to my hotel to change, I meet Wade out front around noon. Once Eva is zipped inside her bag, I place it inside the bike basket, making sure to face the mesh opening forward so that she can see where we’re going. Wade then secures it with an elastic bungee cord and the two of us head toward a nearby park.
For the first mile or so of our ride, Wade rides slightly ahead of me so he can check on Eva. Every time he turns around and looks at her, he bursts into laughter. Apparently she’s having the time of her life—her tongue is hanging out of her mouth and her hair is blowing in the wind. Since I can’t see, I give him my digital camera to take a picture. When I see the photo, I also burst into laughter. Not only is she the cutest thing on Earth, but I look like the biggest moron. I’m riding a bike with a Yorkie in a pink and green argyle doggie bag strapped into a basket on the front of it.
Wade and I ride around Chattanooga for about an hour. Although I have a nice time, it’s hard for me to tell if he’s changed. I can’t exactly talk to him. Thankfully, around two o’clock or so, we stop at a park near the Tennessee River to have our picnic. When I let Eva out of her bag, she runs around like a little hooligan. She’s so funny, she keeps kicking dirt back like a bull, like she did the day I got her. The bike ride revved her up. She’s so sassy!
While Wade spreads out a blanket, I ask him where he’s working nowadays while silently praying it’s not Amway. “I’m managing a restaurant in town,” he says, much to my relief. “I’m not crazy about it, but you gotta stick with what pays the bills, you know?” He sounds a bit glum as he says this. I hesitate for a minute, not sure if I should ask the one big thing I want to ask, but it’s burning inside me so I decide to go for it. “So what happened to your dreams of becoming a stuntman?”
Wade gives me a thin-lipped smile. “It didn’t really work out.” He then turns red. “It was kind of a pipe dream.” I feel bad for him; he looks embarrassed.
“No it wasn’t,” I say, trying to make him feel better. Wade stops what he’s doing and gives me a look that says, Yes it was and you know it. “Okay, maybe it was a little,” I say, smiling.
By God, I can’t believe it. Based on the little conversation that Wade and I have had, he seems to have changed; he seems more mature. However, I’m not sure I buy his new persona. Something tells me that the little boy is still lurking inside him somewhere. I need to test him. I need to see if this is all an act or the real deal, so I devise a plan. First up, Shania Twain. While Wade unpacks our lunch, I plug tiny portable speakers into my iPod and tune it to “Man! I Feel like a Woman.” As soon as it comes blaring out of the speakers, I bite my lip to stop from giggling and watch Wade closely. He used to lip-sync this song to me when we dated. If anything is going to break him, it’ll be this. When Wade hears Shania’s voice, he stops what he’s doing and stares into space. Come on Wade, you can do it. “Man shirts, shorts skirts. Oh UH oh!” Wade doesn’t do anything; he just stares. “Color my hair, do what I dare. Oh UH oh!” Come on, come on, damn it! But again, nothing. Damn it! I move on to my next test: twenty questions.
While eating lunch, I begin to ask Wade all sorts of questions—stupid questions, questions with one-word answers—to see if he’ll break into a game of charades. If I asked the old Wade what his favorite color was, he’d pull his ear and hold up his shoe. (Sounds like shoe . . . means blue.)
“What’s your favorite color?” Blue.
“Who’s your favorite president?” Kennedy.
“Where’s your ideal vacation spot?” Africa.
“What’s the first thing you’d buy with a million dollars?” A house.
“Which superhero do you secretly want to be?” Superman.
Much to my amazement, Wade answers all my questions vocally. Honestly, I’m astounded; I can’t believe it. He doesn’t even look like he’s fighting the urge to mime. He seems to have grown up. He seems to have (gulp) . . . become a man.
When we finish eating, Wade pulls out two cookies that he picked up at a bakery near his apartment. They’re sugar cookies, shaped and decorated like tulips. The petals are iced with pink and yellow frosting, and the stems and leaves are covered in green sprinkles that glisten in the sunlight. “To celebrate spring,” Wade says. “A time of new beginnings.” He then holds my gaze for a minute. I think he’s trying to tell me he’s changed.
After smiling at Wade, I scarf down the cookie even though it’s almost too pretty to eat. Seeing that the sprinkles have turned my tongue and lips green, Wade teases me. “You look like Kermit the Frog!”
“No, I don’t!” I say, hitting him.
“Don’t be offended,” Wade says. “It’s a compliment.”
A compliment? Wait, huh?
whatever
Around four o’clock, Wade asks if I’d like to see where he lives and I immediately say yes. If he’s still hanging on to any old quirks, they’ll surely come out there. While following him home in my car (Ladies: Always make sure you have a getaway car just in case), I try to remember what it was like having sex with him, if it was any good, but my mind keeps drawing a blank. The only thing about that I can recall is that he was overly animated—he’d always make “sex faces” while we were doing it, like one second he’d close his eyes and grit his teeth and the next he’d open his mouth wide, like he was a roaring tiger. He always looked intense.
I park in the street outside Wade’s town house then walk up to meet him at the front door. I still have Eva with me, asleep in her bag. She’s had a big day and is wiped out. While I wait for Wade to unlock the door, I think about our day together. If he’s normal, I think I could seriously make this thing work with him. If I could only figure out a way to get rid of his family . . .
Kidding.
Maybe not.
Anyway, I’m so excited about the possibility of Wade being normal, that I can’t help but grin as I enter his apartment. As I do, he turns around. “What’s with the smile?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, blushing. “I guess I’m just happy.”
“Happy why?”
“Happy because I ran into you, I guess. I mean, you’re so nice and norm—”
Whoa, wait.
Perhaps I spoke too soon.
As I walk into Wade’s living room, I stop talking when I see something incredibly disturbing: about a dozen or so stuffed animals, in all different shapes and sizes, are hanging from sticks fastened to the wall above his couch. They’re big, like the size of a forearm, and freaky, so freaky that I have a feeling they’re going to be an integral part of my nightmares for years to come. And did I mention that they’re staring at me? They are. Every one of them is staring at me. I’m frozen in fear.
“Um . . . what are those?” I ask uneasily, pointing.
Wade looks at me, then back at the wall. “Those?” he asks. I nod. “Oh, those are my Muppets.” He says this very matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about a wall shelf.
“Your Muppets?” I ask. Wade nods. “You mean like puppets?”
“No,” Wade says. “Muppets and puppets aren’t the same thing—you use your left hand to operate Muppets, and your right hand to operate puppets.” He points back up to the wall. “Those are Muppets.”
There has to be some sort of logical explanation to this. “Are they some new kind of art or something?” I ask.
“No, no, they’re not some new form of art,” Wade says, chuckling. “I’m a Muppeteer.”
I shake my head, not sure if I heard him correctly. Did he say he was a Mousketeer or a Muppeteer? “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“I said I’m a Muppeteer. I put on Muppet shows on the weekends.”
I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. And I jinxed it—by almost telling Wade he was normal, I jinxed it. Wade isn’t normal. He never has been. He never will be.
“I know it might sound funny,” he explains. “But adult puppet shows are becoming really popular. At least in Knoxville they are, which is where my buddy Jed lives who taught me how to work them. I met him in clown school.”
“Clown school?”
Wade nods. “Yeah, when I realized the whole stuntman thing wasn’t gonna pan out, I had to quit living in a dream world and get a real job, so I went to clown school. I’ve always loved to perform, you know?” I nod—yeah, I know. “I did the whole clown thing for a while—you know, birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, and such, but the makeup made me break out really badly, so I had to cut back.”
“Break out?”
Wade nods and points to a pimple on his cheek. “Yeah, see? It happens to all clowns. It’s a real drawback to the profession.” I’m guessing not the only one.
Okay, this isn’t just not normal—this is plain weird. Weird beyond any weird I’ve ever encountered in my life. And I’ve been to a Michael Jackson concert before. And I watched Diane Sawyer interview Whitney Houston. And I’m aware of the trials and tribulations of Courtney Love. Wade was a clown? And now he’s a Muppeteer? It takes everything I have inside me not to run out the door.
“Yeah, someone needs to make better clown makeup,” Wade continues, as he sashays over to the couch and plops down. “Because what’s out there right now is way too thick.”
“Did you ever think about being that someone? Did you ever see this problem as an opportunity to make a little money?”
Wade looks at me like I’m crazy. “Develop clown makeup? No way! Who has time for that?”
Who has time for that? People who have time to play with puppets have time for that. Wow. I mean, wow.
“Muppeteering comes naturally to me,” Wade says, as he brings his wrists together. “I always loved making shadow puppets as a kid.” Gracefully waving his hands up and down, he pretends they’re a bird soaring through the air.
Oh, Jesus.
After breathing in and out heavily, to prevent myself from hyperventilating, I begin to look around for cameras because, even though I’m not famous, I’m positive I’m being punk’d. I have to be—there’s no other explanation for this. Ashton Kutcher’s behind this—he’s gotta be. There’s no way my ex-boyfriend is a Muppeteer.
“What are you looking for?” Wade asks, seeing me peer under his couch.
“Huh?” I turn back to him. “Oh, uh . . . I’m just checking out the rest of the place.” I suddenly feel Eva rustle around in her bag. When I look down, she peeks out at me with sleepy eyes and then lazily glances over at Wade. When she sees the Muppets hanging on the wall behind him, she cocks her head, raises her ears and lets out a low grumbling growl.
“Eva, no,” I say, trying to quiet her down, but she doesn’t listen. Within seconds she breaks into a barking fit and won’t let up. The only way I can get her to stop is to turn the bag away from the wall so she can’t see the Muppets, so that’s what I do. As Eva silently retreats back into her bag, I apologize to Wade. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” he says. “She must be freaked out by the Muppets.”
“Yeah,” I nod. And she’s not the only one.
Wade motions to the empty spot next to him on the couch, directly underneath them, and asks if I want to have a seat. “Um, sure,” I cautiously sit down, positioning myself at the edge of the sofa just in case one of them flies off the wall and decides to eat me, I put Eva’s bag on my lap.
“So Wade, where do you”—I search for the right word—“Muppet at?”
“Most of the shows I do are held at the local playhouses,” Wade explains as he reaches up to take an old man Muppet off the wall. He begins to play with it. “But the last one I did—my personal favorite—was held at a church not far from here. Called Equestrians for Christ, it was a modern-day reenactment of the crucifixion. Basically, it was my version of The Passion of the Christ. It was a big undertaking—there were so many Muppets that I had to get some of the local high school kids to help.” Wade stops talking for a moment and becomes melancholy. “You should’ve seen the end. All the Muppets rode atop horses while chanting, ‘We ride because Christ died.’ It was really powerful.” Turning around, Wade points to one of the Muppets. “There he is. See?”
I turn around and look up and, low and behold, see Jesus in Muppet form, hanging from a wooden stick. Once again. Poor Jesus.
“But truth be told,” Wade continues, looking back at me, “non-religious people didn’t respond to the theme, so I canceled the show, and well . . .” Wade hesitates, like he’s afraid to continue.
I prod. “Well . . .?” Come on, Wade, spill the beans.
“Well, I figured I had to make a show that was a little racier, so I put together an adult show, about a cranky, undersexed old man who has a crush on his neighbor. It’s really fun and kinda sexy. I tested it out last month at the National Day of Puppetry Convention and got a lot of positive feedback. So I’m gonna try and book myself a couple gigs at the playhouse in town and see if people respond to it.”
A sexy puppet show? An undersexed puppet? Is he kidding?
Ewww! Ewww, ewww, ewww!
As Wade continues to play with the puppet he’s holding, I watch in horror. With his hand inside, he’s turning it every which way, moving its mouth, moving its arm, making it blink. I wish I had a camera on my lapel to capture all this because no one’s going to believe me when I tell them, no one. It’s so bizarre. He’s so bizarre. Wade needs his own reality series.
Realizing I’m staring, Wade scoots closer to where I’m sitting, if I’m not mistaken, to try to kiss me. Since I don’t want any part of that—there’s no way I’m going to let a man who just described a puppet show as being sexy kiss me—I shift my body away from him, hoping to send the signal that I’m not in the mood. Wade, however, doesn’t get the hint. Moving the puppet off his lap, he puts his arm around me, sending chills through my body. “You know, Delilah,” he says, looking at me intensely, “I think we have a real connection here.” As he begins to move his lips toward mine, I realize that he’s going in for the kiss. I need a panic button. I need to stop him. I need to say something to change the mood.
“You mean like a rainbow connection?” Wade immediately freezes. As he slowly leans back, the look on his face changes from one of seduction to one of what-the-fuck’s-your-problem? Oops. I think I offended him.
“Are you making fun of me?” he asks.
Yep, I’ve offended him.
“Making fun? No, I was just making a joke.”
“A joke? It’s kind of an odd time to make a joke, don’t you think?”
“An odd time?” He’s lecturing me about being odd?
“Yeah, I was just about to kiss you.”
I look at Wade for a second, and then decide to come clean. He has to understand. “Wade, to be honest . . . I’m a little put off by the puppets.”
“They’re Muppets,” he snaps, correcting me.
“Whatever,” I say dismissively.
“No, not whatever,” Wade shoots back. “The two are totally different.”
“No, they’re not. Regardless of whether you stick your right or left hand in them, they’re stuffed animals on sticks.” Wade begins blinking rapidly. By the look on his face, you would’ve thought I just told him there is no Santa Claus. “I mean, put yourself in my position. You’re an old boyfriend, an adult, and you have puppets hanging from your wall.”
“Muppets!” he screams.
“Whatever!”
Wade rolls his eyes. “I should’ve expected this,” he says pissily, slapping his knees. “I should’ve expected this from you, the girl who got drunk and heckled my family.”
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, you heard me, missy,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Did you think I forgot about that? Well, I didn’t.” As Wade shakes his head and looks away, I realize it’s time for me get on my launching pad and fly away.
“Wade, thanks for the picnic today,” I say politely. “But I think I’m gonna go.”
“Yeah, good idea.” He stands up.
As I turn Eva’s bag around on my lap and get ready to put it on my shoulder, she spots the old man Muppet sitting on the couch and, without so much as a warning growl, lunges out of her bag. Suddenly it’s like she’s possessed. After jumping on top of the Muppet, Eva takes it in her mouth and begins thrashing it from side to side, yanking out its yarn hair in the process. When Wade turns around and sees what happening, a look of panic comes over his face.
“Noooooooo!” he screams.
Reaching for the Muppet, Wade tries to pull it away from Eva but isn’t able to do so—her teeth are clamped firmly around its head. “Stop her!” he screams, as chaos erupts. “Stop her now!”
Reaching down, I try to pry Eva’s mouth open but can’t. Wade’s panic is fueling her—she’s out to kill. “Wade, let go of the puppet!” I tell him. “If you let go, she might too!”
“No!” he screams. “Make her stop!”
“I can’t! You’re freaking her out! You’re making it worse!”
“No, I’m not! Make her stop!”
Wade suddenly picks up the Muppet causing Eva to dangle in the air. Seeing my puppy staring danger in the eye, I do what any good mother would do—I begin to kick the shit out of Wade’s shins.
“Put her down, you animal!” I scream. “Put her down now!”
“No!”
As Wade begins to shake the Muppet up and down, Eva bounces in every direction. But she doesn’t care—she’s fearless. The Muppet must die, that’s all there is to it.
“Stop kicking me!” Wade yells, suddenly feeling the sting in his shins.
“I’ll stop when you put her down! I mean, what’s wrong with you? You’re gonna yank her teeth out! Let go of that stupid puppet!”
“Muppppetttt!”
“Whateverrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
That’s it. I’ve had it. With everything I have, I give Wade one final kick—a karate kick. As my foot meets his hip, I hold on to Eva for dear life as he loses his grip on the Muppet and flies across the room. When he hits the wall, Eva drops the Muppet and then looks over at him. Staring at Wade, she chews the few pieces of yarn hair she managed to pull out. When she swallows them, a look of satisfaction comes over her face. I swear to God, if she could burp, she would.
“You’re such a psycho!” I say, turning back to Wade. “She’s just a puppy, for God’s sake!”
“You’re calling me a psycho?”
“Yes! You’re a twenty-nine-year-old man who plays with puppets!”
“Mupp—”
“STOP!!!!” Don’t you dare correct me again, you freak!”
Wade takes a breath, stands up and walks toward the door. “I think you should go now Delilah,” he says, opening it. His nostrils are flaring.
“Gladly,” I say, putting Eva in her bag. She’s still smacking her lips.
After I walk out the front door, I turn around to say good-bye to Wade, but he’s already gone back into the apartment. Through the screen I see him kneeling on the floor, gathering up chunks of Muppet hair. Sensing that I haven’t yet left, he turns around.
“What is it?” he asks rudely. “What do you want?”
I was going to apologize for Eva’s behavior, but by the look on his face, I can tell it won’t do any good.
“Ah . . . forget it,” I say as I turn around and walk to my car.
“So what are you gonna do now?” Michelle asks, a little later that evening. I called her on my way home and told her what happened.
“I don’t know. I was tired earlier, but like with Rod, the anger from what happened has given me energy, so I think I’m gonna start driving to New Orleans to see Abogado. It’s only five hundred miles away or so. If I leave now, I should be able to get there around midnight.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Michelle says, after hesitating a bit. Assuming what she means by “bad idea” is me driving at night, I tell her not to worry.
“Sorry, that’s not what I mean,” she says. “I think going to New Orleans in general is a bad idea. He doesn’t want to see you.”
The “he” she’s referring to is #16, Diego Soto, also known as Abogado. I met him while on vacation with her in Barcelona. She hooked up with one of his friends and still keeps in touch with him, and because of it, she thinks she’s little Miss Know-It-All.
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“I don’t know it know it, but based on the way you two left things, I have a pretty good idea.”
“Oh gimme a break. It happened two years ago. I’m sure he’s over it by now.”
Michelle doesn’t respond.
“How about this,” I offer, “Colin e-mailed me the addresses of four more guys. How about I go see them first, and go to New Orleans only if they don’t work out.”
“Even then, I still think it’s a mistake.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“Fine, whatever,” Michelle says. She sounds aggravated. “Do what you want—just leave me out of it.”
“Will do.”
After hanging up, I stare into space for a bit. Michelle’s crazy to think Abogado still cares about what happened. There’s no way he could. But just in case, I’ll put off seeing him. I don’t have a very good feeling about things working out with any of the next four, but who knows—maybe I’ll be surprised.
After packing my belongings and checking out of the hotel, I get in my car and head toward the highway. Since both Eva and I have had a stressful evening, I think soothing music is just what we need, so I tune my iPod to lovely tunes of John Denver. He brought us into Tennessee; he might as well take us out. Since we’re heading to the Sunshine State, I tune to one of my favorite songs and begin to sing along. “Sunshine on my shoulders, makes me happy . . .”
$3,526, 37 days, 14 guys left.
1 After talking two people into buying a set of Dollywood salt and pepper shakers, I realized that, owing to a lack of sleep, I was unfit to mingle with the public and quickly left.
2 I always wonder if people who live in subdivisions like this have a hard time finding the right house after a late night out. I mean, it can’t be easy.