#5 Tim the Townie
One half of the “Thompson
Twins” (Not the ’80s band); rumored
to have a big one. Didn’t.
#6 Ian Kesselman
Weirdly obsessed with his mom.
#9 Tom the Townie
Other half of the “Thompson Twins”;
rumored to have a big one. Did.
#12 Delaware Pepper
Yes, it’s his real name. Smelled like macaroni.
four of a kind
sunday, april 17
A week later, as I pull onto the highway in Kansas and head to New Orleans, I wonder how I’m going to break it to Michelle that I’m going to see Abogado. Suffice it to say, my reunions with Ian, Delaware, and the Thompson Twins didn’t go very well. As with Wade, I should have known better than to even think that one of these guys might be the one. People can change, yes, but really strange people usually don’t.
The first disastrous reunion occurred when I visited #6, Ian Kesselman. I dated Ian ten years ago, when I was a sophomore in college. After graduating from high school, I didn’t quite know what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to go away to school. Away being the key word. My mom wasn’t keen on me leaving the East Coast but allowed me to apply to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, because she went to college there. Of all the schools that accepted me, Miami was the farthest away, so that’s where I went and that’s where I met Ian.
The best way to describe Ian is to say that if central casting came knocking on my door looking for a stereotypical neurotic guy, I’d send them to Ian Kesselman’s house. He thought he was Woody Allen—he walked like him, talked like him, and thought like him. He copied him in every way except one. Rather than being attracted to younger girls, Ian was attracted to older women, mom-aged women, women in their fifties.
A lot of women in their fifties are attractive, so this really didn’t bother me at first. However after a while, a couple of things happened that creeped me out. For one, although he denied it after the fact, Ian hit on my mom when she came to visit for parents’ weekend. Of course, she thought it was the coolest thing ever, that a college kid would hit on her, but when I told her that Ian hit on her because he liked older women not because he thought she looked young, she didn’t think it was so great.
“What does he think I am, like fifty or something?” she asked in a huff, acting all offended.
“You are fifty, Mom,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but I don’t look it.”
“I agree, but apparently Ian thinks you do.”
A week after I said this, she ran out and got her first face-lift.
The second thing that turned me off about Ian had to do with the fact that he talked dirty to me while we were having sex. I was only nineteen years old at the time, and at that point in my life verbalizing naughty thoughts was something that happened only in Sharon Stone movies, not my dorm room. However, while it might have caught me off guard, the dirty talk alone wasn’t what put me off. What did was that one time while I was having sex with Ian at his apartment, while he was saying something like “Yeah, Mama, you know you want it!”, I caught Ian looking at a picture of his mom on the nightstand. The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke. I thought maybe he was looking at something off in the distance and that the picture just happened to be in the way. But when it happened a second time, and then a third, I realized it was no fluke. That was it—three strikes, Ian was out.
Of all the places for Ian to live today, it of course had to be Florida—the cottonhead capital of the country. (And I mean that in the kindest way.) Right then I should’ve figured out that Ian hadn’t changed. But I didn’t, no, not me, not dense Delilah. Singing “I saw the sign!” along with Ace of Base the whole way there to get myself back in the mood, I drove my cheap-ass, crappy little car to Tallahassee, staked him out, and learned that he was an aerobics instructor. Sure, the name of the gym he worked at was Fit 50, but the possibility of it being a fitness center for people over fifty years old never crossed my mind. No, I went shopping and bought myself a hot little leotard that was totally retro and totally cool. When I put it on, I looked just like Jane Fonda did in all those workout videos she made in the eighties—fierce. The very next day I trotted my twenty-nine-year-old tushy into Fit 50, only to find out that I’m twenty-one years too early to be allowed past the front desk.
Any moron would’ve left at this point, knowing the kind of guy Ian was and all. But I didn’t, no, not me, not dense Delilah. No matter how many times I sang about “seeing the signs” on the way down to Florida, I let them all go right over my head when I got there. I never put two and two together, never assumed that Ian worked at Fit 50 because he was . . . let’s say . . . dating the owner or anything. (Which yes, he is.) I thought it was a coincidence and threatened age discrimination, demanding to be allowed inside. My threats worked—they let me in.
When I walked into Ian’s advanced aerobics class and looked around at my competition, I giggled thinking, I’ll blow all these ladies right out of the water. Thinking being the key word there. Long story short, I passed out halfway through the class. When I did, as if that wasn’t bad enough, some old man slipped me the tongue while giving me mouth-to-mouth. Yeah . . . ewww.
After leaving Florida, Eva and I moved on to #12, Delaware Pepper, who today lives in Houston, Texas. Although Delaware and I went to high school together, I didn’t meet him until a year after we graduated from college, in 1998. I was answering phones at a design house in Manhattan at the time and was sitting outside on my lunch break one day, listening to the Ally McBeal soundtrack while trying not to eat and hiking up my skirt, when he walked over to me and said hello. He said it was good to see me, asked how I was doing, asked how my mom and Daisy were doing, and I had absolutely no idea who he was. For twenty minutes, while we chatted, I sat there, searching my soul, wondering, Who is this guy? The look on my face must have been one of confusion, because the next thing I knew, Delaware was like, “You don’t know who I am, do you?” I shook my head and told him no—I was so embarrassed. “Delaware Pepper,” he said, trying to jar my memory. “We went to high school together.”
Even though I still didn’t have a clue, I faked a moment of realization and exclaimed, “Oh, Delaware, I’m so sorry! It’s so nice to see you!”
Feeling bad about not remembering him, I invited Delaware to meet me and some friends for drinks that evening. When he arrived and joined the conversation, he started going on and on about how he graduated from Harvard and was hoping to go to MIT to get his master’s degree. He was such a dork—a bore, actually—but for some reason I found myself oddly attracted to him. I think the reason had to do with the fact that he was a challenge. On the surface, Delaware was dull and strange, but underneath he was mysterious. I kept thinking if I could break through the shell and unearth his true potential, then I’d be better than all those people who wouldn’t give him the time of day. Later that evening I invited him over and the two of us ended up having sex—not very good sex. Because he was so inexperienced, Delaware had to stop every ten seconds to maintain stamina.
Anyway, that night was the only time we slept together. I ended up breaking things off with him a few days later because he smelled like macaroni. Seriously. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it because it’s so stupid, but this is what happened. A few days after our night of passion, Delaware stopped by my apartment right after I made a big pot of macaroni and cheese. It was the good kind, the kind with the powdered cheese packet, and I wanted to dig in. I didn’t want company.
When Delaware walked through the front door, he immediately wanted action but I wanted . . . my macaroni and cheese. He started kissing me, and the whole time I kept thinking, My macaroni and cheese is getting cold . . . it’s not going to be creamy . . . it’s going to get curdy. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I pried myself away from him and told him that I had to eat because I was hypoglycemic. I gave him a bowl to make him feel less rejected. It was only polite. When we finished eating, Delaware started kissing me again and I got really grossed out. Not only did the macaroni make his mouth warm and sticky, but it made him smell like cheese too. Just like that, it was over.
I’ve always wondered what happened to Delaware, and when I read that he was living in Houston, wondered what on Earth he was doing there. After waiting outside his house for three days and not seeing him, I began to think I might never find out, but then I read through the notes Colin gave me more thoroughly and found his work phone number, so I called it. When I did, I quickly realized Delaware wasn’t doing anything in Houston—or on Earth, for that matter. When his voicemail picked up, instead of getting the typical “Hi, I’m not available to take your call” message, I got something a little more . . . out there.
“Hi, this is Dr. Pepper.” (Yes, Dr. Pepper, that’s been his name ever since he got his PhD from MIT) “I’m unavailable to take your call right now since I’m on the Space Shuttle Discovery servicing the Hubble Space Telescope. By the way . . . Hi, Mom!”
Yes, the Space Shuttle Discovery, the Hubble Space Telescope. Delaware Pepper, the guy I so foolishly broke up with because he smelled like macaroni, now works for NASA. Yes, in Houston we had a problem, and it was me, kicking myself for being an idiot, seven years ago.
But Eva and I didn’t give up, no. We got back in the car and drove all the way to a small rinky-dink town in the middle of Kansas to visit #5 and #9, the Thompson Twins. Obviously, these aren’t the same Thompson Twins who sang the “Hold Me Now” song that was so popular in the eighties, but twin brothers whose last name just happens to be Thompson. I’m not proud of it, but yes, I hooked up with brothers. I didn’t do it at the same time or anything. (I’m not that low-budget.) I hooked up with the second one almost two years after I had hooked up with the first, and in my defense, the only reason I did was because I thought he was the first. These guys were identical, they really were.
Well, almost.
I met Tim and Tom Thompson in college. They lived in Oxford, Ohio, but didn’t go to Miami University. They were locals—local yokels—who grew up there. Seeing as though they were friendly guys, everyone on campus thought they were students, which they were, just not at Miami University.1 They were cute in a skater boy kind of way, and tall and skinny with good, floppy, Hugh Grant–style hair.
The first twin I was with was Tim. We dated on and off for a few months at the beginning of my sophomore year in the fall of 1994. I don’t remember why we broke up, but when we did, I remember that some girl asked me if the rumor was true, if Tim’s penis was as large as everyone said it was. I had never heard such a thing, and unfortunately (for me) told her that there was no truth to it—Tim’s penis was average.
I transferred to a different school my junior year and lost touch with the Thompson Twins. A year after leaving I went back to Oxford to visit a friend and go to a Barenaked Ladies concert that was being held on campus and ran into Tim at an after-hours party. Within minutes of saying hello to each other the sparks between us flew, and before I knew what was happening, we were both barenaked in the bathroom having sex, which is when I figured out it was Tom and not Tim—his penis was enormous. In fact, I didn’t think penises could get as big as his was. The rumor the girl told me was true; it was just being spread about the wrong brother. Anyway, back to the bathroom—by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. Tom and I were already having sex. (And quite frankly, good sex.)
The fact that the Thompson Twins are almost thirty years old and still live together should’ve tipped me off that something wasn’t right with them, but it didn’t. I didn’t realize just how wrong things were until I pulled up to where they lived. It wasn’t the double-wide trailer that turned me off—I don’t like to criticize people who live in trailers because I’m still a renter and don’t have a dollar in the bank, so I’m not one to judge; at least they own—it was more the overturned coolers and lawn chairs that littered the yard, the raw sewage smell that permeated the air, and the roasting spit with a charred old carcass on it that sat by the front door.
Deciding I’d seen enough to officially take the Thompson Twins out of the running, I put my car in drive and pulled away. However, any hopes I had for an easy getaway were quickly halted when I ran over one of their kids. (Actually, I should say ran into one their kids, because I didn’t actually flatten the child.) Obviously it was an accident.
I’m still not sure whose kid it was because Tim and Tom have five between them—Nifty, Dandy, Thumper, Scooter and Bob. Thumper was the lucky one who met my bumper. He—I mean she—and her little butch haircut rode her bike into the middle of the street, right in front of my car. Although the collision could’ve been disastrous, thanks to my quick reflexes (and the four cans of Red Bull I drank to stay awake during the drive) my bumper ended up only lightly tapping Thumper’s bike, a bike that stayed upright because of a set of training wheels she had affixed to the back wheel. She didn’t fly over the handlebars, skid across the pavement, or anything like that. All she did was slowly tip over the side.
When Tim and Tom heard the screech of my brakes, they both ran out of the trailer in all their glory. To say the least, the years have not treated these boys well. Since the last time I saw them, their hair—which was the one good thing they had going for themselves—took a tragic turn. I don’t know who told them it’s cool to shave lightning bolts into the sides of your head, because it’s not. Ditto goes for the mullet cuts they were sporting. I don’t care if you’re Tim and Tom living in Kansas or a hipster living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn—the mullet is not, nor will it ever be, a cool haircut.
After examining Thumper, Tim, Tom, and I found her to be fine. She didn’t have an ounce of blood on her, just one little scrape. (So why all the tears? I don’t know.) Because I’m an adult, I apologized to her (even though it was she who rode her bike into the middle of the street), but Tim and Tom told me not to worry, saying accidents happen. It’s funny, but with all the commotion, they never even asked why I was driving down their street in the first place. Once they realized it was me, they said it was “damn good” to see my “sweet ass,” and then invited me inside their trailer for a “brewski.” I passed on the beer (something about the way little Bob kept smacking gnats [fleas?] off his body freaked me out) and instead offered to take the whole family out to Thumper’s favorite restaurant for dinner. (After you run someone over, it’s best to keep them and their family on your good side.) Had I known then that we’d end up at Long John Silver’s, I might not have given Thumper so much freedom in the choosing, but I’m sure the greasy fish smell will come out of my clothes eventually.
Since Tim’s and Tom’s wives were working (yes, both are married, but they told me “it’s a common law thing,” so Colin’s off the hook for not finding this out), dinner ended up being just the eight of us. While we were eating, I found myself once again wishing, like I did with Wade, that there was a camera on my lapel. Tim and Tom kept comparing scars and tattoos, little Bob kept farting and asking me if I liked his tail, Nifty kept picking her nose and trying to pop the pimple on her cheek (I didn’t even know little kids could get pimples), and Dandy and Scooter kept throwing ketchup-covered hush puppies, tartar-sauce-slathered fish sticks, and buttery corn cobbettes at each other. As for Thumper, she was the only one who was pleasant. Maybe she was in shock, but she just sat quietly in her chair the whole night, staring (glaring?) at me, drinking her clam chowder.
Before getting back on the road that evening, I jotted down a short note on a napkin and had Tim and Tom sign it. Not that they read it, but they agreed to not sue me in exchange for a case of astronaut food. I picked up a box of freeze-dried ice cream bars while I was in Houston and wow . . . those grubby little bastards went crazy for them. So did their kids.
After saying good-bye to everyone, I got in my car and was ready to pull away when little Thumper ran up to my door. I thought maybe she was going to thank me for dinner or perhaps say she wasn’t angry at me for almost running her over, so I quickly rolled down my window. “What is it, Thumper?” I asked with a smile.
Without hesitating, Thumper inhaled deeply through her nose and spit a big green loogey in my face. “Watch where you’re going next time, bitch,” she then said, smiling right back at me. After politely nodding, I told her I would and then wiped my face clean.
Anyway, that happened last evening. As I drive down the highway today, heading back toward New Orleans, I do so in silence—No Ace of Base, no Ally McBeal, no Barenaked Ladies—and think about this idea of mine. Am I heartbroken that things haven’t worked out with these last six guys? No. But am I a little freaked-out about it? Yes, and for a couple of reasons.
For one, I can’t believe I’ve slept with such losers. I’m positive these guys weren’t losers when we had sex, which leads me to wonder . . . did they turn into losers, or was my loser-radar just way off back then? Or are they not losers now, and have I just turned into a big bitch? Honestly, I can’t figure it out. Where did things go wrong?
The second reason I’m worried is because I don’t understand how my grandpa can run into just one woman from his past and have things click. Including the four guys I eliminated before I left New York, I’m batting zero for ten right now, which isn’t so good. Picking up my phone, I call my grandpa to find out how things are going with Gloria. I’m not saying that I hope things aren’t working out between them, but I might feel slightly better about myself if they aren’t. When my grandpa answers the phone, I cut to the chase. “So, how’s the love affair with Gloria?”
“Oh, Darlin’ . . . it couldn’t be better!” he exclaims.
Shit! Oops! I mean, great!
“Really?” I ask. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” my grandpa says confidently. I can practically hear the smile on his face. “I haven’t felt the boom yet, but I still think it’s gonna happen.” After sighing heavily, I tell him that I’m happy for him. “Hey, not to change the subject,” he then says. “But did I tell you I got a car?”
“A car?” I’m confused. “I thought you were gonna get a golf cart.”
“Well, I was, but then I remembered that I’m living in Vegas not Florida, so I got myself a Camaro instead!”
“A Camaro?” Oh, Jesus.
“Yep. It’s orange. You should see it.”
As images of my grandpa driving through Las Vegas in an orange Camaro while listening to Jefferson Starship fill my head, I shudder. “Well, have fun with it.”
“I will, Del. Hey, I gotta run now, but I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Peace out home fry.”
After hanging up the phone, I try to look on the bright side of things. Sure, ten are down, but I still have ten more to go. Ten good ones, too. In addition to Abogado, both #7 and #13, Henry the Do-Gooder and Alex the Good One Who Got Away, are huge catches. Huge. All is not lost—I can still make this thing work.
After changing my tune, I turn my iPod on and play an Arlo Guthrie song that my grandpa used to sing to me when I was a little girl called “The City of New Orleans.” Looking forward, I sing along and continue on my way. “Good Mooooooorning America, how are ya? . . .”
$2,804, 31 days, 10 guys left.
1 They took telecourses through the local community college and watched their classes on public-access television (or recorded them, if they happened to be on schedule at the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store where they worked).