Carl nodded his understanding. That made sense. Now that he thought about it, this Ms. Erinyes reminded him of a couple of people in his night class: the intellectual nerds. The ones whose whole lives revolved around computers. Even their friends were electronic pen pals. Of course Carl didn’t have any friends, either, but he still felt himself superior to the hackers. The one difference between Ms. Erinyes and his ungainly classmates was that she was female. There were no women in the class. Too bad; then he might not have needed a dating service. But, after all, the community college course was in electronics. Carl thought it was fitting that there were no women taking it.
With a condescending smile at the lard-assed misfit behind the desk, Carl flopped down in the chair and leaned back. “So how come you wanted to see me? I filled out the opscan form, just like the girl out there told me to, but I thought some of the questions were pretty off-the-wall. Like asking me to draw a woman. What was the point of that? Does it matter that I can’t draw?”
Ms. Erinyes had her nose back in the manila folder again. She was looking at Carl’s drawing: a stick figure with scrawled curls and a triangle for a skirt. The penciled woman had fingerless hands like catchers’ mitts, and no mouth. Her eyes were closed.
“The questions? Consider it quality control, Mr. Wallin,” she said without looking up. “Computers aren’t perfect, you know. Sometimes we like to check our results against good old human know-how. After all, love isn’t entirely logical, is it?”
Carl wanted to say, “No, but sex is,” but he thought this remark might count against him somehow, so he simply shrugged.
“Now, let’s see… Your medical form came back satisfactory, including the blood test. Good. Good. Can’t be too careful these days. I know you appreciate that.”
Carl nodded. The medical certification was one of the reasons he’d decided to come to Matchmakers.
“I see you had a head injury a few years ago. All well now, I hope?”
Carl nodded. “Fell off my motorcycle. Lucky I had a helmet on, or I’d have got worse than a bad concussion.”
“I expect you would have,” murmured Ms. Erinyes, dismissing motorcycles from the conversation. “Now, let’s see… You are five feet nine,” Ms. Erinyes was saying. “You weigh one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. You are twenty-eight years old, nominally Protestant, never married. You have brown hair and green eyes. Regular features. I’d say average-looking, would you?”
“I guess,” said Carl. It didn’t sound very complimentary.
“And do you have any pets?”
“No. I like things to be clean and neat. I never could see what the big deal was about animals.” He smiled, remembering. “My grandmother had a tomcat, though. We didn’t get along.”
Something in his voice made Ms. Erinyes look up, but all she said was, “I see that you were raised by your grandmother from the age of two.”
“What does it matter?” Carl Wallin was annoyed. “I thought women would be more interested in what kind of car I drive.”
“A 1977 AMC Concord?” Ms. Erinyes laughed merrily. “Well, some of them will be willing to overlook this, perhaps.”
Carl’s lips tightened. “Look, I don’t make a lot of money, okay? I work as a file clerk in an insurance office. But I’m going to night school to learn about these stinking computers, which is what you have to do to get a job anymore. I figure I’ll be doing a lot better someday. Besides, I don’t want a lousy gold digger.”
“Nobody does. Or they think they don’t. We have to wonder, though, when sixty-year-old gentlemen come in again and again asking for ninety-eight-pound blondes younger than twenty-eight.” She grinned. “We tell them to skip the question about hobbies and substitute a list of their assets.”
“I don’t need a movie star.”
“Well, that brings us to the big question. Just what kind of companion are you looking for?”
“Like it says on the form. A nice girl. She doesn’t have to be Miss America, but I don’t want anyone who-” He groped for a polite phrase, eyeing Ms. Erinyes with alarm.
“No, you don’t want somebody like me,” said Ms. Erinyes smoothly, as if there had been no offense taken. “I assure you that I don’t play this game, Mr. Wallin. I just watch. You want someone slender.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want one of those arty types either. You know, the kind with dyed black hair and claws for fingernails. The foreign-film-and-white-wine type. They make me puke.”
“We are not shocked to hear it,” said Ms. Erinyes solemnly.
Carl suspected that she was teasing him, but he saw no trace of a smile. “She should be clean and neat, and, you know, feminine. Not too much makeup. Not flashy. And not one of those career types, either. It’s okay if she works. Who doesn’t, these days? But I don’t want her thinking she’s more important than me. I hate that.”
For the first time, Ms. Erinyes looked completely solemn. “I think we can find the woman you are looking for,” she said. “There’s a rather special girl. We haven’t succeeded in matching her before, but this time… Yes, I think you’ve told me enough. One last question: have you always lived in this city?”
Carl looked puzzled. “Yes, I have. Why?”
“You didn’t go off to college-no, I see here that you didn’t attend college. No stint in the armed forces?”
“Nope. Straight out of high school into the rat race,” said Carl. “But why do you ask? Does it matter?”
“Not to the young lady, perhaps,” said Ms. Erinyes carefully. “But I like to have a clear picture of our clients before proceeding. Well, I think I have everything. It will take a day or two to process the information, and after that we’ll send you a card in the mail with the young lady’s name and phone number. It will be up to you to take it from there.”
Carl reached for his wallet, but the director shook her head. “You pay on your way out, Mr. Wallin. It’s our policy.”
He stared at the numbers on the apartment door, trying to swallow his rage. Being nervous always made him angry for some reason. But what was there to be anxious about? His shirt was clean; his shoes were shined; he had cash. He looked fine. A proper little gentleman, as Granny used to say when she slicked his hair down for church. But he didn’t want to think about Granny just now.
Who did this woman think she was, this Patricia Bissel, making him dress up for her inspection, and dangling rejection over his head? That’s all dating was. It was like some kind of lousy job interview: getting all dressed up and going to meet a total stranger who judges you without knowing you at all. He clenched his teeth at the thought of Patricia Bissel, who was probably sneering at him right now from behind her nice safe apartment door with the little peephole. His palms were sweating.
Carl leaned against the wall and took a few steadying breaths. Take it easy, he told himself. He had never even seen Patricia Bissel. She was just a name on a card from the dating service. He had thought that they were supposed to send you a couple of choices, maybe some background information about the person, but all that was on the card was just the name: Patricia Bissel.
It had taken him two days to get up the nerve to call her, and then her line had been busy. Playing hard to get, he thought. Damned little tease. Women liked making you sweat. When he had finally got through, he’d talked for less than a minute. Just long enough to tell her that the dating service had sent him, and to let her hem and haw and then suggest a meeting on Friday night at eight. Her place. It had taken her three tries to give the directions correctly.