I’m sure that I’m not the first person in these pages to say that Dick is missed, but that’s a simple truth. I wish I’d had the chance to give him a better payback than this story, but it’ll have to do.
I hope Dick would have liked it.
I’d like to think it might have caught him when he wasn’t looking.
Gotcha, Dick!
Bentley Little
SWF, college graduate, N/S, enjoys biking, travel, the novels of Richard Ford, the films of Woody Allen, and junk food. Looking for intelligent SM, N/S who appreciates same.
ON ONLY SAW the ad because it was boxed and right below his own, and though he’d vowed he’d never answer another personal—not after the 290-pound behemoth, not after the woman who looked like a man, not after the woman who turned out to be a man—he couldn’t help himself.
For one thing, his ad had been running for three months straight, and there hadn’t been a single bite. None. Nothing. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.
For another, this ad spoke to him. He knew how pathetic that was. Only a total loser could read meaning into a three-line statement of abbreviated dating preferences, could possibly think that he could discern a woman’s true nature from an anonymous advertisement in the back of an alternative newspaper.
But, hell, why not be honest? That’s what he was. A loser. A failure. Why else would he be completely unable to get a date on his own? Why else would he have to resort to paid self-promotion, the last refuge of the terminally geeky?
He’d been telling himself that he’d shelled out the bucks for his own personal because he’d rather be the one screening replies than one of the hopefuls being screened, and while it was not something he was proud of, not something he’d ever admit to his parents or friends, he had a hell of a lot better chance of finding someone this way than he did hitting the singles bars.
But that was an overoptimistic rationalization. The truth was that he had tried everything else—from asking out co-workers to taking classes—and this was his only possible hope of ever finding someone.
But then he’d been wrong before.
He dialed the toll number at the bottom of the ad, left a short message, hung up, and promptly chastised himself for screwing up what could have been a real opportunity. It was his one-and-only shot, his chance to step up to the plate and dazzle his potential date with wit, charm and intelligence. But he’d sounded stupid. He’d just parroted back her Richard Ford and Woody Allen and junk food preferences, hadn’t really added anything of his own, and no doubt had come across as a grade-A number one doofus. He should’ve written down what he wanted to say, rehearsed it and read it. But no, he hadn’t thought things through, and now he’d botched his opportunity.
She phoned him back the next night.
Her name was Joanne, and, amazingly enough, it was the unscripted spontaneity of his call that had intrigued her, and she said that though she’d already received dozens of replies, his was the first message to which she’d responded. They hit it off immediately, and ended up talking for nearly two hours. Maybe she was a monstrosity, maybe she was a man, but he liked her so much he was willing to take that chance. Of course, the others had had nice voices, too—you couldn’t tell anything from a voice—but somehow he had a good feeling about this one, and gathering up his courage he asked her out on a date.
She accepted.
“The thing is,” she said, “I’m supposed to go off this weekend. Some friends of mine own a cabin up in Big Bear, and they’ve invited me up.” She paused. “They said I could bring someone if I wanted.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“We could make that our date. If you don’t think I’m being too forward.”
“No, of course not.”
But she must have heard the hesitance in his voice, because she laughed. “We could drive separately and meet there, if you’d rather. That way you could bail if I turn out to be heinous or if I start getting on your nerves.”
“What about me? I could be Rondo Hatton. Hell, I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
“Anyone who knows who Rondo Hatton is can’t be all bad. I’m willing to take a chance.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“Then it’s a date?”
He laughed. “It’s a date.”
“Whew!” She let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “My car needs some work, and I don’t really trust it going up the mountains.”
“No problem. I’ll pick you up at your place.”
They ironed out the logistics: addresses, times, directions, home numbers, work numbers.
“I’ll see you Saturday,” he said, signing off.
“I’ll be waiting,” she told him. “With bated breath.”
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at four. Joanne lived only ten minutes away and he wasn’t scheduled to pick her up until six, but Ron wanted time to shower, shave, make a cup of coffee, and fully wake up before their meeting. First impressions were important, particularly on blind dates, and he wanted to be at his peak.
By five-twenty, he was loading the car. He wasn’t taking much, but as an ex-Boy Scout, he believed in being well-prepared, and he’d packed an overnight bag with clothes for both warm and cold weather, his shaving kit and first aid supplies, as well as a couple of books to read.
He figured he’d better bring some sort of gift for their hosts, and yesterday he’d bought a netted sack of oranges at the grocery store.
He’d also bought some condoms.
Just in case.
Joanne had asked him to bring along an ice chest in addition to his own personal necessities, and that was the last thing he packed. He pulled it out of the hall closet, tossed in two packs of Blue Ice, and carried the awkward bulky object out through the kitchen, closing the door behind him with his foot. Ahead, through the open rear gate that led into the alley, he could see that his Saturn’s passenger side was open and the interior light was on.
He’d closed the car door, he was certain of it, and he was wondering if maybe he hadn’t closed it hard enough and the slope of the parking space had caused it to swing open, when he saw movement through the windshield. He stopped. In the faint illumination thrown by the car’s overhead light he saw a dark silhouetted figure rooting around in the back seat.
A hunchback.
His heart lurched in his ribcage. The hunchback pulled the passenger seat forward, carefully closed the car door and hobbled off, disappearing into the blackness of the alley.
Ron stood there dumbly, holding the ice chest, unsure of what to do.
The natural reaction would have been to yell at the man, to tell him to get the hell away from his car and house, to announce that he was calling the police.
But...
But Ron was not even sure that it was a man. Logic told him that the hunchback was merely a bum or a thief with a tragic deformity, but something about the figure’s movements and actions, and the way he’d slunk off into the shadows, made Ron uneasy, kindled a flicker of fear within him. The time of morning as well, the fact that the sun was not yet up, lent the entire situation a frightening, unreal air.
So he stood there for a few moments more, waiting to make sure that the figure was gone and not coming back, before stepping out into the alley and walking carefully over to the car.
He placed the ice chest on the ground and opened the passenger door, pulling the seat forward and looking into the back, where the hunchback had been rummaging.
He’d left Ron a present.
It was a dead dog. The animal had been placed on the floor of the back seat and inexpertly covered by Ron’s book bag. There was matted blood on the fur, but it was dried and the dog appeared to have been dead for some time. The animal was stiff, the legs folded in on themselves in an almost fetal position.