nomatch.com

By G. Sterling Davis

How can we judge someone we meet online? Even though a person looks good on paper, there may be more to the story. Do they spend most of the first date talking about there ex? Do they say I love you on the second date? Are the pictures they are sending you even of them? Follow a troubled youth from a small coastal community in Washington State to the city of Seattle. Share in a heart felt journey to come to terms with the past, create a new life with meaningful connections, navigate the pratfalls of online dating and find the resolve to move forward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483531847

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It should have known from the beginning, online dating wasn’t deserving of all the hype. Initially I used AOL Instant Messenger, well before Match.com or eHarmony came along.

It was my first attempt at using the Internet to meet men. I needed to figure out exactly what I wanted to say about myself, and I needed to locate a suitable photograph to post. I gave it a lot of thought, fretted over what photograph to use, and ultimately came up with something that I was comfortable with.

Shortly after I posted my profile and photograph, I had my first strike. Fish on! His name was Jeff and he was anxious to get together.

Jeff seemed like a nice guy. He wanted to meet me at a bowling alley in Edmonds. It had been quite some time since I’d bowled, and it sounded like fun.

On Saturday afternoon I drove from my house in south Everett to Robin Hood Lanes in Edmonds. Robin Hood Lanes had been an Edmonds landmark since the early 1960’s and I’d been there several times before.

Jeff was waiting for me in the bar. He knew what I looked like from my online photograph, and came over to greet me as soon I walked in.

He looked a lot like Gary Busey, but with longer hair. He was a little rugged around the edges, but a nice enough looking guy. There was something a bit odd about him though, however I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I was impressed that he had come up with something to do that had the potential for being fun. We started off with a round of vodka tonics. He was obviously very bright, and had a good sense of humor. He had just an okay job, but that didn’t necessarily turn me off. He wasn’t a car parker or anything like that. He was actually quite charming.

We were having a nice conversation, and when I asked Jeff for the time, I couldn’t believe that we’d spent the better part of two hours talking. I had some errands to run and there wasn’t enough time left to do any bowling.

Just as we were preparing to leave, Jeff invited me on a date. I told him that I’d love to go out with him and gave him my phone number. There is something I should probably tell you first, said Jeff. I am a recovering heroin addict. In addition to my regular job, I run a recovery house. I feel that I need to give something back.

I was speechless. I’d already committed to a second date. What do I say now? That I’m busy that night. I was trying to process it all in my mind. He was recovering, which meant he was clean, right? And I hadn’t had a decent date in ages. So I decided to stay the course.

When I got back to my house later that evening, there was a message from Jeff saying what a nice time he’d had. He wanted me to come to his house Saturday morning. He said that he was going to fix me breakfast. This was a first. I’d had guys invite me to their homes for dinner, but never breakfast.

All during the following week I was fretting about seeing him again. When I told my girlfriend about the upcoming date, of course she wanted his name, address and telephone number. And the more information she wanted, the more nervous I got. I’d always had a rule about not going to someone’s house for a first date, and now I had committed to breaking the rule.

Saturday morning came, and we were still on. I parked my car in front of his house. The house was an 80’s split-level. It was okay. It needed paint, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Before I got out of my car, I called my girlfriend and let her know that I was going in. I was probably over reacting. I made sure to put my phone back in my purse, locked up my car, and walked up to front door. I rang the doorbell.

When we met at the bowling alley, he had on a fisherman’s sweater and jeans, and he looked very nice. Now, when he opened the front door, he was wearing an orange neon mesh crop top, and his belly was hanging out. He didn’t have pants on and his underwear is sagging down. I was mortified! He hadn’t shaved, and I was fairly certain that he hadn’t bathed either.

Hi Cathy, nice to see you.

As if it was not a big deal.

Come on in, he said, so I followed him into the house.

Why I didn’t bail out then and there, I’ll never know.

The inside of the house was painted entirely black. I glanced around and noticed that all the windows were taped completely over with some kind of blackout cardboard. Really? Jeff invited me into the kitchen, which was a mess. The walls were painted avocado gold. At least the kitchen walls aren’t black, I thought.

Jeff was being super nice. He told me that he was preparing an omelet for breakfast, and I asked him what I could do to help. Meanwhile, he was making coffee, chopping vegetables, and talking a mile a minute. I couldn’t quit fixating on his flabby belly, and obsessing over the uncleanly state of the kitchen.

He assigned me the task of slicing the bell peppers. I busied myself cleaning out the cores, while he was chopping tomatoes and mixing the eggs. When I looked up, there was this strange looking man standing right next to me. He scared the bejesus out of me! He was not frightful looking, but he was definitely different. He was just standing there, staring at me.

And then Jeff said, I told you I ran a halfway house.

I thought you went somewhere to run the halfway house, not that you lived in one, I pointed out.

There I was standing in the kitchen, this strange man rocking from one foot to the other, my date was standing there with his gut hanging out, and I was slicing peppers in a house with the windows completely blacked out. Please God, I thought. Make my girlfriend call, and give me a reason to get the hell out of here! But of course she didn’t call. That was never the plan. If she hadn’t heard from me for several hours she probably would have called, but not now.

When Jeff finished cooking the omelets, we dished up and I followed him into the living room. We sat down on the sofa, and he picked up a remote control and proceeded to unroll an enormous movie screen. There were movies stacked everywhere.

This must be the reason for the blacked out windows and black walls, I thought. He was a complete movie freak! What was he planning to show me? Was it porn? Was the other guy going to hold me down while Jeff molested me? Should I scream and run? I was desperately trying to get hold of my emotions. The left side of my brain was telling me that he was being really nice and I should just stick it out and not offend him. On the other hand, the fact that he was such a nurturer, along with having a movie fetish and lack of personal hygiene, was telling me to get the fuck out of there. And that’s exactly what I did, and I never looked back. And he knew. He didn’t call, and he never tried to contact me again.

Here I am years later, still doing the same thing. Coming home from work and getting on the computer, to see if there are any new guys out there. I’m forever hopeful. There are always a lot of men posting online, but there’s also a lot of disappointment. There’s the embellishing, lying, and cheating on wives. It takes a lot of energy to Internet date. You take a break for a while, and then eventually you’re right back in it. You see a lot of the same guys out there. You recognize their handles. It’s a lot of pressure.

I started Internet dating when I had seemingly exhausted all other options. I’d done the bar scene and the country dancing. It had been several years since my divorce and my friends had run out of set ups. I wasn’t interested in speed dating or joining the local biking club. Once the kids are out of school, you don’t go to church, and you’ve exhausted most of the other options, there’s really no place to meet men. Unless they’re carrying someone else’s purse.

None of my girlfriends wanted to go out anymore because they’re either too old or they think they’re fat. Seriously, they didn’t want to go out; Internet dating: that was it.

I work during the week doing billing for people having sex. Truly, I bill people for having sex. They come into the clinic pregnant, or for their regular checkups, or for their annual mammogram. I’m not having sex. They are having babies, or screwing and getting infections, and I’m jealous because they at least have the potential to have infections. My whole world centers on having sex. The longer it’s been, the more obsessed I become.

I’ve been working in women’s clinics for nearly thirty years. I have an awesome group of women to work with. Janelle is a piece of work. She’s kind of bossy, but cute enough that she can get away with it. She’s really smart, but doesn’t know it. I can’t believe how smart she is. She’s a fast learner, feisty, and her eyes bounce. I don’t know which eye to watch. They are jumping back and forth and I’m thinking, My God, that’s weird!

And then there’s Angie. She’s a straight shooter, laid back and easy going. She and her husband have a vacation home in Mexico. They go down there to get naked and smoke pot in the pool.

Internet dating creeped me out at first. Especially to seriously consider it. I knew there were a lot of success stories. I have friends that met online who are happily married. But who’s behind door number three? The Hillside Strangler, Ted Bundy, Mrs. Potter?

You set up a meeting spot. Put on some makeup. Figure out what to wear. Decide what the appropriate image is to put forth. And then you go for the meet and greet. It seems to go well. They seem nice. Some are funny, others good looking. They’re certainly tall enough. Many of them have a good story to tell. And then the waiting starts. Am I going to get a phone call?

PART ONE

Beginnings

ONE

My sister Sarah arrived first. She was born in Baytown, Texas on October 7th, 1943. She was a large baby, topping ten pounds at birth, and would grow up to be tall like our dad. Sarah was born with a full head of light brown hair, and the biggest, brightest blue eyes. Of the three girls, Sarah grew up to be the strait-laced one.

Baytown, Texas is an oil town. Our dad worked at the oil refinery, one of the largest in the world. Most of the houses in Baytown were painted white, and everyone had a front porch it seemed. The entire family would move out to the porch in the evening, to get some relief from the stifling heat.

We went back to Baytown to visit once. I couldn’t get over the smell of the oil. It hung in the air like a dirty sponge.

Our house in Baytown was a small, single story house with clap-board siding. The front porch was screened in to keep the bugs out. My parents still knew everybody in the old neighborhood, and it was like a reunion of sorts. They all wanted us to come over for a barbeque. I’d never eaten so much barbecue in my life. Ribs drenched in barbecue sauce, pulled pork, chicken, and catfish; lots of catfish.

It was hot as hell while we were there, and extremely humid. The rain in Washington didn’t seem so bad in comparison.

Sarah said her fondest memories of Baytown were the trips to the catfish farm with our dad to buy fish. The farm manager was a friend of our dad’s from school. He was tough as nails and was always getting in scraps growing up. Apparently he’d mellowed with age, because Dad said he always tossed in a couple of extra fish at no charge.

Sarah told me once about the cemetery where my dad’s kin are buried, and the magnificent oak trees that lined the road. She said that the low-hanging branches made for the perfect climbing trees. Sarah said she nearly fell out once, but at the last moment was able to grab hold of a limb.

Sarah has always been extremely conscientious, and everything she did, she did well. She hung out with the good girls mostly, and was never in any trouble. Because she was much older than Kimberly and me, she was saddled with the responsibility of looking after us.

Kimberly came next, born on September 27th, 1948, sixteen months before me. She was the only true blonde in the family, and much like her older sister, was born with a full head of hair.

My mother always said what an easy baby Kimberly had been. And she is, by far, the most talented. She was the one that picked up the piano with virtually no training. She could listen to our mother play, and then replicate the melody with little to no help whatsoever.

Kimberly was one hundred percent girl from day one. She loved going clothes shopping with Sarah. Kimberly is so easy going, and well-liked by everyone. She has the patience of a saint. She’s the mediator in the family. She hates it when there’s an argument. Thankfully, I’ve always had her to bounce things off. There have been many times when I’ve called her late at night, despondent after a shitty date.

Kimberly shied away from athletics, and busied herself reading books and playing the piano. She was never in any trouble really. I held the key to that category.

My family made the move to Washington State in October of 1949 when Sarah was six years old and Kimberly was one. Times were tough in Baytown, and my father was laid off from his job at the refinery. My parents decided to return to the Pacific Northwest where my father had grown up. My mom found a job working at the hospital in South Bend. Dad worked odd jobs until he was hired on at the post office. He moonlighted on the weekends, running the projector at the local movie theater.

South Bend is a small town, dating back to the mid 1800’s, when a sawmill was constructed on the south bend of the Willapa River. The town is reminiscent of a by-gone era, when mansions dotted the hill tops, and bankers eagerly awaited news that South Bend had been selected as the Pacific Northwest terminus for the Northern Pacific Railway. As it turned out, South Bend was not selected, however the timber, fishing, and oyster industries were able to support a burgeoning growth, and in 1892 the town officially became the County Seat.

We lived in South Bend the year I was born, at the top of Ferry Street. Ferry Street was a very steep hill, and my dad had left the car parked at the bottom of the hill due to all the snow, to assure that they would be able to make it to the hospital when Mom went into labor. She had been experiencing false labor pains for the past couple of days.

My parents had made arrangements for Sarah and Kimberly to stay with the neighbors while they were away. Mom had already packed a bag, and they walked down the hill to get to the car.

It was icy and snowing hard. There were nearly two feet of snow on the ground. It was the biggest snowstorm South Bend had seen for many years.

My mom and dad had a drive of nearly thirty-five miles to Aberdeen, where my mom was seeing a specialist. It was snowing harder and harder the further they drove. Dad said he wouldn’t have known what they would have done if they had gotten stuck. The visibility was horrible, and it took them nearly two hours to make the drive.

The hospital was on a hill, and they weren’t able to drive up it, so they had to leave the car and walk. The deep snow made it extremely difficult, and it took them a long while to reach the top. It was after nine p.m. before they were admitted.

There were complications with the delivery. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen, as the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. But finally it was my turn, and I was born just after midnight on the 29th of January, 1950. I was a scrawny baby and needed to spend several days in an incubator before I could go home.

Unlike my sisters, I was born with very fine, light brown hair. My blue eyes would later turn brown.

TWO

On Sarah’s eleventh birthday she had been assigned the unenviable task of taking care of Kimberly and me after school. Apparently eleven was somehow deemed pre-adulthood, and along with it came additional responsibilities. Prior to Sarah taking over, a granny of sorts had taken care of us. We were dropped off in the morning at her house, and picked up around dinnertime when my dad got off work.

Different arrangements were going to have to be made regarding Kimberly’s and my after-school care once Sarah left for college, and I couldn’t imagine that I was going to like the options.

Kimberly and I would beg Sarah to tell us stories about her time growing up in Texas, and most of the time she enthusiastically complied. Sarah said it was always so hot during the summer that when she was a little girl she’d wear nothing but panties; no shirt, no shorts, just white cotton panties. Mom would hang the laundry out to dry and Sarah would run back and forth trying to reach high enough to pull her panties from the line.

Sarah said that when they lived in Baytown she liked to play with our cousins that lived down the block. There was a housing project being built nearby, and they liked to go down there and hang out. She told me how the workers would place concrete blocks down first and then frame the rest of the way up with wood. If the carpenters weren’t there, they would hop up on the blocks and walk around the foundation. She said it was so much fun just goofing around. She said that one time she stepped on a nail and punctured the sole of her foot. She decided not to tell Mom, and patched it up with a Band Aid. She was scared to death that she was going to die from tetanus within days.

Sarah told us that one of friends was a boy named Sam. She said that he was gangly, and always wore bib overalls, making him look even taller than he was. She said that he wasn’t at all shy, and that he could be really funny. She said that Sam was very talented. He could dance and do radio skits. He had even put together a few costumes.

He would put on theatrical performances in the loft of his barn. There was an opening to the loft where the farmers would load their hay through. Sam would climb up to the loft and stand on the hay, where he would perform through the opening.

Sarah told us about the time she gashed her head on the edge of the well. She said she must have been five or six years old at the time. Thankfully she didn’t fall in, but she tripped and hit her head on the concrete. She remembers a neighbor picking her up and carrying her home.

Our uncle was the ice cream man in Baytown. He worked for Foremost Milk. Sarah said he would come home from work every night and hand out ice cream bars to any neighborhood kids that were waiting for him in front of his house. She said that the ice cream was a welcome treat!

Sarah and our cousins would ride their bikes all over the neighborhood. There was nobody to worry about back then, and no one ever bothered them much. As long as they were home by dark, nobody’s parents seemed to care.

One day she told me about how they would ride their bikes to the end of the street to Ralph’s Country Store to buy penny candy. She said there was a five-gallon jar of pickles on the counter, and the floor was covered with sawdust. They called the owner Mr. Ralph. Sarah said Mr. Ralph was as big as a house! Sometimes he would give them candy for free. Her favorites were the root beer barrels and red wax lips.

Sarah loved the BayWay Roller Rink. She said she loved it so much! She told me that, to this day, she could still smell the oil that dripped from the wheels. She said that her roller skates were the best Christmas present she ever got.

I couldn’t wait for Sarah to get home from school each day. She would let us listen to her records on our parents wooden console record player. One day after Sarah had retrieved Kimberly and me from the neighbors, she put her Bobby Fuller record on for us. Sarah said that Bobby Fuller was born in Baytown. She said she used to pretend that Bobby Fuller was her boyfriend, and that they lived together in a big mansion in California. When I turned sixteen, I Fought the Law (and the Law Won), reached the top of the charts. Bobby Fuller was found dead in his car later that year in Los Angeles. The cause of death was ruled a possible suicide, but some people say he was murdered.

When I first learned how to ride a bike, Sarah rode with me to the Blue Top, the neighborhood grocery store. She bought me a Coca Cola float at the soda fountain. She was old enough to get an allowance and she was never stingy with the money she earned.

One summer our dad set up a tent in the back yard. It was late August and it had finally started to heat up. Sarah told Kimberly and me that we were going to sleep overnight in the tent. I was excited but a little scared.

After the sun had set and we were zipped snuggly into our sleeping bags, we begged Sarah for a story. So she told us about the Lynchburg Ferry. She said that she and Sam would ride across the bay on the ferry boat. They liked to stand by the rail, and let the salt breeze spray their faces, as the waves slapped against the side of the boat. After the boat would dock on the other side of the bay, they would ride their bikes two miles to the Pioneer Cemetery.

I remember how scared I got when she was telling the story. She said that each of the graves was surrounded by a white picket fence, and that the reason was to keep the spirits from escaping from the graves. The older graves didn’t have fenced plots, and some nights their spirits could be seen walking through the cemetery. Sarah said that these were the graves of the colored people in Baytown, who couldn’t afford a fenced plot. She said that our dad called them porch monkeys. I had this vision of half people, half monkey wandering through the cemetery. I was scared to death!

Several of Sarah’s friend’s in Baytown had fathers that worked at the refinery with our dad. She said there were days when the town just plain stunk. She said that her eyes would burn for hours at a time from the sooty air.

While they were living in Texas, our dad also worked at a grocery store on the weekends. Sarah said that he had to work two jobs, just to make ends meet. She said that sometimes his boss from the grocery store would take them fishing on his boat. She said that she got seasick the first time they went out. But after that, it didn’t bother her as much.

There were no coloreds that lived in our neighborhood. However there was a black lady that came to the house each day to do the chores. Sarah said she didn’t eat with them though. She would always bring a tuna fish sandwich, and eat it out on the porch There was a black part of town, but it was located way out. Sarah said that our family never really had a reason to drive out there, except that one time they did. She doesn’t remember why really. She said she was scared, but that dad said it was okay.

THREE

We moved off the hill and down to the Flats when I was six years old. We lived on Water Street, across from the grade school, in a single story, rectangular, flat-top house. My parents said it was modern, but I much preferred the older, expansive, two-story houses that some of my friends lived in. They had rooms they didn’t even use. Their basements were perfect for playing hide and seek. They were dark and damp, and with the lights out they were downright scary.

It often rained for days on end in South Bend, and the Flats flooded several times each year. Winter and spring storms would push the river from its floodplain. A series of open ditches collected the water and channeled it back to the river. When the river overtopped its bank, the ditches backed up and the Flats were under water.

The summer rain brought the humidity. The air was warm and moist, and the mosquitoes could do you in. They were huge, and would leave nasty welts on your ankles and legs. At night, the streetlights would attract bats in chase of the mosquitoes. They would circle and dive in every direction. Sometimes they would graze the top of our heads as they darted around. We were scared to death they might get tangled in our hair.

Getting across the street to the school could be a challenge when the Flats were flooded. However it was uncommon for the school