My client sits in front of the computer, tap tap tapping away hoping this time a different turn of the phrase will bring someone, ANYone into his life. He has no friends close enough to take a picture for him, yet realizes that professional photos will be overkill. The blue glare of the screen makes him look like something out of an alien movie in the webcam photo. He takes his phone into the bathroom and removes his shirt. He does not think to clean the spit-flecked mirror, nor to close the shower curtain (which reveals a bathtub DESPERATELY in need of a good scrubbing). The air is pungent with hope and lonliness…
He is well educated, highly paid, dresses impeccably (despite the profile pictures) and can afford a lifestyle several steps above the life he leads.
We meet because a mutual friend wants me to help him “fix” his profile so women will want to go out with him. Because I have absolutely no problem wielding a cluestick, I agree. I also point out to my friend the obvious: I can recommend changes that will make this man look better than George Clooney (on paper) but unless he does what I tell him to do our meeting is pointless.
Within five minutes, I can pinpoint problem number one: the man is ANGRY. He speaks of nothing but what a bitch his ex is and how she shafted him. “The only reason I don’t have to pay alimony is because I had pictures AND VIDEO of her cheating” he vehemently declares.
My inner pervert wonders if the judge at their divorce hearing watched the footage.
We get past his divorce and I bring the copy of his profile I’ve printed with the changes I recommend he makes. One by one he shoots down the suggestions. This makes him sound like a candyass, he doesn’t want to post this/that/the other, his profile is FINE isn’t it?
My inner bitch rolls her eyes and speaks. “Just exactly how many dates have you been on that are directly related to this ad you’ve written?”
He tells me how These Girls don’t know what a catch he is, how good he is in bed and how well he will spoil his woman. And he’s NOT creating another profile.
I point out that “spoil” means “ruined”. Again, The Bitch speaks. “They are not going to find out because they will not look past that profile.”
I tell him that perhaps he should get some divorce counseling, something to help with his anger. He tells me he’s not interested in laying “on some shrinkydink’s leather sofa”.
I’m done. There is nothing I CAN do. My papers go back in their folder, luck is wished (heaven knows he’s going to need it) and I see myself to the door. He sits back down in front of the computer and resumes the tap tap tapping away.
This work of fiction is my laaaate contribution to Write-of-Passage’s first Challenge. You can read the other participants :