The Dating Service

By kaylar, 24th May 2010 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/1vsoi.58/

Posted in WikinutWritingShort Stories

Imagine really meeting that perfect man on a dating site

Just another bad date

Enid Purcel came home from her date at eight forty nine p.m, and flung herself

into a fat chair; another waste of time.

Another.



As a masochist, she went over the evening's disaster.



Her date was to commence with a seven o'clock meeting at Pony's bar, then

to dinner at a place to be decided.



She'd left work early to reach home at five. Usual anxiety, a speed shower,

quick hair styling, whirl of makeup, racing from her flat at six ten to arrive on time.



She was actually three minutes early, thought he would be waiting.

He wasn't.

At seven twenty, when she was about to leave, a guy, meandering

in from the door said;



"You Enid? I'm John."



His hair was spikey, he was dressed in a tee shirt just this side of old and jeans. Not much in the way of impressing a girl.



"Give me a whiskey sour!" he shouted at the bartender, then, as an after

thought,"you want anything?" he asked.



Enid didn't trust her mouth so shook her head, assuming he'd realise he

had been late, unapologetic, selfish, etc. Of course he didn't.

He was living his life, she was given the opportunity to observe.



While he sipped his drink, he watched the match on the telly. She decided

to walk out. She got off the stool, took three steps towards the door, he was

beside her.



"You figure out what you want to eat?" he flung as if they'd been discussing

it since lunch.



"Italian?" she tried.



He made up his face; "Nah. Let's have Korean."



She'd never had Korean food and he hadn't the courtesy to ask her if it was

all right. Instead, he set off walking, Walking, to a restaurant ten blocks away.

He walked as if he were in an Olympic marathon, she fighting to keep up.



At various points he stopped, waited, then off again.

By the time they reached, she was out of breath, sweaty, and tired.



He knew the owners, greeted them as he slid into a booth, ordered his 'usual'.

She looked over the menu, didn't see anything.

He spoke to her as if she were a child,



"The waiter is waiting."



"You order for me," she replied.



"You like chicken?" he asked with no interest.



"Yes." She replied, with a smile, excused herself as if to use the loo,

instead, walked out, caught a cab home.



Just another blind date, in a series of blind dates, neither better nor worse,

each horrid in its own way.



There was George, who kissed her cheek when they met with a feelie kind

of hug, and spent the next eleven minutes discussing sex.

She left him in the Pony bar.



There was Charles, who started talking and never stopped.



There was Frank, who was more nervous and uncomfortable then she.

The date ended at Pony's Bar, when she grabbed her cell as if it had

vibrated, made apologies and escaped.



There was Norm. The date went normally until he started to argue with

the waiter over the bill. She left the restaurant, he probably didn't notice.



Is it me?

she asked herself.

Am I so grotesque, or so particular?

Are these men normal?



Men she'd found attractive, until they began picking their noses, or proved

they were brain dead. Men who had sparkling personalities but were

physically repulsive.



She had decided to stop dating, join groups to meet people, and met

women like herself.

She'd taken courses to meet men, gained further qualification, but met

no men. She'd gone to cultural presentations, and met people who went

to cultural presentations looking for people who went to cultural presentations.



Thirty years old and perhaps she ought convert to Catholicism and become a nun.



She switched on her computer, might as well communicate with sentient life

forms, she thought as she got on Netutopia, a new chat board, and

saw the banner ad.



"Bad dating experience? Try Perfection Plus."



Why not? She thinks.



She'd experimented with cyberdate companies before, but as soon as they

asked for money, she was gone.



Why pay for a bad time when she could get them free?

Perfection Plus

Perfection Plus seemed a bit different.

It didn't ask for VISA or Mastercard.

It didn't ask her about herself. It begin with; "What do you want?"

and instead of boxes to tick, there was a big blank space.



This meant someone might actually read what she posted.



"I want a man who is reasonably attractive, intelligent, sensitive, generous,

open, a good listener, sense of humour, who is looking for a woman for a

long term relationship."



She assumed that 99% of all women typed the same, and when she punched

'enter', expected to get the latest crop of losers.



She didn't.



She was asked for hair colour, eye colour, height and weight.

What did this mean?

They had a battalion of perfect men needing to be sorted?



Hair? Black. Eyes; Blue. Height, 6' 3". Weight? 180 pounds.



Four photos appeared.

Each man was attractive in a slightly different way.

She liked the third photo the best.

She was invited to send him an email.



So far, she'd entered nothing about herself, which seemed very strange.

However, she copied her wants and sent it to him.

She was surprised to get an immediate reply from 'Tom Miller'.



"I think I meet your requirements. Perhaps we could meet soon?"



She looked at the response.

Where was he in relation to her?



"I am in Newark." She said.



"So am I." came the reply.



This couldn't be right.

How could he be in Newark?

No body lived in Newark.



To test, she typed; "How about the Pony bar?"



"I can meet you there in ten minutes."



Okay, this is dangerous.

This can't be right.

Something is wrong.



"I have to go." She typed, pressed send, then locked off her computer.



She wandered into the bathroom to shower, prepare for bed, disquieted

by the past few minutes. Something was so incredibly wrong here.



* * *



The following evening, after work, while she sat alone, drinking coffee

and thinking about what to cook, she checked her e-mail.

There was a message from Perfection Plus.

She was about to delete it unread, when for the hell of it, she clicked

on the hypertext.



"You have a message!" it proclaimed, and before she could log out it flashed;



"Sorry to have scared you last night.

I'd just come in from one of many bad

dates. I won't torment you with details,

save I began to flirt with celibacy.



I logged on to Netutopia, usually

participate in discussions in Conservative Worldview,

Linux for All, and Useless knowledge, when

I saw the banner ad and thought, why not?



I entered what I wanted, which was an intelligent,

attractive serious woman with a sense of humour,

who can appreciate a man who is generous without

wanting to rip him off, sensitive, without abusing him,

open without digging out his secrets to use against him,

and within seconds, your code came up.



Apparently, Perfection Plus uses code numbers for women,

requires names and photos for men, so I know you as A776.

I never did get your name or any particulars.

When you said you were in Newark I was stunned, as no one

lives in Newark. And when you suggested the Pony Bar, a

place I frequently use to meet blind dates, it was as if

you were my dream come true. I probably shouldn't have

suggested we meet, because I guess I sounded desperate.

I'm very sorry."

This Can't be Happening

Enid felt dizzy. How could his life so mirror hers?

How could he use the very words to describe Newark, that she did?

And the Pony Bar?

How in the world would he know of it?

And Use it, as she did, because it was near the subway?



She had a feeling if she didn't respond she would hate herself.

After all, she'd met a battalion of creeps at the Pony, it couldn't

be any more dangerous to meet him?



"Dear Tom, sorry I freaked last night, but from what

you've written our lives mirror each other. I too had

come in from a disastrous date, and as you, logged on

to get the bad taste of it out of my mouth. I couldn't

believe you lived in Newark or knew the Pony, and you

did scare me. However, I'm over my fear. Perhaps we

can meet there."



She sent the message, and went into the kitchen to prepare

dinner, but was drawn back to the computer.



"Great to hear from you." he had posted. "If you are free

tonight, can we meet at the Pony and if you like what you see

and hear, perhaps dinner? I know this great Italian place, or

would you prefer Japanese?

I'm easy."



She considered going back into the kitchen to make a meal from constituent ingredients. She was hungry, dinner sounded great.



"I'll be there in twenty minutes. BTW; I'm Enid. I'll be wearing a white jacket."



"Wonderful. See you then."



She went into the bathroom, a quick shower, put her hair into a pony tail,

a touch of make-up, pulled on her black jeans, a striped blouse and white

jacket, and was off, reaching the Pony in twenty three minutes.

Meeting Mr. Right

As she entered, this gorgeous man, just like the photo, who was watching

the door, Watching The Door!



His face burst into a smile, he stood, walked towards her;



"Please tell me you are Enid." he said in this deep, melodious voice.

She stood staring, mouth falling open.



"Are you hungry?" he asked.



She nodded. He smiled again, led her out of Pony to a virtually new car, opened

the door for her, then went around got in and just before he started the engine;

"You are exactly as I imagined," he said



The rest of the evening fell into a dream and when he dropped her off with a

promise to see her tomorrow, she was afraid to let him go. But go he did, and

in a daze she staggered into her apartment sorry he wasn't with her.

And so They were Wed

They married two months later.

It was absolutely perfect, maybe too perfect, but who's complaining?

Maybe her co-workers, because she had no 'war stories' to share

with them, maybe her boss because the word 'overtime', was now

an obscenity, but Enid was thoroughly happy.



After a year of true marital bliss she found herself pregnant.

It was a comfortable pregnancy, and she worked until her ninth month,

then took her accrued leave.



She gave birth to a lovely boy they called Gabriel.



Tom was doing well, he didn't need her to work, so she could stay home

with their son. It was then things started to get a little peculiar.



At the age of eight months, Gabe was talking. Not just Ma Ma, but a

number of other words, 'cold', 'hot', 'thirsty'. He was also toilet trained to

the extent he would call; 'potty' when he wanted to go.



Tom told her it was the presence of a full time mommy and daddy, and she

wanted to say 'of course', and leave it as one of those common sense remarks.

But something felt wrong, though she never put it into words.



By the age of a year, Gabe was walking, nice strong walking.

And his vocabulary had increased.

She wanted to have him tested, sure he was a genius, but Tom was against it.



"Let's not make him an exhibit just yet." he said.



She didn't have that much time to dwell on Gabe, she was pregnant again.

After an easy delivery, out came Simon.



Like Gabe, he was precocious, except when others were around.

She felt her sons acted babyish on purpose. She mentioned it to her

mother who explained that a child's sense of security is very well developed.



She wanted to send Gabe to play school, but Tom was against it.

He wanted his children to have full childhood.



By the time Gabe was four and Simon, three, she had Thomas.

As each child behaved exactly the same, she lost the belief that Gabe

was a singular genius and that it was simply good genes why they were

never sick and very bright.



They weren't just bright, they never gave trouble.

They seemed to know what she liked and gave her that, as if she had invented them.



Sitting in the park hearing; "Susie Stop, Paul don't, Bobby behave," bursting

from each mother in tandem, she felt an eerie sense of fantasy.

And Then

She felt something was wrong, something that needed to be taken

apart and examined. Before she could figure out how she would confront

her fantasy, it was gone.



All of it, gone.



Tom and three boys, dead, vaporised, in an explosion.



She became a vegetable, had to be institutionalised.

All she could think was that she had been too happy, so was being punished.



Day after day, Enid sat, staring into nothing.

Days became weeks.

Then one day, another woman, who had been as catatonic as Enid,

began to tell her story. It was so like Enid's.



"My husband Bob was so perfect, I thought I dreamed him.

He was everything I could have imagined. We married, and I gave birth

to three sons in quick succession. My life was perfect. And then, it was gone."



Enid screamed. The first sound they had heard escape her lips.



"That's my story! That's my story! I had a perfect husband, a perfect marriage,

three sons, a perfect life, then, gone!"



The woman looked at her, and in that minute they linked.

They heard nothing else.

When the group ended, the woman came to her.



"I'm Vicky Bauman, where did you meet your husband?"



"I met him online, I saw an ad for Perfection Plus..."



"I saw an ad for Right Mate...."



"...they didn't ask me for my...."



"...particulars, but asked for my..."



"...preferences. And I entered them...."



"...and there were four photographs..."



They were trembling, overwhelmed by the strangeness and familiarity, the

knowledge that something had happened beyond the normal lines of life.

Something had happened to the both of them, confirming their suspicions,

their half thoughts.



They had felt the oddness during their marriages, now knew it for a

confirmable fact.



And to add insanity to confusion, the therapist knew of another woman

who'd had the same experience and had posted her number on the

bulletin board, just in case.



"We need to contact her!" Vicky exclaimed.

Putting the pieces Together

Enid felt she had woken up from a very nice dream.



Yes, in one way she was Mrs. Miller, mother of three sons, wife of Tom,

yet, she could simultaneously see herself as having been an actress in play.



Discharged from the hospital she went home to her parents and immediately

called Vicky. When Vicky arrived they went to meet Sybil Bell, the woman

who'd posted her number on the bulletin board.



Sybil's story was their story, the same banner headline on a site, the same

instant contact, the same whirlwind relationship, the same three sons, the

same ending with no bodies to bury. But the parallels went deeper;



"I thought I heard my son talking when he was just a few months old." Sybil began, lighting a cigarette. " He was talking, not in English, but in a language, a language

my husband understood. When they saw me, John, my husband, began to speak baby talk. Jerry, my son, repeated it. I packed it away, assumed I'd been mistaken.

Until Vicky told me the same thing."



Enid grabbed onto the chair upon which she sat as they turned to her for

validation. At first all she could do was nod, her mouth open, then, taking a breath;



"I always felt my children were hiding their ability from me.They would say; "potty", instead of "I want to use the bathroom", because they didn't want me to know.

I know it sounds..."



Vicky interrupted; "It doesn't sound anyway, Enid. That is the truth. From the moment my son, Eddie, spoke his first word, the look in his eyes was that of a deceptive adult."



So there it was. In triplicate. All the doubt, all the questions, repeated, and confirmed. Something extraordinary had happened, not just to her, but to two other women.



And after a silence; "They aren't dead." Sybil said.

"Maybe the bodies are, but they are not."



Why wasn't she more shocked? Why was she nodding her head, thinking, yes. Of course. Enid grabbed a cigarette, though she hadn't smoked for years.



"I heard my story from another woman, Cathy Pike." Sybil began, rising, to return

with a bottle of wine and three glasses.



Four. Enid thought. Four of us. How many more?

Putting it together

"Before my husband 'died'," Sybil said, pausing at the final word to set it

off in finger quotes; "Cathy was telling me how she met her husband; on

line in "Matchamake", it was the same procedure," she drew

a circle in the air with her finger to include them, "we all know."



Sybil sipped her wine.



"I'd met Cathy at an Office Party, it was a random conversation.

Later, thinking about it, I rang her up." And with a dramatic pause;

"My husband and children died a week later." And after a moment's

silence; "Her husband and children were gone the following week."



"No bodies to bury." Enid attached.



They nodded.

No bodies to bury.

Maybe there were no bodies.



"We need to find someone currently in a relationship..." Vicky reasoned.

Posting the Ad

It was easy.

Post a banner ad, get responses.

"Did you meet your husband in an Internet Ad?"



Most of the respondents told typical stories which they dismissed.

But there were a few who seemed to match their experiences.



"We have to be careful;" Sybil reasoned. I think the men are telepathic."



Enid was about to make one of those dismissive laughs, but the words,

the first words she'd exchanged with Tom, were evidence.

She had never entered a word about herself; how would he have known

anything about her?



"You're more than right," she contributed to the conversation.

"And I also think they are not... physical... not until... we chose.

Then they take up or take control of a body, the body that

matches the photograph."



Although they made alarmed faces, the words had lived in their subconscious.



After some consideration, they decided to meet the women they had contacted

at a Starbucks in town. Unfortunately, their car was involved in a horrific

collision, and the women were burned beyond recognition.