Adventures of a Salsa Goddess (19 page)

The camera panned to the right and left, and then to left and right again.

“Anyone at all?” asked Oprah, her smile beginning to droop.

One woman in the last row timidly raised her hand. Oprah invited her to come up on stage. She introduced herself as Mary Louise, a plain, eerily serene woman who was a biotech engineer from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

“Who do you know who got married?” Oprah asked her.

“Well, me, actually,” she said.

The audience burst into applause. Mary Louise blushed, and nervously stuffed her hands in the pockets of a red gingham-checked jumper that she wore over a long-sleeved white blouse. The gold cross around her neck gleamed under the studio lights.

“That’s fantastic!” Oprah exclaimed. “How old were you when you got married?”

“Forty-four.” More cheers rose up from the audience.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, very,” she said with a faint smile.

“How old was your husband when you married him?”

“Thirty.”

The audience went wild, rising to their feet to give her a standing ovation. A couple of women yelled out, “You go, girl!”

Apparently, at least for talk show devotees, there was no squeamishness at the thought of a woman robbing the cradle.

“A younger man! Well that’s fabulous!” said Oprah. “Okay, here’s the question that I’m sure all our single ladies would like to know the answer to. How did you meet each other?”

“Well, I’m very active in the prison ministry. We met on one of my visits ...”

“Your husband is a prisoner?” asked a stricken Oprah.

“Technically, yes. But he’s not guilty! When they agree to do the DNA testing then they’ll have to let him go ...”

Oprah mumbled a congratulations and then cut to commercial.

I was beginning to understand the sickly lure of public hangings. My apartment building could become engulfed in flames and I’d still be sitting here, glued to the screen. The commercial minutes couldn’t tick by fast enough until the show resumed.

“We are very lucky to have with us today Elaine Daniels,” Oprah said smoothly, having regained her composure. “She is the CEO and editorial director of
Tres Chic
magazine.”

It was a shock to see Elaine, who looked her usual blond femme fatale self, dressed in a perfectly tailored beige suit, probably Prada. In the past month I’d conveniently erased her visage from my memory.

“Thank you, Oprah, it’s a pleasure to be here,” said Elaine in a voice dripping with honey.

“Elaine, tell us, how did you come up with this incredible idea of the Mystery Woman?” asked Oprah.

“Well,” said Elaine fluttering her eyelashes and trying her best to look modest, “I have Dr. Huber to thank for that.” Elaine flashed a smile at Dr. Huber, whose face was as emotionless as an android. “Without Dr. Huber’s book, I never would’ve come up with the plan to prove that a professional woman over forty can
easily
find a wonderful husband, if that’s what she chooses to do.”

The audience applauded politely.

“Easily?” said Oprah. “So you don’t agree with Dr. Huber’s statistics?”

“I can’t imagine that an
intelligent
woman would let some silly little book convince her that she can’t do whatever she wants to do with her life.”

The audience clapped louder, mixed with a few cheers. “Silly?” interjected Dr. Huber, who looked like she wanted to , ask Elaine to meet her in the alley after the show. “Excuse me, but I can’t imagine that someone who runs a superfluous
women’s magazine
is qualified to intelligently comment on scientifically compiled data.”

For a split second Elaine’s true feelings flashed across her face. It was a look that could have dropped a herd of buffalo. But she smoothly covered it up with tinkling laughter that sounded like fingernails dow
n a chalkboard. And then, to accentuate her femininity in contrast to Dr. Huber’s severe lack of it, deliberately uncrossed and crossed her perfectly toned legs.

“Dr. Huber,” said Elaine sweetly with her white-knuckled hands folded in her lap, “a
real
woman would never let a few meaningless numbers stand in her way.”

The audience went wild. The camera flashed to Dr. Huber, who sat looking like a prune with her arms crossed over her nonexistent chest.

“Elaine,” said Oprah, who looked nervous, “tell us what you can about the Mystery Woman. Does she have some special qualities that will help her find a husband in such a short time?”

“Special?” Elaine tittered. “She’s a darling woman, but if anything, she’s actually a little too ordinary. Average looks, average intelligence, and an average personality. I deliberately selected her for those reasons, because I want the single women of this country to know that they don’t need to be supermodels or wealthy or need to take any extraordinary measures to find a great husband. They just need to be themselves.”

That was my wonderfully supportive boss. If I’m ever contemplating suicide I’ll just expedite things by getting a pep talk from Elaine first.

“We’re out of time for today,” Oprah said. “I’d just like to close by saying a few words to the Mystery Woman. Wherever you are, whoever you are, I wish you all the luck in the world. And I want an invitation to your wedding!”

A round of applause followed by a few hoots and shouts of approval could be heard. The camera panned over the audience. Several members held up signs saying,
“you can do it mystery woman!”
and
“we love you mystery woman!”

I turned off the TV. I sat there stunned, and then realized I had tears in my eyes. After I’d composed myself, I called Lessie back. “I can’t believe the attention this is getting,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “Do you know how many single women in their thirties and forties want to fall in love and get married? Millions. They’re depending on you, Sam. You’ve got to do this.”

“Thanks for the added pressure,” I said. “You know, any single woman could do what I’m doing if she wanted to spend the time and energy on video dat
ing, the volleyball league, personals ads, all of it.”

“And money.”

“True,” I admitted. “I’m not paying for this, but I think treating this like a job search is the answer for women who really want to meet someone.”

That’s it! It should be like a job. What we needed were love resumes and love interviews, I thought. I said good-bye to Lessie and grabbed my journal. I had to get this idea down before I forgot it.

Later, having arranged to meet Javier, who’d called me yesterday, I drove over to his duplex. As I pulled up, he was standing outside his pickup truck, loading two bikes into the back.

“Sam, it’s great to see you!” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “I hope you’re ready for some serious riding. I’m thinking we could easily do a hundred miles today.”

“A hundred what?”

“I’m kidding,” he said, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ve picked an easy
trail for us.”

“You mean you picked an easy trail for me. I can see you’re in very good biking shape,” I said, staring at his thick, muscular thighs while he’d turned and bent over the truck to adjust the bikes.

Most of the time when I see biking shorts on a man I get embarrassed for them, like men in Speedos. It’s like trying to not look at the giant pimple on someone’s face. The more you try to avoid looking at it, the more you end up staring at it. But Javier’s tight black shorts fit him perfectly and his royal blue biking shirt fit snugly across his muscular chest.

We drove west beyond the outskirts of Milwaukee, passing a few old farms that had survived the onslaught of urban sprawl, until we reached a turn-off about thirty minutes beyond the city. The narrow two-lane road we turned onto was hilly. We drove by pastures with grazing horses and cows, thick forests, and the occasional three-story mansion tucked next to a stream.

Javier parked on the side of the road and unloaded our bikes. We rode single file for almost an hour with him turning around every minute or so to make sure I was still following him, until we came to a little cafe, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, next to a grove of pine trees. I wondered how it stayed in business until I saw a dozen bikes in a rack outside the restaurant. Nearly everyone inside was dressed in biking gear. A few of them nodded at Javier and said, “Hello.”

“These must be all the people who zoomed past us at the speed of light,” I said, looking around while we waited in the doorway to be seated. “I’m sorry you had to go slow for me.”

Javier grinned broadly and very deliberately crossed his arms.

“What?” I asked him.

“Sam, first of all, these guys are some of the best bikers in southern Wisconsin. I have to struggle to keep up with them. Second, it doesn’t matter, I just love spending time with you.”

The waitress seated us at a table on the patio, and I noticed that Javier hadn’t even broken a sweat even though it must be close to eighty degrees.

“I do some long rides and races on the weekends when I get a chance,” he told me and went on to explain that he’d decided to try bike racing a few years ago after watching Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France after surviving cancer, and had promptly joined a local bicycle club that trained for racing.

“And have you won many races?”

“A few,” he said, and I could tell he was purposely being ultra modest. As with salsa, all it seemed to take for Javier to excel was to watch and then do.

“That was really fun, Javier, thank you,” I told him later that afternoon, as we stood next to his truck outside his duplex.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, not making any moves in my direction.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for the moment that didn’t happen. Okay, Javier, take me into your arms and kiss me, you fool! I don’t have the strength to resist you but I know I should.

“Well, I’ll see you,” he said.

“Soon, I hope,” I said, giving him a little wave and then driving away. I was disappointed at our nonphysical good-bye, but I supposed it was partially my fault since I had been giving him pretty definite don’t-kiss-me vibes.

Since it was only four o’clock, I decided I had just enough time to drive over to Single No More and pick out a couple more prospective dates before they closed for the day. Twenty minutes later, I braced myself and pushed open the glass door to the office. Nothing had changed since my last visit except a slender Asian woman wearing a T-shirt and cut-off blue jean shorts was sitting in the stuffy waiting room flipping through a tattered copy of
People
. A fan in the corner blew hot air around. A chip of paint fell from the wall to the carpeting. A couple of flies buzzed around the room. God, this place was depressing.

“Can you believe this issue is two years old?” she said, tossing the magazine onto the wood veneer coffee table in front of her and brushing her inky black bangs aside from her forehead. “For the money I paid you’d think they’d subscribe to some current magazines.
And
get air-conditioning. Have you been here before?”

“This is my second time back after I signed up,” I said. “How about you?”

“I’ve been a member for five and a half months,” she said in a monotone. “I’ve only got two weeks left, so I wanted to get a few more profiles out before my membership expires. You know, get my money’s worth.”

“How much luck have you had?” I asked her.

“I’ve gone on a bunch of first dates, two or three second dates, um, maybe a third date, and one disastrous fourth. The pickings are mighty slim.”

Just then Bunny Woods opened the door to the waiting room. “Well, my two favorite clients, Jane and Samantha!”

Bunny’s blond bouffant was seriously wilting under the heat, but she managed to act cool and breezy.

“I don’t normally do this, but since we’re pressed for time today, do you two mind doing your selections together?”

Jane and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“Excellent! Come with me,” Bunny said, leading the way into the video room. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything,” she said, patting the top of the vault.

“Do
not
go out with him,” Jane said, pointing at an attractive guy named Dennis. “At the end of our first and last date, this loser winks at me and tells me he only picks up the check if he knows he’s going to get lucky.”

“Have you ever gone out with this guy?” I asked her, pointing to a photo of a man named Etienne, who reminded me of an older version of Pierre, my first love from Paris.

Jane drew her index finger across her throat, and went on to also nix Tom, whose breath could “melt steel”; Sean, who couldn’t stop talking about his soul mate who dumped him seven years ago; and Jason, who had told her that while he liked her and personally had nothing against her race, he couldn’t see things ever getting serious because his parents didn’t like “Chinamen.” “I’m Japanese,” Jane said. “I guess we all look alike to him.” “Maybe to save time you should point to the ones you haven’t gone out with and we’ll just split them up,” I suggested with a smile. Looking at my watch, I could see that we only had fifteen minutes until the office closed.