Kismetology (24 page)

"Alright," he begins. "I’m Louis."

"Mac," I say.

"How are you doing tonight?"

"I’m good," I smile. "Yourself?"

"Pissed off," he says. "I was working on my
car today and it didn’t go very well."

"Oh right. What’s wrong with it?" I ask, as if I
know a thing about cars. If something goes wrong with mine, it’s call Dan time.
And then The AA. In that order.

"Nothing is wrong with her," he says. "I’m
trying to do her up like a racing car. You know, with big wheels and stripes
and flames on the bonnet. But I cut the wrong cable to the engine today and it
pissed me off."

I nod. "So, what kind of car is it?"

"
She
is an Escort."

Oh, I just love blokes who refer to their cars as women.
It’s right up there with men who refer to women as "broads".

"Okay," I say, wanting to change the subject.
"What do you do for work?"

"I’m unemployed," he says. "But I want it
that way. Now I get to spend all my time working on my car. It’s my life’s
goal."

"Really?" I wonder if he can tell how unimpressed
I am.

"Oh yes. There’s nothing I want more than to drive down
the road in my fancy car like David Coulthard."

"I don’t think David Coulthard drives an Escort,"
I say.

"Well, who needs a Ferrari when you’ve got painted
flames on the bonnet?"

I could think of a few ways to get flames on the bonnet
without involving paint.

As I’m chatting to number seventeen, I have an idea. It
might just be genius. I decide that I’ll get contact info from every man that
comes by this table. I may just have to use it later. If my mum’s brain works
the same way as mine does, at least.

I make sure to write my comments about their personalities
next to their names as well, just in case I forget which one is which. It must
be easy to do so when you’re meeting twenty people in less than two hours.

Thankfully number seventeen’s time is up. I quickly get his
phone number and feel very glad to see the back of him.

Number seventeen: Louis—goal in life is to paint stripes
on his car
.

Number sixteen is next as they’re moving around
anticlockwise. The whole thing will end when number seventeen is back opposite
me, but I have to get through nineteen other men first.

Number sixteen sits down opposite me and stares.

"Hi," I say after a few seconds of him staring at
me has been sufficient enough to creep me out. "I’m Mackenzie."

"You’re not fifty-something," He announces, like
it was something I didn’t already know.

"No," I explain. "I’m here to find a date on
behalf of someone else. I’m a matchmaker."

"Oh," he says. "So will you date me? I’ve
always wanted a younger woman."

"No," I say. "I’m taken,"
and
wouldn’t date a man so far in to his fifties in a million years, particularly
when he looks like you do
. "But my client is fifty, that’s why I’m
here."

"Oh, okay."

"So, what’s your name?" I ask.

But number sixteen ignores me. Instead he is looking around
the room at every other woman in here. Obviously checking out which tables look
most promising for him.

I’ll be glad when his five minutes is up.

Number sixteen: Nameless—doesn’t quite grasp the concept
of eye contact.

Number fifteen is next. At first glance he seems a little
more normal than the rest. Marginally.

"Hi," he says. "I’m Stud."

"Stud?"

"It’s what my friends call me. Because I am one."

"I see."

"Oh, The Stud loves the ladies. I’m a big guy, if you
know what I mean, so the ladies love The Stud too. And occasionally the men,
but we won’t go in to that, eh?" He guffaws.

I’m quiet for a while, trying to think up a suitable
response.

"So, d’ya wanna know how many women I’ve had?"

"Not really."

"Two thousand. Pretty good for a fifty-year-old, don’t
ya think?"

I shrug.

"I am fifty, you know. I mean, I know I don’t look it.
You were probably surprised to see me in this group, weren’t you?"

"Yes, I was, actually."
I thought you’d be in
the over seventies group
.

He grins. "I was doing a broad last night, and she told
me that too. I think I look about thirty, what do you think?"

"If it makes you happy."

He ignores this.

"You were lucky to meet me tonight, you know. I had a
prior engagement. Nudge nudge, wink wink, if you know what I mean."

I shudder. But he doesn’t notice.

"There was this bird who phoned me this afternoon and
said, ‘Stud, please come and fuck me tonight, I really need your big dick in
me,’ and do ya know what I said? Do ya?"

I shake my head, really not wanting to know, but I have a
feeling that he’s going to tell me anyway.

"I said, ‘d’ya know, Becky, The Stud has got to go out
and see to twenty lovely ladies tonight, but I’ll see to you in the morning,’
and that was that. She hung up on me, obviously doesn’t like sharing The Stud,
eh?"

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"But I see why. I mean, who’d wanna share this body,
right?" He flexes a bicep to show off.

I’ve never been so glad to hear the bell in my life. But I
get his phone number anyway. The Stud is prime material for what I might need
him for.

Number fifteen: The Stud—there are no words
.

Number fourteen sits down heavily. Oh, wait, I recognise
him. I think he may have had a part in
The Addams Family
TV show. Or
maybe he’s on his way to a Halloween party, even though it’s January. What
other explanation could there be for the distinct green tinge to his skin?

"Evenin’." He grins, revealing a gold tooth.
"You like the older men then, huh?"

"I’m here on behalf of someone else," I say.
"She’s almost fifty."

"That’s cool," he says. "Is she hot?"

"It depends on your definition of hot, but yeah, in her
own way."

"Cool. So you’re like some kind of matchmaker or
somethin’?"

I nod.

"That’s cool."

We sit in silence for the remaining four minutes.

Number fourteen: Frankenstein’s long-lost son, but
missing the neck bolts
.

Number thirteen, unlucky for some, starts off well, so maybe
he won’t be so unlucky after all.

"Hey." he smiles as he sits down. "I’m Nate,
and you’re way too young to be here."

"I’m here on someone else’s behalf," I tell him.
"I’m a matchmaker."

"Okay, cool. I’ve never met one of those before."

"What, like we’re some sort of different species or
something?"

"Yeah, kinda. What’s your name, sweet thing?"

What’s your name, sweet thing
? Oh yeah. This one’s a
winner.

"Mackenzie," I say.

"Mackenzie," he repeats. "Do you know what
that means?"

"No," I admit.

"It means handsome. And you are very handsome, my dear.
You fit the name well."

"Thank you," I say. I’ve never heard such a creepy
compliment in my life. "What does Nate mean?"
Because I’m thinking
"slimeball" is involved in there somewhere
.

"It’s short for Nathaniel. It’s biblical, means ‘God
has given’. Kind of appropriate, don’t you think?"

Would have been more appropriate if it meant arrogant moron.

Thankfully our five minutes are up before I’ve thought of a
suitable answer. I don’t even bother to get his number. As bad as it sounds,
even he is not horrible enough for the purpose I want him for.

Number thirteen: Nate—Biblical named conceited prick.

I’m quickly realising that my initial assessment of these
guys was spot on. Apparently you only need to meet twenty women in one go if
you’ve tried your luck with twenty other women the normal way and they’ve
turned you down flat because you’re terribly unpleasant.

Man number twelve looks like he belongs in a motorcycle
gang. Judging by the long hair, beard the same length as the long hair and the
tattoos showing on his arms, peeking out from underneath the leather vest, I’d
say he probably does. He’s probably come straight from a gang meeting. Unless
he’s deluded enough to think that is cool fashion these days. I’m not entirely
sure which one would be better.

"Hey, young ‘un." He smiles, revealing a desperate
need for dentistry.

"Hi, I’m Mackenzie," I say.

"So," he says. "You must be brave, being in
amongst all these older men. Fancy a sugar daddy, do you?"

"I’m here on behalf of someone else."

"Oh right. Well, I don’t date disabled women."

"Huh?"

"Well, if she can’t get here herself, she must be
disabled, right?"

Oh. Well, that’s an obvious one. "No," I say
quickly. "It’s a new kind of matchmaking service. I’m here on behalf of
one of my clients… Who is not disabled," I add quickly.

"It’s not a man, is it? Because I don’t date the
men."

"No, it’s not a man."

I decide not to elaborate, because this guy isn’t going to
make the grade. We sit in silence until the bell rings for the next guy.

Number twelve: Nameless—would fit right in to one of The
Crow movies
.

Number eleven looks a few steps short of a staircase before
he’s even sat down.

"You’re pretty," he says, leering at me.
"Aren’t you in the wrong room?"

"No, I’m—"

"Oh, you’re into that cosmetic surgery thing you chicks
are so fond of. I get it. Hush hush, and all that. Face lift, was it?
Liposuction?"

Ugh. I wonder if I can ring the bell myself, just to get
this guy to move on.

"Not gonna talk to me, huh? Is it coz of the surgery?
You've had too much of that Botox stuff injected so you can’t move your
lips?"

"No, I’m—"

Interrupted, once again. "How old are you, anyway?
Fifty? Fifty-one? Fifty-two?"

"I’m twenty-nine," I say very quickly, before he
has a chance to interrupt me again. "I’m a matchmaker. I’m working for
someone else."

"Oh, yuck. Who’d wanna do that?"

Number eleven: No name, no personality, no manners
.

Number ten can’t get to my table quick enough. I’ve been
keeping an eye on him as he’s edged along the row towards me. He keeps winking
at me.

"Wow," he says when he finally sits down. "I
can’t believe my luck. I always wanted to date a younger woman, but I really
didn’t think I’d find one here."

 "I’m not here for me," I say. "I’m
looking for a date for a fifty-year-old."

"Oh," he says, obviously disappointed.
"What’s your name?"

"Mackenzie," I say.

"I’m Jack. Can I tell you something, Mackenzie?"

I shrug. "Sure."

"Lean forward. Let me whisper it."

I lean across the table a little way, making sure to keep enough
distance between us so that he can’t grab me or anything equally disturbing.

"Sssh," he puts his fingers on his lips.

I nod.

"I like to watch women urinate."

Oh fuck. I’m like a bloody magnet for the freaks.

"I really don’t think you’ll be suitable," I tell
him, sitting back. But then I think better of it. "Actually, you might be
perfect. I’ll take your phone number, if you want."

"Cool," he says. "Then will you come to the
bathroom with me?"

"Not tonight," I say. "But I can think of a
client who might be interested. I’ll let you know."

Boy, was my mum going to be sorry that she’d let Ron go.

Number ten: Jack—likes to watch women pee.

Number nine looks promising. He smiles at me as he
approaches, and I have to admit that he’s one of the first men tonight who
doesn’t look like he needs an urgent trip to the dentist.

"Hello," he smiles. "I’m Noel, number
nine."

"Mackenzie, seventeen," I greet him.

"Your age or your badge number?" He jokes.

I find myself laughing even though it’s not particularly funny.

"I’m a matchmaker," I say, before he gets a chance
to make any more bad jokes. "I’m here to find a date for a client."

"Oh, well, that’s different. An interesting
approach."

I nod.

I feel kind of positive about being a matchmaker now. I
mean, I’ve said it so many times tonight that it’s almost become true. And I
will be a professional matchmaker soon enough. I just have to figure out the
owning your own business technical side. And find some paying clients,
obviously.

"So, Noel," I say. "What do you do for
work?"

"I’m a teacher," he says. "I teach at a
primary school."

"Yikes. That must keep you busy."

"Oh yes, it’s stressful but very rewarding."

"Do you have children of your own?"

"No," he smiles. "I work with more than
enough."

I nod. "I get that."

"So, Mackenzie—pretty name, by the way—are you
religious at all?"

"No," I say, thinking that is quite a strange
question to ask within two minutes of meeting someone.

"I could help you, you know. Jesus saves. You just have
to talk to me and Jesus will save your soul."

Oh no. "You’re not a… You are, aren’t you? Are you a…
God botherer?" I spit the last two words out. "And you seemed so
normal."

He looks pointedly at my left hand. "Unmarried, I see.
I hope you don’t have promiscuous sex. Sex before marriage is a sin, you know.
But at least I got to you early. It’s not too late. I can save your soul. You
wouldn’t want to go to purgatory, would you?"

"You know what?" I say. "Personally, I would
very much like to go home. But I have a client who I would like you to meet.
She’s a sinner like no other. Oh, you’ll have a field day trying to save her
soul. Can I get your contact number? I’ll give you a ring and set up a
date."

He gives me his phone number. "I’d really like to talk
to you about how good God is, and all the things He can do for you if you just
believe."