Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

The waiter finally brought our main courses, steaming plates of delicious gourmet food easily solving our problems.

“Let’s eat!” he said, digging into a massive steak.

We pulled up to his place in separate cars, thanks to my ‘progressive feminine independence’ (his words). It might seem dumb to him, but I had found myself in more than one uncomfortable situation where a guy refused to take me home because he was mad that I wouldn’t ‘put out’. Talk about the opposite of progressive.

I turned off my noisy engine, which was immediately replaced by the sound of barking dogs. Enter Dog 1 and Dog 2, stage left.

Grabbing my purse and cell phone, I killed the headlights and looked at his cute little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was just like his shop: older and well-kept. The grass was neatly trimmed, along with the bushes and plants at the edge of the yard. The paint wasn’t new, but it was recent; probably touched up within the last few months. He even had a couple of potted plants hanging from hooks above the porch, and a little rubber mat in front of the door that said ‘Welcome’ facing one direction and ‘Farewell’ facing the other. If I smell freshly-baked cookies when we walk in, I’m outta here.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he called from the other room, as I walked inside, “I need to let the dogs out.” I heard a door slide open and shut, the barking moving from inside the house to the back yard.

I looked at the comfortable but worn furniture and minimal decorations on the wall, finally realizing this was a long-term bachelor’s house. Although he’s a clean bachelor, which is a big plus. Walking around the tiny room, I picked up a framed photograph of a very young, sweet-looking girl and slightly older, football-holding boy. They were beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around a huge black-and-brown dog, whose face nearly took up the whole picture. The Rotty.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.

Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.

“I see you found a place to sit?”

I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.

“Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?

“Cute kids,” I said.

“Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”

“You’re a pretty funny guy.”

“I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.

“Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do that?

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.

“Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”

I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.

“I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”

When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.

“Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.

“You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.

“I’m telling mo-om!”

“Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure , you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.

“I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.

I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in one motion. Sure, it took a bunch of tries (and a lot of falls) but I could finally get on my bike just like Chris and his friends. Once I got my bike going, I turned around to stick my tongue out at Chris, but he was too busy pawing through all the candy in the bag— my candy, in my bag— to pay attention. Refusing to waste the energy, I turned back around and almost crashed into a kid who was straddling his bike right in front of me.

I slammed my feet down on my pedals so hard my back tire skidded, making a crunching-squealing sound on the gravelly road. “Hey!” After my tires finally stopped sliding, I stood with my legs straddling my own bike and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast I thought it would pop right out of my chest and keeping going down the road. “Watch where you’re going, dummy!”

The kid just stood there, not moving, hands on the handlebars, feet planted on either side of the bike. He was about my age, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with one of those cloth bags slung over his shoulder. It was filled with rolled up newspapers.

“Aren’t you kinda late delivering those?” I asked, pointing at the bundles. Everybody knew you were supposed to get the papers on the doorsteps before school. But here he was, standing right in front of me, with all those papers not on the doorsteps. Either he was too late for today, or way too early for tomorrow.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, barely blinking. His hands gripped the handlebars of his BMX, duct tape where the rubber handgrips should’ve been. Boys were always jumping ramps on their bikes, falling, and scraping the handgrips off. Chris had already gone through two pairs, before mom said he had to earn the money for the next ones.

“Hey, kid? What’s your name?”

No answer. Just staring at me, with big, brown eyes. They even looked kinda like he wanted to cry—or his eyes were watery from riding into the cold wind. That happened to me all the time, especially now, right before Halloween.

I turned around to see where Chris was. Still back there digging in my bag of candy. Jerk-off.

I turned back, but the kid was gone. I looked around, confused, and finally saw him down the street. How’d get down there so fast? I thought, looking at where he used to be—right in front of me—then over to where he ended up. Now, his bike was turned away from me, one foot up on the pedal, like he was about to ride off somewhere.

“Hey! Where are you going?” I yelled.

“What?” Chris yelled back, behind me.

“Not you , you big jerk!” I shouted, turning to see him crumple-rolling the bag of candy. He jammed it into his back pocket, and started pedaling toward me.