The Questionnaire

After work, Toby and I are on the porch in our respective rocking chairs.  There is a slight breeze in the windchimes, stars climbing out of the trees, a parent screaming at the top of her lungs for her dear child to get down off the car.  And I see one old man trudging up my driveway.

“Telly?” I call.  “Hey!  I wish I had known you were coming.  I would have saved you a slice of my black bean pizza.”

Telly makes a retching sound and spits.  “I appreciate the healthy thought, but at ninety-two, I’m past watching what I eat.”  My neighbor trudges past me, pulls a chair from the patio, parks it beside me on the other side of the porch screen.  And sits.  “This should be social-distancing enough. Got any coffee?”

“Are you sure that won’t keep you up, having it this late?”

“Not as much as your bean pizza would.” 

I go to the kitchen where I pass the time for percolating by singing the happy birthday song about fifty times.  When I return to the porch, Telly and Toby are deep in conversation, but the second they notice me they stop.

“Here you go.”  I hand one cup through the door to my guest. 

He sniffs first.  “Did you put black beans in here?”

“Only the finest.”

He takes a sip.  “I guess I can keep it down.  So, what’s the deal with that woman you work with?”

I don’t where this is coming from.  “Is that what you and Toby were talking about.  I work with about a hundred women, when I’m in the office.”

“You know the one.”

“Teri Lin?”

He nods.  “So why aren’t you seeing her?”

“Both of us are still sort of quarantining.  And I’ve told you, she’s not my type.”

“Why do you say that?  Is it because she likes you?”  Before I can pull together a good defense for my inaction, he says, “I’ve noticed that about you.  As soon as it is clear that something good is accessible, you back off.”

“Hold on.  Give me one example.”

“That woman who used to deliver your mail.”
“Oh yeah.  Every time I opened the door, there she was.”

“And how about the one who worked at the grocery store?”

“Beth.  She was always trying to check me out.”

“She had nice legs.”

“She did.”  We sigh together in our common recollection.

“That’s fine,” Telly says.  “Keep the real answers to yourself.  I’ve just been thinking.  What if this is just the beginning?  I mean the virus, the social distancing.  What if there is another wave of it coming?  What if wave after wave of the virus keeps us in isolation for the next eleven years?”

The play in our banter drops.  The coffee chills.  Three months of this ordeal has been an inconvenience for some, worrisome for most, tragic overall.  The thought of riding this wave until Telly is one-hundred and three is unimaginable. 

We are quiet.

“Tomorrow will make eleven years,” he says, “since my Alexi died.  That’s eleven years of isolation from my sun and my moon, my seasons, my breath.  God, how am I still living after all this time?”

I tell my friend I am sorry for his perennial loss.

“They say time heals all wounds.  Idiots.  Only Death heals all wounds.  And he won’t have me, yet.”  The old man sighs.  “Sorry to piss on the end of your day like that.  But I wanted to share this with you while it was on my mind.”

After a quick glance at Toby, I ask, “Thank you?”

Telly roars with laughter.  “There is a point.  And here it is: you shouldn’t wait for the end of the virus to find your sun and moon.  It could outlast you.”

“Are you saying I could be dodging home deliveries and check-out lines for the rest of my life?”

“I’m saying this might be the new normal.  If so, there is no waiting it out.  And a social life limited to a cat and one cantankerous old neighbor is probably not enough.”

“I guess I have enough gloves and masks to venture out a few times.  I’ve got a couple hazmat suits hanging in the closet.” 

Toby nods, confirming this.

“Only you.”  He looks through the screen at me.  “There is another way, without all the gear.  Go on one of those dating websites and create a profile.”

“You walked all the way down here to tell me that?”  I tell him his effort was a waste.  “I want you to know I’ve already looked into that.” 

“And?”

“I don’t know that online is the way for me to meet women.”

“Why?  Were you scared off when you found an account for a good-looking US postal worker?”

“No’oh.  There’s this long questionnaire that kind of put me off.  It has aaaall these questions.”

“That’s why it’s called a questionnaire.”

“Basically, you’re being asked to sell yourself.  I’m just not comfortable selling myself, especially to someone who’s reading my answers when I’m not there to explain them.”  In my ensuing pause, I try to wait for the cantankerous rebuttal I know is coming.  But I’m no waiter.  “I know what you’re going to say: I need to sell me, because no one else is going to do it.”

“Not at all,” Telly says.  “Read me the list.  I’ll answer your questions.  Seriously, the only thing I like more than talking about me is talking about someone else.”

I look at Toby.  He brings me the phone.  

“Okay.”  I pull up the list. 

Telly takes another sip of coffee and cracks his knuckles. 

“Interests,” I read.  “What are your interests?”

“Talking politics with my close-minded son-in-law, walks around the block with God, looking at the ocean…looking at a woman against the ocean, laughing my ass off at my close-minded son-in-law.”

“Okay.  What about religion?”

“What about it?”

“It just says religion.” 

“Tell them to refer to the previous answer.”

“Politics?”

“Anything that promotes world peace.”

“Alright Miss America.  How about your income?”

“Put down we’re looking for a relationship, not a cause to support.”

“That could get us some hate talk.”

“I’m not worried.  It’s your name on the profile.  But that’s the nature of online conversation.  People responding vehemently in a moment of misunderstanding.  You gotta have thick skin.”

“For a dating website?  Maybe I’ll just skip the income question.”  Toby is with me on that.  “Money was often a divisive topic between my lovely ex and me.”

“Speaking of divisive topics, do they ask about cats?”

Toby and I laugh.

“Seriously,” Telly says.  “Cats are very divisive, as a self-definer, that is.  You’re either a cat person, or a dog person.  Publicize that you have a cat and you immediately lose a big population of eligible women.  But, at the same time, you attract a big population.  By virtue of the cat.” 

“So it has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you!  What kind of guy would choose life with a cat when he could spend it with a dog?  There’s a reason why the phrase cat is a man’s best friend has never gained any traction.  No offense Toby.”

Toby dismisses the comment by raising a hind leg in my neighbor’s direction and giving himself a good lick.

“Well, I would not be true to myself if I didn’t include Toby.”

“Understood.  But maybe the cat is something you should you lead up to.  Talk about stepping barefoot on a hairball, or finding litter in your bed.  Drop a few clues before you pull the cat out of the closet.  Starting off with all your fur front and center may make a questionable first impression.”

“Speaking of impressions, the website asks for a picture to put with your profile.”  

“Of course it does.  They want to make certain you’re not a ninety-two-year-old man.”

“You know, Telly, with a little rewriting, I’ll bet you could drum up some interest online.”

“Maybe, but when all the beauty you have left is on the inside, it’s easier to sell that in person.  Besides, I’m not interested in finding that kind of relationship.  I had Alexi for over half-a-century.  I still have her, on the inside.  That’s my lingering beauty.”  He drains his cup and looks through the screen at me.  “Make certain you clean up for your profile picture.”

“Are you saying I look dirty?”

“Quarantine makes it easy to slide a little bit.  You look fine.  I’m just saying you want people to know you own a brush.”

Create a profile on Kat Chat, for social cats looking for that purrfect mate.