Harry Up

As I write this, I’m still reeling from one of my worst dates ever. Nothing horrible happened, thank goodness, but by far this date felt like one of the longest forty-five minutes in history.

Oh, for sure I had clues beforehand that the prospects weren’t ideal, but determined to kiss every frog to find my prince, I ignored the signs. Harry contacted me through an online dating site, and while I didn’t care for the macho identification he used on his profile, the gist of his lengthy, in-depth profile impressed me. He said, “I am a kind, caring, passionate, and independent thinker, in some ways not your typical man…the conversation has no limits,” adding that he was “quite intuitive” and believed in abundance. Abundance is an issue I used to struggle with, before I accepted that there is an abundance of all that we need in life. His word choices made me think the guy may be someone with depth who leaned toward the metaphysical, as I do, so I responded to his brief first message to me.

We wrote back and forth a while, although he wrote mostly one-liners, nothing like his extensive and lyrical profile. After only a few notes from him, I knew someone else had written his profile. Oh, well. I hoped the content was correct, anyway.

Time passed with one-liners from him almost every day, sometimes several a day, mostly simply saying, “Hi.” I asked him to write to me through my regular e-mail address, rather than through the dating website, which I did not check often, and he responded, “If I remember.” He continued to write through the dating website, though.

By the time Harry suggested we meet, I had lost interest, but my “kiss every frog” attitude prevailed. I suggested a nearby Starbucks, where we could sit, converse, and get to know each other. I clearly described where the coffee shop was located.

He responded, “I don’t know where it is. Let’s meet at the thrift store at Highway 5 and 92.”

“Do you mean Park Avenue Thrift?” I asked.

“I don’t know the name,” his note said.

How was I to know for sure which store was the right one? I told him to give me his cell number, in case I was late or in the wrong place. He did, but said, “No text messages.” Hm. The guy didn’t own a phone that would accept a text message? What kind of person believes in abundance but carries a phone so limited that he can’t receive a text message? I chose to ignore the hints.

On the dot I arrived at the thrift store, but no one was waiting outside, although we had said we would meet outside the store. I went inside and looked around, but saw no one who matched the unsmiling photo he had posted on his profile. After a few minutes I walked back outside and called his cell. He answered and said he was there. Where? I looked left and right. No one who looked like his photo was standing in front of the store.

Instead he stepped out of a car in a handicapped spot in front of the building. His car had a handicap sign hanging from the rearview mirror, so he had the legal right to park there, but he strode up to me easily, clearly not physically challenged. I decided not to question him regarding his parking or his health; I had my own issues that I wasn’t willing to disclose.

Like his photo, he didn’t smile. He simply said, “Let’s go inside.”

Once in the store, he fingered some of the purses that were the first items we reached. “Not good ones,” he said. He stopped for a moment, moved a little closer, and conspiratorially whispered, “The best thrift shops are in Buckhead and Sandy Springs, where you can find Coach, Gucci, and other name-brand handbags worth hundreds of dollars for only five dollars.”

Why would he care about women’s purses? I said nothing. The stench of his bad breath made me not want to hear more, anyway. I inched away.

Next he pulled out a pair of women’s pants on a hanger and shook his head. “You can find Ann Taylor, Ralph Lauren, and stuff like that at those other stores.”

First of all, we were in Woodstock, an almost rural area near Atlanta, not Buckhead, a thriving, upscale part of Atlanta. Second of all, I don’t wear designer clothes, but I said nothing.

He finally asked me a question. “Do you ever buy or sell anything on eBay?”

I answered, “I’ve bought things on eBay, but I’ve never sold anything there.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head as if I should know better. “You can make lots of money selling things on eBay.”

“So I’ve heard, but it depends on how you want to spend your time. That’s not how I want to spend mine. Have you ever sold anything on eBay?”

“Not yet, but I’m thinking about it.” He looked off in the distance, as if envisioning his future. “I heard of a woman who sold used purses on eBay. She made as much as twenty thousand dollars in a year.” He continued with several similar stories, ending each one with something such as “He made twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“It depends on how you want to spend your time,” I reiterated.

“Do you like to make money?” Hey! He asked a second question, although again, one that could be answered “yes” or “no.”

“I do, but . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to repeat myself. I didn’t explain that I hate shopping and that I have no interest in spending my time shopping for and selling tangible items. I don’t want to store and track inventory, fill orders, pack them up, and take them to the post office. I love my career as an editor, selling my expertise without a great deal of scut work. In addition, why is he impressed with twenty-five thousand dollars? How much did it cost for the people to buy and store inventory and post it for sale? How much time did it take the person to locate items, buy them, post them for sale, and fill orders? It could tie up a great deal of money in inventory, be a full-time job, and pay only twenty thousand dollars a year. Ugh.

“So you’re hoping to find things at thrift shops that you can sell on eBay?” I asked.

“I’ve already bought lots of things, mostly car parts for older-model cars, but I haven’t posted anything for sale yet.”

Uh-oh. Do I spot a hoarder? I had already dealt with a prior boyfriend who bought everything from building supplies to office supplies in bulk, stored items from floor to ceiling in his house, and never got rid of or used any of the stuff. Visiting his chaotic, cluttered house used to make me fear I might go insane.

Okay, I digressed. Harry and I were maybe fifteen feet inside the store by that time, and I was ready to go home. How can a couple carry on a meaningful conversation in a thrift store? How do I make a graceful but quick exit? I increased my pace; we had a lot of store to cover, if I was going to make it through the store and out the door. He scurried up behind me. I tried to walk away, pretending to show interest in something he wasn’t interested in and also skipping over an aisle or two, but along he came, still talking about how people made money reselling items on eBay. I realized he had asked me only two questions and appeared to care nothing about getting to know me. Instead he had kept up a steady banter about how to make money selling things on eBay, even though I clearly had expressed no interest.

On through the store we went, my feet getting progressively sore and my mind repeating, “Get me the hell out of here, please, God.” Before we reached the door, he had asked me three questions. The third was, “What’s the name of your dog?” When he told me the name of his dog, it turned out to be the he-man name he’d used for his profile. Okay, that was cute.

The door was in sight. All I had to do was traverse the final disorderly aisle and freedom would be mine. I tried to rush past the toys, but he stopped me at a large bin of model cars, mostly Hot Wheels. He sorted through the pile saying, “Collectors’ll pay big bucks for some of these.”

“But they’re just toys, toys manufactured in the hundreds of thousands, probably.”

He ignored my protest. “This is a nineteen-seventy Camaro Z-twenty-eight. It had a three-fifty cubic engine.” He lifted another. “This is a nineteen-eighty Corvette three-oh-five. I’m surprised they turned this model into a Hot Wheels car. The Corvette didn’t sell well that year. It came out during bad economic times.” He put down the package and grabbed yet another, ignoring my glazed look. “Ah, a two-thousand-four Ford Mustang GT convertible. Cool. This was the fortieth anniversary edition.”

“The only think I care about cars is if they start and run,” I said, turning with longing toward the door.

He held up another bubble pack, pointed to some specific feature, and jabbered on. I no longer could hear anything he said. I was in my own world, my feet and my mind screaming for relief.

Oh God, kill me now. The display stand held dozens more cars. I glanced at my watch and stared achingly at the exit only feet away. Finally I managed to inch forward and reach the door, where I was about to say good-bye, when he spotted a consignment shop next door. It actually interested me, too, so when he suggested we go there, I agreed, wishing I could go without him.

Inside I took a quick trek around, between, and among the cluttered and useless merchandise before popping out the door again.

Out front he said, “Let’s look over there and see what they have.” He pointed to an outdoor flea market in the parking lot.

“I’ve seen enough,” I said, meaning much more than I expressed. I was careful not to say anything encouraging.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” he offered.

I may have rolled my eyes, but I said nothing and walked toward my car. He started to walk me there, but fell away. Maybe at long last his alleged intuition kicked in.

Why, if he was caring, as his profile claimed, did he not meet me where I first suggested, where we could sit comfortably and have a two-way conversation? Why in heaven’s name would he want to meet a woman for the first time at a thrift store? Why would he prattle on relentlessly about eBay, cars, and car parts, when I showed no interest? Why would he ask almost nothing about me or my interests? In what world did he think that his behavior could attract a woman?

I’ve called him Harry because I desperately wanted to “harry up” and get out of there, and now I’ve bored my readers as much as he bored me.