Slaughterhouse 6

Start Time: 9:37 PM
End Time: 11:45 PM
Word Count: 1085 without introduction
Beth Badrov, with “Please describe your ideal woman. Enjoy.”

No, the intro doesn’t count. Yes, you’ve been warned.

Our protagonist walks out onto a darkened stage of a large opera house, with one bright spotlight shining on two barstools and a microphone on a stand. On one barstool is a clear liquid with ice in a glass pitcher. Our protagonist feels as if he’s in a vivid, but obviously unreal, dream. He doesn’t remember dreaming about a rider for his appearances so he doesn’t know if the pitcher contains ice water, perfectly mixed gin and tonics, or lighter fluid. But the light’s very bright and it’s obviously time for him to do whatever he’s come here to do. There is polite applause, but there’s an undercurrent of discontent; he’s looking out from the stage and he can see maybe the first three rows, but past that a large, black void…and that light.

(In the dream, though, the house lights are out, and he’d never hire a guy in a sweater like that.)

In that moment, walking from stage left to the center, he suddenly realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say, what these people are expecting him to say, who’s out there and why, or if he’s supposed to get out of here alive. It’s the dream of the test you didn’t prepare for! On stage!

So he stepped to the microphone and asked. “So what do you want to hear?” And he hears a familiar voice call out, “Please describe your ideal woman. Enjoy.” Hey, it’s the same voice that he remembers requesting a chainsaw injury nearly seven years ago at an improv show in Chicago! He’s among friends! Right? Sure. On with the show.)

My ideal woman? (Insert quick, furtive smile and inquisitive sip of available beverage. Sapphire and tonic, and lime wedges and a pint glass? I’m certainly among friends, or they’re nearby.)

My ideal woman will need to be patient. Before she’s anything else, this will become an apparent necessity. I looked at my schedule for the past two weeks, and in case you weren’t sure, I’m very single at the moment. My day starts at 4:35 when I get up to serve as personal trainer to a neighbor. I get back a little after 6 and have to be at my desk at 7. I work out on my lunch hour. I work until 4 and then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, go to a Pilates workout run by my personal trainer. That goes until 6:30. I go home and eat one of about two meals that I eat when I’m training – surimi or chicken on wheat tortillas or turkey burgers with wasabi – and sit down to write until about 10:30 at the earliest, or until midnight.

How much of this would I set aside for someone else? “Plenty,” I’ll say. But I do like the autonomy. But the very definition of “auto-“ is “self,” and I feel very alone sometimes. Everything else I mention will probably come back to patience. I know that I can be optimistically described as quirky and less charitably described as moody as hell, and I know I’ll get along with someone equally warped in a complimentary fashion. (“Sour Cream and Onion Pringle seeks Barbecue.”)

My ideal woman would have a life, ideas, and a mind of her own. I really don’t want to spend time with someone who thinks that I have all the answers, who instantly assumes that I’m supposed to know more about something just because I’m me, and who lacks the self-confidence to point out when I’m being ridiculous. No woman that I’ve ever spent any significant time with lacked self-confidence…initially. I don’t think any of my closest women friends could be described as reticent or anti-intellectual; not that they were brainy, they just didn’t have contempt for people who liked being aware of the world around them.) This also makes a difference as I’m ready to dismiss a lot of people out of hand for seemingly no reason at all, usually in a really sarcastic manner.

She will be 5’8” or taller. As for other aesthetic requirements, they’re going to fade really quickly if we can’t have a conversation. Every person I’ve ever wanted to be with was more interesting above the eyebrows than below. A great smile is nice. Terrific eyes are a plus. A smile that I can see when I close my eyes tightly is great. Hair and eye color don’t matter to me at all, but confidence is very important, a confidence that’s so prominent it’s almost a physical presence.

She doesn’t need to be an athlete but it would help if she had some level of understanding of how I train and what I train for, and shouldn’t feel that every time I mention what my schedule is that I’m subtly suggesting that she needs to return to the gym or we’re doomed. I don’t need a training partner, but I’ll train with her if she’d like to try it. I won’t directly train someone I’m in a relationship with, though. That’s a level of argument that I can’t be.

She’s going to want to travel, she’ll understand the great things about cities, she’ll have a sense of humor that matches up with mine, and will understand that I like losing myself in a book, like fine dining, like distance running and she’ll like nights that turn so torrid that, at sunset, I’m wondering if left an extra pair of sunglasses inside or in my jacket pocket for when it’s time to finally leave for brunch. (I’m over a word limit that I’ve already crossed, but I usually get five hours of sleep a night and regularly exercise for three hours plus; do the math.) I like champagne and laughter and live music and talking about the movie we just saw over key lime pie and double espresso-and she doesn’t have to like precisely the same things I do, but she has to understand those little touchstones and have more than few of her own.

I like being secure enough to know that if I don’t hear from her, it’s not that she’s mad at me, and I want her to be equally secure. Please don’t need me to make your life complete; I’m not much of a scaffold and I’ll handle it poorly. This is why I’m a great date but a lousy relationship. If you don’t want to be with me, you’ll find something else to do. I want to find out what makes her happy and surprise her with it. I want to use this florist I keep on speed dial, want to know what kind of juice she wants me to bring up from the café downstairs, want to see her favorite movie even if she’s convinced I’ll hate it.

I want someone who can fill the silence when it gets to be suffocating and appreciate it when it isn’t the default position. I want someone who understands that every single Friday and every other weekend physically and every single day mentally I’m still Dad, and it will be a long time before you get to meet my guys; there’s nothing more important to me and I value my time with them.

I want her to understand that my friends are the family I got to choose and there’s nothing I won’t do for that family. There are people who have known me for more than half of my life, who didn’t cover their eyes for the scary parts, and I wouldn’t be here without them. If for some reason I’m needed halfway across the country for my friends I’ll be there.

I want someone I can learn things from and teach things to. I want someone who has stories and quirks and the ability to make me laugh. I want someone who understands I’m equally comfortable on a bicycle going 35 miles an hour, in a four star restaurant, listening to music and reading a book, and in a beer garden watching a cover band with a black and tan in a plastic cup, and while she doesn’t have to like all of those things the way that I do she has to understand why they’re important to me.

I remain optimistic, but I’m getting better at realizing I may be alone for a good long while.