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What did David Raether get himself into, meeting a woman just to hang out with? Turns out, more than he could have ever expected.
“San Francisco Apartment Building Burns to the Ground;
Galavanting Father Blamed”
Okay, I thought as I sat at the computer at the San Marino Public Library. I had just sent off four more resumes, and I noticed that I had received an unusually large number of emails. A day earlier I had posted the ad on Craigslist looking for “a woman to hang out with.”
There were dozens of responses. I was excited. And then I began to read them. Feh. Clearly, they were hookers or phishers. I ended up getting about 50 responses, but only five were legitimate.
I read through each of them, and one struck me immediately.
The email address was readytodateagain. She identified herself as a woman named Annie, and she said she had responded because she was a writer, too. We started a correspondence by email over the next couple of weeks. It turned out she was a real writer. An essayist and critic with a Ph.D. Sheesh! A regular smarty pants. And I found her on Craigslist! Who knew? Probably some bookwormish woman, though, who smells like a library or something like that.
After a sufficient number of emails in which we became assured the other wasn’t some kind of freak, we became Facebook friends.
Once I got on to Facebook, and saw her photos, my immediate reaction was: ”Uh-oh. I’m in trouble here.” She was exceptionally pretty in a quiet way with soft eyes and curly red hair that rounded her narrow intelligent face in a beguiling way.
There was something familiar about her as well. It seemed like I knew her or had met her or seen her around or something like that. There was something about her I recognized. I didn’t figure it out until many months later when I was going through some old scripts I had written. In 2002 I had sold a romantic comedy sitcom pilot to what was then Fox Family.
It was called “Frankie Loves the Girl” and was about two people who meet on the night of high school graduation and then don’t see each other again until their 20th reunion, when much has changed. The female lead was a character named Clarice. Her character description: ‘Clarice is a tall redhead with an intelligent face.” Clarice moves to Berkeley after graduation. Writers often create characters of their fantasies.
As I looked at Annie’s photos on Facebook, there was Clarice staring back at me, a character I had invented eight years earlier.
I really was in trouble now.
While I was on her page, she went to my Facebook page and immediately messaged me:
“Wait a minute. You’re MARRIED?”
“Separated,” I wrote back. “For about a year and a half. She lives in Europe.”
“Oh,” she wrote. “I’m separated too.”
Whew! I thought. Dodged a bullet on that one.
This woman seems fantastic. But I also was worried that she thought I wanted something more than I was interested in because in one of her first emails to me she mentioned that she was looking to make new friends, perhaps a friend with benefits. But then I dismissed that second part. Nobody actually says something like that. And if they do, they don’t actually mean it.
She gave me the link to her website that had all of her essays and other writings, and told me she was getting her first book published. The website contained excerpts from the upcoming book, book reviews and criticism she had written, essays, etc. I found one from the San Francisco Chronicle about motherhood.
I started reading it, and it was about raising her two sons with her partner… okay, hold on, hold on. Her partner was a woman!
This woman is a lesbian!
This is perfect! This is exactly the type of woman I am looking for: a lesbian. She’s smart, she’s well educated, she’s a professional with a great job, she’s a published writer of considerable intellect… And best of absolutely all: she’s a lesbian. Nothing could happen!
“Dear Craig Newark,” I started to write in my head, “Thank you after all these years for delivering to me on your website the perfect woman.”
I wrote to her after reading the Chronicle essay: “Hey, I read your essay in the Chronicle about motherhood.”
“Yes,” she wrote back. “Complicated story there. I’ll explain when we meet.”
This just proves my whole original theory on the “friends with benefits” line: nobody really means that when they say it. She was a lesbian. I could certainly be a friend but what possible benefits could I provide a lesbian other than a few laughs from a professional joke writer?
♦◊♦
We agreed to meet the day after Thanksgiving. Sasha was in Ecuador for two months working in a mobile surgical unit traveling around the Ecuadorian countryside performing surgeries. So it would just be Claire, Coco, Saskia and me for Thanksgiving. We went up early on Wednesday, and arrived in mid-afternoon.
It was sunny and pleasant and cool in the Mission District when we arrived at the apartment. Claire met us joyfully, and we walked six blocks over to the nearest Trader Joe’s and bought the fixings for a Thanksgiving dinner.
Annie was with family at Asilomar, a state park and resort near Monterey, CA. And we were texting each other. She told me the resort had been designed by Julia Morgan. I wrote back and asked if Julia was a guy. She was offended and ranted about how could I possibly think that a woman couldn’t be an architect. I explained that I thought Julia might be an unusual first name like another architect I knew of named Cass Gilbert. For years, I explained, I thought Cass Gilbert was a woman, but only recently I had learned that Cass Gilbert was a man.
“Who is Cass Gilbert?” she wrote.
“He designed the Minnesota State Capitol,” I answered.
“Okay, you have way too much information in your head,” she responded.
Which she was right about. I do have way too much information in my head. But it is a large head, with exceptional storage capacity.
We continued texting about what we were doing on this Thanksgiving. I told her about making the turkey, about the happy times I was having with my kids.
What happens if I go over there and she actually is beautiful and I really like her and this whole ‘woman to hang out with’ thing becomes the fraud that it is?
Then I got a text from her that read: “I wonder about your kiss.”
I froze. Oh, my God. What have I gotten myself into?
“My kiss?” I wrote back.
“I meant your kids. Sorry.”
Huge exhale. Another bullet dodged.
It would be the first Thanksgiving in which I was handling the preparations. I read online on how to roast a turkey, how to make mashed potatoes and how to make cranberry sauce from scratch.
I might point out at this juncture that cranberry sauce made from scratch from real cranberries in one of those little plastic bags is remarkably delicious. Next Thanksgiving you have to host yourself, make it. Just follow the instructions on the little plastic bag. Believe me, you will not regret that decision.
If I had one piece of advice to give out for the rest of my life it would be this: make your own cranberry sauce.
Anyway, things went off without a hitch, and the next morning while I was waiting for Annie to call to arrange for a time and place to meet, I started making a soup out of the turkey. Hmmm… I need celery. I decided to run across the street to get some celery at the Delaria’s Supermarket on 24th and Van Ness. I came home and my phone was blinking.
Oh, crap! I missed her call! I am such an idiot! She must think I’m some kind of jerk not answering her call. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I checked the voicemail, and there was her voice: sweet, soprano, self-assured and pretty. “Well, I suppose it’s time to just do this. I am going on a quick walk down by the Bay and then I figure we can meet in the early afternoon around 2 p.m. I’ll meet you at the North Berkeley BART station.” And then she left her numbers.
I called them both back and she answered and I apologized profusely for missing her call and explained about the turkey and the dinner the day before and how I was making a soup out of the turkey carcass and have you ever made a soup out of turkey carcass and how, well, you really should have celery and I didn’t have any –
“You got the details about where and when to meet?” she interrupted.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Sorry for going on and on about the turkey soup thing.”
She laughed.
“No problem,” she said.
“Well, it’s a big deal for me because I’ve never made a turkey soup before. Or a even turkey until yesterday and it went great. I mean, the mashed potatoes weren’t anything special. I kinda screwed them up, but the turkey was really good and … hey how was your Thanksgiving?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we meet at the North Berkeley BART at 2 p.m.,” she said.
“Right,” I said. “I’m talking too much. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s fine. It’s just that I’m on a walk right now.”
“Okay. Okay. See you soon.”
I hung up. My heart was racing. She actually sounded beautiful.
I mean, what happens if I go over there and she actually is beautiful and I really like her and this whole ‘woman to hang out with’ thing becomes the fraud that it is?
No, wait. She’s a lesbian.
I’m okay.
Calm down, David. Just relax. Be cool.
Finish making the soup, shower, get dressed, and go over there. It’s gonna be fine.
You’ve never been to Berkeley. There’s all those smart people over there. Probably some museums or something like that. Fancy conversations in coffeehouses. Me with a beautiful lesbian having fancy conversations with fancy, smart people in fashionable Berkeley coffeehouses.
‘Dear Craig Newmark, I just really want to thank you once more for…’
Let me look at her photo again.
I went online and looked at her photo on her website.
My stomach got a full of butterflies.
Oh, man. This woman is beautiful. She’s just drop dead beautiful. What have I done? Of all the idiotic schemes I’ve gotten myself into, this is right up there at the top of the heap, up there with becoming a New Zealander.
Claire came into the kitchen. She and Coco and Saskia were going shopping on Valencia Street. Did I want to join them?
“No, that’s okay,” I said, trying to act blasé. “I’m going over to Berkeley.”
“Berkeley?” she said. “That’s cool. What are you gonna do in Berkeley?”
“Oh, uh, I’ve got this friend who lives over there, so… uh, we’re gonna meet in Berkeley and hang out.”
“Sounds fun!”
“Should be,” I said. “I’ve never been to Berkeley.”
Whew! Dodged another bullet of having to explain that I was meeting an unattached woman my age for coffee and walking around.
I don’t know why I was so nervous about that. I had lots of women friends, women I would talk to for hours at a time, completely unencumbered by any desire or complication.
What was I so nervous about with Annie? I mean, we’re just looking to be friends.
With benefits, in her case, but, uh, clearly, uh, that was not was I was looking for. I mean, come on. Get serious. “Friends with benefits.” May I introduce you to the tooth fairy as well?
Because that sort of thing only exists in the movies.
♦◊♦
They left and I got dressed. Heads up here: this paragraph will be the girlie part of the story in which I describe what I wore. My theory going into this was to look casual but dressy at the same time for the non-date. Because that’s what it was: a non-date.
It took me about a week of careful thrift store shopping, but here is what I put together: jeans ($3.99 from Goodwill of Pasadena), a pressed dress white shirt ($1.99 from the Pasadena Salvation Army), silvery dress socks ($2.99 Ross), a cream-colored blazer ($6.50 from Out of the Closet Thrift Store in South Pasadena) and black loafers ($7.50, from Out of the Closet Thrift Store in Pasadena). Total cost including sales tax: $26.01.
I walked over to the BART 24th St. Mission Station, paid my fare and starting riding to the North Berkeley BART to meet Annie. I found a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle sitting on a seat and read an article on whales or something and then tried to work their easy crossword puzzles and couldn’t. My mind was racing by the time we arrived at the MacArthur Station in Oakland.
Okay MacArthur… then let’s see that BART map.
Ashby, Downtown Berkeley, North Berkeley. North Berkeley. That’s where we’re meeting.
Oh wait, was it Downtown Berkeley? Did she say Downtown Berkeley? Man, I need to listen to what people say. I’m such a fucking idiot!
She had such nice voice. Kind of really nice soprano voice. She’s probably a really cool kind of a Carole King kind of a woman.
No, it was North Berkeley. I remember that because it had three syllables. Downtown Berkeley has four syllables. Downtown Berkeley. Four syllables. North Berkeley. Three syllables. Yeah, definitely it was North Berkeley. I would have remembered a four syllable station name.
Okay. Okay. Calm down.
Oh, man, this cream-colored jacket is a complete disaster.. I look like some loser B movie producer hanging out at Caffe Roma in Beverly Hills.
What was I thinking? This is a disaster. No, wait. Hmmm… No, it’s a good jacket.
The socks are good. Shirt is good. I liked ironing it. Man, I used to iron my shirts all the time. That was good.
You’re gonna be fine. I mean you can make anyone laugh. If she hates me, I can at least make her laugh.
Holy shit she was so beautiful in that one photo leaning on the chair. Really good writer, too. Man, she’s gonna hate me. I write jokes. I write shit.
‘Oh, you’re an essayist and critic? That’s interesting, Annie. I write shit myself. It’s a little different kind of writing from what you’re doing, what with me being in the whole shit-writing field.’
Come on, David. Nothing wrong with writing jokes. It’s an honorable profession.
I mean, look at me. I look like I just stepped out of a ten year old Mercedes I’m behind on payments for because I overpaid for a house in Santa Monica.
Maybe we’ll go to a museum. That would be good. I would love that. Look at some paintings. Yeah… I could talk about paintings. Paintings are good to talk about because anything you say sounds smart.
Okay what happens if you want to kiss her? You don’t! We’ve been through this. No kissing her even you really want to.
What if she kisses you?! Oh my God! No, that’s not gonna happen. There is no
way a woman that beautiful is going to kiss you. Besides, she’s a lesbian. You’re in the clear.
Good. Good.
Maybe I should think about soccer.
Soccer…
Soccer…
Nothing!
She had a really nice voice. I mean she sounded a little nervous. But that’s normal. Out for a walk. That’s healthy. She sounds healthy. Very healthy person. That’s good.
Now, this whole kissing thing, David… you’re not gonna kiss her. Okay?
And she’s not gonna kiss you because of the whole shit-writing thing. I mean, she’s an essayist and critic and you, conversely, are in the shit writing field.
Definitely, kissing is NOT gonna happen. Which is a big relief.
Thanksgiving was good. We really cooked everything. And then we’ll have a soup…
WAIT!!! I DIDN’T TURN OFF THE STOVE!!!
Yup. I had forgotten to turn off the stove.
So, this was God’s punishment on me for going to Berkeley for coffee with a woman and trying to pretend it’s not a date: the apartment building the girls live in is going to burn to the ground. The turkey soup pot is going to melt, a fire will break out, and then the entire block the girls live on is going to go up in flames.
I can just see the report on the news tonight. They’ll be interviewing the San Francisco fire chief and he’ll say: “Apparently, the fire started in this apartment building here on Shotwell when the father of one of the residents went on a date with a woman in Berkeley and left the stove on. During this holiday period, folks, be sure to remember as a fire safety precaution to never go on a date with a woman in Berkeley. It can only lead to tragedy.”
The news reporter will shake his head in disgust and then flip back to the studio and the two anchors will shake their heads in disgust over my date. “What was he thinking, out galavanting like that?” one of them will say to the other. “Obviously, he wasn’t thinking,” the other anchor will answer.
What a disaster. What was I thinking?
I tried calling Claire but we were underground now on BART and I had no reception. Oh, this is just great, I thought. I’m gonna come up out of the subway and the first thing I’m gonna do is make a phone call on my cellphone. Yeah, she’s gonna love that. This is turning out just brilliantly. First, I’m going to burn down an entire block of 1910-era apartment buildings in San Francisco, and then I’m going to be Mr. Los Angeles Asshole Guy by making a phone call as soon as I meet her.
♦◊♦
The train pulled into North Berkeley and I ran up the stairs trying to get reception and came outside and there sat Annie. I gasped. She stood up and smiled and walked toward me. She was wearing jeans and a blue sweater and comfortable white cross-training shoes. She was really beautiful. Of the drop dead variety.
“Hi,” I said.
“You made it,” she said.
She hugged me.
Okay, that I did not see coming. What was that all about? I did not see a hug coming. What the hell? Is something going on here between us that I don’t know about? Or maybe this is one of these Berkeley things they do: hug people you just met.
We broke away.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t want to seem like some L.A. asshole, but I have to make a phone call. You know, I was making a turkey soup from the turkey I made yesterday and I forgot to turn the stove off and I have to call my daughter to get home and –“
“Go ahead,” Annie said, with a smile. “Make the call. I wouldn’t worry about the soup. You had the heat on low, right?”
“Simmer,” I said.
“I wouldn’t worry, but go ahead and call.”
Whew! Dodged bullets three and four. I wasn’t going to burn down several square blocks of the City of San Francisco and she didn’t seem to think I was an L.A. asshole.
We walked up several blocks to the Peet’s Coffee and Tea in North Berkeley. I was so happy and excited to be with her I couldn’t stop talking. She was sitting there smiling and listening to me the whole time, and finally she brought up a stunner of a subject.
Now here’s one of the moments in my life where there could have been a fourteen car pile up right outside the window into a parade of naked woman, clown cars, and Pope Leo VII, and I wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t even have looked out the window.
“I want you to know that I am looking for a man,” she said.
Now here’s one of the moments in my life where there could have been a fourteen car pile up right outside the window into a parade of naked woman, clown cars, and Pope Leo VII, and I wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t even have looked out the window. I stared right at her.
“Oh. So, uh… You’re not a lesbian anymore?” I asked.
“Well, I never really considered myself a lesbian so much as a woman who fell in love with a woman,” she said.
“Call me picky, but I believe that is the definition of a lesbian,” I said.
She laughed.
“Well… I consider it a difference,” she said. Annie explained that she had been straight all her life and had a number of serious love affairs with men through her late 20s, but then, just as she was about to turn 30, she fell in love with a woman co-worker. They had been in a domestic partnership for 21 years, and she had borne two sons through alternative insemination and her partner had adopted them.
And then, as happens sadly with many marriages, it ended. And now, a year and a half later, she was out there, and wanted to meet a man and get involved.
Well, this certainly thickens the soup, I thought to myself.
This isn’t a woman I am going to be able to be pals with. I find her too attractive, too compelling. As she told me her story, I sat there and tried to calculate how, exactly, I would be able to not fall in love with her. Because the longer I looked at her and her soft blue eyes and sweet smile and listened to the voice and the substantial mind and heart behind it, not falling in love with her seemed just about impossible.
Falling in love in your fifties after a long marriage and with a large family isn’t rocket science; it’s much more complicated than that.
I had dodged a bunch of bullets on the way to meeting her and not screwing it up.
Falling in love with Annie, however, was one bullet I was just not going to dodge.
Read the first installment in this series here, Looking For a Woman to Hangout With
This story is excerpted from David Raether’s fantastic book, Tell Me Something, She Said
Photo: Flickr/ pborenstein
The post Meeting Annie: Accidentally Falling in Love After 50 appeared first on The Good Men Project.