Assisted Loving by Bob Morris Page B

was, I suppose, the benefit of a marriage with my father, an unpredictable man with a kind heart who insisted on romance. I was both attracted and repelled, watching the kick they got out of each other. Would I ever have that? Did I even want it, let alone need it? They were just so buoyant on those late nights in the house, floating in their suburban bubble, so young, so in love. More in love than I imagined, or perhaps feared I would ever be.
    So how can he just go dismissing all of it now—all of that—after fifty years of marriage? Who knows? But the old man seems to need a mate again, and I guess, now that Mom is gone, the only question at hand is, Who would love a poorly dressed, irascible, but sweet and well-meaning suburban Republican like him? I don’t know. But I guess I should try to help him out. Because if he’s happy, then I don’t have to worry about his being lonely, and then I can have some peace and be left alone to my life.
    It’s almost eleven P.M . The trains back to the city are running only once an hour from Great Neck station now. There’s one in ten minutes. I bolt up from his couch.
    â€œOkay, Dad, I’m going home. I’m sorry if you’re a littlelonely. Give me those Personals. I’ll make those calls if I have time.”
    â€œThat would be terrific, Bobby,” he says as he walks me to his door, where he tries to give me a big hug, but I dodge it and end up patting him on the shoulder instead.
    â€œOh, and do me a favor, Bobby,” he says. “When you give women my cell phone number, make sure you tell them to call me after nine P.M . Off-peak minutes.”
    â€œSure, Dad, why not?” Then, when I’m closing his door behind me, he calls out: “Don’t you feel a little impish doing this?”
    Pimpish is more like it.

CHAPTER 9
Outdated
    A ppalled as I am with Dad and his Personals page, he’s right. I am familiar—unhappily familiar—with the dating scene. Most of those I meet on my online dating site can’t even be bothered to reply to my e-mails. But then, I ignore my share, too.
    Never mind the lure of romance, never mind the high of new love. These days, dating is nothing but a sport of procure, dodge, and discard. You have to know how to traffic lightly in disappointment. You have to be able to be both deft and cruel. It has become a kind of social warfare, and for my demographic of baby boomers, the comic narrative of our time. The worse the date is, the better the story value for later.
    The weekend after Dad has thrust his personal ads at me, I end up with three dates in one night. Bumper cropon a nice evening in May. I am meeting date number one for a drink at the trendy Bottino in Chelsea. I rush in late. He’s looking at his watch, grim. And cute. Very cute. Soft honey brown hair that I loved in his online profile. And he is better built than I envisioned. Love the blue eyes and white button-down shirt. He doesn’t dress to draw attention to himself, like I do. He knows he doesn’t have to.
    â€œHi! So sorry I’m late! Been waiting long?”
    â€œFifteen minutes,” he says.
    â€œI’m so sorry. I’m Bob.”
    â€œJohn.”
    We shake hands. I like him immediately. But even after a drink, I can’t tell if he likes me (later I find out—because I never hear from him again). But hey, no time to dwell tonight. After a half hour I have to say good-bye so I can get uptown to date number two, a setup who is supposed to look like Pete Sampras. And he does. But not in a good way. I down a double Scotch. I’m free to behave poorly now. “Don’t you just love Madison Avenue?” I spout as we pass terriers on leashes and trophy wives on diet pills. “I just find the people are so much better looking up here!” In Central Park, a line of cherry trees is blossoming so extravagantly that I shriek like a girl, “Better than the couture