Naomi and the Walker

   Hello, my name is Naomi and I have P.A.L.S. This is where I wait for the voices in my head to respond, “Hello, Naomi” in a half-bored routine drone. For those of you who have never heard of this debilitating social disease of the heart, it stands for “Pick A Loser Syndrome.”

   I have never had much luck on the dating scene, which is why I am forty eight, single, and pouring my love out to my dog and two cats. This is partly my fault. I don’t really make the effort anymore. Now and again, I’ll try, but for the most part I just go about my life as if I don’t care that I’m a solo, and many of my friends are duos, or duos with children.

   I suppose the first symptoms of P.A.L.S. revealed themselves to me when I was twenty two years old. I was living with my parents, working in a computer retail store, and only had one cat. I would spend evenings on the computer chatting on forums on AOL, playing computer games, and reading. It was a time when I’d begun to really close myself off from the world socially. Not that I was ever a social butterfly beforehand. I’ve always been better alone.

   The relationship I’d had before that (and a little after, as it went on for many years in spurts…sometimes on, sometimes off) was currently over. I don’t consider that one a case of P.A.L.S. as that relationship ended with us being dear friends. While I love him, we weren’t in love, and so it was for the better that it ended. He was my last truly good relationship, though.

   I had begun chatting with a boy who told me his name was Pat. He lived across the country from me, but we kept in communication for a while. Our discussions grew more affectionate, and he finally suggested he might take a vacation and come to Worcester, Massachusetts to meet me. I talked it over with my parents and they agreed. Reluctantly, mind you, but I was twenty two.

I probably would have been smarter to pour myself a glass of merlot and tell him, "No, I think this isn't a good idea," but how was I to know?

   We set up the basement with the sofa opened up to a bed, and allowed him to spend the weekend there. It was two floors from my bedroom, so I felt safe. He was aware that I had a shift one of the days he’d be around, but he said he’d be fine, and he’d entertain himself while I was at work.

   The big day came and we went to the airport to pick him up. I’d had a vague idea of what he looked like. He had told me he had red hair, and let me know what he’d be wearing. I’d also told him what I looked like. This was before we could send pictures easily, before Facebook.

   When he came through the gates, he saw me and waved, I waved back. I was a little shocked at his appearance, but it didn’t bother me too much. His hair was poofy, uncombed. His beard and mustache were full, but not so full as to cover the fact that he had huge buck teeth, much like the caricature of a rabbit.

   I could have even been fine with that. Buck teeth do not a loser make, after all. What made this the first sign of P.A.L.S. came after we got back to my house. We sat down to dinner. My mother had made a nice meal, and we passed the plate to him. Pat barely touched anything, going for the mashed potato and one piece of meat. He ate slowly, and when we asked him questions or tried to engage him in conversation, he was fairly silent.

This was the second time during the "date" where I wished I had a glass of merlot. Mind you, I'm not much of a drinker, but when confronted with P.A.L.S. it's an option.

   My mother and I decided he must be shy, embarrassed to be suddenly sitting down to dinner with not just the girl he came to meet, but her parents and two brothers. This wasn’t the case, but we were trying to come up with a charitable way to explain his silence. He seemed to have no interest in most of the conversations we’d strike up. Sports, theater, movies, books… none of these held his attention. My father asked him what he planned to do when I was at work the next morning.

   That was the start of the end. His response, “I’ll take a walk.”

   “My shift is five hours. What else do you plan to do?” I was expecting him to tell me he’d read, watch television, or something similar.

   “Just walk. Maybe I can walk to where you work and meet you there at the end of your shift?” His response stunned me, but I tried to salvage the situation.

   “Then we can go out to lunch or a movie?”

   “I don’t like movies,” he said. “Maybe we can walk back after?” I think he suspected I’d get a ride to work…or walk to it.

   “No, I’ll drive us. Do you need me to give you directions? It’s kind of a long walk.”

   “That’s ok. Do you have any maps? I like maps.” That was when my parents and I glanced at each other, confused by what we were hearing. My father recovered first.

   “I have to go out and pick up some milk tonight. I guess I can grab a map while I’m out.” He stood and left the room. I’m not sure, but I think I heard him snickering as he walked out.

   When I went to bed that night, I couldn’t sleep much. I tossed and turned, trying to figure out where this bland map-addicted walking rabbit of a man was in the charming person I’d been talking to online for so long. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally, somewhere around two in the morning, I drifted off.

   Day dawned, and I got ready for work. As I came down for breakfast, he was sitting at the table, the map opened wide. He’d marked my place of employment on it, and had begun to plan his five hour walk.

   While exercise is good, this struck me as odd, and more than a little boring. That’s when I began counting the hours in my head until he went home.

   Sure enough, when I stepped out of work that afternoon, he was there. I asked him if he wanted to stop somewhere to eat. He told me that he’d stopped on his walk and picked up a loaf of bread and some ham, and had eaten. He held up the bag to show me, and I blinked. It struck me as amazing that he couldn’t even figure out that I was coming out of work and might be hungry. I promised myself that glass of merlot when I got home. I even enjoyed it with a guilty pleasure I'm not good at saying "no" to. Chocolate. That's when I learned exactly how good that wine is with dark chocolate. We're talking instant orgasm without the inconvenience of the man.

   The next day and a half were torture, a barrage of strained smiles, polite attempts at conversation and whispers behind closed doors after he went to sleep…by eight thirty each night. We would spend our time apart. I’d be watching TV, reading, playing games, talking on AOL. To me, it was like I had no guest. He would take walks. From the beginning of the day until evening, he was either gone on a walk or studying his maps. It’s a miracle I’m willing to look at maps to this day.

   To be honest, I don’t remember much more about Pat than how I’ve described him. He was quite forgettable in his peculiarity. I do remember leaving him at the airport and stopping to take myself out for dinner afterwards. I nearly laughed from the relief of his absence.

   I was faced with my first P.A.L.S. related dilemma a few days later. The “Losers” who I pick fall into one of three categories: The Oblivious, The Obsolete, and The Obnoxious. Of those three types, I prefer “The Obsolete.” Those just vanish into thin air, smart enough to know that they do not stand a chance. Unfortunately, Pat was my first of “The Oblivious.” He actually contacted me on AOL, thanked me for a wonderful time, and asked if I wanted to come visit him. That led to another merlot and chocolate pairing.

   There are many ways a woman can handle this situation. She could ignore the message and hope he goes away. I find it hard to do that. Somewhere in my upbringing, I was trained that not responding is rude. I felt I had to respond. If I didn’t, I was afraid I’d keep hearing from him. I’ve learned better since then, but that’s how I was at the time.

   I could send a polite response, saying that I’d think about it. Give him hope and then just…decide not to. Mostly, I’d have done it if I thought I needed to spare his feelings. In this case, I didn’t think it would be necessary. He didn’t seem to let anything affect him. He seemed to have no emotions at all.

   I could tell him to “shove off.” I was, as I mentioned before, overly polite and that would have gone against everything I believed at the time. I couldn’t bring myself to give some snarky response, or just tell him to vanish in some rude way.

   I kept tossing over the possibilities, and falling short. My mother said I should just tell him to leave me alone. My father suggested I try the polite method. Nothing seemed right. And in the meantime, I’d received two more emails…so I’d inadvertently been doing the first response, which I strongly objected to.

   My final answer came to me as I tried to sleep two days after the most recent message. He’d asked me if I was avoiding him. I responded, “No, I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. I’m glad you had a good time here. It was interesting meeting you. Your walks must have been fun, but I’m not much into walking distances. When with others, I prefer activities that involve everyone. You’re a nice person, but I don’t think this is going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

   That was the best I could do. When you start showing signs of P.A.L.S. you don’t have experience telling people that they’re not right. You have to go through two or three more losers to develop that talent well.

   Of course, my family has never let me live this experience down. My father said to me after I finally got Pat to stop sending me messages, “Even left in the room with him naked, your mother and I would never had to worry about him.”