Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.
The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.
The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I'm normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.
The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.
I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who'd just been shot.
But that might have been the meds talking.
Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.
'Good morning.'
'Good morning. I'm Jack Daniels. I have an appointment.'
'Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Frank. Coffee?'
I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it's choppy.
'Jack? I'm Matthew. I'll be your Lunch Mates agent.'
He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model's square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I'd died and gone to hunk heaven.
I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I'd never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.
'Pleased to meet you.'
'I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes.'
'A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes.'
Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.
We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and picked up a leather binder.
'What we're going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one.'
Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.
'This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I'll also give you data sheets of men...it is a man you'd like to meet, correct?'
'Yes. I've decided to give heterosexuality one more shot.'
He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.
'So...if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date. If you'd prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility.'
'Ask away.'
I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.
'You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?'
'Twenty-three years. I'm a lieutenant. Violent Crimes.'
'Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?'
I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn't even comprehend, I was overworked, under- paid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?
'I like getting the job done.' I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.
'Have you ever been married?'
