Ms. Write and Mr. Wrong

(page 2 of 2)

WHEN I ARRIVED at the club, Rick was standing at the curb waiting to open my car door. “Well, hello, beautiful.” Apparently Rick had already thrown back a few drinks during his previous event. He seemed revived and much more energized. “I’ve heard this is a good place to dance all night if you’re in the mood.”

While he made small talk with the doorman, I paid our $35 cover charge for a band called Tainted Love. Walking inside, Rick nervously eyed the crowd. “This is the first time I’ve really been out in public since the wedding. I’m not exactly sure what to expect tonight.”

It was an untailored crowd, with 30-something locals dressed in jeans and casual tops. As we entered, nearly every head turned toward Rick, who was wearing a dark blue suit and rainbow tie. Women moved in closer to take a look at the man of the hour. Several even asked for his autograph.

“Oh my gosh!” One woman pointed back and forth between Rick and me. “Are you cheating on Darva with this girl?”

Shaking my head violently, I tried to diminish the accusation, but Rick only fed into the rumor by putting his arm around my waist. Spinning loose from his grip, I said, “I’ll go get us some drinks.”

I watched as Rick exchanged phone numbers with several women while throwing out the line “Okay, but don’t tell my wife!” I must have heard him use that same joke 20 times during the night. In all my celebrity encounters, I had never seen one man receive so much attention. It almost made me ashamed to be a woman.

Returning with the drinks, I heard one fan say consolingly, “Only time can heal your pain.”

Turning toward the small pack of spectators, Rick yelled, “And a blow-up doll wouldn’t hurt, either!” There was no doubt that Rick was a stand-up comedian. Everything he said and did seemed rehearsed and unnatural, as if he were performing in front of an audience. I extended a bottle toward Rick, who reached for the neck and took a swig. Grabbing my hand, Rick led me to a table in the back corner of the bar.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” he said.

I shifted into the horseshoe booth. “I had no idea your life would be like this.”

“Me neither.” He motioned toward the bar for another round of drinks. I had yet to take a sip of my first. With ’80s cover tunes blaring in the background, Rick began to share what had happened during his honeymoon with Darva and the events that led to the annulment of their marriage.

“You know, it’s just too bad I never had a chance to show her my bedroom magic.” Rick made it sound like a bit in his standup comedy routine.

“What do you mean?” I asked, probing for more information.

Rick inched his way toward me. “I’m no Wilt Chamberlain, but let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of experience. You see, Marlise, two things need to exist to make a marriage work: laughter and good sex. If you have those qualities, then it’s sure to succeed.”

His plan sounded so easy, as if humanity could survive off the scientifically proven nympho-clown theory.

“I hate to brag,” Rick continued. “But I’m absolutely amazing in bed.”

Easy, tiger. I pushed the beers beyond his reach.

“During the day, I’m hyper and sometimes even goofy, but at night, I become a calm and gentle teddy bear.”

Did I just hear a grown man refer to himself as a teddy bear?

“There’s nothing I enjoy more than spooning a woman between the sheets. Genetically, I have an abnormally high body temperature. My skin gives off a soothing heat because I work out so much.” Reaching over, Rick touched his hand to my cheek. “Can ya feel that?”

“Yep,” I nodded. “Kind of like an oven mitt.”

“I like to think of myself as a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” he continued. “Two totally different lovers.”

It wasn’t a stretch to imagine.

“I can gently nibble on a woman’s ear, but then I can also be an animal and rip off her clothes with my teeth.”

I recoiled as I stared at his jagged chompers. The thought sounded painful.

Rick leaned forward, pursed his lips, and asked with a nod, “Are you following me here?”

Trying to stay professional to gain insight into his life, I realized that our conversation had gone completely overboard. Sliding out of the booth, I excused myself and headed to the restroom. I looked into the mirror and tried to press the flushed color out of my cheeks.

When I returned, I found Rick drumming his hands on the table to the beat of the music. It was nearly 1 in the morning, and the bartender was ringing the tavern triangle to announce last call for alcohol. Rick caught me yawning.

“No way, missy; you’re not going anywhere until we dance.” Tugging me by the arm, he led me to the dance floor like a child dragging a floppy rag doll. The band was playing “Come On, Eileen.” I had never quite figured out how to dance to songs from the ’80s. With Rick’s first gyration, our 20-year age gap suddenly became apparent.

I moved my hips and stayed more or less grounded, while Rick kicked his feet straight out in front of his body like a Radio City Rockette. I could tell we were both trying to relate to the other’s dance steps, but I just couldn’t seem to pick up the same beat as Rick.

“Great moves, Marlise,” Rick cheered with approval. “You really know how to groove. The only problem is that your pants are falling down.”

I looked at my low-waisted pants and realized that my attempt at trendy fashion didn’t seem to jibe with Rick’s polyester suit. Before I could justify my ensemble, Rick grabbed my hand and spun me around in a series of erratic circles. I was dipped, twisted, yanked and wrenched around the floor, nearly losing my footing because my long hair kept covering my face and blinding my vision.

“No, let me lead,” Rick yelled above the music as he suddenly switched to the waltz. “This will work a lot better if you just relax.”

“You’re a maniac on the dance floor, Rick,” I said, clearing the curtain of hair that hung between us. When I slowly backed away for fear of personal injury, Rick didn’t even seem to notice I was gone. He closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip and sort of shimmied around the club alone for the remainder of the night. On our way out, Rick stopped at a parked cop car and pretended to urinate on the bumper. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

“So are we on for a workout tomorrow?” he asked.

Suddenly I thought about Edward and the fact we needed photos for our story. I had taken several shots inside the club, but nothing that could support a headline.

“Sure, I’ll call you in the morning.” As I reached out my hand, Rick pulled me toward him and kissed me on the cheek.

“So, are you getting paid to seduce me?” he whispered into my ear.

His hot breath smelled like beer.

“No, not really.” My story was turning into the assignment from hell.

WE REGROUPED the next day for an early lunch at Del Mar’s Poseidon restaurant. Rick suggested that I park at a meter on the side of the road. I told him I was low on quarters and might need to change some bills inside.

“There’s no need to,” he said. “I have a few quarters here somewhere.”

While I waited expectantly, Rick turned his back, conveniently ignoring me as he gazed toward the sea. Scraping through my purse, I eventually threw in nickels and dimes to bring the ticking meter to the one-hour mark. All I wanted now was to get through the beachside brunch and head home.

“Do you want to split an omelet?” Rick asked, glancing at the menu.

“Get whatever you want,” I told him. “This one’s on me.”

At that cue, Rick ordered a smoked-salmon omelet, a side of potatoes, a fruit platter, two slices of wheat toast and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. As usual, our conversation focused on the single topic of money. He repeatedly called the waitress by name after glancing at her name tag and periodically said, “Wonderful, Kristine. Thanks a million.” Rick mopped his plate with the crust of his bread.

“There’s a big tip coming for you, Kristine,” he said, handing over the spotless platter. Keeping my promise to pick up the tab, I paid both the bill and the “big tip.”

When we returned to my car, there was a $50 parking ticket on the windshield. If only Rick had given me a quarter, he could have saved me this hassle. Instead, he just shook his head at the ticket and said, “Gee, I feel really bad about that. Let’s just forget all about it and take a stroll on the beach.”

Like the paparazzo he was, Edward had a plan from the start. “Mr. Rockwell, could you demonstrate your proposal techniques for the camera?”

As if a film crew were on hand, Rick knelt in the sand, grabbed my hand, and said dramatically, “Marlise Kast, will you marry me?” He held the pose while Edward snapped a series of shots. “Actually, it’s not that far of a stretch,” Rick continued. “I already know you much better than I know Darva.”

By this point, I was so bored that I just laughed off his comment. By 2 p.m. on Saturday, I anticipated that our lingering date had finally come to an end. Instead, Rick shamelessly reminded me that his kitchen cupboards were bare.

“I intend to hold you to your promise to go shopping with me,” he said.

As soon as we arrived at Henry’s Marketplace in Solana Beach, Rick grabbed a cart and started filling it with potted plants and garden supplies from an outside display. Holding up a pot of purple flowers and one of white flowers, Rick asked a salesgirl, “Which one is your favorite color?” When she did not respond, he smiled and said, as he put them in the cart, “I like them both, too.”

Even before we entered the store, Rick had stocked up on two houseplants, a bag of topsoil and a 3-pound sack of nectarines. While Edward and I trailed behind, Rick headed straight for the wine aisle.

“Do you see any Merlot over there?” Two bottles of Merlot and three bottles of Chardonnay later, Rick then tossed in honey turkey breast and roast beef. The cart started to overflow before my eyes.

“Do you need some help, Rick?” I asked.

He was too busy digging into a barrel of trail mix to notice my sarcasm. At first I thought Rick was playing some kind of joke as he shoveled 10 scoops of trail mix into a plastic bag. He then twisted the bag shut and threw it into the cart on top of his blueberry pie, chocolate-chip cookies, fig bars and deli sandwiches.

“I love this stuff,” Rick said as he ripped off another bag. “I just can’t get enough of it.” To my surprise, he then filled a second bag with the peanut mixture, grabbing 7 pounds of trail mix in total.

“Careful there, Rick,” I warned. “One scoop of trail mix can lead to flatulence.” Rick didn’t seem to notice my warning. He was too busy looking for the cracker aisle.

After dropping Edward at the hotel, I took Rick back to his home to unload his 15 bags of groceries. As I climbed over the rear seat for the last load, Rick yelled from the house, “Check the floor to make sure nothing fell out. I sure wouldn’t want to leave anything behind.”

Once in the kitchen, Rick started unpacking the bags. The cupboards were literally bare except for a collection of half-empty bottles of hotel lotion and soap. His fridge had a single glass of water on the shelf, most likely the one I had failed to finish the day before. Struggling to be polite, I said, “Let me know if I can help.”

Rick was busy emptying bags of trail mix into a used, cardboard Quaker Oats container. A few almonds and chocolate chips slipped from the bag and landed on a tattered dishtowel that covered the yellow-tiled countertop. Rather than shaking the towel over the sink, Rick carefully folded the rag in half, cradled the mixture in the center and then shook the loose bits back into the box. At one point, a single peanut fell onto the floor and rolled into the corner. Bending down, Rick picked it up and tossed it back into the container.

“So, am I everything that you expected me to be?” Rick asked. With a lick of his finger, he pressed down on several stray oat flakes before flicking them into the cereal box.

“Actually, you’re much different than I had imagined,” I said.

He opened his fridge and eyed his new stock of goods. “What do you mean, ‘different’?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Rick, but you don’t really seem like a millionaire.”

Suddenly he seemed to get defensive. “Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I have to be wasteful or flashy with my things.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said. “All I’m saying is that you’re not at all like the guy everyone saw on TV.”

“Well, that’s show biz for you,” he said, with a laugh. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

It seemed that our date had finally come to an end. I reached out to shake Rick’s hand, and this time, he gave me a friendly farewell hug.

“Good luck with everything,” I said. “Thanks, Marlise. I can’t wait to see how the article turns out.”

Me neither.

THAT SUNDAY, I typed through the night until I had written every detail of my weekend with Rick. Not quite sure what the editors wanted, I abandoned the typical tabloid lingo and wrote the article as a first-person account. It was 4 in the morning by the time I faxed my 16 pages of copy to the editors. Edward had also processed his pictures and had transmitted them to Florida during the night.

Three hours later, my phone rang.

“Marlise, this is brilliant.”

“Good morning, Madeline,” I said, trying to hide my scratchy voice. “Did Florida get my story?”

“Get it? They loved it! You had the entire Globe staff in hysterics this morning. You should have heard them during the conference call. Honestly, Marlise, I had no idea you could write.”

Her comment caught me off guard. After all, I had been writing tabloid stories for nearly two years. It was sobering to realize that even Globe’s editors did not regard tabloid reporting as legitimate writing.

“They want to keep the piece as a first-person account,” Madeline continued. “It will run as a cover story called ‘My Nightmare Date with Millionaire Groom.’ What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” I said. “As long as I can keep my anonymity.”

Madeline laughed. “Marlise, we chase celebrities. We don’t become them.”

The next week, as I stood in line at the grocery store, I glanced at the magazine rack and was startled to see my photograph on the cover of Globe. There had to be some explanation. Grabbing the issue, I read the headline “Millionaire Groom Proposes to New Gal on First Date.” Inside were six photographs of Rick with me, including an 8-by-5 of us together on the beach. Utterly embarrassed, I flipped the entire stack of magazines face down and dialed Madeline from inside the store. “So, what happened to my anonymity?”

She was laughing on the other end. “Oh, come on, Marlise. You look great. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that my face is out there now. I’ll never be able to sneak into weddings or parties or funerals again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “Fame is brief. A week from now, no one will remember this.”

She was wrong. That month, I received phone calls from people I hadn’t seen since junior high. Relatives, friends and even members of my father’s church commented on the article. The worst call came from my mother, who first learned of the story while standing in line at a supermarket counter. “How far do you plan on digging yourself into this bottomless career?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Mom,” I told her. “I honestly don’t know.”

Do you like what you read? Subscribe to San Diego Magazine »