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The instant I left Coronado Beach, I stopped at my house for a quick shower and a change of clothes and headed straight back to my office to try to figure out a game plan that won’t end in me losing my job.
I’ve been working on said game plan for the last several hours, and I’m only certain of two things: Jake Brent is a no-fucking-go and, besides the cleaning staff, everyone in the office has headed home for the night.
Basically, I’ve yet to move past square one—find a new Bachelor Anonymous.
I can’t do another vote—there’s no time. Not to mention, having Tribune readers know the process has been fucked from the jump isn’t the kind of image I’d like to portray. As a general rule of thumb, I try to make decisions that won’t get me fired.
I pick up the next sheet from my pile and read the ad aloud.
“Single male with a good couch looking for a woman with a house in Palos Verdes. If interested, please send picture of the house.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, this dude doesn’t want to find love! He wants a sugar momma with a sweet house!
Without even looking at any of the other information, I quickly ball that one up between my hands and chuck it over my left shoulder in the direction of the trash can.
“Holy flaming fuckups, I’m going to end up writing obituaries. I can feel it.”
I grab the next paper, holding my eyes closed tight until I feel ready and then pop them open to read. This one’s a little longer and starts off way more promising.
“Divorced white male, 6’1” tall and a muscular 210 pounds, looking for love with a single female of any ethnicity,” I read quietly to myself. “Looking for someone I can make laugh. Recovering addicts, a plus.”
I scan back over the last sentence again. “Wait, what?”
My mouth moves numbly as I read over each word carefully. Recovering addicts, a plus.
A plus?
Why is this guy looking for recovering addicts? Does he, like, want to prey on them or something?
Lawsuits against the paper and me, and basically everyone in greater Southern California swirl in my mind, and I cringe.
I don’t even bother balling up the paper before tossing it behind me this time. It drifts to the ground like snow on Christmas morning. Geez Louise, why is this so hard?
I pick up the next one and scroll my eyes over the title.
Widowed Male Seeks Curvaceous Sexual Attention.
Ugh. Next.
Single Male Seeks Hot Girl Summer.
Eye roll.
Single Male Seeks Love.
Okay. This one doesn’t sound so bad…
I cover my eyes and look between my fingers as I continue to read silently.
Single and ready to mingle, ladies. At eighty-six years young, I know the meaning of love.
Holy prune juice and melba toast! Eighty-six? This isn’t going to work at all, though I can’t help but keep reading.
Must like watching Flea Market Flip and riding in golf carts. Send pictures first.
I let my head loll back and try not to cry. Am I living in some sort of alternate dimension? I mean, wasn’t almost drowning this morning in the real ocean enough? I have to drown in the metaphorical deep end of work, too?
Gah.
I pick up the next paper from the stack hesitantly. Who knows what snakes in this pile of ridiculousness have yet to strike?Single Male Seeks Virgin. I’m looking for a woman between the ages of 18 and 30 who will glorify me and God forever. I am willing to teach her all the things she doesn’t know. Virgin preferred but will consider someone revirginized after one-time lover.“Oh, for the love of everything holy—”
My desk phone rings and startles me out of my seconds-away breakdown.
With a hand to my chest, I inhale a calming breath.
Normally, I’d be annoyed by the surprise, but at this point, I’ll take any distraction I can get.
Hell, I’ll talk to anyone right now—telemarketers, drug pushers, political activists, Pilot Pete’s mom from The Bachelor, anyone—to save myself from reading another personal ad sent straight from hell.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Holley Fields from the Tribune,” a warm, masculine voice says in my ear. “This is Jake Brent from the Ocean.”
“Holy—”
“Shit,” he finishes for me. “Holy shit, indeed.”
“I… Well…” I pause briefly to clear my throat and blink myself out of shock. “Yeah. I guess you could say I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“And I never expected to call you,” he replies, a slight lilt to his husky voice. “Trust me. Nor did I think I would have to scour the Tribune’s website to find the number for the woman running a dating contest, which, apparently, I’ve been nominated to be a part of.”
“So…why are you?” I ask, then immediately wince. Man, I hope he’s not thinking of taking legal action against the paper. I’d really like to be able to continue to pay my mortgage and buy donuts. I need to have a job.
