Blown Back On Course

by Tara Overzat

After months of ennui at my sales job, I met Jared*. I had signed up for a profile on Match.com, and admittedly did it for a lot of the same reasons people create facebook and MySpace profiles today- to have something on the web that expressed my personality and likes that was an acceptable place to cyber-socialize with people. The lying and cold-calling at my job often left me too exhausted to try to meet people in more conventional avenues, so Match.com seemed an okay thing to do, and it had worked well the summer before when I lived in St. Louis.

Jared looked dashing and exciting in his pictures. One was a shot of him by a prop plane. Another was of him skiing. His profile said he was 34, never married, no kids.

He “winked” at me, a type of cyber-flirting on the site. I winked back, and didn’t hear from him. Weeks, maybe a couple of months went by with intermittent winking and I dropped him a brief line. No response. I was flirting and going out on a few dates here and there with men from the site. The one overwhelming difference between the men I met in St. Louis and the men I met in NYC was that Midwesterners were way more down-to-earth and polite. New York is a hard place that can produce hard people (or at least people who are super-stressed and who want to rush through everything… and I mean everything).

Suddenly, on a Tuesday night I received a Match.com message from Jared. He said he had an extra ticket to a jazz show tomorrow night and wanted to know if I would accompany him, maybe get dinner before or drinks after. The show was for Freddy Cole, Nat King Cole’s younger brother. Jared included a link to a website to listen to Freddy’s music. I enthusiastically replied.

The next night was incredible. The weather was finally warm in NYC and I wore a short pleated skirt and strappy heels, which I had hastily thrown on in the bathroom of my office and met Jared in Midtown. The moment I walked into the Mexican restaurant (I think it was called Mariachi) I spotted him. Jared is one of those rare people that have a magnetism that makes people stop and stare when he walks into a room and for no reason that anyone can put their finger on is remarkable. I guess they call it the X factor.

His dark green eyes and perfectly sculpted face and slightly impetuous and pouty lips had me hooked. It wasn’t love but it was an immediate and earth-shaking attraction.

We had a pleasant dinner- the green enchiladas were amazing- and the conversation was light and fun until Jared said without preamble, “I’m going to China in a few months.”

“For vacation?”

“No… to live there.”

I looked around the colorful restaurant- the dark yellow walls, the pictures of women in puffy dresses surrounded by palm trees. I didn’t know what to say.

“Okay, why China?”

“Why not China?” he replied with a certainty that silenced me. I didn’t have an answer for that.

He went on to say that it was time for him to look at other opportunities and learning Mandarin had become a top priority for him- why not do it in China? He was sensually persuasive and I swallowed every word.

The rest of the night was Cosmo magazine perfect- a great, intimate jazz concert, an expensive bottle of wine, more drinks at a cute neighborhood bar and after, a personal confession from Jared, a kiss. A matchless kiss- not too soon, and not too hard. His timing was impeccable, and I failed to remember that practice makes perfect.

I was 22 and still had my sexual morals intact. I didn’t have sex on the first date, no matter the circumstance. You’re flying to Timbuktu in two hours? Have a nice flight. Going to war tomorrow? Then what the hell are you doing having drinks with me? With Jared, though I found myself fast on my way to breaking that rule.

I spent the night and woke up feeling like I had known the man next to me much longer than one evening. We sat in bed that morning in his small Chelsea apartment, on luxuriously soft bed sheets, watching Jack Cafferty complaining on a morning show on his flat screen TV that hooked onto a swiveling post, so that it could face the “living room” or the “bedroom.” We sipped on coffee and even though I should have been at work just ten blocks north of his railroad apartment, I dawdled with Jared, who seemed to enjoy my company as much as I was enjoying his.

A little bit later, I called in sick to work, put my strappy heels back on and walked to the L Train. Jared’s apartment was conveniently on the end of the line, just 6 train stops from my Brooklyn apartment. The sun was shining in Brooklyn, even making my yet to be gentrified neighborhood glow in vibrant hues of red brick, green street posts, and yellow bodega signs.

The skylight in my apartment caught the mid-morning sun and lit up most of the living room with a white light, making even the tired tile floor shine.

I had gone from three to two roommates- an aspiring actress and a music promoter- both of whom noticed one helluva change had come over me that day. I was happy.All signs pointed to Jared being the right man for me.

Over time, I ignored all the inconvenient and strange things about my time with Jared. The fact that we hung out on weeknights, but never weekends. The rampant text messages and IMs, but few phone calls. Then, there was the odd time on my birthday when he took me to an upscale fondue restaurant. First Jared ran into the restaurant, leaving me on the sidewalk to make an awkward joke with the bouncer. He re-emerged with some excuse and walked me in. What had he gone inside for? Was he scoping the place out? For what? Our table was not ready yet, so we hit the crowded bar. The whole restaurant was bathed in reddish light and modern art pieces were on the walls. It felt like the real trendy NYC.

“Hey, Jared!” A balding man in his thirties called out to us. He approached and Jared shook his hand, saying hello. I was excited to meet a friend of Jared’s and rushed to introduce myself.

“Oh, so you must be the lady I’ve been hearing about,” the friend chuckled.

Suddenly, Jared ushered us away. I was a little surprised since our table wasn’t ready and it turned out the man was with a group of people that Jared knew.

“Oh, that guy,” Jared started, “he thinks my name is Dave. He’s always confusing me with this guy we know named Dave.” Jared laughed nervously, but I had no concrete reason to doubt him.

In my romantic delirium, I called Jared the strong wind that blew me back on course. I was realizing anew that there was life outside of the rat race and that it was not too late for me to go travel and otherwise experience life. Jared spoke often about the opportunities cropping up in China, and would send me websites detailing all the teaching jobs I was eligible for. I decided to go to China as well.

It wouldn’t be until I was a 22-year-old girl trapped in a fake contract at a school in Beijing, China that I would begin to understand the truth. Jared was no small guy at the tall and shiny office building he reported to – he had been the Vice President of a large department. His move to China was not some sexy whim that would appeal to his 22-year-old girlfriend who ached to see the world before it was too late – it was the calm, calculated move of a businessman who knew that China was emerging rapidly as a global player. That tiny railroad apartment in Chelsea? A weeknight spot to be close to the office. The woman who called all the time, whom he said was his best friend, was his wife. And, of course, he was older than 34.

*Name changed to protect privacy