Better Call Saul and his Sidekick Dick Tracy

When someone sends you a message they are closing the door to you, it should come equipped with a deadbolt and alarm system so you cannot venture back in for another peek.

I suspect many of us have re-opened a door or two in our lives, only to find empty boxes and remnants of trash.

In my case, after a very enjoyable evening with a man who I seemed to connect with, at least on a personal level, I received the following message.

“Claire, wanted to let you know that I recently met someone who I want to see how things go with. I think there’s a lot to like about you and I enjoyed meeting. Wish you the best.”

Well, at least I wasn’t great, or sweet or anything like that. No, this time there is a lot to like about me.

Uh, yeah, I know. 

Is this designed to give me an ego boost in the context of a rejection? DKDM – Don’t know; doesn’t matter.

Oddly enough, at dinner when we met, he was staring intensely at me, and, of course, I’m thinking I probably have food on my face or something stuck in my teeth, so I ask him, “What?” with a look of deep concern.

He looks at me, smiles and says, “I like you.”

I laugh and say “Well, I like you too. You are very easy to talk to.”

I get better looking when they drink wine.

I’m flattered and thinking this guy is date-able. He’s nice, easy going, can hold a conversation. 

This is what dating is supposed to be, right?

But, then I receive the pass-off text, which should have gone ignored and unacknowledged.

Instead, I write back, "Thanks for being honest and appreciate the closure. I launched my blog this week sfwidowgirl.com.  Check it out. Fundamentally, it’s about treating people with love and kindness and the hilarious dating journey I’m on as well as the grief journey.  Wish you all the best as well.”

He responds, “I’ll check it out. Already wondering if I got ahead of myself (too optimistic?), but I’m not big on dating around. My sense is that your sense of humor – and I know one when I see one - has, and is, getting you through.”

Yeah dude, all you people are filling my life with joy and humor.

Next morning, this arrives: “Hi, I was moved by what you’ve written. Could we talk?”

I think he’s probably worried about me and my state of mental health, or wants to console me or possibly reel me back in, though that was the least expected. I say okay, which was the fundamental mistake.

He calls and compliments me on my writing and so on. I thank him for the kind words, and he says, “I’d like to take you out again.”

I say, “Okay Counselor, make your case.”

He was a recovering attorney with various side hustles and seemed to have an endless 'to-do' list which never seemed to get 'ta-done,' ergo, I dubbed him Saul from the popular show.

“I got ahead of myself, and the other person has some flags, and people don’t change.”

I would have hoped an attorney could have constructed a better case, but I accepted this because a.) I had fun with him and while it didn’t feel like it was a big love connection, he was extraordinarily date-able; and b.) we had one date for God's sake and he pulled the trigger way too soon in my opinion.

His date-able factor was very attractive to me. I think this is fundamentally what I’m looking for anyway.

So I agree to another date and get perilously heckled by my daughter and son calling “FOUL” and saying this was a very bad idea.

I respect and love both of these people dearly, and should listen to this wise advice.

When something starts out with this level of ambivalence and drama, it’s an obvious sign.  The door should be immediately sealed because there is likely a roomful of accumulated stuff which should not be disturbed. The parable of Pandora’s Box.

So, against all wise and sound advice, I proceed and re-open the door.

I am tragically flawed. 

We meet in the late afternoon at a winery and have dinner. It’s another really fun evening and I’m laughing a lot. It’s an easy conversation accompanied with playful physical affection. 

We close the restaurant and neither of us want to go home so we decide to find a nearby bar in a very small town in the Delta area which not only has limited choices, but is also probably ill-advised as a respectable hang-out for two old White folks.

Admittedly, though I do love a dive bar now and then.

I’m deliriously happy, laughing and having a blast because he’s a fun date and we are being silly and rolling through the night.

At one point in the evening, a friend of his who is a recovering police detective sends my companion a picture of his recent date, expressing disappointment.

This amuses me and I ask my date to take a selfie of us and I send the photo and a text to his friend Dick Tracy from my phone with the caption, “How ya doing babe?  We are having fun.”

It takes a few minutes for all of us to sort out who’s who and what is happening on this text chat. 

I text to the group, “I’m on a date with your friend who wanted to take me salsa dancing.”

In an instant, Dick Tracy sends two texts outlining a full, and accurate, background report on me. 

Seriously - my home address, age, late husband’s name, mother’s name, former childhood home address and so forth.

I am shocked, appalled, mildly frightened. 

But mostly, angry.

I tell my date, this is no bueno, and I can tell he is embarrassed and feels a little bad.  Still, he doesn’t call the dude or tell him to lay off.

“I write back to Sargent Stripes, “How am I checking out?”

He says he’s still working on it.

I write back, “Hey, all good here.  Just have a little crush on your friend is all.  Give a girl a break.”

Dick, is a good word to describe this guy.  Fits on all counts if you get my drift.

While all of this is underway, my daughter and her friend, who are tracking my location on her phone, have sent me a selfie and a picture of the phone which shows my location accompanied by the message, “Just checking on ya.”

I write back, “I’m good.  Having a great time and I have more stories.  It’s been a rolling night of very funny stuff.”

They write back, “It’s 11:45.”

Damn, I’m past curfew.  This role reversal happened so fast. 

One day these people will decide where I live my final days so I better pull myself together.

I make my way back home, still laughing about the very bizarre and entertaining evening in spite of Dick Tracy.

Saul and I text a few more times during the week and arrange to have a mid-week dinner. Again, I feel this guy is a good companion and keep using the word, date-able.

Another great dinner date - fun, easy and entertaining.  He invites me back to his house and I decline and say “It’s way too soon for that” though I don’t think he actually intended the invitation to be a call for intimacy. 

I have a drive ahead of me and am leaving for a trip to celebrate my daughter’s 40th birthday in Charleston, SC.

As I’m on my way home, he sends me a message and the song, ‘Planet Claire’  by the B52s which I have not heard before and also find amusing.

I head off for an epic trip to Charleston – heat, food, drinks and an airline meltdown which took us to five airports in one day – a personal best.

By then I have heard from him a few times, and I can tell he is fading out.  At one point, I actually ask him, “Are you ghosting out on me?”  Of course, he denies it.

We exchange our last text the Sunday I finally get home from Charleston after a two-day attempt, and I never hear from him again. 

This time, I decide to not “close it out” with Saul because that would make it easy for him. 

He drew me back in, and I assume even he decided rejecting me twice was one too many times and ghosted out, in spite of a conversation about how this is an unacceptable way to end things.  Maybe he thought he could just grandfather-in the first rejection? One and done. Who knows?

Another lesson learned: don’t re-open a closed door. Seal that baby shut and move on.   

And two, if Dick Tracy appears, find Flattop Jones, Tracy’s biggest nemesis, and just take the sucker out.