CARBON DATING

After an ex-lover left him emotionally paralyzed for the better part of ten years, my uncle John decided at 53 to give relationships another go. Had someone asked him before what qualities were desirable in a woman, he would’ve listed any number of things. Now, older and wiser from the sting of heartbreak, Uncle John figured it was best to lower the bar. Height, occupation, and interests got pushed to the periphery with “female” being the only requirement left standing. With a world population of 7.9 billion and nearly 4 billion of those people women, he believed somewhere in that sea of faces was the one person destined for him.

Once parameters were set, we went to work creating a Tinder profile. Perhaps the most important step when establishing an online presence is deciding which photos make the cut. Not only should they highlight a man’s best attributes, they must also make a woman stop in her tracks and think, “Sure, I’d give him a shot.” Some men flaunt freshly-caught fish while others pose shirtless with hands behind their head as though being apprehended by the beach police. Should these tactics fail, there is no straighter path to a woman’s heart than with a solid animal photo. And because Uncle John hated fishing and developed a beer belly from binge drinking, he went with option c. The only issue was that Uncle John didn’t own pets, a fact I found strange considering any animal would’ve brightened up a life of solitude. 

As I scoured the internet for pet shops offering same-day pickup, it was brought to my attention that the neighbors had a kitten named Milo. Seeing we were pressed for time, Uncle John decided it best to borrow the feline. I watched from the living room sofa as he shuffled over, knocked several times, and was greeted by a couple in their mid-fifties who looked homeless, but weren’t. Intentions were conveyed with swiping finger motions and two raised fists, which I’m guessing represented paws. Hands were shaken, shoulders were patted, and after several waves of farewell, Uncle John returned with the kitten over his shoulder like a sleeping infant. I photographed the pair engaging in various acts of affection to solidify the cat-lover narrative. Despite being held hostage, Milo realized playing along was his only ticket to never seeing this psychopath ever again. And so he allowed himself to be positioned beside a dish of milk with Uncle John squatting nearby throwing up double peace signs.

One of the major downsides of option c is that a man risks being overshadowed entirely by his animal. Such was the case when nearly every reply Uncle John received centered around Milo. In the coming weeks, all sorts of women reached out, trying to get a piece of this kitten they believed was his. The collective fascination with Milo created an almost impenetrable barrier which Uncle John could not seem to break through. Every attempt made to further interactions beyond the app were met with unanswered messages or women revealing they had only swiped right because of Milo. This devastated Uncle John, seeing the influx of matches and realizing so few of them carried any tangible potential. He almost lost hope when, on a particularly drizzly afternoon, a woman named Suzanne contacted him.

Suzanne was fifteen years his junior, dirty blonde, and according to Tinder’s GPS calculations, a reasonable ten miles away. What struck Uncle John was how Suzanne never once mentioned the kitten, a breath of fresh air after the string of past disappointments. So much anxiety came with messaging first that it felt nice having someone else break the ice for once. He also loved the mysterious allure she carried given her profile had only two photos. One depicted her baking what Uncle John identified as scones while the other showed her mid-stride jogging at some sort of park. The duo exchanged messages well into the evening hours and their conversation ended with Uncle John asking her out. Suzanne agreed without hesitation, even claiming she looked forward to meeting next Friday at five o’clock sharp.

On the day of their outing, every pore on Uncle John’s body opened simultaneously and the result was nothing short of spectacular. Continents of sweat formed across his Brooks Brothers button-up with some even merging to create a sort of perspiration Pangea. As for underarm perspiration, he kept both arms crossed as if trapped within an invisible straightjacket. To compensate for his stiff mannerisms, Uncle John leaned backwards and walked to the car with a lateral swagger typically reserved for gangsters. I pulled a facial ligament from cringing but I’ll admit it was nice seeing him loosen up a bit.

We pulled up to the sports bar thirty minutes early to give Uncle John ample drying time before his date. As his back sweat dissipated, we were approached by a woman who I guessed was Suzanne. Decoding her identity would’ve been much easier had she not worn a mask, which limited our judgment to the upper half of her face. Years of watching MTV’s Catfish left me fearful that Suzanne might show up two-hundred pounds heavier or a different race altogether. Therefore I was greatly relieved to discover she looked exactly like her online counterpart, at least her forehead anyway, which in person came out to roughly the size of a ping pong paddle. Uncle John spent several moments fixating on Suzanne’s massive cranium before whispering in my ear, “Take a seat wherever, just don’t make it obvious. Got it?”

Just as I started on the assigned mission, Suzanne scanned the entirety of my body as if it were a barcode.

“Who’s this? Your son or something?” she asked.

“Very funny,” Uncle John replied. “I met him like five minutes ago.”

A part of me died inside but for the sake of protocol, I concurred that we in fact did not know one another until five minutes ago. 

“Well if you don’t mind, me and John here have a little rendezvous this evening!”

I nodded and Uncle John guided Suzanne by the small of her back to a table in the far right-hand corner. Behind them sat a skyline of bottles and their silhouette was framed by a large television playing what appeared to be an NCAA finals game. 

Once the pair took their respective seats, I made myself comfortable beside a middle-aged couple who welcomed me with two thumbs-ups. I kept busy by people watching, sporadically glancing at Uncle John’s table when exhausted by folks jostling about with half-empty beers and oversized jerseys. The pair had chemistry as far as I was concerned. Suzanne laughed a great deal and leaned forward each time Uncle John began speaking. Twenty minutes after settling down, I was approached by a waiter who noticed my sketchy behavior and asked if he could be of assistance.

“They’re having our famous yucca fries if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d be happy to bring some over if you’d like.”

“Oh no, I’m not hungry. That’s my uncle and I’m here to oversee the date in case something goes awry. It’s his first in ten years, can you believe it? Ten!”

“Like a private investigator?” 

“Precisely, except not nearly as private and it’s pro bono.”

“What a shame!” the waiter replied. “You’re doing an excellent job.”

As we faced their direction, Uncle John produced a calzone-sized shark tooth from his back pocket. He had acquired it during a post-breakup trip to the Keys as a conversational piece should socially demanding situations ever arise. I figured Suzanne would find the massive fossilized fang resting before her troubling, but it was actually the opposite. She considered the tooth with great precision, weighing the relic in each hand before testing the sharpness with her index finger. The assessment went on for roughly five minutes before she grabbed her phone and showed Uncle John a photographed shark tooth resembling his own. Pointing at her sternum, Suzanne mouthed what appeared to be the words here’s mine. 

Watching two strangers geek out over shark teeth while scarfing down assorted finger foods was the last thing I’d imagined myself doing on a Friday night. But as the saying holds true, there’s a first time for everything, much the same way Suzanne was the first to show Uncle John that vulnerability was not something to be feared, but embraced. With the right person, that is. And it filled me with immense joy knowing I was witnessing a reversal of fate, that here in this sports bar was where the healing began. More than anything, I commended Uncle John for mustering up enough courage to put himself out there after ten long years away from it all. While the two of them went on conversing, I smiled and telepathically sent Uncle John my support from across the room, hopeful that amidst the sea of faces, he had found the one person who was destined for him.

***

Nam Hoang Tran’s work appears in The Daily Drunk, White Wall Review, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. www.namhtran.com.