All the Lonely People
They prowl the aisles like cats on a back fence, pacing the same ground not once but twice and sometimes three times.
Even their instincts of high alert are catlike as they seek out signals of instant rapport, a glance or a smile that tells them something might be stirring down Libido Lane.
There is no sexual yowling during these desperate little rituals, but when one of the prowlers finally does settle next to what could be the kitten of his dreams, you can almost hear the purring.
I watch all this settling-in for about an hour preceding a talk by sleek and exotic Helena Amram, an ex-gunboat sailor in the Israeli army who considers herself the matchmaker of everyone’s dreams.
Apparently so do about 400 singles who gathered the other night at a Century City hotel to hear Helena promise if they joined her club, they’d be walking down the aisle before they had time to compare astrological signs.
They paid $20 each to hear this self-styled “yenta” hustle her V.I.P. International as a kind of wedding chapel extraordinaire for anyone seeking a lifetime commitment.
If you’re looking for a quick roll in the hay, she told them, you’re in the wrong place. But if you’re seeking forever, Helena is selling wedding bells by the bushel.
She’s not cheap. A happy ending can run as high as $20,000. But before anyone can complain about the cost, Helena spells out the problem in a voice as warm and sweet as honey in tea.
“Loneliness,” she purrs, “is a terrible thing. . . .”
There are roughly 1.6 million adult unmarried people in L.A. Not all of them want to get married or be paired with someone else on any basis, but those who do represent a tempting market for the wily entrepreneur.
As a result, there are bars, gyms, magazines, apartments, travel clubs, bands, bowling alleys, card rooms, cruises and psychological testing centers exclusively for singles. There are even singles jingles.
The marketplace for the predatory unattached is jammed with anything that will attract their interest and their money, especially around Valentine’s Day, when visions of hot love dance in their giddy heads.
I’m not sure it’s hot love that dances in the head of a Westside podiatrist I met just prior to Helena’s seminar for singles.
He’s the kind of cool bachelor who, in his mid-30s, has a firm fix on exactly what he wants in a woman and advertises extensively toward that end.
He wants a unique, slender, mature, educated female who lives within driving distance of his office and doesn’t want children.
The fact that he has searched for six years without finding her lessens his enthusiasm not at all. He knows, the way a muskrat knows the mating season, there’s someone out there with his name on her lips.
Finding her isn’t easy. As a podiatrist, he spends his life looking at feet, which does nothing to facilitate his search for a true love.
But due to the time he has invested in the hunt, he has refined it into a science. He has even worked out exactly what to say to women over the phone and where to take them on dates.
If it gets serious and goes to Date No. 3, for instance, he’ll bring a lucky one to his office and show her X-rays of webbed feet.
Singles events are sad little affairs, peopled by men who laugh a little too loud to attract the attention of women in skirts a little too short.
At Helena’s seminar, even selecting a place to sit became a matter of serious concern, like musical chairs with death to the losers.
It all seemed so easy and natural before singleism somehow became a subculture of society and a metaphor for loneliness. Instinct was important once, and love mattered.
Today, we’ve institutionalized romance. Pairing has become a matter of marketability. You apply for a mate the way you apply for a job.
When did it get that way? When did meeting someone become so awkward? When did computer dating replace candle glow?
“We’ve isolated ourselves,” a psychologist tells me. “We’ve lost the ability to say hello.”
I listened to one effort at Helena’s. A man in his 30s sat next to a woman slightly younger.
“What brings you here?” he asked abruptly.
“Curiosity,” she said.
Silence.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he finally said, laughing loudly.
She looked at him, then away. After a few more moments of stilted conversation, she said, “Excuse me, I’ll be back,” but never returned.
Later, I saw the man drive away. On the rear bumper of his car was a sticker that said, “Happiness is being single.”
The poor guy looked miserable.
