A Night of Deceit With Debbie and No-Nose Kassoon

If you’re a pathetic single incapable of meeting people through normal human endeavor, your eyes have probably wandered to the personals in the newspaper:

“BUSTY CHRISTIAN SEEKS ELFIN GENIUS TO MATCH WITS, TAKE WALKS”

While scouring them in Friday’s paper, I again was tempted to jot down some numbers in case there might ever be a Saturday night when I actually tire of watching “The Commish.”

Unlikely, however--not while the memory is still fresh some 20 years later of the night I ventured out on Dial-a-Date.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the newspaper I worked for wanted to investigate a new dating service in town that had advertised in the classified section. The editors wanted to be sure the service wasn’t taking nefarious advantage of unsuspecting saps who plucked down 30 bucks for an evening escort.

Casting about the newsroom for someone to play the role of unsuspecting sap, the embittered editors settled on yours truly.

I arrived at the Dial-a-Date office, which had a desk, four chairs, a phone book on the floor and nothing on the walls. A young woman welcomed me and handed me a questionnaire that allowed me to list my likes and dislikes, religious preferences (if any) and whether I had a criminal record. At the bottom was a proviso that I had answered all questions truthfully, which I signed with the name, “Dana Jackson.”

The woman asked to see a driver’s license, and I told her I left my wallet in the car. She said I could bring it next time. I think she blushed as I thanked her for trusting me.

My answers apparently formed a match with a woman named Debbie, who, I was told, would call me to line up the date. I asked what Debbie looked like and she said, “She has super-long brown hair.” A few nights later, Debbie phoned and we agreed to meet that Friday night at a “cozy little bar” that she recommended on the south side of town. I asked Debbie how I would recognize her. She said she was 5 feet tall and would be wearing a brown coat.

The next day at the office, I reported back to my friends and mentioned the bar.

“I know that bar,” our police reporter said. “The bartender is a guy named No-Nose Kassoon.” He told me to check our clip files, and I found a single article with the headline: “Bar Blasted by Shotgun.”

That Friday night I arrived at the bar just before 8. Two guys were playing pool for Falstaffs and another man was seated at the bar--one of my colleagues. Soon, a short woman with super-long brown hair walked in and took a seat at the opposite end of the bar.

Somehow, my friend and I kept a straight face. Debbie was pleasant, not realizing she was under surveillance. She was good company, but I began lying almost immediately. I told her I was a graduate student with an eye toward teaching.

We left for a classy restaurant where within minutes I spotted a guy who played on my basketball team in a city recreation league. Knowing he would blow my cover, I waited until Debbie left for the restroom and then went to his table and swore him to silence.

The dinner went uneventfully, and I was keeping excellent mental notes for the article I was going to write. Maintaining fraudulence was exciting; it was like being a spy.

Unfortunately, the restaurant provided some unexpected entertainment. Instead of the standard strolling violinist or hypnotist, the featured performer was a psychic. Debbie summoned him to our table.

She told him about the arranged date. He pondered us at some length and soon began seeing blues and yellows swirling around Debbie’s head. He said he saw a junk drawer that needed to be cleaned. He predicted that we would hit it off well and said we should look beyond Dial-a-Date. “I think there’s something between you, maybe more than you want to admit.”

I asked if he envisioned me teaching and he said, “I wish you hadn’t said that. I was just about to suggest teaching. I think you’d be perfect.”

He didn’t see through my disguise, and neither did Debbie. We ended the date at the appointed midnight hour with nothing more exciting than a peck on the cheek. It was not an affair to remember.

There was a sequel, though. Although I didn’t name her in the article I subsequently wrote, Debbie phoned and said her boyfriend somehow figured out it was her. He didn’t know she was moonlighting for Dial-a-Date, and now they were breaking up because of it.

Yes, everything was a lie, I told her--except the part about enjoying myself with her. That didn’t soothe her, and I sense the paper lost a subscriber over that one.

I never answered a newspaper ad again. As for Debbie, I hope she’s happily married somewhere, sitting home on Saturday nights watching television, having long ago forgiven the jerk who cost her a boyfriend.