Digging up bones

nothing scarier than the dating apps

I read this at a storytelling event two years ago written about a date three years ago. I’d forgotten all about it but last night it popped into my mind as I fell asleep. (I’ve been having nightmares lately. Veil is thin, I guess.) I hadn’t read it since then and in rereading I had forgotten how honestly terrifying this date was. I considered redownloading the apps but perhaps not me thinks. Enjoy!

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I’ve always been a scaredy cat who loved to be scared. My masochistic tendencies began as a child, pleading with my father to tell me the synopsis of the Stephen King novel he was reading by the pool and then pleading with him to sleep on my floor.

I’d race through the library’s fluorescent halls, not just because I was excited to choose my next spook (Fear Street hive rise up!) but because I wasn’t entirely certain someone, or something, wouldn’t grab me through the stacks.

It wasn’t fear of the unknown per se, because I knew there were other things out there: ghosts, monsters, aliens. It was fear of what might happen to me when I encountered one.

I can recall seasons of my life by what I was afraid of at the time:

The summer before I turned ten when I became obsessed with aliens and I stopped sleeping in anticipation of abduction.

The spring before I turned 13 when I did a history project on ghosts of the Civil War and was asked to do it again with “more facts and less fiction.” Although, it seems everything I learned about the Civil War at school in the south was fiction.

The winter after I turned 16 and started believing that maybe The Exorcist was real, waking up every morning at 3:33 AM (witching hour) inhaling the air with worry that I’d smell something burning (a sign you’re about to possessed, of course.)

The fall after I turned 30 on a drive back from the beach when I listened to eight straight hours of true crime podcasts and upon arrival home my nervous system was shot from years of bottled up fear, and exploded fear, and spoken fear.

It was then I denounced horror from my life. Something I’d long for privately and satiate only as a “special treat” in October, or a sleepover with Margaret 1, or a new Evil Dead Rises release, etc.

Now my current day to day horror is being a single woman on dating apps. There is nothing quite as horrifying as reading bios men have written thinking they’re funny, or clever, or smart.

When I see a hot guy who hasn’t written “change my mind that pineapple belong on pizza” and isn’t conservative I truly feel like I become rabid. Like a werewolf sinking their claws into human flesh with the rising of the full moon. Like a vampire biting into a pulsing blue vein on a thin neck with their porcelain fangs before the sun rises. Or, the scariest thing a man can think of: like a girl using her blowjob mouth to ask the guy she just blew if they could maybe hang again sometime if that’s cool?

Dinner? A group hang? Commitment? Is anyone else completely terrified right now??

While monogamy has scared almost every man I’ve ever dated, I continue to do the scariest thing in the world (okay second scariest, first is of course trying to look cool in front of a teenager) grab a first date drink.

Recently, I dared to go for a first date walk after trusting him the third time I asked that he wasn’t going to bury me at Shelby Bottoms. But something scarier than death happened: he wasn’t wearing shoes.

“Do you need to go grab your sneakers?” I asked when I walked up and saw his curled and unpedicured toes.

“Nah, I enjoy walking barefoot here.”

The horrors continue and so do I.

While that sounds like a scene from Deliverance, nothing was as scary as going out with a man who sounded like Matthew McConaughey.

It was my first date since my ex emailed me a month prior that he had no clear plans to return home, which was his way of telling me what I already knew, that we were through.

And I didn’t want someone spindly, or intelligent, or anything that reminded me of this person I loved. I wanted someone rough and maybe dumb.

Enter in stage left, let’s call him Matt for the sake of the story, Matt.

Matt was covered in tattoos that looked like ones you received in the military. He had blonde hair, and a toothy smile, and a voice recording where he stated everyone says he sounds like Matthew McConaughey but he doesn’t hear it. I’m bad with impersonations and I never do anything I’m bad at, but it did sound just like him. Slow, dumb. “Perfect,” I thought.

We messaged for two nights and he sent me photos of an estate sale the third morning. I thought perhaps there is more than meets the eye.

When he asked for my phone number, I gave it to him. But he kept messaging me on the app and didn’t send me his. He asked if I could hang out that night. I politely declined suggesting another evening and asked how his day was.

“You saw my photos of the estate sale so you know how my day was,” he messaged.

“Do you not remember me telling you I went to an estate sale?” He double messaged.

“Lol I did, just was asking in general,” I responded back even though I didn’t want to.

“So tomorrow night?” he asked and I left him on read.

At my supper club I played the audio recordings he sent me, speaking in his drawl about his grandmother (as an ageist, this didn’t make me swoon), speaking in his drawl about his hobbies (real estate), speaking in his drawl (alright alright alright.) We laughed and agreed he would be fun to fuck. I left with approval from my friends but the uneasiness in my stomach, deciding to sleep on responding back.

When I woke up in the morning, the uneasiness arose with me and I decided to do something I had never done before but had been done to me countless times: I decided to ghost.

I’d never met this man. I didn’t owe him anything. So I went about my day, and I didn’t shower, and I went over to Courtney’s to help organize her closet.

“Tonight?” He messaged. He was still only messaging me through the app.

“7?” He messaged.

“I feel bad!” I told Courtney, “but I really don’t want to respond.”

And then…my phone rang. We both jumped in her tiny closet.

“Holy shit it’s him!”

“How do you know?” She asked, looking at the 10 digits across my phone screen.

“Because it’s a Texas number.”

We both stared at the screen, our breath caught in our throats.

The ringing stopped. We exhaled.

The ringing began again.

“Oh no! What do I do?” I was panicking.

“Just answer it, babe. Tell him no.”

I picked up my phone like it was a ticking bomb.

“Well look who it is. Leaving me hanging.” Matt cooed on the phone.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call,” I began.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Where we meeting?”

“So, I can’t tonight.”

“Wow, I didn’t take you for that type of girl.”

“I’m actually not,” I laughed even though I don’t really know what type of girl I was denying to be.

I hugged Courtney goodbye and got in my car while Matt proceeded to talk at me for the next half hour and somehow garner my interest by talking about the infrastructure of the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. I grew up going to TPAC. TPAC means a lot to me. So even though I said I wasn’t going to date someone smart ever again, my sapiosexuality bested me and I found myself agreeing to Mickey’s with him the next night.

All day I felt weird. I felt like a soldier reporting for duty. I felt like I was being nice for nice sakes. I didn’t wear makeup and I wore an oversized band tee with jeans. I made no effort. My car was in the shop so I had to drive my mom’s which added an immaturity.

Mickey’s is a great place to meet your dear and beloved but walking in alone, the bar felt seedy. It felt too dark. It felt like a place you’d go to not be noticed. Which is funny, because I’ve been noticed many times at Mickey’s.

“I’m right behind you” a text came in. And then a hand on my shoulder.

“Gotcha!” Matt said. He was dressed like Matthew McConaughey. Longish hair, a Ralph Lauren-esque cowboy printed sweater, dark jeans, boots.

Now before this story goes any further and you begin to question if I’m a reliable narrator and you question my ability to make decisions, I need you to know that this man was hot.

I was heartbroken and I was horny and he was hot. I’ve made way worse decisions without the three H’s being present.

So even though the energy felt off, even though he literally jump scared me from the beginning, I smiled and to be honest, was even taken with him.

“What can I get you to drink?” Matt asked and even though my mouth felt like sandpaper I said, “No drink for me, thanks.”

“What am I gonna do with you?” he questioned back.

He had a beer in his hand and I wondered how long he had watched me without me knowing. I wondered how my posture had been.

“I won the chili cook off at work and I have a bowl for you in my truck,” he said, “or a whole pot for you back at my house,” he winked.

Kinda a sexy pickup line, actually.

Time operated differently as Matt talked. Within the first hour, I knew about his childhood, that he never lived anywhere longer than three years, his dad he didn’t have a relationship with, being kicked out of military school, his chickens, his favorite comedians. I knew he Googled me.

“I know you’re smart,” he said.

Which is hilarious because there’s no way you can figure that out by googling me. The only thing you can find out by googling me is that I think Michael Cera is hot and that’s because I tweeted often that I thought Michael Cera was hot between the years 2011-2014.

I also tweeted a lot about how great the band Supertramp is, which is also hilarious because I wouldn’t say Supertramp is even in my top 15 bands.

All he really knew about me is that I drove a Ford Edge because I told him my tire routers went out and he told me he could have fixed them.

At the strike of the second hour, he asked if I wanted a bowl of chili. A drink? I politely declined both and started looking around to see if I knew anyone around me.

“Why are you looking around? Why aren’t you making eye contact?” Matt asked. His intonation soaked with combativeness.

“I’m sorry, my eyes just flitter about some time.” Why do we as women justify our unease with pretty language?

Matt made intense eye contact that made me feel either uncomfortable or lustful; I couldn’t differentiate the two.

His eyes turned to the game on the TV above the bar, passive aggressively, but I was relieved to not have his eyes on me.

A minute or two passed by; I realized he was ignoring me.

“I think patriarchy would cease to exist if we dismantled the NFL,” I said smugly.

“Is that so?” He grinned and then turned his attention back to me. “What am I gonna do with you?” he asked again. “I played football, you know?”

“I did know. You told me you played football in high school and rugby in college. Uh oh, do you have sundowners?” I laughed.

“Actually, yeah, I’ve had 14 TBIs.” Matt said, unlaughing.

Now for those who don’t know, a TBI is a traumatic brain injury. I know this because I actually do want to dismantle the patriarchy and the NFL and TBIs are an important part of my argument.

TBIs are linked to memory loss, motor skill damage, depression, and domestic violence. People with TBIs are known to have a harder time processing their emotions, especially anger and aggression.

My jaw went slack. “You’ve had 14 TBIs?” My curiosity bested me.

In this next half hour, Matt showed me scans of his brain. I famously know nothing about the human body but even I could look at his brain and know something was not right.

“So your brain should look like this,” he said, his fingertips grazing my knee as we looked at his phone together, showing me an x-ray that showed lumps and dark matter.

“And here’s mine,” he southern accent heavy on his tongue as he swiped to the next photo of an x-ray that looked completely white, maybe two limbs of darkness creeping in.

“Holy shit,” I shrieked, “that’s your brain?”

“Yeah,” he said blankly and calmly.

Holy shit this was worse than I thought.

He changed the subject and started talking about his passion for interior design and told me something that he said he doesn’t typically share.

“I make furniture out of bones.”

“Bones of women?”

“No,” he said quietly.

I was reading “How to Be Eaten”, a novel retelling fairy tales from a modern day feminist perspective. The story I just finished was about Blue Beard and how he hid the women he murdered by turning them into fine art pieces and decor in his home.

I swallowed hard and felt bile gurgle in my stomach.

The third hour struck and I’ll interrupt your opinion of me real quick and speak for you by quoting my sister as I talked to her in a panic on my drive home an hour later, “I’m just confused why you were there for so long?”

I told you; as he talked, time seemed to fly by in fast forward, and that he was hot, and enigmatic. The lust had lingered and the fear had heightened it. There’s a reason thrillers are sexy.

Watching and listening to a man who was so different from my ex tell animated stories with the hint of a kiss at the end felt compelling. But learning about the TBIs mixed with the coincidence of bone furniture in my book and his bone furniture in his house, something in me shifted. The bad feeling in my gut quickened and while I wanted to leave immediately, I didn’t know how to safely.

“I have to pee,” he said and got up for the bathroom. God working in my favor. As he walked away, I uncrossed my legs and put both feet on the ground. He turned the doorknob. It didn’t open. He tapped his toes, impatiently, and then walked back towards me.

“I’m just gonna go outside,” he said.

“Aren’t you worried about public indecency?” I asked. Which is something I oddly worry about often, even though I can’t pee outside easily.

He smiled and then walked through the front door. My chance of a quick exit ruined.

I checked my phone and had many messages reading the same thing, “I have your location turned on. Are you okay?” My mom texted, “don’t let go of your drink” and my eyes darted to the table where I didn’t even dare order water.

Matt walked back in and grabbed another beer.

“What’re your top five desert island albums?” I asked once he sat back down. This is my go-to screener question.

“Queen,” Matt said.

A red flag is when a man’s favorite band is Queen. To me, it shows a lack of intelligence. Which, I know, this was what I was after but when playing desert island this takes it a bridge too far.

“I didn’t like the Queen biopic,” I responded.

“I thought it was pronounced bio pick,” he said.

I squealed, “I used to think that too. An ex and I actually got into a huge fight about it once.”

“Did you just get out of a relationship?” He asked.

I stumbled with my response. “Oh, well yes, actually, but this was a different relationship many moons ago.”

“Are you an open house?” He asked, his eye contact searing into me. It made me hot, as in like I was burning in an inferno, as in not in a sexy way.

I forced a chuckle, “What does that mean?”

“Well, I just made it up but am I your first interested buyer since you put yourself back on the market?”

For the hundredth time that day I cursed my ex that he got me into this mess. That I had to start over. That I had to date men who had 14 TBIs. That I had to listen to men say they loved Freddie Mercury and weren’t even bi.

I said, “Oh yeah, actually you are.” I swallowed hard.

And then he began to badger me with questions.

“I don’t really want to talk about it or him actually. I want to get to know you,” my palms were sweaty and I wiped them on my jeans.

“Well, you brought it up,” he said.

“No, I didn’t,” I shook my head but I started to feel unsure. Did I bring him up? All I thought about was him and because of that he remained the thing I didn’t want to talk about. Thinking was enough, talking would be tortuous.

But now I wasn’t so sure. Was I talking about him without realizing? Had all my conversations been consumed with him? I was feeling crazy. I was feeling Ingrid Bergman.

“How many times have I said the word ex?” Matt asked.

“Zero,” I replied. I was nervous to breathe.

“And how many times have you said the word ex,” he asked.

I felt naked on trial. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Zero or more than zero?” He asked.

And I said, “maybe four?”

And he asked, “Zero or more than zero?” He never broke eye contact. My chest heated and I could feel hives begin to spread.

“More than zero.” I matched his eye contact.

“Why are you on the apps?”

I felt like I was about to be found guilty for a crime I wasn’t even sure of. That I needed to answer everything right in order to not face my sentencing.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Do you want a relationship?” His interrogation and eye contact continuous.

“I don’t know. I’m figuring it out.”

“I just have suspicion we’re not going to date,” Matt said.

And I laughed, “No, we’re definitely not.”

And then he stared at me for what felt like 14 minutes; the same number of his TBIs.

I gulped back panic at the unease of him mentally undressing me.

And so being the clown I am, I made a joke to ease the tension, “Are you breaking up with me?”

“How could I break up with you if we’re not dating?” He said, his voice rising. I could feel the anger that had been brewing begin to percolate.

“I know we’re not dating, I was just kidding around.”

“I feel like you’re gaslighting me,” he said.

Angered breath escaped my mouth. No way was he feeling Ingrid Bergman right now.

“You know, I’m not the patriarchy,” he stared at me. I stifled a nervous laugh.

I began looking around again, eager, desperate to make eye contact with anyone. I noticed a guy who had once liked me on the app. He looked nice. He looked like someone I would have laughed with. He looked like someone who would have made me feel safe. He wouldn’t look at me.

“You’re gaslighting me”, he yelled. “You’re telling me you don’t know what you want. And then you’re telling me you don’t want a relationship. You’re lying to me! I just don’t get you. I don’t know what to do with you.” Anger radiated off his body.

I calmly said, “I feel like I’ve upset you,” and I gently touched his forearm. I swallowed my fear.

“You had a bad tone on the phone when I called you,” he said.

As someone who worked in a customer service call center for four years I can rest assured knowing I have never once had a bad tone on the phone.

“What do you mean?” I asked gently.

“You had a bad tone and my colleague even said I wouldn’t go out with her, she sounds like a bitch.”

The word bitch doesn’t bother me at all. Quite frankly, it typically makes me laugh. But Matt said it with such a bite, the animosity he felt towards me personified, dripping with hate, that it slapped me across the face.

“Well how is my tone now I asked?” I was decidingly trying to diffuse the situation. Minimize my own feelings of fear to minimize his feelings of rage.

“Are you going to ignore the question I just asked you?” he said. “Don’t you see how you’re gaslighting me right now? You say you’re ambiguous about dating but then put your foot down on a relationship. How is that supposed to make me feel?” He raised his hands to the air.

“I’m sensing I’ve upset you”, I said.

“Oh!” He brought his fists down to the table, “Now you’re assigning my feelings.”

“I’m not trying to but you’re clearly distressed.”

And at this he stood up, towered over me and screamed, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do you.” And then he stormed away.

I breathed in and tried to decipher how long is enough time for him to get in his car and leave.

I looked around in disbelief, an unfortunate smile on my face, to see if anyone saw. The guy I didn’t like back on the app had left.

I breathed out and saw Matt standing at the bar.

And without thinking I ran passed him, out of Mickey’s and to my mom’s car, grateful that if he were to follow me he’d be searching for a Ford Edge.

I didn’t exhale a breath until I was a mile away. I laughed maniacally like a final girl in the horror movies I’d made myself stay away from.

Before I left for the date I told my mom “Well hopefully I don’t end up dead,” and I laughed away my intuition for the upteenth time.

That first hour, Matt asked why I hadn’t originally wanted to go out with him. I told him I come from a long line of women with incredible intuition but that I’m getting mixed signals from myself. That I’m in a season of life where I’m unsure what is worth trusting and what is fear in trying new things.

The next morning over coffee my mom told me she hadn’t been able to sleep. “I had visions of him drugging your drink, and I had visions of you running to your car, and I had visions of your bones.”

“Funny you mention bones,” I said, goosebumps prickling my skin.

I recorded a voice memo recounting the date and sent it to my supper club but immediately regretted it. I wasn’t sure if my fear was valid. If I was finding correlations and coincidences to fit my narrative of a bad first date. If I was overreacting. I was anxious for their responses to trickle in.

My phone buzzed, and then buzzed again, and then again. I carefully peered at my screen, terrified for a moment that Matt’s name was on my phone. And it was, kinda.

The memes are true that women can find out everything about a man with just a first name for I now had screenshots upon screenshots of police records in the state of Tennessee with Matt’s name all over them.

With one that particularly caught my eye: a search warrant of his property.

As you know, I gave up scary stories so I didn’t look further into it but I often wonder if there were search warrants from the other cities where he lived no longer than three years. I wonder if he served the police a pot of chili. I wonder if they sat on his furniture. I wonder if they recognized any of the bones. I wonder if they would have recognized mine if I’d had a drink.

Horror will always lay dormant within me; the wish of a ghostly encounter not far from thoughts, the appeal of exploring a dilapidated building on my fingertips, the thrill of meeting a man for a drink at a dim lit bar.

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What I’ve been consuming:

• Twilight films 1-5

• Season 3 Stranger Things

• I Regret Almost Everything by Keith McNally

• The Hounding by Xenobe Purvis

• This date “caramel” that I’ve renamed date pudding, which may have caused me to gain three pounds in three days

• The Amy Poehler podcast

• West End Girl by Lily Allen

• Ego Death At A Bachelorette Party