The Online Dating Chronicles

Episode 6: Leah

Jul 15, 2021

Episode 6: Leah

LEAH

This isn’t technically a dating app story, BUT there is a digital component in that I met Leah around an online film festival.

Remember Debbie from episode 5? While she was pilfering beers from me, she mentioned that she was involved in a filmmaking festival. It was a festival where you have a weekend to write, cast, shoot, edit, and score a short film. She had read a couple of my plays and encouraged me to get involved.

I had done 24-hour play festivals before and always had a good time and met some great people. So I agreed to go to the first meeting.

At this first meeting with all the festival participants, there was a strange vibe; very cliquey. In any event, I decided to do it and threw my hat in with a guy who was eager to direct. Within a couple of days, he had gathered his complete team and sent out an invite for us all to meet at his house on the upcoming Friday night.

That Friday came and coincided with what would be the hottest day of the summer.

And just as things were set to get rolling, this woman bounces in from the corner of the guy’s yard. A dark-haired woman wearing jean cutoffs, a white tank top, and gray sparkly elevator boots, with about 60 percent of her visible body covered in tattoos. She was attractive; she was noticeable but wasn’t hot.

It was her tattoos that beguiled me. Tattoos often tell a story for the tattooed. I wonder what stories her tattoos would tell.

After 30 minutes of stilted conversation, as the director laid out his plan, I was so thirsty I was afraid I would have to drink my own urine to survive.

“Hey man, can I get a glass of water or something?”
His wife said: “Oh, sure. Does anyone else want some?” To her obvious amazement, she was met with a chorus of “Yes” and “Yes, please.”

Towards the end of the night, everyone’s roles had been scoped out and established. The director made a plan to meet the following Friday again at his house after the festival kick-off party. I made a mental note to bring water.

The following Friday comes, we meet — sans Leah — I write a script and queue up to begin shooting the following day. The director makes the call for 7a.

The next morning, I show up at 7a — punctuality is a thing for me.
Apparently not for everyone.
There was a whole lot of awkward going on as I sat there with the director and his wife waiting for others to arrive.

Over the next 30 minutes, people began trickling in, and I saw a few different faces. The awkward was slowly usurped by percolating self-importance as we sat in the director’s dining room for a table read of the script.

Naturally, Leah was the last to arrive for the table read. But as luck would have it, the only available seat was next to me.

I sat through a couple of reads and left. Throughout the day, I would check in with the director from time to time to see how it was going. It went from “Excellent” to “OK” to “We’re a little behind, but we’ll get there.” Finally, around 8p, he sent me a text telling me they were having a little wrap party at his house.

I threw a six-pack of beer in my saddlebag and rode over.

Here are some things I learned at this after-party:

The director said that time had gotten tight as he pulled up some of the footage.Very Ed Wood-like. I’ll leave it there.
I somehow stumbled into a conversation about menstrual cups. I honestly had not heard of them before.
This very married director was clearly chasing Leah.

As I am getting ready to leave, Leah says: “I’ll leave with you.” I’m thinking, “alright, alright, alright,” I’ll ask her if she wants to get a drink once we get outside of the house. Just as she picks up her bag, the director moves in for a cock block. He says he needs her to record some dialogue.

Since I was in the process of leaving, I decided rather than awkwardly stand around in a place I didn’t want to be, waiting for someone I didn’t know and having awkward conversations with people I didn’t want to talk to, I left.

I walked out, knowing only her name was Leah.

Three hours later and I couldn’t sleep because Leah and those fuckin tattoos had polluted my mind. So, I hop out of bed and decide to scour through the group emails; there had to be an email for Leah.

And there was.

I drafted up a clever email asking her if she wanted to get a drink the following night and shut my computer down. I awoke in the morning to an email equally as clever as mine. In it, she agreed to the invitation and upped it by even suggesting some comestibles “as long as you’re not an asshole.”

We agreed to meet at a bar downtown around 5. Arriving about five minutes late, I noticed she was already at the bar. In fact, she was the only person at the bar. She had on this funky sparkly thing over a t-shirt and some form-fitting jeans and sandals; it was like Jean Paul Gaultier met The Grateful Dead.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
“No worries,” and Leah pointed to the missing inch from her beer, “I’ve only been here this long.”

I was super hot in the bar, and I didn’t know if it was because I was half-jogging from the parking lot or this place didn’t have the air conditioning on. The bartender tore himself away from his magazine to saunter down to me: “What can I get you?”
“A pint of Guinness. And can you turn the a/c on?”
“No,” and with that, he left to get my beer.
Leah sniggered: “It’s the service that I keep coming for.”
“What the fuck?”
The marginally surly bartender returned: “I can’t turn it on because it’s broke.” He set my pint down: “Sorry.”
“Oh, OK. Thanks.” He looked at me, then at Leah: “Oh right, tab.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet and card, “Thanks.”
He grunted and went back to his magazine as I sat down next to Leah.

I raised my glass and tilted it towards her: “Cheers! Thanks for meeting up tonight.”
She raised her glass to mine: “Thanks for the invite,” and we touched our pint glasses before taking a sip.

We sat at the bar and discussed the previous day’s hilarity. Oh, did I forget to mention Leah was one of the other “actresses?” She provided me a first-hand account of what was going on throughout the day. The conversation flowed easily, and we both made each other laugh.

Since it seemed to be going well, I asked if she wanted another drink and maybe get something to eat.
“I do, yea. But it’s hot as balls in here.”
“Fair enough.”

And what did we decide to eat?
On what may have been the second hottest night of the summer?
Pizza, naturally.

Since the pizza place was around my apartment, I asked if she wanted to get another drink after we finished eating. “Yea, sure. I’m up for it.”
“Cool. I know a place.”
“Sounds good.”

Let me note, I wasn’t necessarily looking to take Leah home. That was not my intention. If it happened naturally, great. If not? Oh well.

Anyway, it being a Sunday, the bartender at the place by me took it upon himself to close up shop at 10p. As I pulled on the locked door, the guy just looked at me and shook his head.

I cautiously offered: “Well, I have beer at my place.”
“Cool. Let’s go there then.”

There is no point in detailing what happened next. We’re all adults here.

But here’s the thing …I suspect if someone had been around my neighborhood with a decibel meter, Leah would’ve charted close to what The Who charted on their decibel breaking tour in 1979.

The porn noises and shrieking she was making were so very far from exciting. Frankly, they were very distracting. But it had been awhile …so it wasn’t that distracting. During our time together, she never got any quieter. I’m not saying this with any braggadocio because I am 99.5% sure it was just an act — I’ll leave that .5% open to fantasize about being the world’s most fantastic lover she ever had.

Leah and I saw each other for about two months. During that time, here’s what I would come to find out about her:

She had two daughters …who did not live with her. Let that marinate.
She was a recovering drug addict.
She didn’t really have a job, she was a marginal house cleaner. As near as I could tell, she only did that when she needed money.
Two of her exes were drug dealers.
She suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder. I didn’t know anything about it.
She was a thief.

How’s that for hitting the dating lotto?

Obviously, Leah parsed that information out over a couple of months. If this had been dumped on me in one night, or one week, I would’ve been insane to stick around.

The breaking point came when we were out at the Olive Garden (don’t judge me.) That was when I found out she was a recovering addict …as she funneled Pinot Grigio.
She broke the ice: “I used to smoke.”
“So did I.”
“No, heroin.”
Now, if you know me, you know that I cannot hide emotions very well. It’s always on my face, so I’m sure my jaw was wide open and closed only as I said: “Oh."
“It was like five years ago.”
Still processing the data: “Oh. Did you go to rehab?”
“Yea.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“I went four times.”
I tried to hide the fact that I nearly choked on my salad: “Four?”
“Yea.”

I took a sip of water and attempted to bury my face in those giant water cups at Olive Garden. Look, I don’t know that much about addiction. Outside of the fundamental basic shit, it’s just not part of my knowledge base. Rehab four different times may not be a lot for a rock star or celebrity, but for a part-time house cleaner?

Leah sensed, and no doubt saw, my shock: “It’s not that unusual with people I know.”
What I wanted to say was: “It sure as fuck is with people I know!” But it just came out as: “Oh.”
It was that night I knew I had to get out of this situation with Leah.

I had to travel for work for three weeks, so there would be time for me to develop an exit strategy. Leah offered to stay and watch my pets. Knowing what I knew, I should’ve said “no,” but that was a moment in time when I was absent a pet sitter.

That would yield two teachable moments for me:

Don’t agree to have someone you’re casually “dating” watch your pets.
Don’t offer to pay if you decide #1.

I could write a whole story about those three weeks. But the upside is that I returned home to a mostly clean house and an envelope on the table. I was about to open my very first Dear John letter! These letters are supposed to hurt, but not this one! I felt nothing but overwhelming relief, bordering on joy.

She could’ve called me anything — and pretty much did — and nothing could’ve taken away my overwhelming solace I felt in her absence.

I had never known anyone with BPD, and my experience with Leah was eye-opening. What I learned very quickly is that BPD is a bastard for everyone involved. As I read this “Dear John” letter, it was clear it must’ve been written over a few days. There was a wild mix of vitriol and sensitivity.

The next day I changed my locks and bought a smudging kit to clean my place. No, I’m not joking.

A few weeks later, I went to change a belt buckle (don’t judge me) and noticed that a small manila envelope was missing. My stomach dropped because it took all of one second to know what had happened.

That envelope contained a pair of diamond stud earrings that my father had given my late mother. My dad gave them to me shortly after she died provided I give them to someone significant to me. It was a real gut punch to know that it was probably Leah who stole them.

Why would she steal them? I don’t know.
Can I prove it now? No.
Could I prove it then? No.

I shook it off pretty quickly because I realized that a pair of diamond earrings was a minimal price to pay for what might have happened.

The Online Dating Chronicles

Episode 6: Leah

Dating

Episode 6: Leah

LEAH

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