-Second in a Series-
SOLANA BEACH, California — So, relying on a friend’s referral, I allowed her to give my number to Marc. Marc is a self-professed sexy millionaire. He owns the lion’s share in a failing, dog-eared Resort-Spa. Rumor has it that it was a bad investment, and Marc got stuck holding the lease. The place has been bankrupt and he has been unsuccessful in unloading it for some time.
Marc called and invited me to his Shangri La for lunch on a spectacular fall day. Following his directions I drove up interstate 15 for much longer than the “twenty minutes” or so that he had indicated.
When I arrived at the man’s office, I was shown to a chair, while Marc carried on with some phone call. He was an average looking man with full lips and a Brillo of hair covering his head. His office looked like something out of Las Vegas, a city, he no doubt, would love to call home: high rollers, fast women etc. Anyway, every wall had some other celeb shaking hands and high fivin’ with Marc. He had this very toothy smile that reminded me of much the way animals in the zoo get right before feeding time. I sat in the chair opposite Marc, for at least 15 minutes while he carried on this oh-so-important conversation with someone like Englebert Humperdink or Tony Orlando, or some other 70s has been. Not once did he acknowledge me, or indicate that he even recalled we had a lunch date.
Hanging up the phone, Marc gave me a thorough viewing. How romantic! Not. He then ushered me out of his office, and told his “girls” that he was off to lunch, and they should hold his calls. Ugh.
We headed out to the parking lot, and I followed him, assuming he’d unlock a door, or locate his vehicle. A guy like this, I’m thinking Porsche, Mercedes pop top……Wrong. He opens a garage, hands me a helmet, and tells me to get on his motorcycle. Now, you should know that my dad is an oral surgeon. From the time I was knee high to a grasshopper, my father had warned about the perils of choppers. My brother, who wanted one in the worst way, was shown photos of those unlucky fellows, whose faces my father had put back together. I was not eager to become Humpty Dumpty. No thanks. What to do? I offered, “Marc, my car is right over here. Shall I drive?” “No, you’ll love it. Now sit really close, put your arms around me and hold on tight.” Oh, make me puke! This was the only way he got women to touch him, I guess.
Did I stand my ground and insist I’d meet him at the restaurant? I did not. I don’t recall much about the winding roads and the thrill of the wind in my hair. I think psychologists call this a black out. Thankfully, I made it back to my car for the nearly 45-minute drive home, shaking my head all the way.
Tomorrow: Terrence aka M.B.
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Trieger is a freelance writer based in Solana Beach. She may be contacted via eva.trieger@sdjewishworld.com