I Now Pronounce You Mr. and Mrs. Harley Davidson

When I went into his bathroom, I nearly screamed. Not because it crawled with filth—which it did—or because a cockroach scurried across the floor—which one did…no, I lie, no cockroach. It was his showerhead. Ever since my parents let me watch the movie Poltergeist at too young an age, I have been terrified of clowns. That summer, when they first let me watch the movie, I had just moved out of the bedroom I had shared with my older sister and braved having my own. The night I watched Poltergeist, I snapped on my nightlight and dove into my bed without letting my feet hit the floor, not wanting anything to grab at my ankles from that dark place underneath, and pulled the covers just below my chin. Eyes open wide, scanning for shadows. Thump. Thump. Thump. It came from underneath my mattress. I sat up. Thump. Thump. Thump. I felt it. Literally, I did. The clown that lived under the little girl’s bed in the movie had slithered its way underneath mine. I screamed and my mom came to my rescue, turning on the light and telling me about the power of imagination. I hate to admit it, but this little chicken moved back in with my sister for another couple of years. So, you’ve made a guess about the showerhead. If you pictured a Ronald McDonald-type clown, although creepy in itself, you’re wrong. If you pictured Krusty the Klown from The Simpsons, lucky you—you’ve got a sense of humor. But, you’re wrong too. It was the Joker. From Batman. And when the shower was turned on, the water spewed from its mouth like a torrent of projectile vomit.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, he had painstakingly painted the walls of his humble abode in a black and white checkerboard pattern—a pattern that was made easier by the schoolhouse-style bricks that made up his walls. But, dear Heartbreaker had gone one step further and continued the pattern, a little crookedly, on the door of his bedroom, so that when the door was closed, you wanted to put suction cups on the bottoms of your shoes and play a game of hopscotch.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, my little Heartbreaker’s leather couch had seen so many better days that he had it covered with a black sheet. Sexy, huh? When you sat on it, there were certain spots where you could feel stuffing oozing out of gaping holes.

And, as if this weren’t disturbing enough, he wore wife-beater tank tops out of the house as if they put him in the annals of modern fashion, pairing them proudly with a flat-brimmed baseball cap emblazoned with the name of some skateboarding or surfing company.

And, as if all that weren’t disturbing enough, he drove a raised truck. One so high, that I couldn’t climb into it and hope to hold onto any shred of dignity.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, this place, these things, belonged to a thirty-seven-year-old man. His dingy little shoebox of an apartment had been his for fifteen glorious years of bachelorhood.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, I liked him. I really, really liked him. Because, behind the Joker showerhead, the patterned walls, the scarred couch, the ghetto fashion, and the monster truck, was a man who saw the world through such simple lenses that he tempered the jaded side of me. His ability to live in the moment softened my need to strive for tomorrow. And, maybe even above these things, he made me feel like the wittiest woman in the world. It came easily with him, the wit. With some men, I find myself squelching my sarcasm because they so crave the limelight. With the heartbreaker, I was me. Completely me. And he thought that me was hysterical.

His appreciation of my humor was a mixed blessing. You see, he laughed just like a dolphin. The first time I heard his laugh we were talking on the phone, and I had to check the name on the screen of my cell phone to make sure I hadn’t accidentally called Flipper. But, I came to love that laugh the way Pavlov’s dogs loved the sound of a bell. It was my reward—the validation that I was funny.

He was out of work on disability, my little Heartbreaker, so he spent his days trouble-seeking on the beach boardwalk and many of his evenings with me. About two months into dating, he invited me to a barbeque at his aunt’s house. His whole family, with whom he was extremely close, was slated to be there. After the invite, I held his cheeks in my hands, looked deeply into his eyes and said, “Are you sure? Meeting the family is a big deal to me.”

To which, he held eye contact and said: “I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want you to walk through it.” My heart nearly suffocated in its happiness.

I loved his family. I mean, I really loved them. Sweet, warm, old-fashioned people who loved being together and loved to laugh. At one point in the afternoon, Heartbreaker’s uncle asked me what I do for a living. To which I responded, “I teach 7^th grade.”

He lifted his beer to his lips, smothered a chuckle, and, with a twinkle in his eye, pointed to Heartbreaker and me and said, “Ah, now I see why this is working.”

About a week after the barbeque, another woman entered the picture. She was sleek, taut, and powerful. Her voice, loud. Her curves, bodacious. She lived life as fast as she could. She was my opposite…She was his brand new Harley Davidson.

Our relationship shifted the second she entered his life. His phone calls dwindled and suddenly he started flaking on dates. He spent his days with her and she began seeping into his night hours, too.

One Friday night, Heartbreaker and I went to see a movie. After the movie, he claimed he was tired and wanted to go home rather than continue the date somewhere else…my heart sank…but he asked if he could see me Saturday night…my heart soared.

Saturday night came and he called exactly at the time he said he would. He was out with the boys and his new woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and then he said, “It’s getting dark. I better get on the road before the sun goes all the way down. Can I call you when I get there and we can figure out what we’re doing tonight?”

“Of course,” I assured him and hung up, looking at the clock and estimating how long it should take for him to get home. Twenty minutes. I began beautifying myself—the make up, the hair, the choosing of the outfit.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty. Two hours later, I gave up and went to Blockbuster, vacillating between fury and sadness. Wondering if he’d been in an accident, almost hoping that that was the truth rather than the possibility that this was rejection.

Do you know that he never called that night? And, yes, I could have called him, but I was afraid of my anger—or worse, my sadness—dominating the conversation and revealing too much of my weakness. How did I know he was still alive, you ask? Since I’d met him on a dating site, I checked his profile. And, sure enough, he’d been active within the 24 hours during which he went missing. I’m not sure this voyeuristic world we live in really does anyone any good—but that’s a whole other blog in itself.

We've only spoken once since and that was to retrieve things we'd left at each other's places...and he gave no explanation for his disappearance or his sudden change of heart.

Nowadays, to make myself feel better about the Heartbreaker, I like to picture him riding off into the sunset on his new motorcycle. In my head, the wedding march plays as they disappear over the horizon, and in my heart I know she’s the only woman who will ever truly make him happy. And knowing that I never have to see the Joker showerhead again, well, that certainly helps the healing process…