The Age of Reasonable Doubt

While my other blogs are fictionalized, this is completely in the realm of over-the-top make-believe. It’s my idealized date with John Wayne whom I’m pretending is alive, single and available. I chose him because he’s the symbol of THE American male hero. Here’s how I imagine it would turn out.

I’ve just completed and submitted a profile for an online dating service. I want it known that I am a woman who wants a man who is not afraid to be vulnerable, who will put his emotions out there and take a risk. It’s clear in the ad I don’t want a macho man, but rather a sensitive soul in touch with his feminine side.

“Woman seeking a man who can relate to a female in an emotionally in-depth way, not afraid to show his fears, needs, insecurities, hopes and goals – or anything he may choose to tell me. He must be capable of listening. I don’t want anyone who hides his emotions behind a façade of a tough male, workaholism, intellectualism, alcohol/drugs, sacrificial victim, fame, wealth or any one of dozens of artificial barriers to a soul-searing relationship. He must want to dig into the bed rock of our inner lives. As for myself, I love walking, biking, hiking, reading novels, local and world news, picnics, candlelight dining, and cultural events (don’t forget the proverbial walks on the beach). In the area of music my tastes are varied. I appreciate jazz, classical, blues, gospel and even country western. Sensuality (after establishing a friendship) and bathing together occasionally is required. In the realm of physical appearances, I’m flexible up to a point. But he must not have dandruff all over a dark blazer. I never need to know if you use a stool softener.”

The first caller is a big surprise. It’s John Wayne, the symbol of machismo.

I know the persona this man projects is cowboy macho, along with the vague impression that women are an accessory in a man’s world. But there is something electric about his voice, and the way it gently abrades my skin and curls around me – not at all like the tough talking dude in the movies. His voice puts me in mind of a man with large, calloused hands who is asked to thread a needle. John is very polite and tells me he’s looking for a special woman, and I ask him why a man in his position finds it necessary to look for a woman on the internet.

"Glad you asked that question, ma’am. To be frank, I’m tired of the Hollywood types. They’re too high-pressured for me. I’m not the kind of guy you see on the screen. The hype of the super masculine man has dogged me all my working life. Besides, I was happy to see you like country western music. Why don’t you give me a chance?”

Did he say give him a chance? Wow. What a humble guy.

“You see,” he said, a slight drawl to his speech, “I’m kind of a sensitive guy, a one-woman man who has become famous on a misconception about who I am. I’ve had to live this life even outside of the studio. My reputation would be down the tubes if I acted like a man who expressed his feelings, fears and discussed relationships. Some women are attracted to bad-boys and lots of men need to relate to that made-up version of myself. That’s why I got excited when I read your ad. It called to me. So, how about we get together?”

Could I say no? I had to take this to the limit. He said he’d fly to Philadelphia for the weekend, and we could meet in the lobby of his hotel for a drink and dinner. He really wanted to get to know me, and he liked my picture because I looked down-home, and he swore that he’s through with female Hollywood types. He said he loved to walk on the beach with a fun-loving intelligent lady. WOW!!

I worry about dressing because he’s looking to meet someone down-to-earth and the sexy, low-cut, black frock I had in mind might be too provocative. I agonize about whether he likes that curious mixture of simple but sensuous or a dowdier earth tone look.

Finally, I settle on a red, cotton, high waist and high neck dress. The outfit is a bit frumpy, but overall, it makes a nice showing. Maybe frumpy is good – after all there was no time for glamour on the prairie. I buy a cute silver bracelet with ten, tiny, hanging horses.

The big day arrives. I am so excited. At the bar of The Four Seasons Hotel, I order a dirty vodka martini straight up and then worry about the wisdom of possibly slurring when the man walks in. I change the order to a glass of wine. John calls on his cell to let me know he is outside the hotel.

A tall, handsome, rugged man strides across the room. He doesn’t look right or left, but instead, right at me. Can he possible recognize me from my picture? As he gets closer, my heart races. What a gorgeous hunk!

“Fran,” he calls out, approaching me. “Say, gal. You sure look dandy in red. Seeing you makes the flight worthwhile. After all, gas is pretty darn expensive for those private planes.” He was immaculate in neatly pressed jeans, a blue oxford shirt and a navy blazer.

“Mr. Wayne. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please call me John.”

He orders a glass of milk and downs it in one gulp. He looks at me tenderly, a white moustache on his upper lip. I want to hug him.

“Well, Fran. What do you want to do? Want to grab a bite?”

“That would be fine.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, Franny, girl.”

That sweet man grabs me by the hand and leads me out the door? A black limousine sits at the curb. Soon, we’re on our way to the shore. When we arrive, we trudge down to the beach. Pulling off our shoes, we walk, hand in hand, along the shoreline, tiny waves lapping at our feet. He's asking me questions about myself when I look back over my shoulder and see that the chauffeur has spread a blanket on the sand and is putting out plates, casseroles dishes and a champagne bucket. What bliss.

The moral of the story? Don’t judge a horse by the rider.