I hear "she has quite the potty mouth"

After a stop for sandwiches and a brief attempt at fishing, Brian, Tina, two foster kids, and I were heading across the Grande Ronde Valley, which is actually a plateau created by ancient volcanoes now blanketed by dull yellow grass. Still hours east of the Columbia River Gorge, we passed rubbly rock, often pink and orange, until reaching Highway 84.

Driving below towering basalt cliffs is where Brian spotted a half dozen big horn sheep watching over the highway. They were amazing in their National Geographic majesty because of their size and how their coloring blended into the wall of terrain. As taken as I was with the wildlife, I was also impressed by how Brian spotted them while driving 70 miles per hour.

At a rest stop, Brian told me the story about how he and a buddy bought some acres in remote Klamath County decades ago. The land, originally homesteaded by a gold prospector, turned into a series of caves where three generations of miners eked out a living. By 1990, Brian and his business partner hit a wall, which had nothing to do with gold nuggets and everything to do with water, the U.S. Forest Service, Corps of Engineers, and legal costs.

The way in which Brian told me his story about financial heartbreak spoke volumes. He was philosophical about it, conceding that it was part of his crazy past.

“Who knows what would’ve happened if I knew what I know now,” he said. “This was years before I met Tina. I’m sober now.”

Like me, faced with the realization that our thirties were in fact a long time ago, we were less concerned about knowing everything than we were about creating stability.

I enjoyed Brian’s stories during our one-on-one moments at rest stops. I got as much from what he said as what he left unsaid. There aren’t a lot of opportunities to have chance talks about the clash between the dreams of our youth and the sharp realities of adulthood. When I’m with long-time friends, I immediately regress to a 10-year-old. When you meet a peer for the first time, there’s a certain expectation to act your age. For a while, at least.  

Cliché or not, Brian and Tina were salt of the earth.

The couple explained the torment and depravity of the foster care system: the abuse and neglect, the filth and malnourishment. All of it made me think of dog rescues. Or life in the Third World. Their disclosures were matter of fact: when they brought Makalia home, they realized their new foster daughter didn’t know how to use a toilet.  

“You do what you can do,” Tina said. “It’s not easy.”

We were nearing the Columbia River Gorge at around two or three in the afternoon. The conversation looped back to marriage, dating, divorce, family, bachelorhood, and Karina.

“Most people experience a crazy girlfriend when they’re young,” Brian said. “I know I did. They’re great for sex, not so great for sanity.”

“Or marriage,” Tina added.

They laughed.  

I knew enough to know that a big part of the world’s population had been through the School of the Crazy Ex during their twenties.  

In the arc of life, I got what I asked for. Maybe it was destined. For me, a pendulum was sweeping toward a need for passion—as if to make up for lost time. I went from a 21-year-long marriage that took a natural, steady pace: Julia and I started young, took one step at a time; we raised a child and kept the domestic machine rolling along, until two decades were behind us. I wouldn’t take any of it back. As a marriage, we succeeded and failed together, and then ultimately ended peacefully at the same time our daughter Ellie was heading off to college.

I don’t think I’m unique. I felt loved and supported and believe I did my part in loving and supporting. But there I was: age 48 and divorced.

Who wouldn’t be looking for adventure and passion?

More than two years of thinking true love might be out there, it was so easy to believe anything was possible.

But before meeting Karina, I dated. I got on match.com and, of course, circulated at coffee shops and nights out with long-time friends. I was a born-again virgin, after all. I was ready for an adventure, full of energy, and feeling moderately certain I had something to offer the marketplace.  

Within two or three months of my divorce from Julia, I dated a nurse named Beth who lived an hour east of Portland. I referred to her as My Lady Friend for no other reason than it made friends laugh.

With Beth, I lucked out. I don’t know whether to cringe about this over-disclosure, but Beth brought me back to life. The first time we had sex was everything I could ever hope for.

Our paths crossed exactly at the right time and I can’t think of a better person for where I was and—for that matter—where she was. Beth was very good to me. Months after meeting, she invited me to fly with her to meet her family in North Carolina, where her two sisters and their husbands surprised their parents with accommodations at the legendary Pinehurst Golf Club. Like all big events that are loaded with possible meaning, the getaway’s aftermath altered our already somewhat-vague relationship status.

Like I said, Beth and my timing couldn't have been any better. I learned from it.

On her first visit to my condo which was inside a former grade school, she tactfully pointed out that if I’m going to keep dating, the family picture—with me, Ellie, and Julia—at the top of the stairs was bad form. The framed studio portrait was still on the wall when—one late Friday night—Julia showed up unannounced and let herself in. I was in the shower while Beth was lounging on the couch.     

As water washed over me, I heard “hello! Hello? Dan?”

I knew it was Julia. I reacted like anyone in my situation would: deciding between doing nothing or getting out of the shower. I delayed my decision. I let the hot water run while I listened for clues as to why in the world she would show up without warning.

The Rainbow Factory in my head figured things would work themselves out. I put the soap in its soap dish.  

“I’m in the shower.” I said it with questionable volume or conviction. “I have a guest.”

Come on, Julia, I thought. At least sense the horrible timing and turn around as suddenly as you arrived.

“I have a guest,” I said louder.  

Maybe Julia was introducing herself to Beth.

What was the worst that could happen?

By the time I turned off the water and got out of the bathroom covered with a towel, Julia was standing right where I imagined her: next to the kitchen table.  

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry. I thought maybe something was wrong so I rushed over.” She lived 15 minutes away. 

Something might be wrong?

“It was like I had a premonition.” Julia knew I had been dating a woman named Beth because I had told her so. 

“I’m fine and you know better than to just show up like this.”

“Ok, sorry. You’re right. Bye.”

She walked down the stairs, yelling “nice to meet you, Beth!”

As I heard the door close, I walked to the couch. No Beth.

Beth had disappeared to the only place she could hide: up the ladder and onto the loft, a space big enough to hold only a bed, dresser, and nightstand.  

“Is she gone?” Beth said, hidden under the covers. “What just happened?” She was shaking. “My God. It seemed like she stood over me for like 10 minutes.”

I felt horrible for her. I apologized. I was in disbelief. It’s one thing to walk into the house unannounced. It’s another to try to confront someone who’s mostly naked in a bed.  

That was a weird night.

Karina and I would meet about five months later.

In Hallmark terms, we didn’t meet cute. We didn’t meet at a blood bank or a coffee shop. I found her on OKCupid. Before I knew her name, she was Hazel_beam. All I had was a handful of photos and short profile that wasn’t over-worked. She sounded uncomplicated, humble, and smart.

Even before I noticed our 98.7% compatibility score, I placed her in my grocery cart.

If I learned anything from my past forays with online dating, you have to think things through to make the right overture.  One wrong move could deny you the chance to even meet.

OKCupid was still new at the time. Its design and functionality had the advantage of starting something new. It was so simple to use, it seemed as if it modeled itself after the anti-match.com. OKCupid was alternative by default. Where match.com was Olive Garden, OKCupid was raising chickens in the yard. Polyamory had its own checkbox. Its compatibility percentiles were based on a seemingly infinite number of questions about priorities, interests, politics, religion, sex, money, and lifestyle.

Ignatius was taken, so I was Ignatius.pdx—named after fictional misanthrope Ignatius Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces. There is also the first-century bishop-turned-saint namesake, which could serve as a possible dog whistle for Catholics. 

Hazel_beam’s profile mentioned she had a Vespa and was atheist. But she also wrote something about spitting out a body-of-Christ wafer at her first communion. If I had a soft spot for atheists, make them scarred Catholics who rode around on scooters.  

I picked her up at her house. She had a friend peering out the front window as Karina got in. I took her to a moderately divey bar a friend owned. If there were two direct routes from her house to the Morrison Bar, she noticed how I took neither one and ribbed me for it.  

Karina laughed at my jokes. Her teases were endearing. I loved her thick curly hair. She spoke freely about sex and her needs. And I trusted her. It’s pretty simple. Our romance—like so many, I suppose—was about timing.

Speaking of timing, Brian pulled off the highway in Hood River for gas. We had been on the road for about four hours since Joseph. This was my chance to pay my way, so I was quick to get out to let the gas attendant know the total was coming from me. That’s when I turned on my phone to check for messages.

“where are you?”

“ass fuck”

“got a duii”

“your fault. charges worse b/c of bottle under seat”

Oh, no. I didn't expect this.

I suspected this was a case of Karina losing it after being pulled over for speeding. Based on my three-year history with her at the wheel, her lead foot came first, then the poor manners. I’ll never know if she was weaving, but I would think a certain amount of belligerence and lost composure could warrant a sobriety test. What could’ve been a peaceful drive home for Karina turned into a meltdown. And for the record, the Steinshine under the seat was in a brown paper bag—an unopened gift for the boys at work. I’m no lawyer, but I couldn’t see how that could have anything to do with adding to the arrest.

My only text reply: “need me to call your mom for anything?”

It wasn’t until we pulled out of the gas station that I saw Karina’s reply: “no”

Then the phone rang just as we were about to pull onto I-84. I told Tina and Brian that it was the call I’ve been expecting. I could tell they were just as eager about what Karina had to say as I was.

I answered my phone assuming nothing: “Hello.”

“Is this Mr. O’Brien?” The person on the other end wasn’t Karina.

“Yes, it is,” I said.  

“This is Officer Karen McCoy with OSP. I have Mrs. Karina O’Brien here with me. She has quite the potty mouth—”

That’s really what she said. And It was all I needed to steamroll the officer with an economy of my status: “Keep in mind that Karina O’Brien is my ex-wife,” I began. “She refused to give me a ride while camping outside Joseph. And I was able to get a ride—I’m in Hood River, an hour from home so I’m not sure what sort of information I can help you with.”  

“Oh, thank you. That’s all I need.”

Twenty minutes later, another text from Karina: “Can you call Vlasta? I’m in jail.”