I used to be an idiot about men. No matter how hard I tried, I’d wind up in the craziest situations.
Names and some identifying information have been changed to protect privacy.
Otherwise, this is a true story.
“Ari” valued family, honor, hard work and his dog.
He was an emergency room doctor, retired Special Forces Green Beret, and founder/CEO of a startup that developed virtual reality training for military medics.
We were both ambitious, with lofty dreams, grinding steadfast toward our goals. We had a lot in common—both physics/philosophy geeks who loved to debate the meaning of life. Ari was a messianic, Christ-believing Jew, which I respected, despite being more ‘meta’ in my beliefs. It made for engaging, long-winded conversations.
Ari was handsome, attentive, sensitive and strong. He was head-over-heels for me—even bordering on obsessed. I’d never felt so beautiful or desired. He knew exactly what to say, and precisely what to do. He never missed an opportunity to tell me how amazing I was. I ate it up. He wrote me poetry, which would normally cringe me out, despite the fact that I write it myself. There’s something about it that screams, trying too hard, particularly if it’s done poorly, which it most often is. But, he was a good writer—thoughtful, metaphorical, and deeply emotional. I gave him a pass.
We met on a dating app, of course. Him, an American, me, a Canadian, yet driving distance apart. We traveled the states together—North and South Carolina, Virginia, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Florida, Illinois—frequenting symphonies, plays, and upscale dining. All intimate getaways that fit our slow-paced style. I wore cute dresses, he, crisp tailored suits. I’d finally met a man who I could see a future with, and for the first time, I pictured my wedding. I didn’t know it yet, but Ari had picked out a ring.
Things were moving speed-train fast. I have a solid history of impulsivity, and my guess is that so did he. We’d never even seen each other’s places. It was time to invite him up north.
He made the long drive with his dog—a German Shepherd service dog he adopted after nearly being blown up in combat; blasted through the air several feet. “Buddy” helped him with his balance, he said. We grabbed a nice hotel for comfort and room service, then got ourselves settled in. Buddy began to quietly whimper. It got louder.
“Is he ok?” I’d barely said before he arched his back to take a greasy shit on the carpet.
The next day we met my dad at a restaurant. I spotted him on the far side of the room. He stood to greet us with a smile.
“Ari? I’m _____.” They shook hands. “It’s great to finally meet.” My dad nodded in my direction. “This one here thinks the world of you.”
We exchanged pleasantries before pulling up our seats.
“So I hear you’re former army?”
“Yes, sir.” Ari straightened. “First ranger, then special forces. We were still called Green Berets then. Served Desert Storm, then back over in ‘03.”
My dad was glued to Ari’s stories about his time overseas. So was I. He’d had a million lives, talented in so many ways. I was starry-eyed.
Ari told us about his covert missions, like the time in Panama when he had Manuel “Pineapple Face” Noriega in his crosshairs, before they extradited him to the US, instead.
“So, you were a sniper then! Takes a steady hand,” my dad said between bites of his steak, “and some serious math skills to get an accurate shot. Kari said you were also a medic?”
“Yes, sir. Unit doc,” Ari smiled at me, gave my leg a gentle squeeze. “We stormed this safehouse once, caught a bullet through the thigh. Shit burned like red hellfire, you know? And bled like you wouldn’t believe. My guys had to keep moving. There I was shuffling behind them, trying to tie a tourniquet.” He shook his head, and sat back with the memory.
Ari went on to tell us about his interview for an HBO documentary, and how the movie, Red Hawk Down was about him and his team. “I’m not a hero,” he said, “but I had the honor of serving with them.”
The final day of his visit, Ari sat me down. “I love you,” he said, taking my hand. “I don’t ever want to be without you. What do you think about getting a place together?”
“Oh.” He’d taken me off guard. “How would that work? I can only be in the states for six months a year. Same for you, here.”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking I could rent a house on the border for now, on the Canadian side. I’ll get us something nice. Something really comfortable.” His eyes were sincere. “And then, you know, we can travel the rest of the year. I mean, your work is all online—you can do it from anywhere.”
I smiled. “I’d love that.”
It wasn’t long before I put in my notice, and Ari put a deposit on a furnished four bedroom house.
It was now my turn to drive south. Halfway, I got a call from my dad.
“Your new guy there,” he said after some small talk.
“What about him?”
“Well…sorry to say it, but I think he’s full of shit.”
“C’mon. He’d have to be some fuckin’ liar. I’ve seen the HBO special. He was in it.”
“Kari, the most convincing bullshit is laced with the truth.”
“Whatever.” My dad didn’t know what he was talking about.
Hours later, I was pulling up a farmhouse drive. I double-checked my GPS. This couldn’t be it. The house was a dump. But there was Ari, waving me over with a smile. Worse, the house wasn’t all his. He was renting the top floor. I followed behind him up creaky steps, bracing for god knows what. He opened a door at the top, and I was hit with it—the most powerful of smells. It was like dogshit and cologne colliding. It stuck to my nostrils. What the fuck is this? I thought. Ari sold himself as a successful doctor and businessman, but now I was standing in the middle of squalor. I covered my nose, wide-eyed. Ari clued-in.
“Buddy had an accident,” he said. “Sorry. Kinda gross.” He looked around the room, then walked over to crank open a window. “I know it’s not much,” he said over his shoulder, “but after the divorce I scooped this place up. It’s cheap and close to the kids. Didn’t think I needed more as a single guy.” He waited for my reaction.
I nodded, slowly, taking it all in. Surely my clothes would smell of farts after this.
“I’ve booked us a hotel in town.” He came over to put his arms around me. “I don’t expect you to stay here.”
I nodded again into his shoulder, managing a laugh.
He pulled back with his hands on my shoulders. “Wanna do some shooting first?”
“Obviously.”
We geared up with targets, ARs and handguns, then headed out the back to a cornfield. We walked, talked, and watched Buddy pull ahead to bound in the tall grass. The sun was hot, and insects buzzed like electricity through power lines. It was peaceful, until a bullet whizzed by.
“What the fuck!” I ducked. “Was that a gunshot?!” My heart pounded.
“Fuck sakes,” Ari said. “Those goddamned neighbors. This isn’t the first time. They set up their targets so they back onto my property. Retards don’t realize that bullets travel. Wait here.” He B-lined toward the property next door.
My whole body shook. I didn’t know what to do, or think. Get in your car and leave, my little voice said. But I loved him. I shook off my jitters, as best I could, before he returned.
“Damn hillbillies,” he called to me as he came through the clearing. “We’re good.”
He nailed a target to a tree then loaded the first gun as I stood watching. I’d only ever shot hunting rifles growing up on the prairies—army-issued weapons and handguns were something new. He went first. I was impressed. Dude hit nothing but bullseyes as he danced and ducked imaginary threats. He was an expert shot, and a damn good teacher. I’ll give him that.
The last day of my visit, Ari got a call. A serious tech investor was interested in his startup—there was buzz he could get a military contract. The investor insisted the project be coded with React, a coding language Ari wasn’t as familiar with, but he assured the guy that all he needed was a brush-up.
“Great,” the investor said. “Come down to Tampa next weekend. I’m running a four-day React workshop. We’ll schedule a dinner after to iron out the details.”
Ari hung up and looked at me—”you’re comin’!”
Our move-in date for the border house was scheduled for the day after our return. I loaded my car to the tits with all my things, then left it like that in airport parking. I jumped a short flight to meet Ari, then we flew to the Sunshine State together. Buddy was curled up under my feet with his “Service Dog” vest on, his foul farm odor wafting up to my face. He’d nearly been rejected from the flight—something to do with his paperwork—but Ari was a veteran, so Buddy was given a pass.
That dog was riddled with nerves, and I couldn’t help but to feel it, myself. He whined and complained the last half of the flight, then the whole way to our hotel, until he erupted with projectile diarrhea beside the bed. I held my temples, watching in disbelief, as Ari knelt down to clean it, unfazed.
“So, my friend Jacks lives here,” he said, scrubbing the carpet. My stomach turned. “He’s an old army buddy. I brought him onboard for marketing.” He stood, shitty bath towel in hand, looking down at the obvious stain. “You wanna meet up with him in a couple hours? We can leave Buddy at his place.”
“Yeah.” I wanted out of that room, and away from his dog. I felt for him, truly, but I’d lost patience.
We dropped him off, then made our way to a busy beach patio. Jacks was a husky guy with wavy hair and a small tattoo on his forearm. He slammed drink after drink, and was good and shitfaced before the food came.
Glazed over and slurring, he told me a story, and by the time he finished, I understood why he drank. He’d been shot five times during a training mission. Once in the chest, three in the gut, and another straight through his thigh. The other guys he was with didn’t make it.
“How the hell did this happen in training!?”
“Have you heard of Robin Sage?”
“No.”
“It’s the final training for special forces qualification in North Carolina.” He sat back with his drink to check out a woman’s ass as she walked by. “Civilians, you know, the town, is in on it. Meant to be realistic with opposing forces and guerrilla freedom fighters.” He turned back to me. “There were some civilians from another state, out hunting. They didn’t know it was fake. Ambushed us. Thought they were saving hostages.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He pulled up his shirt to reveal the roundish scars. He told me he hadn’t worked in years. He didn’t have to after his settlement.
The rest of the meal, Jacks and Ari reminisced about their army days. I eventually lost interest. I spied on the other tables, and watched oversized yachts bob around in the distance.
“Was that before or after you got the boot?” I tuned back in. Jacks laughed before tipping back his drink.
“Booted from what?” I cut in.
“He didn’t tell you?” Jacks smirked at Ari over the top of his glass. “Hey, Weasel?”
Ari gave him a look that said, “shut the fuck up.”
I left it. So did they.
We paid then followed a drunk Jacks in his BMW Alpina G7 to his place, only to find diarrhea all over his living room.
Ari was in class for the next few days. I wandered around, picked away at my research, and baked in the hot sun by the pool. Every night, Ari came back more agitated than the one before it. He slammed cupboards and huffed and sighed. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. His React lessons weren’t going well. I was pretty sure he was in over his head.
Ari’s daughter called on the night of his final class. Now four scotches in, he carelessly left the patio door open, and the call on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Dad?”
“Hi honey.”
“Dad, you stopped sending money.” She sounded distraught.
“Lacy, you’re old enough to be working.”
“It’s not about me! Mom can’t afford the house by herself, you know that. You haven’t paid alimony or support for Zach and Jenn in months! Where are you, anyway?”
“I’m in Florida with Jacks and Kari. We’re meeting with some investors.”
“Investors for what? Where are you even meeting these people!?”
“Lacy, I’m networking,” he snipped. “It’s what you do when you start a business.”
“What business?”
“VR training. Long story.”
“Remember last time? Dad, I don’t think you’re well. Maybe you should make an appointment.”
Ari noticed the open door and quickly slid it shut. A chill ran up through my insides. I sat on the couch, took a deep breath. Shit. Ok. Calm down. I was sweating. Should I grab a flight out of here? But what if there’s a good explanation? Fuck it. Just stay and keep quiet ‘til you get back. No use causing a scene out here.
There was only a day left. Like really, how bad could it get?
The next day, I avoided as many landmines as I could before glowing myself up for dinner. Jacks had arranged for the investor to meet us at his friend’s estate in Clearwater.
I’d bought a killer dress and heels for the occasion. I turned side-to-side in the full length mirror, and goddamn, I felt like a ten.
“You ready?” Ari called from the front room.
“Coming!” I stepped out of the bathroom just in time for Buddy to arch his back and spray shit all over the floor in front of me. It bounced off the tile, spattered the wall, my legs, and my brand new stilettos.
“You’re fucking joking!!” I yelled, stopping in my tracks.
“What?” Ari rushed around the corner.
“He just shit on my shoes! Buddy! What the hell!”
“Don’t yell at him!”
“I’m not! What do you expect? Jesus Christ, I’m in shock!”
“Yeah, you are yelling at him, and you’re being a cunt!” he growled.
“You’re the cunt for dragging this poor animal all over the country! It’s torture for him! Has he even had any training? I’m seriously doubting he’s a service dog.”
“He doesn’t need training. That’s all bullshit anyway.”
“Holy fuck, Ari.” I linked my fingers around the back of my neck. “What else have you lied about?”
“Oh, fuck you!” he erupted.
“Fuck me? Seriously. What else?”
“Whatever. Men lie; women wear makeup. Get over it, sweetheart.” He fiddled with the top button of his shirt. “Hurry up and wash that shit off,” he said. “We’re gonna be late.”
To be continued on Tuesday…
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