Christine Reed - Alone in Wonderland

Alone in Wonderland

Print ISBN: 978-1-7348418-0-0

Cover Photograph: Jason Dallas

Cover Design: Chris Greco

Editors: Tracy Gold and Nikki Rae Jensen

Publishing Company: Rugged Outdoors Woman, LLC

Copyright 2020 by Christine Reed

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

If you see yourself here,

this book is for you.

With love.

My parents wanted to raise a strong, independent woman. I guess some might say they succeeded, though they may have thought I took the whole independence thing too far. Im twenty-eight years old. Ive been single for most of the last decade. I live in a 2003 Dodge Ram passenger van whose seats and carpet have been gutted and replaced with an unfinished plywood floor and a slightly-longer-and-only-slightly-wider-than-twin-size bunk. My home isnt big enough to shareneither is my bed.

I live this way by choice, not out of desperation. Try explaining that one to my father. My parents had such high hopes for me. I had a lot of potential. I tested well enough on kindergarten IQ tests to be skipped to the first grade at age five. I excelled through high school and took advanced placement classes. I could have been a doctor or a lawyer. Now Im voluntarily unemployed.

My life isnt glamorous by any means, but I have what I need and go where I want. Taking care of myself is second nature by now. I bought the passenger van off an older couple in Las Vegas for $3,500, and it was love at first sight. Shes black, mysterious, and hideously nondescriptthe kind of van I was told to stay far away from as a kid. I named her Celeste as an homage to the night sky and celestial bodies we would soon be sleeping under. Shes loud and clunky and she hates when I drive in the mountains. Weve gotten stranded together a few timesher faultbut I cant stay mad at her.

Celeste and I arrived in Seattle just a few days ago, three months after quitting my job. Ive been feeling out of place every moment since then. Seattle is a shiny city filled with goal-oriented young professionals and busy businesspeople. My hairy armpits and baby-wipe baths arent relevant here. Ive spent the last few nights with a friend of a friend, who reminisces about the nomadic life she left behind to become a city dweller. The sky-high rent makes it impossible for her to wander long or often.

Im planning to get out of the city and go hiking on the Wonderland Trail in the next couple days, but there are a few things to sort out before I go. In between researching the permitting system, deciding how many calories to pack, and inspecting the old backpacking gear in my trunk, I keep an eye on the dating market in the greater Seattle areaby swiping. Im not looking for a partner in crime, just a few hours of entertainment.

I match with Dean while sitting on a bench across from Snoqualmie Falls. The people-watcher in me (and the waterfall enthusiast) enjoys destinations like this one. Parking lots and sidewalk ramps make the falls an accessible attraction for all kinds of visitors. Theres a short hiking trail, but most of the visitors are happy to take a picture from the railing and head back to their cars. I stay all day listening to the cascading song of the 268-foot falls. Its a soundtrack of tranquility to accompany my virtual check-ins with friends around the country and shopping for a suitable date.

Dean is a doctor. Hes British, forty-six, salt and pepper hair. Hes written and published a book about polyamory, and he is way out of my league. My profile is filled with photos in front of Half Dome in Yosemite Valley and on top of fourteeners in Colorado. It showcases my long tangle of dark hair and genuine smile. My profile reads:

What kind of doctor self-identifies as a dirt-bag? And does he know what #vanlife is? If I were trying to attract a successful medical professional, this profile (and this life) isnt how I would go about it. We exchange a few messages; through which I decide he doesnt seem to be a murderer. He invites me to a casual wine bar in the city and I agree to meet him there. I neglect to mention that I dont drinkit probably doesnt matter.

Back in the van, I inventory my wardrobe. Im not sure I own an appropriate outfit for a midday wine bar date with a doctor in Seattle. In 100-degree weather. The only semi-dressy clothing I own is black. A silky, flowing, cold-shoulder top with long loose sleeves and dark-wash skinny jeans are going to have to suffice. Its not exactly a summer outfit. I throw it on anyway and head toward the city.

Im sweating profusely and holding my hair away from my neck as I drive. I dont want to tie it in a rubber band, lest I arrive for our date with an unsightly ponytail bump. Celeste has a new water pump and thermostat, but she still gets a little testy when the temps are in the nineties. As we get into the city, sweltering heat radiates from the asphalt and the engine temperature gauge suddenly shoots into the red zone. I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore, a couple miles from the wine bar.

I dont have time to deal with this right now!

Looking at the clock, I send Dean a quick text.

Might be 5 minutes late.

Its time to walk. With my cute pointy-toe black flats and a swipe of melty coral lipstick, I walk through two miles of Seattle grunge. I pass homeless encampments and dirty alleyways with my head held high and sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. The dank garbage stink of summer in the city fills my nostrils. The top of my right shoe rubs an angry red patch just above my toes. With every step, the pain intensifies.

At no point during the march do I consider that this man isnt worth my time or suffering. As independent as I want to be, my mind still traipses down the road of possibility. I imagine a future as the wife of a hot older polyamorous Seattleite doctor with a British accent. A girl can dream.

At the wine bar, we smile with recognition and order drinks before finding a couple empty chairs on the patio. Nowhere in Seattle has air conditioning, so its all but unbearable to sit indoors. At least on the street-facing patio the movement of cars driving by creates an illusion of air circulation. Deans face is damp with sweat as he greets me. Were on equal footing.

Wow, you look really beautiful. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles but he struggles to focus them on me.

Thanks. I study his face. He looks older, more tired than in his photos.

Like, really really beautiful. Deans words slur together as he puts a hand on my thigh.

Is he drunk?!

I glance around the patio. A man sitting across the way is trying not to notice us. I am acutely aware of the obvious age difference between us and of Deans hand on my leg. Others around us continue with their conversations and glasses of sauv blanc, oblivious to Deans lascivious behavior.