Mismatched soulmates by Frances FitzGerald

(Updated from the original, published in Funny Times, April 1994)

I fell in love with a dead guy, which wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did.

I was sick of dating. There’s so much to find out in so little time: Any past or present wife? Any kids? Any vile diseases? It’d be easier just to hand over a questionnaire and be done with it.

That’s what I did on my last date, which is longer ago than I will admit in public. Over dinner, my date, Joe, talked about his whiny ex-wife and I talked about my selfish ex-boyfriend. Face it: That stuff gets real old real fast.

So I whipped out my pen, jotted down some pertinent questions on my dinner napkin, and handed it to Joe. On my way out, I could hear him reading aloud: “Who do I admire more—June Cleaver or Jessica Jones? Do I own a MAGA hat? If I start going bald, will I comb three long strands of hair over my scalp?”

It was kind of a weird thing to do; I see that now. But I’m just not cut out for dating. I’m cut out for writing out questionnaires on restaurant napkins, an activity for which there is not any great call.

So I retreated into a world of books. It started out innocently enough. I was reading Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Now, there’s a guy you wouldn’t have to make small talk with. Just bring up landladies, and you’d have that conversational ball rolling just fine.

Like any attentive reader, I was moved by Dostoyevsky’s powerful eloquence and tragic sensibility. Dostoyevsky has a narrative drive that’ll make your socks roll up and down. I don’t meet too many guys like that.

I fell for him hard. I just went crazy over that pitiful Russian melancholy. To tell you the truth, chronically miserable live guys get on my nerves. But in a dead guy, tragedy is kind of attractive. It’s artistic misery, not ordinary misery.

I went home to tell my parents.

We all sat down for supper, a nice, Midwestern tuna casserole with peas. I said, “Mom, Dad, I’m in love. This guy is everything I ever dreamed of. Brilliant. Passionate. Maybe a little crazy. But I just know he’s the one.”

My parents were thrilled. Mom got up from her chair and hugged and kissed me. Dad’s face got all gooey and he grabbed my elbow and said, “Oh, thank God, you finally got someone.”

“What’s your young man’s name?” Mom asked, after composing herself.

Now, I’m not so young myself, and God knows Dostoyevsky isn’t. But I decided not to nitpick. I said, “Fyodor Dostoyevsky.”

“That guy’s dead,” Dad said. He didn’t look gooey anymore. He looked skeptical.

“Well, yes, he is dead. But he’s very sensitive and articulate.”

Mom said, “I haven’t trusted the Russians since the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

Dad said, “Russian, Chinese, Indian, what does it matter? The guy’s dead.”

I said, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Dad, but I think you’re being a little superficial. Dostoyevsky has a beautiful soul.”

“Yeah, but it’s detached from the rest of him. That’s what happens when you’re dead.”

“Dead, dead, dead. Is that all you can think of?” I asked. “Frankly, I never recognized this morbid streak in you before. Dostoyevsky’s spirit lives.”

Mom said, “Who’ll pay the bills, Honey? I know there are plenty of anti-discrimination laws, but I can’t think of any place that’ll hire a dead guy.”

I said, “Maybe we could adapt some of his work for dinner theater. Maybe The Brothers Karamazov as a musical.”

Mom turned pale. She never liked those Karamazov boys. Much too rough and unwholesome.

Dad slouched in his chair. Mom stared into her lap. I was the only one still eating my casserole. As I chased a pea around the plate with my fork, Mom asked, “How can I plan a wedding? What if he invites his friends? They’re probably all dead, too. How can I plan a menu? Who knows what those people eat?”

Well, I finally bowed to parental pressure and gave up on Fyodor. It was probably a lousy idea anyway. I mean, it’s not as if I could take him anywhere.

I started thinking about my last date with Joe. I felt bad about sticking him with my questionnaire. He was actually kind of appealing, although a little too tidy for my taste. But he was living, and I began to see that had some advantages.

I swallowed my pride and called him. “Hi, Joe,” I said. “I’m the woman with the questionnaire. Do you want to meet for lunch?”

There was a long pause on the other end. I thought, Geez, he’s trying to think of a polite way to blow me off. And who could blame him?

He finally said, “It’s like this. I’ve been reading Tolstoy.”

“Great writer, but sheesh! Who can keep track of the names?!”

“I’ve fallen deeply in love,” he said.

“What’s this got to do with Tolstoy?”

“I’ve fallen in love with Anna Karenina. I just don’t think I could go out with another woman.”

“Yeah, she’s okay. Beautiful and classy and sexy, if you like that sort of thing. But, of course, she is fictional.”

“You’re just like everybody else,” Joe said bitterly. “I’ve finally found my soulmate, and all anyone can say is ‘She isn’t real.’ Well, nobody’s perfect.”

That was a few months ago. Just last week, I got my dinner napkin back in the mail, with all the questions filled in. Under “What do you like to read?” Joe had written, “Only non-fiction. Novels too heart-breaking.”

I think I’m going to call Joe tonight. I think we have a lot to talk about.