“I want us to do something about this,” said Sheila. If there was a leader among the four of them, she was it. But they really didn’t need a leader. Women have been banding together in times of crisis for a long time. Ireland is a good example. Were it not for Irish women, say many, the violence would be crashing along unfettered to this day.

“How old are you, Sheila?” asked Rachel.

“Thirty- two.”

“I’m thirty-five. I worry about getting older all the time. And that the older I get, the lousier my chances become of finding a man I want.”

“Is there any one of us who doesn’t worry about that?” asked Tamara.

“No-o-o, that’s what these assholes prey on,” said Susan. “They see us as desperate, maybe even pathetic, and they have no qualms whatsoever about exploiting that.”

The details of how their group had formed were sketchy. Sheila’s brother had put her in touch with Susan, a friend of his at work. Rachel and Susan belonged to the same health club and would talk in the steam room after taxing step classes. Tamara had overheard Robert and Susan chatting on a couch at Starbucks and asked if she could scrunch in next to Robert.

The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that all four were outraged about Great Expectations — a franchise operation that offered a minimum of ten dates with attractive, professional men who would be carefully matched to their preferences. The dates would be arranged for meals at upscale restaurants where the couple would go Dutch.

The cost for the service was not prohibitive, but it was substantial. Somewhere between $1,200 and $1,500 for the ten dates. No personal information would be provided to either person about the other. The dating couple could exchange all that, if they so desired, after the meal.

So what was fueling their outrage? What glued these four together, these women who simply wanted to find an enduring romantic relationship with a man? Not a white knight. Not a great leader. Not a dashing romantic with the charm of a George Clooney. Just a guy they could fall in love with and maybe have kids with and even wend their way into old age with.

It was Sunday morning and they were perched on stools at the counter in Sheila’s newly remodeled kitchen. As the conversation warmed up, the fog began to clear.

“I don’t know where to start,” said Tamara, the one with the enigmatic face whose ancestors had come from somewhere in the Mediterranean.

“Doesn’t matter. Just start,” said Sheila.

“Okay. I’ve had three dates so far. The first two were okay. I guess they were okay. No sparks. And neither was at all interested in hiking, especially hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

“I thought you put that down as a major requirement when you filled out the application,” said Rachel.

“Absolutely. I did. I stressed that. But both guys said they had too many allergies to ever want to spend much time in the woods. Darren, I think it was, even said he would worry too much about deer ticks.”

“And you didn’t tell him that checking each other for ticks was the best part of a hiking date?” asked Susan.

“Yeah,” chuckled Sheila, “I’m looking for a guy wants to check me for ticks if we stroll by a city park.”

“Well, honey, Darren’s not your boy. He’s putting on surgical gloves and a mask before he begins the examination.”

Rachel said she was gonna pee herself from laughing if they didn’t take a break. They took a break.

“Okay, that covers the first two dates. What about the third?” asked Susan after they’d reconvened.

“You’ll think I made this up.”

“No we won’t.”

“You will. Anyway, he comes into the restaurant and he’s actually kind of hunky. David. I’m sort of attracted to him. We sit down. Order some drinks, and I do the usual, ‘Tell me about yourself.’”

“Right?”

“Doesn’t miss a beat. Tells me he has Asperger’s Syndrome and that he’s bipolar.”

“You made that up.”

“See?”

“No, come on. Keep going.”

“Well, now I’m thinking about ways to sneak out of this place, but I figure, what the hell, I’ll humor the dude until I can make a break for it.”

“Not me, sweetheart,” said Sheila. “I’d have been heading for the hills.”

“Gets better. So the conversation switches to stuff you like to do for fun. Know what he says?”

“What?” chorused the other three.

“Says he likes to drive near police stations and create disturbances so the cops will chase him in his car.”

“Ho-LY SHIT.”

“Yep. And when I tactfully pointed out that that could be dangerous, he says, ‘Well in Florida, it’s against the law for the police to shoot at you during a high speed chase.’”

After another break, all four agreed on one thing.

“For me, that’s the worst part,” said Rachel. “I mean when you sign up for something like this, you’re … what, vulnerable?”

“Of course you are.”

“So you wanta deal with somebody who has a kind and nurturing attitude towards you.”

“Like a good grandmother?”

“Exactly. That was my Gramma Sophie. I could let her see my pain when some high school asshole dumped me for a chick with bigger tits. She would squeeze me as I sobbed away and tell me it was all gonna workout.”

“Yes.”

“And that is not what you get from these ‘coordinators,” said Susan.

“No way,” said Rachel. “These women, most of ’em are women, are into closing sales. They put on a veneer of caring and sensitivity, but, bottom line, they want your money.”

As the morning turned into early afternoon, other things came out. One was how the coordinators would hound you with calls to get you to renew your agreement — even when you told them flat out you were totally dissatisfied with the service and were thinking of suing to get your money back.

Then Sheila’s threw out a hunch that got everybody’s attention.

“I’m a lawyer, so I’m always thinking about what would hold up in court in a civil action. This wouldn’t. It’s hearsay.”

Tamara said, “Since the rest of us are not members of your esteemed profession, counselor, we don’t give a shit about the rules of evidence. Spill.”

“Here’s the deal. They got way more women than men using the service. Am I right?”

“More than a safe assumption,” said Tamara. “Dead bang certainty.”

“Okay. So this is what I’m hearing. The dorkier guys? They gotta pay. Maybe not as much as the women, but they pay. The cool guys, especially the hunky ones? All they have to pay is their half of the meal. Otherwise, we’re talking complimentary.”

“We’ll that sucks,” said Rachel.

“It most assuredly sucks. But that’s not the worst of it. Sometimes — and I think David who enjoys high speed chases with the cops would be an example — a freebie won’t work. They still need guys to show up for dates. So what do they do?”

“Tell me they don’t.”

“Yep, they do. They pay guys to go on dates.”

“So they set us up with gigolos?” asked Susan.

“Nice, huh? Want a date with a sleaze-ball, my dear? We have just the right fellow for you..”

“We gotta do something.”

Hatching the idea was not the hard pat. The four of them had that figured out before they adjourned somewhere around 2:30. The hard part was the logistics needed to pull it off.

Over the next two weeks each of them sneaked in a phone call here, a quick meeting over coffee there, and more texts than they could count. Finally, Sheila emailed the other three saying, “We’re a go. All hands meeting at my place 8pm on the 14th.”

By 8:15 Sheila’s spacious condo was overflowing with thirty something’s sipping wine or drinking beer. A few wanted to go out on the balcony and do some weed, but Sheila kiboshed that with one of her “looks.”

By 8:25 she was standing in front of them. Each had gotten comfortable by sitting or standing or lying, with some cuddling and groping thrown in here and there.

“First of all, thanks to everyone for coming and agreeing to participate in what I believe will be a groundbreaking event in the history of organized dating and match making.”

“Yeah baby!”

“Gonna kick some serious butt!”

“Open up a can of whoop ass on these low life’s.”

Struggling to keep her smirk from turning into a grin, Sheila made that palms down pumping sign and said, “Please, ladies and gentlemen. If you would, a modicum of decorum.” The decibel level then increased exponentially before finally dying down enough for Sheila to continue with some important details.

By 11:30 Sheila was alone lounging on a couch with a huge kitty kneading away on her tummy. “Whadya think, Herbert? We gonna be able to pull this thing off?” Herbert continued his purring and kneading and slow blinking as she scratched under his chin.

“I think we will, too.”

On the 18th, four days later, an article appeared in the Metro section of the Post:

At approximately 1:15 in the afternoon yesterday, the same bizarre event occurred in five upscale restaurants in the Raven Street corridor. In each restaurant, an attractive couple in their thirties had a shouting match where either the man or the woman stormed out shouting something profane and derogatory about GREAT EXPECTATIONS — a well-known franchise dating service aimed at young professional men and women.

At several of the restaurants, this reporter was able to interview some of the patrons and staff who observed these outbursts.

At Plutarch’s an assistant manager asked that her name not be used and would say only, “It was something you only expect to see in a romantic comedy, not in real life. It certainly ruined the atmosphere we try to create here for our lunch customers.”

A patron at La Copine who also asked that her name not be used said, “Truly amazing. I have no idea what caused the fight, but the woman almost punched the guy who I guess was her date. And she had some very unkind words for GREAT EXPECTATIONS and how she was planning to sue the sh .. , to sue them for a lot of money.”

Fox Evening News ran about 90 seconds of an interview with a passerby on the sidewalk who had seen a young woman crash her way out of Breakers. The gentleman did not seem concerned about protecting his anonymity or his vulnerability to litigation.

“And what did you observe, sir?”

“I’m just walkin’, you know, goin’ ’bout my business when wham! This white lady, fine look in’ too, she burst outa that door, that one right there. And she yellin’ at this dude look all confused and everythin’. She screamin’ back at the boy talkin’ GREAT SEXATION …”

“Ah, sir, I think it was GREAT EXPECTATIONS.”

“Yeah, that’s it. And she sayin’ how she gonna sue their ass for hookin’ her up with this jive turkey, and I’m thinkin’, boy you betta leave that girl alone ’cause she gonna put a hex on your ass, man.”

Then the interview was cut short because the reporter and the anchor team back at the studio could no longer hold it together.

On a Sunday morning a week later Sheila was snuggling next to John, an old boyfriend from high school that she had met in the Metro. She had been on the up escalator, he on the down.

“Hey, handsome,” she had shouted. “You remember me?”

“I’m still in love with you, Sheila.”

She thought he was clowning around. She waited for him to come up to the top. After he ran over and pulled her into him and gave her the most passionate kiss she’d ever had? Well, could be he wasn’t clowning around.

As he smooched the top of her head, he said, “Babe, these stools are great, but I can’t ravage you without toppling over and breaking my neck.”

“How about I get to finish my coffee and this omelet you made? Then you can guide me over on the couch with less fear of injury.”

“Okay. By the way, what was all that business with GREAT EXPECTAIONS?”

After she filled him on how her big group of friends had pulled off the operation with nobody getting caught or arrested, John asked, “So are they gonna shut down their operation here in town? I mean you guys really embarrassed the shit out of them?”

“No, of course not. But we fired a shot across their bow. They know it can happen again here and other places. When they least expect it.”

“That’s great.”

“It is great. Wanta go over to the couch?

**************