The Tinder Chronicles: The Guy from the Reality Show

Fiction Friday

When I first swiped right on a picture of a cute guy sitting on the beach, I didn’t recognize him. Not that I should have — I’d never seen Season Three of “Love and Temptation on the Beach.”

Once we matched, however, I did a quick Google search on “Fraze”, and quickly acquainted myself with the one-time reality TV star. From PopInsiderz.com, I gathered that Fraze (real name Chuck Frasier) was a Virgo, allergic to cheese, and a big lover of saving and rehabilitating raccoons, of all creatures. He’d “found love” on the show, but was no longer with Ashlee from Vermont.

So, needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of info. And I wasn’t about to binge-watch a whole season of a show that — no offense — didn’t look all that interesting to me, especially since I only had three days until our date.

Yep, that’s right — when he asked me out over Tinder messenger, I accepted. I figured, if nothing else, that the date would be a hoot.

I wasn’t wrong.

I met Fraze at a bar in Buckhead that I’d been to before. It had a reputation as the place to go on Saturday nights, but on that Thursday evening it was pretty quiet. That was fine with me — I wanted to be able to actually hear our conversation.

When Fraze showed up — fifteen minutes late, but who’s counting? — I immediately realized I was in for an interesting night. He was wearing tan cargo shorts more fitting for a middle school boy and a bright blue and purple Hawaiian short-sleeve shirt. Around his throat was a puka shell necklace that I really didn’t think he was wearing ironically.

“Viggy!” he yelled, much too loudly. “What’s up, you saucy squirrel?”

That certainly gave me pause — I’d never been called a “saucy squirrel” before, and I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Assuming it was a compliment, I said, “Hi! Nice to meet you.”

He took a seat at the table and looked around furtively. “Thanks for meeting me here on a Thursday. I just, you know, want to avoid the paps.”

“The paps?”

“You know, the paparazzi.”

I laughed, assuming he must be joking, but his face was deadly serious. “It’s all for real, Vigs. You’re the star of one show and then everybody comes knocking on your door, thinking they can take a picture of you working with rehabilitated raccoons or volunteering at the soup kitchen or doing situps on the beach. It’s, like, an invasion of privacy. Those saucy squirrels.”

“Wow,” I said, absorbing all of that. “I guess I should confess — I didn’t see the show. What was it like?”

His eyes went wide in shock. “You haven’t seen it? Man, Vigs, you’re missing out. As soon as you get the chance, you go watch it. It’s a serious trip. But, you know, not just a trip — it was a real journey. Like, I really grew, man. As a person.”

“Oh?” I said, signaling to the waitress that we were ready to order.

“I mean it,” he said. “Like, I barely drink anymore.” He turned to the waitress. “I’ll have a pint of Guinness, please — and, you know what, go ahead and bring me two. I’ve had a long day. Thanks, you saucy squirrel.”

The waitress turned to me, trying not to laugh. I ordered my standard vodka cranberry and then Fraze was off again: “Anyway, you know, I feel like I found a new level of my personality, and like, spiritual growth and shit.”

“Wasn’t it a dating show?”

Fraze snorted. “I mean, if you want to look at it like that, yeah. But it was so much more than that. Have you ever woken up still drunk on a beach wearing just your left sock, with gum in your hair and a penis drawn in Sharpie on your forehead?”

I thought that question had to be rhetorical, but since he was looking at me expectantly, I just shook my head. “Can’t say that I have,” I said.

“Well, I have. Which you’d know if you watched the show, but hey, that’s fine. Anyway, an experience like that just changes you, man — like, I realized I really needed to stop chewing so much gum. And that I should limit myself to eight beers a night. And that I shouldn’t play strip poker after four a.m. You know, I just saw that I was being a truly evil squirrel, when I just needed to be a saucy squirrel.”

“Okay, I’ve got to ask — what’s up with the saucy squirrel stuff?”

He chuckled. “I keep forgetting you haven’t seen the show. Well, that’s sort of my catchphrase. Everybody loves it so much — it was even trending on Twitter for an hour on February 18th of last year. I’m working on getting it trademarked and shit. And then, you know, there’s the Kickstarter.”

“What Kickstarter?”

“Dude! You really need to do your research before you go on dates. It’s my Kickstarter for the Saucy Squirrel clothing line! I’ll have shirts, and socks, and maybe some hats. Then from there I’m thinking of expanding into lingerie. You should really consider contributing.”

“Wow,” was all I could manage as I watched Fraze guzzle his first pint.

“It’s just, you know, I’m just like so outrageous, and I’ve got all these ideas, and I feel like I could really reach out and touch people, get them to open up their minds, just by like, being, you know, authentically me.”

“You don’t say,” I said, surreptitiously checking my watch.

“Well, after I dumped Ashlee — ” he paused, smacking his palm on his forehead. “Damn, you don’t even know about Ashlee! You know what, I’m sorry man, but I really can’t keep going on here if you haven’t watched the show yet. You’re cute, I like you, so here’s what we’re gonna do. You go home — but, maybe like, pay for the drinks first, my paycheck from the show ran out last month — and watch the show. It’s still early, you can get the whole season in one night. Then I’ll take you out again tomorrow and we’ll have a much better conversation. And maybe more, you saucy squirrel.” He winked, and I fought the urge to gag.

“You know what,” I said, slapping a five-spot on the table to cover my drink only, “that sounds great. I’ll just head out now.”

“Don’t let the paps see you on your way out!”