August 2001The Makings of a Perfect Match
by Valerie Carino
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Over a bottle of Heineken, a guy asked his friend to, "Check out that fine ting over dere." And then they laughed as guys do after sizing up the potential "meat" in a bar. Never mind that the two were on a double date with other women.
Well, as it turns out, that "ting" was me, and guy number one was Damien Moloney, the fellow who would become my fiancé. We officially met two days later at the Irish pub where he bartended, after a friend of mine spilled her beer and he had to clean it up. Somewhere in between pouring a pint of Guinness, wiping up the mess and taking care of other customers, he stopped over to say hello. I knew he would eventually come over, because no one smiles that much whenever they come back into the room. Besides, he didn't much hide the fact that he was doing it.
I owe our meeting to a ring. A gold shiny one, which I saw on one of his fingers. Because I'm not one to mess with someone with a "Mrs." waiting at home (yet the romantic tinges were so hot I could feel them from across the bar), I had to check out the facts for myself. So I asked for a glass after glass of water, and each time, he would decorate the side with a cherry. I thanked him, and in his lovely Limerick accent, he responded, "No problem," each time.
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Finally, after the fourth time, I just had to ask.
"Are you married?"
A bold, personal question, but not for a newspaper reporter. "Oh no, that's a signet ring," he said.
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A signet ring on his right hand, not his left.
So then we chitchatted about Ireland — where he is from. He told me he knew a Valerie once and then he asked where I was headed for the rest of the night. The whole time his eyes twinkled like someone who'd laughed more than cried. That is exactly what I would remember later that night after I left the bar, never thinking I'd see him again.
I never fancied myself "an accent chaser," but I suppose that's exactly who I was when I returned to the bar a week later after a life-changing weekend in New York. My girlfriend, Stephanie, picked me up from the airport and I told her about the bartender with the twinkling eyes and curly hair. So, we stopped in for a drink.
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Not knowing his schedule, I thought what are the chances that this guy will be here. But Stephanie said it didn't matter anyway because she wanted to know what happened in New York. On the drive over she asked if I got the job. I nodded, but gave a cautious answer. "God, I hope so."
Court TV Online had just interviewed me to be a national legal affairs reporter, and that sounded a whole heck of a lot better than covering potbelly pig ordinances in the suburbs of Tampa. No one ever tells you that your first job out of college might REALLY SUCK.
All this talk of my next career move took a momentary halt when we walked into Four Green Fields. There he was sitting on a stool next to his friend, the bald guy. He looked like he'd just come off a soccer pitch dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and significantly less gel in his hair than the last time.
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He waved hello, and we took the two seats next to them. For the next hour, he played it cool. Somewhat I focused my attention to how my interview went, how I could so see myself in New York, with all its fire and fashion and fun.
Then, all of a sudden the bartender put two drinks in front of us and pointed to Damien. I said thank you and he pushed his stool closer to us.
After a few beers we discussed jobs, college (he told me he was 26-year-old exchange student at Florida State University and a member of the most popular fraternity. Later, I found out these were white lies to impress me.) and who knows what else. I do remember thinking how much I wanted to kiss him, especially when he stood closer to me and didn't have to. Also, when he said the number 33. "Tirty tree." By the end of the night, Stephanie had left, and he drove me home. But not without a kiss. Or two. Or eight.
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We dated for the rest of the summer, he mindful the whole time that I would leave in September. I actually got the gig in New York, which was bittersweet, because I could see myself falling for him.
Though I never had a long-distance relationship, my friends schooled me about the cardinal rule: They just don't work.
As we inched closer and closer to the end, I found myself questioning why I'd gotten involved in the first place. I wasn't sure if he felt as deeply for me as I did for him. I asked him plenty of times, but he always told me to hush, to be patient and to take it day by day. I was frustrated but mad in love at the same time.
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Fast forward to the goodbye at Tampa International Airport, where Damien single-handedly proved that guys, too, could bawl at airports. The poor, blubbering, sobbing fellow had to keep his sunglasses on the whole time so that no one would notice. But it felt like everyone was watching — watching and listening.
He told me that he loved me, and not to go. He told me to come back to him. He told me he'd be up as soon as he could, and that I was going to do really well in my new job. He told me I was the best woman he ever met.
Before I stepped onto the plane, I wiped away his tears, and he wiped away mine. As I sat on the jet that would take me to my new life, I couldn't wait to get off the plane to hear his voice again.
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In New York, where the quotient of single, smart, ambitious, hip men swallows the city of Tampa, long-distance boyfriends are frowned upon. But I bragged about mine anyway, and told everyone how I couldn't wait to see him.
Damien was planning to visit in a few weeks, but certainly not fast enough for me. So until then, we set an all-time record for long-distance calls. When he finally touched down at LaGuardia, we spent the rest of our mini holiday in between our hotel room (I was sharing a closet-sized studio with a friend from high school) and restaurants near Times Square and Greenwich Village. Though this was Damien's virgin trip to New York, he had little interest in sight seeing.
These back and forth trips went on two more times, and I flew back to Tampa as well. In less than two months, we had dropped at least a few grand between us just to go see each other.
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At that stage, I felt it was time to make a decision.
While my job was going great and I had made a few friends, and I loved THE CITY, I knew I wanted to be back in Tampa with him. Since I was only 23, I figured I could get back there one day if I wanted to.
On Halloween weekend of 1999, I didn't make my flight back to Manhattan. I told my bosses I wasn't happy in New York and when a situation isn't making me happy, I have to go. I had to get out of there.
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In the two years that followed, we have gone through a lot. After New York, I went broke, not finding a job so easily in my field as I would have liked. But through it all, he supported me, both emotionally and financially. Now, I have a job in public relations and I still do some writing on the side.
Damien still bartends at the pub where we met and is really HAPPY doing it. I have always envied that of him — the joy and spirit and pride he takes to his job.
So much of my career has been wasted on trying to please miserable people, who have trouble accepting the fact that maybe you don't care about writing your first 1A story for the New York Times before the age of 30. Work matters, but shouldn't stop you from loving intensely, and taking risks on aching, urgent feelings.
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Unfortunately, I have no proposal story to tell, which is hard for some of my friends to grasp. But I do have the love of my life.
There was no champagne, bent-on-the-knee, in-front-of-a-crowd proposal. Just a sweet acknowledgment, that yes, it's you, you are the one, and nothing else matters. And we knew that from day one.
I do, however, have a one-carat oval solitaire, and a year of planning for a wedding at a 500-year-old Catholic church in Ireland with a reception following in County Clare, on a lake overlooking the town of Killaloe. It will be Damien's first trip to Ireland in five years and my first trip EVER.
Now, if that's not storybook then I don't know what is.
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