Wherein our not-so-humble narrator is introduced and things go poorly.
The date was going poorly. She was telling me that she collects commemorative plates. Like dinner plates, but decorative ones that you see on commercials. I was sitting there thinking that either she is a pure old-fashioned Americana fan – the kind who has strawberry shortcake dolls and pewter unicorns all over the walls of their house, or that she was once a total stoner – unemployed and up at two in the morning, higher than a penthouse on Park Place, watching commercials for the Franklin Mint sandwiched that were between Jesus rock compilations and Girls Gone Wild. I wasn’t sure which she was, and neither was appealing. On the plus side, it was allowing me to focus on something other than her yammering.
Her name was Deborah, as in Deb-OR-ah, the OR heavily stressed, as in “coffee OR tea,” which was just as well, since she was a flight attendant. Everyone knows the stereotype of flight attendants being “easy” because they are always staying in strange cities and get lonely. When I first heard that about her, I was a little excited, but I began to wonder if other parts of the flight attendant lifestyle spills over to her regular life. While we’re in bed, will she ask if I need another pillow or a blanket? Does she have a button above her bed with a tiny picture of a flight attendant? I’d press the button, it would light up, and then she would roll over, press the button to turn it off, and ask if I needed a beverage or anything. “Uh, no,” I’d say, “I was actually wondering if you’d do that thing with your mouth again…”
She had long light blonde hair and very fair skin. She had blue eyes, and probably would be considered quite attractive by most. For some reason, I was just not attracted. I could aesthetically see she was pretty, but something wasn’t working for me. I just couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe her nose had the wrong curves, her chin jutted wrong, or her eyes were just the wrong shade of blue. Her eyes were a strange light blue, more a watery blue Kool-aid than the azure blue I like.
It was at this point I realized by her expectant look that she had asked me something and was awaiting my reply. I tried to think of something neutral but affirmative, so I could pretend that I was listening. But I also didn’t want to end up replying to the wrong thing – “That’s great!” “I just told you about my mother’s cancer.” “Oh.” The tension was thick as she slowly began to realize I was not listening and I floundered for some acceptable response.
“Hello, I am Donald and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Would you like to start with drinks?”
Saved by the waiter! She immediately turned to him. If I had an audience, a Greek choir, or even one of those people translating into sign language on the corner of the screen, they were cheering for me; the sign language translator shouting, “GOOOOOOOOOAAAALLL!” much to the chagrin of hearing impaired viewers everywhere.
We ordered our food, Deborah listening to the entire salad dressing list before settling on Ranch. I talked her out of an appetizer; so far this seemed like it was going to go badly, and the last thing I needed was for it to take even longer. I ordered a beer; there was no other way I was going to get through this date.
This date was not my idea. I did not find her via Facebook, I did not have her picked out as a possible soul mate by a dating site, nor did I answer an ad in the local paper. No, I had been perfectly fine to sit home, left to my own devices. Instead, I was subjected to this date the old fashioned way: busy-body friends set me up on it and then guilted me into going through with it. Bruce hooked me into it, or rather, his wife instigated the whole thing with a girl she had met once at her reading group, and Bruce was compelled to involve me.
This was not the first time they had tried to set me up with someone. Their choice was always poor. They had set me up with a stripper, a single mother, and a woman who had an unnatural obsession with the Oscar Meyer Weiner song. The stripper was on meth, the single mother had vowed death to anything with a penis, and there’s only so much Oscar Meyer-related conversation I had in me. Let’s just say that at this point Bruce owes me so many favors that I’m pretty much family.
I wondered how much longer this date was going to go on. Unfortunately, with the advent of cell phones, I stopped wearing a watch. I scanned the walls over her shoulder but saw no clocks. I slowly slid my cell phone out of my pocket. However, she was talking and looking right at me. She would be able to tell if I looked down at it, and that might start an argument. I kept staring into her eyes, nodding and saying “mmhmm”, waiting for her to show a sign of weakness and look away so I could steal a glance at the time.
“Uh huh.” “Yeah, sure.” “That’s very interesting.”
Still she kept staring at me. I debated looking over her shoulder and smiling or yelling “What in the world is that!” to fake her out. The one time I didn’t want attention, she seemed to hang on my every movement.
Once again, the waiter saved me. He came with her salad, and she finally looked away. I quickly looked down at my phone, cursing the fact that the display had gone dim from inactivity. Quickly looking back at her to confirm she was distracted, I jammed on the touchscreen so it lit up. 7:30. I turned back to her quick enough to give her a strained smile.
She was currently telling me about her cat, Admiral Fluffynuggins and the cute way he drinks water. Normally I don’t call someone boring just because they like to talk about their beloved pet. But if I have to wonder if their pet outranks me or if it possibly fought in the Great War, I draw the line. She reached into her purse and produced a book of cat photos.
I think that was the line. Maybe it was because I was not willing to try to connect with her, maybe it was because I have intimacy “issues.” Maybe it was just because I’m kind of an ass. Probably it was because I’m kind of an ass. Whatever the reason, I made the decision then and there that the date would need to end.
I was going to sabotage it.
This is always a questionable topic. Do people really sabotage their dates as a way to shorten them? It seems a television gimmick or some ribald bar conversation. Are people so heartless? Are they so unwilling to be honest that they would actually try to make things go so poorly?
The answer is yes, and it’s one of the long refined arts of the coward. The key is in making them pissed off at you, so it is their decision to end the date. You then escape guiltless. For some reason, it is better to come off weird or crazy than rude. You need to “accidentally” blurt out something that makes the other person either incredibly awkward or immediately insulted. You’d think this would be easy, but it’s not. You can’t just go for the throat, because then they’ll know. If you are too outlandish or too non sequitur about it, they realize you’re fucking with them. You have to subtly and reasonably horrify them. The name of the game is careful escalation.
For example, I first tried to take advantage of the fact that Deborah was a flight attendant. If the media is to be believed, flight attendants hate being called “stewardesses;” they feel it is demeaning. So I nonchalantly questioned her about her work, “accidentally” calling her a stewardess. Then I sat back and waited for the outrage so I could feign ignorance and then apologetically back peddle.
The problem is that she didn’t take that hook. She just went on talking like I hadn’t said anything wrong. I made another statement, saying stewardess again. I said it slowly, pausing right after it so it hung in the air. Stew-ARD-ess. Nothing. No outrage, no anything. Was she stupid or oblivious?
It might be time to pull out the big guns.
“So are you kinky?” I asked, being cocky. It was kind of a non sequitur, but made some sense with the date context. This was sure to turn her off. “How naughty do you get once we’re in bed?”
She chuckled playfully. “Oh very. I’m sure you’ll have many opportunities to shackle me and whip me. I’m a total painslut.”
Umm…
“Well,” I said, switching gears, “back to airlines, the real reason that airline tickets are expensive but the workers are underfunded is because of the Jews.”
Now stop right there. Plenty of my good friends are Jewish, and that’s not just a cheap defense. If anything, I am exploiting how pro-Semitic people generally are. Few like an anti-Semite. And for a first date, it is the touch of death.
Except here. “Oh, completely!” she said. “It’s so refreshing to meet someone who will finally admit that openly. My father always hated them and their conspiracy. He taught me all about them, as well as staying true and staying proud.”
“’Staying true and staying proud?’” I asked.
“To my race,” she said. “No mixing. That’s why I like that you have such fair skin. We are part of the superior race.”
It was a moment before this truly sank in.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! A giant robot hanging from the top of a skyscraper was warning me just how crazy she was.
In the throes of a fight-or-flight panic, I somehow stammered out that I needed to go to the bathroom, as I stood up, knocking my chair over. I didn’t look back as I went straight to the restroom, nearly body-checking a waiter on the way there. Inside the bathroom, I clutched the sink, panting, as I stared in the mirror frantically. I splashed water in my face and calmed myself down.
Where’s that girl obsessed with the Oscar Meyer song? She wasn’t so bad a dinner companion. The meth whore? Both preferable to Little Miss Crazy White Supremacist out at the table.
I’m usually pretty open minded about people’s individual quirks and trips. Whatever they want to do, cool, it just may not be something I agree with, and that’s okay. But this is where I draw the line. I’m not tolerant of intolerance. I’m sure there’s some irony, hypocrisy, or contradiction, but there it is. When will people reach a state of enlightenment where they realize it’s so much better to dislike people for individual reasons, rather than their group?
Besides that, even if I might be okay or neutral about her racism, I still thought she was crazy.
So I knew I had to get out of the restaurant somehow. I went over my options, delineating all the strengths and weaknesses of any plans:
Plan A: Sneak out of the bathroom and then restaurant without her seeing. I would need to do my best stealth impression. What would Sam Fisher do? He’d probably just do a stealth kill and be done with it. Flaws: Deborah was sitting facing the door, prison time.
Plan B: Just walk out of the bathroom and walk directly out of the restaurant. Don’t sneak, don’t run. Just walk, and never turn and look at her. Flaws: The size of the cojones requires for this plan would make walking prohibitive.
Plan C: Go back out there, sit down and finish out the evening. Gritted teeth, neutral small talk. What if she kept wanting to talk about the racist banter? I’ve faked my way through a lot of things, but I had no desire to fake my way through NeoNaziLoveMatch.com. Flaws: I lack the patience to pull this off.
Plan D: Go back, explain respectfully that we are not a match, pay the check, then take her home early. Have the most awkward ride ever. Flaws: Who are we kidding? That’s not who I am.
Instead, I hatched a cunning plan. Except substitute “cowardly” with cunning, since that’s really what it was.
I pulled out my phone and called Becky. I prayed she wasn’t on a date, at a movie, doing her hair, whatever. I prayed she was available and willing to do me a big favor. She was the only person crazy enough for what I had in mind.
* * *
I waited in the bathroom as long as I felt I could get away with it before making the reluctant death march back to my table. I almost imagined a waiter calling out “Dead man walking!” as I passed. My chair had been righted. I slid back into it. A strained smile.
“Did you fall in?” she asked with a genuine smile.
I faked some laughter and grabbed some of the bread the waiter brought, stuffing it in my mouth to cover any facial expression. I like bread.
“I took the liberty of asking the waiter to bring us a bottle of wine.” She said, pointing to the bottle.
White wine. Why was I not surprised?
I chugged my beer. She looked at me oddly, but said nothing. I then poured myself a glass of wine and downed that. Then I poured myself a second glass. Her eyebrow was raised, but she said nothing.
I was feeling pretty good by now, tapping on the table and humming a tune, while doing my best not to make eye contact with her. Still I wondered where the cavalry was. My drunken good humor would only last so long.
“You know, you’re still on a date,” said Deborah.
“Yes, I know,” I said, without sympathy. I started to wonder if the traditional date sabotage was starting to work. Maybe I should have started drinking sooner.
“So you’re just playing hard to get now, is that it?” she said. “I don’t mind. There’s something in the thrill of the hunt,” she said, holding her wine glass in her hand. She gave me what should have been a sly smile, but instead it seemed like she was glowering at me. It was rather freaky.
At this moment, at my most uncomfortable, is when things started to change. I heard a familiar voice across the restaurant.
“What the hell are you doing?” Just the nice mixture of shock and outrage. I liked it. She was getting into her role.
Becky came storming up to our table, her face a mask of rage. She looked back and forth between me and Deborah, her eyes narrowing.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said looking at me. Then, looking at Deborah, “And you! You damn slut! Who do you think you are?”
“And just who are you?” said Deborah icily.
“His girlfriend, that’s who!” replied Becky. “He’s my boyfriend! Who the hell are you?”
“The girl who’s going to steal him away from you and show him what a real woman is like,” replied Deborah. “Cause if he’s out with me, you sure as hell aren’t doing it for him!”
I was surprised that Deborah decided to go on the offensive. I figured Becky would show up, scream a bunch, and Deborah would back down. She’d think I was slime, she’d sympathize with Becky, and the whole night would end. Instead, things were going to a very bad place. Deborah surprised me by fighting back, and Becky surprised me by throwing a punch at Deborah.
Okay, I admit it. Becky’s punch wasn’t a surprise. I expect those kinds of reactions from her.
Becky isn’t actually my girlfriend, as you may have guessed. We dated a few times, but it didn’t work out. She thought I was arrogant, I thought she was crazy. Both are correct. She is quite uninhibited, for better or for worse. She acts more through her emotions, but at the same time, has a perverse sense of humor. For example, when I suggested that she come and act like a jealous girlfriend to get me out of this date, she thought it was hilarious. I wonder if she knew she was going to get into a fight. She likes fights.
Deborah didn’t go down easily. Becky’s punch knocked her out of her chair, but she immediately got back up and socked Becky right back. Becky staggered, shocked. Usually she dominates fights precisely because the other person doesn’t want to fight. She didn’t look happy, but she threw herself back into the fight anyway. Soon the two of them were locked in a desperate struggle.
Other men would have stepped in to stop the fight. Better men. Men who were probably not the focus of both women’s anger right now. I was not one of those men. Instead, drenched in cowardice like it was cheap cologne, I creeped across the restaurant on my belly like a roach. Most of the other restaurant patrons were glued to the catfight at my table and never saw me slip by.
I crept past the hostess podium at the front of the restaurant as the hostess and one of the waiters talked frantically about calling the police. When I was last in earshot, they had already started dialing. I straightened up as I walked through the restaurant waiting area. I shook my head to the people there. “You do not want to go in there,” I said.
In a moment, I stepped out into the cool, refreshing air of freedom. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders and I had a spring in my step. I stretched my arms wide. It was a wonderful feeling, my spirits lifting. I had escaped unscathed! The most important part is that I had extricated myself from that bad situation without having to bite the bullet and do the right thing. There would be no comeuppance!
I breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out my car keys.
I stepped off the curb and was immediately hit by a car. I flew up a few feet in the air and came down hard on the pavement. Everything went black.
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