date from hell...a short.

We sat across from each other gazing awkwardly above one another’s heads at the NCAA basketball final four game airing on every big screen dangling in the sports bar. Every once in a while he’d take a sip of his Stella and look over meekly, give a gruff “huh” and nod at whatever just happened at that instance in the game, pretending or naively thinking that I, too, cared what was happening on the screen in front of me. If it wasn’t triple overtime and Martha Stewart was on TV instead, I’m sure I’d get the same response from him – meek look, gruff “huh” and a can-you-believe-this nod. No, actually, I couldn’t believe it! I had suckered myself into thinking that a second date with this dud of a man could yield anything but the same tedium as the first night we went out. Katie warned me that he was a wet blanket, but in keeping with my new positive, open-minded New Year’s attitude, I gave him a chance. Honestly, a piece of cardboard had more personality than this kid. It was painful to stare blankly at the TV, but it was far less painful that actually having to speak two words to him. Prior to this staring contest, this is how our riveting conversation unraveled:
“So, what are you gonna get?”
“Not sure…you?”
“I love buffalo wings. They have great wings here. You can get them medium, hot, really hot or volcanic. I get the medium ones.”
“Cool,” I lied.
Awkward five-minute pause.
“Do you know yet?”
“Yeah. I think I’m going to get a BLT.”
“WAITRESS!” he screamed at the poor over-worked girl collecting another table’s order. She smiled politely (but rightly annoyed) at him and signaled she’d be right over.
Another awkward pause.
The waitress finishes at the other table and doesn’t have time to think of dismissing us because my date, Casanova, is hailing her down like a New York City taxi. I wanted to bury myself under the table and deny any relation to this redneck sitting across from me.
“Ok,” he starts to demand, “I need two dozen medium buffalo wings with ranch dressing and ketchup. NO NO NO blue cheese – that stuff makes me hurl” (I almost hurled as he said this) “and she finally decided on a BLT.”
Wow, what a gentleman!
“Do you want a salad or fries? Probably a salad,” he says knowingly to the disinterested waitress, “girls always try to look so proper on dates, but you know they want to dig into a whole bowl of buffalo wings like a dude! You were gonna say salad weren’t you? So proper!”
I want to slap him. Not with my girlie hand, but with a huge meaty man hand that could knock some sense into his ridiculous head and perhaps relocate him across the street to Hooters where he wanted to take me in the first place. I feel like his jackass moves would have seemed more appropriate there amidst the orange booty shorts and famous hot wings. Sitting there I feel like I would have expected this rude, degrading attitude from him. TGI Friday’s isn’t a five-star Zagat-rated foodie haven, but at least their menu consists of more than just hot wings.
“Could I actually get potato salad as a side, instead? Thank you.”
She nodded and walked off, hopefully to spit in his order of medium hot sauce.
Breathe. Am I being overly critical? Maybe I should chill out and just change the subject.
“So, Andy, how’s work? How do you like teaching middle school?” This was the one redeeming quality about him – he taught middle school social studies and coached wrestling during the winter season.
“Those little fuckers have been busting my balls non-stop these days!”
And the redemption was lost.
“Oh.”
“Wrestling season is ending, so the parents are all up in my shit to write recommendations for their kids for next year’s transition to high school wrestling. The kids are going ape shit because it’s getting warmer out and all the while we’re driving around the state in this broken down short bus to compete in meets against kids way better than my guys and getting our asses kicked.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s not your fault they don’t practice for shit! I played football, a real sport, but all they had open was this wrestling coach position and I needed the extra dough because the Wii was coming out and figured I could save up faster for it with a little after school work.”
At least he was financially competent to some extent.
“Cool.”
“Do you have a Wii? They are fucking awesome!”
Am I in an episode of the Sopranos? Why does he insist on cursing like a mob boss with anger management issues while discussing middle school wrestling?
“Cool,” I lied again. No more questions.
He takes his phone out of his front jean pocket and starts to text someone. Seriously? Am I boring him?
“Am I boring you?”
He looks up like a kid who was just caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar five minutest after he was told not to.
“No. I just forgot to tell my buddy that he has to come over at eight, not six, to play on my Wii because we’re out now.”
“Ah.” It was 5:30 now and if he thinks we’re going to be out any later then 6:30 he is delusional! “Yeah, I’ve got to be back at my place before seven, so…” I let my sentence linger so he can insert a ‘Perfect I can play my Wii an extra hour tonight!’ or ‘What, no night cap?’
“Whoa, that only gives us an hour,” he says offended.
I feel bad, but why does he even care?
“Sorry. Family obligation,” HUGE lie.
“On a Wednesday night?”
“Yeah. Dang!” I try to hide my sarcasm, but could really care less what this strange, rude guy thinks of my excuses to get the hell away from him.

The Present

Time runs, gallops, torpedoes ahead of us.

Our futures are blank canvases, awaiting their design.

Daydreams morph times yet experienced, places yet seen, people yet encountered

And paint elaborate masterpieces in our minds.

Years pass in moments, decades disappear and we forget where we are: today.