There is no solace for the single man--no comfy evenings nestled in the cushions of a well worn couch, a dog bone poking him in the shoulder blade, peanut shells spread out on his chest while he watches a baseball game--but only the endless pursuit of that significant other who with each passing day and each subsequent date becomes ever more elusive.
The successive nights of bar hopping and mixed social events began to take their toll. I was aging quickly—my hair graying—and people began to take notice. It was then on occasion that well meaning friends would try to save me from an early grave and dabble in the forbidden art of match making, attempting to juke destiny by inserting into my life “the perfect woman.” If this occurs in your life I have only three words for you: RUN LIKE HELL.
* * *
My coworker Alice bit into her Ruben and chewed thoughtfully. “So, what have you been up to lately?”
“The same old.”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you’re looking a little rough around the edges.”
“Good rough or bad rough.”
“I didn’t know there was a good rough.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“I want to help you. I know the most beautiful girl. She is the daughter of a good friend of mine. I want to set you two up.”
I was only half paying attention, watching a beautiful brunette in a tight brown skirt walk across the food court. “Okay.”
“Great, I’ll call her tonight.”
I chewed and watched, chewed and watched and only after thoroughly masticating my food did the enormity of Alice’s words hit me. “What? Call who tonight?”
In a panic I looked over to where Alice had been standing at the food bar. Her tray was gone and all that remained of her presence were a few crumbs of rye bread. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of her getting on the escalator on the other side of the food court.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” I cried.
Car crashes of past blind dates flew through my mind: the girl with cankles, the puker, the racist, the stripper…no, wait the stripper was okay. Panic overtook me as I raced out of the food court and towards the office.
In a full sprint I tried to call Alice’s cell phone but it went immediately to voicemail. Back at the office I found she would be in court the remainder of the day and wasn’t coming back to the office.
It was impossible for me to concentrate on my work that afternoon and not just because I was playing retro Atari games on my computer. I knew deep in my heart that this was a conspiracy aimed at getting me to go out with a “handsome” or “big-boned” girl that Alice hoped I would get drunk or perhaps suffer a momentary bout of blindness and that in my fearful or obliterated state would whisk my blind date off to Vegas to marry me. You scoff but I’ve seen it happen.
Every single blind date I had gone on turned out to be complete mismatch. Sure, I’ll concede that perhaps I was “the blind date” and the women were equally disinterested and or repulsed by me, although I would never admit this to myself. Dwelling on such a thing though would allow self-doubt to run rampant through my mind and squander whatever trace of self-esteem I still held onto.
That night I called my coworker again and again but her phone went straight to voicemail. Frantic, I left her between 20-30 voicemails. I even Googled her address and drove by her house several times around midnight but cleverly all her lights were out.
Later that night while lying in bed I thought of at least a dozen ways to get myself out of the date and was content with faking a bout of the flue. Finally I started to drift off to sleep around 2 am when a thought made my eyes pop open. What if I turned down this blind date and this was the woman of my dreams?
I had been so focused on the gloom and doom of the situation that I had failed to see the possibility in the matter. I was being a coward. How hard could one date be? I resolved to go on that date and possibly meet the woman of my dreams.
The next night I found myself waiting in a bar in downtown Harrisburg for my blind date. Alice had briefly described Matilida to me using descriptions like, “nice strong legs” and “big beautiful eyes” which meant absolutely nothing. Cows have nice strong legs and big beautiful eyes but I wouldn’t want to date a cow…
I looked at my watch. She was ten minutes late and hope welled in my heart that she might not show but just then the front doors burst open and instinctively I knew this crazed soul was her. She looked like some out of work bag lady, her hair twisted up in some type of primitive tribute to shrub art, her lips slashed a most hideous shade of Mac Truck red, her eyes outlined with what appeared to be the charcoal from a fire started in an old oil drum. Draped over her skeletal shoulders was some sort of ancient animal skin of the type preferred by the alternative sheik and obviously rescued from the moldy closet of some long lost maternal relative. .
There would be no wishing myself out of this one. I knew then that escape was my only option. I glanced left and then right. I was surrounded. There would be no escape. “Damn it.”
She extended a hand. “Hi there, you must be, Steve”.
I looked over my shoulder as if I weren’t Steve and I was looking to see whom she was addressing.
“Barbara E-mailed me a picture of you.”
Damn, I’d been had. I turned. “Yes, and you must be Matilda. It’s nice to meet you. Should we get a table?”
She ran a hand through her hair and it got stuck. I pretended not to notice. “That sounds good.”
With some effort she pulled her hand free and followed me to a table. A waitress came up and flipped open her notebook.
“I’ll have a coffee.” Matilda looked at me. “I don’t drink.”
Strike one. Damn, this was going to be even more painful than I had first suspected. I needed the booze to slow my ever-racing mind. “Oh, okay, I’ll have a coffee too.”
The coffee would have me up half the night. I never drink the stuff after noon unless I plan to be up for the duration.
“Sorry, I was late. I was at bible study.”
Strike two. She stared straight into my eyes as if looking for some infinite truth. I tried not to blink afraid she might take it as some sign from Jesus.
“Oh, really. I’ve never really studied the bible. I prefer story books with happier endings.”
“Well, Jesus’ story was a happy story in the end.”
I had to fight the compulsion to yell, “CHECK PLEASE!” It took every bit of inner-strength I could muster but I managed to apply the Zen mindset a former Buddhist monk had taught me over a game of darts at a pub in England.
I stood and pushed my chair in. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re excused.”
Excused? Weird, I thought, as I hurried back to the bathroom. I was no amateur when it came to escaping blind dates and had purposely chosen that particular restaurant because I knew the layout and could call friends who could be there in a matter of minutes if I needed backup.
I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I quickly got out my cell phone and began to punch keys madly. And then something awful happened. The phone slipped from my hands and landed in the toilet. If that wasn’t bad enough the toilet was also clogged with what appeared to be a five-course meal and three rolls of toilet paper.
“Goddamn piece of shit.”
I looked around for something to fish the phone out with but there was nothing available. Frustrated, I exited the bathroom and searched around for something to fish the phone out with. I saw nothing until I passed the buffet table where I spied a set of salad tongs. I quickly grabbed them and headed back to the bathroom.
It was going to be disgusting work but I needed that phone. There were over five years of contacts on it, numbers I could never replace.
I rolled up my sleeves and began prodding. The water became cloudy and I couldn’t see my phone. I fished for ten or fifteen minutes. Several time I had the phone out of the water but it slipped out of the tongs.
I finally grabbed hold of the phone and pulled it out of the water and held it up triumphantly only it wasn’t my phone.
The bathroom stall door burst open. “There he is. The bastard is using the salad tongs to unclog the toilet.”
I turned to see two restaurant workers standing in the doorway. A police officer came up behind them.
“I didn’t clog the toilet. Someone did that before I came in here.”
The officer took out his taser. “Sure, I’ve seen it a thousand times before. People clog the toilet in a restaurant and then they panic, try to do anything in their power to unclog it before anyone finds out. They become desperate and crazy. I know you’re not in your right mind. You were probably going to put those salad tongs back on the salad bar. Now, slowly drop the excrement in the toilet and lay the tongs on the ground and turn your back towards me.”
“Listen, this is ridiculous. I—.”
The officer held his taser at chest level. “I said, drop the salad tongs, drop the excrement, turn around and place your hands behind your back…I have to admit I’ve never seen anyone hold a turd up like a prize before. You’re a new kind of weird.”
I complied and as soon as I turned around the officer rushed and handcuffed me. He roughly turned me around towards the door. Matilda was standing there.
“I’m sorry, Steve. I had to turn you in. Stealing is wrong and clogging a toilet is really disgusting.”
“I didn’t clog the toilet.”
The police officer jammed me in the ribs with his nightstick to prod me along. “Tell that to the judge. Your fingerprints are all over those tongs and I’m sure there will be fecal matter on the other end.”
Matilda backed up as I was escorted out the bathroom door. “You’re a bad person,” she said.
And then it hit me. I had turned her off. I was getting out of the date. Suddenly going to jail didn’t seem so bad. How long would they keep me there anyway? An hour? Maybe two? It would certainly be more interesting that discussing the bible. I’d make restitution for the salad tongs and be on my way. It was still early. I could meet up with friends downtown.
As the police officer ushered me through the restaurant I couldn’t help but smile and then I felt someone squeeze my arm. I turned as I walked. It was Matilda. She smiled so hard I thought her cheeks might split. “I just wanted to say I had a great time until you started fishing for turds with those salad tongs…I have made it my mission to save your soul. I’ll call you when you get out of the slammer and I can arrange a date for you to come to church with me.”
“Slammer?”
I almost tripped over the weather strip at the door. The officer up righted me and kept me moving towards his waiting car with the flashing lights on top.
