Effie reminded me of another bad date I had. This one wasn't nearly as bad as the New Year's Eve one, but it's still worth telling. It took place the summer after sophomore year. I'd been talking to this guy online who was from Toronto, and he decided to come for a visit. There weren't really any expectations for the visit, but back then encounters with the opposite sex always held some degree of promise. And the plan called for us to spend two nights in hotels together. Not that any of this matters, because the bad date isn't even about him.
During our weekend together, I remember a few things we did: shared an ice cream sundae at the Hard Rock Cafe, went to the Sox game on a gorgeous late spring evening, drove up the coast to Rockport and poked around the galleries and shops, consumed McDonald’s quarter-pounders and Boone’s Farm wine on the boardwalk up at Hampton Beach, and slept in the same bed holding hands. It was kind of sweet and fraternal and we would have made good friends if we lived in the same city.
This story intersects with the bad date story at Fenway Park. In the middle innings, on my way to the ladies’ room, a guy stopped me on the concourse. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is that guy you’re with your boyfriend?”
I thought it was pretty ballsy of him to ask. I said no when I should have said yes. This guy wasn’t my type: he had a goatee and a leather jacket and wore a tweed hat that looked like it was hiding a receding hairline. He introduced himself (I forget his name), offered some chat-chit about noticing me in the stands, and wanted to take my number and give me his. Again I was an idiot, but I thought I was being smart by giving him my work number. I took his card (he was a cell phone salesman) and said I had to go. Back in my seat, I showed the card to Toronto Boy and said, “Check it: this random guy just asked me out.”
A couple weeks later he called me at work and wanted to go out. I said okay, figuring why not? Life is full of interesting people. We set a day and he met me after work. We went to a restaurant near the beach and engaged in stilted conversation over dinner, during which he ordered a glass of milk. Jesus, milk—who drinks milk on a date? I disliked him for that and disliked him even more when he casually mentioned having slept with 60 women. He asked me if I liked hot tubs. I think he said something like “I have a hot tub if you ever were to consider, you know, being with me…”
When we were finished with dinner, he stood all close next to the car and was definitely angling for a kiss, and I was trying to get my door open so we could go. He got the hint. We drove south, and he said there was someplace he wanted to take me. We drove to Winthrop, a town that sticks into Boston Harbor. Across the way was Logan Airport. The guy parked the car and wanted us to sit on a bench and watch the low planes go by overhead. I sat and watched for a while but my neck hurt and it was clear he wanted to use the setting as an inroad to making out because he was touching my hair and staring at me and not watching the planes. You don’t even know how interested I pretended to be in those planes—anything not to have to deal with the awkwardness of not wanting him to kiss me.
So, whatever, in the end he drove me back to my car without incident and I never heard from him again. But I did run into him randomly in Boston, when I was with Joe, a couple years later. He looked the exact same. Whatever—I just can’t believe hanging out beneath the flight path was what he was trying to pass off as game. Could that EVER work on ANYONE?
During our weekend together, I remember a few things we did: shared an ice cream sundae at the Hard Rock Cafe, went to the Sox game on a gorgeous late spring evening, drove up the coast to Rockport and poked around the galleries and shops, consumed McDonald’s quarter-pounders and Boone’s Farm wine on the boardwalk up at Hampton Beach, and slept in the same bed holding hands. It was kind of sweet and fraternal and we would have made good friends if we lived in the same city.
This story intersects with the bad date story at Fenway Park. In the middle innings, on my way to the ladies’ room, a guy stopped me on the concourse. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is that guy you’re with your boyfriend?”
I thought it was pretty ballsy of him to ask. I said no when I should have said yes. This guy wasn’t my type: he had a goatee and a leather jacket and wore a tweed hat that looked like it was hiding a receding hairline. He introduced himself (I forget his name), offered some chat-chit about noticing me in the stands, and wanted to take my number and give me his. Again I was an idiot, but I thought I was being smart by giving him my work number. I took his card (he was a cell phone salesman) and said I had to go. Back in my seat, I showed the card to Toronto Boy and said, “Check it: this random guy just asked me out.”
A couple weeks later he called me at work and wanted to go out. I said okay, figuring why not? Life is full of interesting people. We set a day and he met me after work. We went to a restaurant near the beach and engaged in stilted conversation over dinner, during which he ordered a glass of milk. Jesus, milk—who drinks milk on a date? I disliked him for that and disliked him even more when he casually mentioned having slept with 60 women. He asked me if I liked hot tubs. I think he said something like “I have a hot tub if you ever were to consider, you know, being with me…”
When we were finished with dinner, he stood all close next to the car and was definitely angling for a kiss, and I was trying to get my door open so we could go. He got the hint. We drove south, and he said there was someplace he wanted to take me. We drove to Winthrop, a town that sticks into Boston Harbor. Across the way was Logan Airport. The guy parked the car and wanted us to sit on a bench and watch the low planes go by overhead. I sat and watched for a while but my neck hurt and it was clear he wanted to use the setting as an inroad to making out because he was touching my hair and staring at me and not watching the planes. You don’t even know how interested I pretended to be in those planes—anything not to have to deal with the awkwardness of not wanting him to kiss me.
So, whatever, in the end he drove me back to my car without incident and I never heard from him again. But I did run into him randomly in Boston, when I was with Joe, a couple years later. He looked the exact same. Whatever—I just can’t believe hanging out beneath the flight path was what he was trying to pass off as game. Could that EVER work on ANYONE?
3 Comments:
I know, I can reflect on my crappy judgment now. I can't believe I let a random guy drive me anywhere. With no cell phone, even! But back then it was all about having a story to tell.
"Jesus, milk—who drinks milk on a date?" haha! Priceless.
he probably was trying to display to you his tolerance for lactose. if i drank milk on a date i'd be farting like a trombobe orchestra
Post a Comment
<< Home