Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Beast Mother Dating Chronicals #3

At about 2:00 PM last Saturday, I was at work and an email from a dating hopeful popped up. He had an extra ticket to that evenings sold out Andrew Bird concert, and I really like A. Bird. I said what the hell, can’t be that bad. A free ticket is worth a bad date, right?


We talk on the phone for a minute and agree to meet at a local bistro for a drink and snack before the show. While we were on the phone, he mentions that he has a car but doesn’t like to drive it. He says he could probably walk to the aforementioned bistro, but I can tell he is hinting for me to pick him up. Not going to happen. He takes the bus and texts that he is running late. Because he didn’t just drive and get there on time. Because he didn’t know what bus to take and he missed his stop, blah, blah, blah. I am the girl. I should be the one being picked up, for Christ’s sake.

During dinner, conversation goes OK. Nothing crazy, like we both love the color Red AND blue, but just your typical first meeting chat. He suggests that we walk to the show downtown; after all--it is only 26 blocks. What? No. I wore date shoes. We’ll drive.

We get in my car and I park in my secret place, where if you have a drink inside, which you probably would do somewhere anyway, you get free parking. We get out and I notice he still has his backpack with him, which he affectionately refers to as his “man-purse.” I think we are going to have the free-parking drink, but he gets a little nervous when I suggest this. “The show starts at 8:00 and it is 7:35. Don’t you think we should find our seats?” I have seen probably 1500 concerts in my life, and none have started on time. So, we skip the drink and head in.

Since I have seen so many shows, I know that the ushers are going to search our bags. He didn’t. When he opens his “man-purse,” he is told that he can’t bring it in. I look back and see that in this bag, there are no less than 10 prescription pill bottles and two bottles of booze. One of the pill bottles falls out and rolls towards the door. Seriously. He runs after it, like it is the Ring and he is Gollum. Now I know why he didn’t drive in the first place, because he isn’t allowed to operate heavy machinery with all the sedation. The usher looks at me with pity and we go back to my car to put it away. I don’t even want to know why he has all these pills, probably just his daily cocktail of normalizing elements. It did explain that far-away look in his eyes though.

We find our seats—still 15 minutes to go—and have nothing to talk about. He smells funny. Thankfully, for the first time, I was proven wrong about the start time. Saved by the opening act.

During intermission, we try to get a drink but the bar doesn’t take plastic. What? Is everyone working against me having ANY fun? I get in line for the bathroom and he says he is going to walk around for a while. I figure he is going to try to break into my car to get a fix. I worry about this for a minute, but remember that I have insurance and could use a few extra bucks.

I get out of the bathroom and head back to our seats. I start talking to the lady next to me, who turns out to be Martin Dosh’s Country Day preschool teacher. Nice. We chat. I notice that Andrew Bird fans are very homogeneous. I feel like I should cover my tattoos. My date is gone for a long time. I finally see him run up the stairs—in a full sweat. He tells me that he ran down the block and back to get cash. By this time, the line for the bar is ridiculous and we give up. He smells even worse now, like old Cornflakes and batteries. Gross. And, his eyes look a little more glazed over. I think he probably just popped into the Saloon to score.

Midway through the second set I realize that if I want my free parking, I will have to sit through another drink with this dude. He is gleeful when he learns of this. We head to the bar—I order the happy hour cheap white wine. He hems and haws over the drink menu, and finally orders an appletini. (I know, it just keeps getting better.) The bartender looks at me like “What the Hell are You doing with this Douchbag?” I just shrug. He then knows I am just there for the parking voucher.

The appletini, mixed with all the meds that this guy is on, makes him very drunk, very fast. He starts telling me all about how he has no friends, how his girlfriend dumped him and he needs to sell the engagement ring, how he doesn’t know what to do. Tears well up. He asks if I will buy him some fries, because eating makes him feel better. I agree, because I don’t want this guy to cry on me. He cries anyway. The fries come and he asks the bartender for a side of gravy through his tears. I order another glass of wine—and the bartender fills it to the top of the 10-ounce glass with a knowing look at me. Save me. Please. I am begging you.

For the first time ever, I use my Fake-a-Call app for my iPhone. Best app ever. “Oh No! My sister needs a ride from First Ave.! Can you find your way home?” He looks up with his teary eyes and gravy on his chin like—You Can’t Leave Me Here. I realize that his bag is in my car—so we pay the bill, rather, I pay the bill, and we leave. He begs me for a ride home, admitting that he doesn’t know how to take the bus. I figure that this guy would probably get killed waiting for the bus crying in downtown Minneapolis and covered in gravy, so I speed him home. I nearly push him out of the car—but he tries to kiss me anyway. No, no, no. Please go away. Let this be over.

He sends a text the next day. Really? After crying on a first date you’re going to text me to say you had a good time? Get real. I’m not sure that the free Andrew Bird ticket was worth it, but then I think, maybe. So, what is the moral of this story? Free is never really free.


R. Falch said...

Wow. This makes my life sound boring.

Casey Brewer said...

Where do you get gravy on fries? Yum!

americanmidwestsamurai said...

There's an old Japanese saying my pops quotes: FREE IS THE MOST EXPENSIVE.

Not Dickless said...

I miss dating. Will you go out with me?

frank adam said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
frank adam said...

Great work, Never marry, these tales are too funny. Gravy, meds, crying, no friends, appletinis, bad battery and cornflake smells...wow this is some heavy shit. Please tell me this is all true, because I really want this guy to be my opening act. I can see this guy being into A.Bird's intellectual sensitivisms.

Samira said...

Frank--I wish this weren't true.

Not Dickless--only if you will let me tell all afterward. I'm a tough audience.

I just took myself out tonight--and it was great. No one talked back and I got to read fashion magazines with no interruptions.

Zetzman said...

The Gollum analogy made me spit coffee onto my keyboard.