I’m not entirely sure why I told Mendrick about the date. I mean, it isn’t so unusual. I can be quite charming when given the chance; I’m just usually busy not paying attention. Regardless the date. I’ve been on a few, I’ll admit, my brother sometimes pushes me out the door on them. It’s a standing arrangement we have. I go out every now and then, on a date, and he’ll get a night for himself and his friends. He calls it a “men’s night” but I don’t understand why I cannot—considering I am a man—be there as well.
I suppose I should regale you with the story of my date. It really isn’t much, but I’ll do it.
It was a blind date, one of those meet up and hope that you’ll be compatible despite the logic of the actual thought. However, I promise myself on “men’s night” I won’t be logical. I’ll be human. So, we meet at this expensive Italian place. Now, I don’t like Italian food. I love pizza, Americanized, I love lasagna, Americanized, and I love spaghetti, Americanized.
I suppose I’m just too patriotic. However, she apparently loves Italian, and I’m the man who makes compromises. According to most sitcoms, women love men with money. So I usually try to take them out to an expensive place. I wear a nice suit, and truly bring my “game.” A sitcom colloquialism meaning the method one uses to pick up women. I’m getting quite good at the everyday vernacular.
I get there early and get a very romantic table set in the corner. It’s dark, but for the flickering candles on out table. I hear candles are romantic. The music they pipe in is mostly orchestral, which I enjoy. I’m glad to note, as I look around, that I picked a good place. It isn’t a big bustle, the waiters walk slowly around, you can’t hear them yelling in the kitchen and no one is yelling out here either; everything is very civilized.
Until I see her, my night is actually feeling quaint. I know I can get through it with no harm done. But then a woman walks in. I know, via my “bad things generally happen to me” psyche, that this particular woman is here to meet me. Now, I would like to objectively describe her. She’s very short, squat as well. Built, almost, like she works out frequently. Her brow is very prominent, and very powerful. She looks in a perpetual state of anger. Her small beady eyes swoop in to devour me as she surveys the room, and points at me in a very threatening way as she locks on.
She waddles over to me, wearing blue jeans and a disheveled blouse. I’m quite taken aback, at first. I dress up in a suit, an Armani suit, mind you, and she can barely get herself into a blouse? I digress, as she plops down into the chair across from me she asks if I’m Randall. I tell her, “Yes, and you must be Jennifer.” She grunts and nods once.
She looks around, “Where is the waiter? I’m starved.” She then eats all twelve of the breadsticks in a bowl in the middle of the table and drinks half of the bottle of wine. She burps just as the waiter stops in front of our table. She makes her order, which is large, but I’m not one to judge. I politely ask for more breadsticks and order a light salad.
She looks at me sideways and asks, “Are you one of them queers that doesn’t eat meat?” I am speechless for at least five minutes before my phone rings and I’m called to duty. I try my best to make our parting civil, and when she gives me her number I lie and promise I’ll call her. It isn’t my most proud moment, but I am only a man.