“Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find this place! I’ve never been here!”
“That’s okay,” I say with caution. His appearance is unnerving me, and he’s almost too friendly.
“I mean, I’m usually never late, but I don’t have my car today, so I had to take the bus, and the schedules mix me up.” Despite poor English skills (“Usually never?” Which is it? Usually or never? Can’t be both.) he is cute. Maybe I’ll give him a shot.
“I don’t like the bus either,” I say. “I could never give up my car.”
“I wish we had trains like in Europe. Not the expensive ones we have—costs more to take the train than fly—but the cheapo kind you jump on and go!” He’s been out of the country. Interest growing.
“You’ve been to Europe?”
“I used to live in Brussels when I was a teenager. I traveled a bit, but I want to go back. Living in the States gets me down. Nobody has a sense of humor.”
The conversation is dominated with talk of Europe and traveling: he wishes to go back and explore Eastern Europe, and I want to see Ireland, where he has been and highly recommends.
“You’d fit right in with the red hair. This one guy, little pub in Cork, called me a Viking and laughed his ass off at my accent. Couldn’t pay for a drink all night!”
I barely taste my food as we continue chatting about which airline is better when traveling in Europe. He’s keen on Ryanair, but I prefer using CheapOAir or easyJet to buy discount tickets.
“I never think that far ahead,” he says and ruffles his longish hair. “It’s better for me that Ryanair’s just there to jump on.”
He changes the subject to his fiddle-playing and praises his latest performance, “Had the whole theater out of their seats! I did a montage of Fiddler on the Roof and this new Sondheim riff.”
Trying to make a joke, I ask, “If you ever go to Georgia watch out for a man dressed in black.”
“Pardon?” He hasn’t heard of the Charlie Daniel’s Band.
“Never mind. So, Tristan’s an interesting name. Did your parents get it from Tristan and Isolde?”
“I chose it because I liked Brad Pitt’s name in Legends of the Fall!”
“It’s not your real name?” I laugh, but it’s strange. Why would he change his name?
My real name’s Norman Jensen. Had to jazz it up, to stand out at auditions.” The acting thing. It makes sense.
He’s obviously not a very organized person. When he pulls out his wallet to pay, half its contents fall to the floor. We both bend to pick everything up, and there are euros and pound notes mixed in with American dollars.
“You must travel quite a bit to have these,” I say and hand him the foreign money.
“Nope, just haven’t cleaned this out in a while.” For some reason I find this adorable and ignore the warning in my head: you’re too neat and tidy to get along with a slob. Run! “What’s the protocol for paying on a first date?”
Even this sounds charming when he flashes that grin.
“I’ll pay half,” I offer, but he counters, “Don’t even think of it! I’m just kidding!”
There’s a message from my little brother when I get home: “S’up slut? Call me!” What a kind, loving brother I have. I throw my purse down and call him back, hoping he’s not in so I can avoid talking to him. I hate it when he’s in a good mood and I’m feeling merely mediocre. Isn’t it odd that two siblings can’t be happy at the same time? Or sad for that matter? Always conflicting, I guess that’s the way we’re made.
He picks up, “Catering for Dummies! How can I help you?” His company’s real name is McTiernan Meal. Dumbass.
“What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you since my birthday.”
“Hey sis. I need to finish this order then I can talk.” I hate it when he puts the phone down when I’m still on it, like I have all the time in the world to wait for him. Like his business is any more important than mine? Please. “I’m back! Did you hear about Dad? What a stud!”
“I heard all right. Mom called me sobbing the other day.”
“She shouldn’t be upset. Even Dad needs a shag once in a while.” He says this in his best Monty Python voice, which doesn’t resemble John Cleese even a little bit.
“You can’t say ‘shag,’ Joel. You’re not British.”
“Are you the accent police?”
“Anyway, did you talk to Mom?” I’m curious what he thinks about my dating predicament but don’t want to bring it up first. He’ll rib me for ten minutes until I’m forced to hang up.
“She called me, hysterical of course. Said you’re insensitive and don’t understand her. And she’s really pissed at Dad.”
“I don’t see why. She hasn’t spoken to him in years. Not since Grandpa Jim’s funeral.”
“It’s because Dad’s getting shagged. Wouldn’t you be going ape shit if you knew what Pete was doing?” The second he says it, Joel goes quiet. He hasn’t mentioned Pete in a long time, but sometimes he forgets and slips. “And you’re dating?”
“Nice save. I wouldn’t call it dating.”
“Does a guy take you someplace and pay for something?”
“Yes.”
“Are you previously friends with these guys?”
“No.”
“Then you’re dating! Welcome back to the land of the living!”
“I wasn’t dead, just retired.” Even though he almost sent me into a depression vortex by talking about Pete, Joel can’t help but make fun of me. “I’ve been on three dates since June.”
“Whoa! Slow down! Hey, do you think Mom would be mad if I brought someone home for Thanksgiving?”
“Finally realize that Sergio’s the one?” Sergio’s his head chef and one of the most racist, homophobic people I’ve ever met.
“Hehe, no. Wouldn’t that be a treat for his family back in the motherland? Her name’s Gisele—”
“Gisele?” I ask.
“Shut up. And we’ve been seeing each other for four months. That’s a new record!”
“Mom hates your girlfriends.”
“She’ll like Gisele. She’s a ski instructor.”
“In California?”
“She surfs too. But I think we might make it. I really like her.”
So now Dad and Joel have a plus one for the holidays (though maybe not, because Joel’s longest relationship was with our childhood dog Sparky) and I’m alone. Fun times will be had by all.
Joel seems to be thinking the same thing, “So have you gotten any lately or is it just the McTiernan men doing the happy dance?”
Curse him and his happy dance all the way to Hades.
Email: [email protected] to [email protected]
Date Four Information:
Tristan Howard: I hope you liked him, because he’s still my favorite so far, though we have a long way to go and only three other guys picked out. Besides playing the fiddle and acting in a few local plays, Tristan is a regular at the Brave New Workshop improv comedy show on Sundays. You always say you want someone who’s funny!
Destination: 8:00 Sunday night at the Brave New Workshop to watch his show! Surprise! It’s off Hennepin, and there’s a teashop nearby if you want drinks afterward.
Linds
I’m miffed about this “date.” Not because I have to pay to watch the show, it’s only a dollar, but because we’re supposed to hang out and get to know each other. So far, I know he likes to travel cheaply, has an affinity for Brad Pitt, and no working knowledge of either classic country-rock or classic literature. How is he supposed to learn about me if he’s performing to an entire crowd? Starting to feel selfish but don’t care. I will cross my arms and sulk for a few minutes…
Finish sulking and am off for the theater. I get turned around because of construction and almost rear end a MNDOT truck. Life-threatening experience survived; I pull into a choice spot across from the theater. Its exterior is red and black, a bit revolutionary for my taste, and I realize I’m ov
erdressed the second I walk in. Wearing black Bermuda shorts and a floaty pink silk top, I clash with the clientele. Most are younger than me or look younger because their attire screams street urchin. Grungy and dreadlocked, these twenty-somethings mill about the lobby and chatter like hungry birds.
There are a few polo shirts and plaid shorts, but they also stare at me like I’m the only red fish in a school of blue. Ugh. Where will I sit?
Tristan finds me at the ticket counter and says, “Glad you could make it! It’s an awesome lineup tonight! I’m with Crucial Saboteurs. Grab a beer and have fun!” He is excited that I came, but he greets everyone else in line behind me in the same manner then races away, many young women and a few men leering after him. He’s oblivious.
I get a Stella Artois from the surly bartender, who finally smiles when I drop a dollar in the decorated tip jar and go through the antechamber into the theater. Red and black splash the stage and walls, and I feel anticipation for the show. I do enjoy the theater but have never watched an improv show. Most comedians are too raunchy for me, except Eddie Murphy. He’s hilariously dirty. I sit in the second row near the stage and sip my beer. The show starts, and the place goes dark. Everyone not holding a beer or coffee applauds, and the first group leaps on stage.
Tristan is not with this group, but they’re kind of funny. Two girls who look seventeen but must be in their mid-twenties gallivant across the stage and taunt their male counterpart, mostly about his underwhelming bedroom performances. He’s a good match for them, because he fires back incendiary comments about small breasts and an inability to stop nagging. I can’t stop laughing and join the audience in clapping when they bow and run offstage. I can’t wait for the next act.
Tristan marches onstage and introduces the next group, and he practically shines under the stage lights. He was made to act, to make people happy by performing songs, skits, or sonnets. He doesn’t fumble or trip over words, and the two girls sitting next to me whisper and giggle as he speaks. As Tristan yells the next group’s name, the girl next to me rises to high five him when he runs by. She leaps up and dumps her beer into my lap.
“Jesus!” I yell and jump up, running into Tristan, who bumps past me, not noticing who he hit. The girl doesn’t notice that her glass is empty until she takes a sip and looks around. She sees me dripping and scowling and smirks.
“Sorry!” she says. “Bathroom’s out there.” How helpful. Embarrassed and soaked to my knees, I stalk through the aisles and out through the antechamber. The grinning old movie-style posters seem to point and laugh, “Look at that idiot! That’ll teach her to wear silk to a comedy club!”
“Fuck off,” I mutter and look for the bathrooms.
The sink basin fails to shield me, and water gushes onto my shirt and pants. I look like I went down the biggest slide at a water park.
I wait at one of the tables near the bar. The bartender feels sorry for me and hands me a towel. “Happens all the time.”
Tristan finds me during the short intermission and gazes at my ruined shirt, ruffling his hair in consternation. “Here,” he says and takes off his flannel shirt. It’s huge on me but hides the beer stains. “Please come back in,” he says. “I’m up last.” He grabs my hand and I feel obligated to watch him.
“Okay. But I have to go home after. I smell like beer.”
It’s difficult to enjoy Tristan’s part of the show, which is a “choose your own adventure” skit, when I’m soaked. I wince in my seat and move around trying to find a position where the fabric doesn’t touch my skin. I hate wearing wet clothes, just ask my childhood friends. I would never go on The Wave ride at Valley Fair, because I couldn’t bear being wet the rest of the day. They called me boring, but at least I was dry and not miserable.
Not at the comedy show. All I could think about was Mom’s chief shopping rule: “If it says dry clean only on the tag, don’t buy it.” Stupid wet silk blouse. I despise dry cleaners, taking advantage of the human ability to stain everything the moment you take the tags off.
When the show ends and the lights come on, I find Tristan surrounded by admirers. The beer-spilling offender is chief among them, and she looks me up and down as I approach and snickers. Bitch.
Tristan sees me and breaks away from his flock. “Did you like it? I thought it was one of our best! Tim really had them going!” He looks so ecstatic I can’t bear to tell him I didn’t pay much attention.
“It was really good. The best improv I’ve ever seen.” Though he knows it’s the only improv I’ve ever seen, Tristan beams and grabs my hand. I feel like there should be fireworks when his fingers interlace with mine, but the only thing I notice is the way my soaked shorts ride up in the crotch. Not exactly a turn-on. I drop his hand and say, “I had a good time, but—”
“I know,” he says. “There’s just not…”
“Yeah.” He’s not upset, which is a relief. I think I like Tristan, but the sparks aren’t flying. I couldn’t deal with his annoying young fan base anyway. Just another guy whose work is more important than dating. “But I think we should get together sometime.”
“That would be awesome! Maybe we can try that new Indian place next month!” We exchange phone numbers, and for once, I don’t plan on deleting it the moment we part. Why is it so much easier to make male friends than finding a boyfriend? Is it because there’s no commitment to worry about? Do we fall back into friendship to avoid intimacy? Whatever the reason, at least I have a new friend who enjoys interesting food.
August
Lolita Larry and Rule Number Three: A man’s age is inconsequential, considering you’re almost thirty and still have no boyfriend.
After Tristan and I part as friends, the girls decide it’s time to take action. Being single now resembles being in a dog show: you have an owner, a trainer, and a groomer all ready to descend upon you if your hair is out of sorts. The judges examine you for any defect, checking eyes, teeth and undercarriage for irregularities. If one manicured fingernail is wrong, you’re disqualified and forced to shamefully live out your days in a kennel with no grass.
Alicia, Lindsey, and Keeley arrive at my apartment, each carrying two bags. I’m unsure what’s in any of them but prepare for the worst. Alicia brings out notebooks and planners and a few Instyle magazines prepared for who knows what. Lindsey has spaghetti Bolongese and salad for four and three wine bottles. Keeley is armed with makeup and hair products and fishes out some trendy clothes, looking at me then at the items. She makes contemplative noises and puts a few things aside but keeps some rather immodest skirts and one dodgy lace camisole.
“All right,” says Lindsey. “I’m in the kitchen making dinner, Alicia’s coordinating the next date, and Keeley’s in charge of wardrobe.” She takes her paper bags and disappears into my kitchen.
“Are we invading Canada?” I ask. Keeley and Alicia glare at me, as if the last two failed relationships are my fault.
“We thought you could use reinforcements, since it seems you’re having such a terrible time dating attractive men,” says Alicia, and Keeley nods in a rather condescending manner.
“Those two just didn’t work out,” I say and sip some wine, a nice pinot grigio. “I’m sure you three have other men hidden around the city.”
“You’ve only got ten months left,” says Keeley, making it sound like spinsterhood will be my only alternative come next May if I’m still single.
“You can say ‘only’ when I’ve reached April and had no luck.”
Alicia sits next to me on the sofa while Keeley perches on the over-stuffed chair and tries not to sink into it. Lindsey bangs pots and pans in the kitchen and whistles along with the radio. I keep a small radio in the kitchen for when I bake, and she’s changed the station.
“Did I invite you guys over?”
“It’s your turn to host dinner, so be quiet,” says Alicia, and she opens two notebooks and sets them on the table. “Your next date will be next week.”
“This is a business dinne
r? Should I put my work clothes back on?”
“His name,” she continues, unabashed by my comment, “is Larry Wilkinson, and he’s a lawyer.”
“I thought you said no lawyers,” I say and wrinkle my nose. The only people I fear more than lawyers are dentists and serial killers and not necessarily in that order. “You know I can’t stand lawyers. They make me uncomfortable.”
“I agree,” says Keeley. “I dated this guy a few years ago who had just finished law school. He made me feel like an idiot when I didn’t know what modus operandi meant.”
Alicia nods and says, “I tested this guy thoroughly, and he’s not a pretentious ass. He’s in family law, deals with adoptions and child protection.”
“And divorces,” I add. Alicia rolls her eyes and says, “Don’t get Lindsey started. She’s mad enough that you chucked her guy.”
“I didn’t chuck him! We’re having lunch next Friday!”
“You totally friendified him,” says Keeley. The noise in the kitchen stops, so she whispers the rest: “That’s when you’re dating someone and say, ‘I don’t want to see you anymore romantically, but can we still be friends.’”
“I know what it means. You do that to guys all the time.”
“But unlike you, I usually stay friends with them.” She has a point. Keeley has more friends and long-distance pen pals than the Pope. “Speaking of friends, do you mind if I ask Justin to go dancing with us this weekend?”
“Justin Conroy?”
“Yeah. We’ve been chatting, and I think he’s nice.” Keeley flushes and Alicia makes herself busy fiddling with the notebooks, trying to appear disinterested. “You’re just friends, aren’t you? It won’t be weird?” Can’t think of a reason why it would be weird. Now that I think about it, Justin and Keeley make a lot of sense. She’s a dreamy romantic and he likes poetry and dating beautiful women, though he doesn’t make a habit of keeping them around for long. Maybe Keeley would keep his interest. Sinister thoughts of dating game reprisals float in my head, but I shake them off. Keeley’s too innocent and sweet to sabotage.
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