Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  My mom is my savior. I like to wear nice clothes, shoes and accessories, but hate shopping. Besides, I spend all of my money and time cycling. Fortunately, my mom loves shopping and spending money and has great taste. She started shopping for me when I was born and never managed to break the habit. Every time someone compliments my clothes or jewelry and asks where I got it, I shrug and say, “Not sure, my mommy bought it for me.” I know my mom loves me, but somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, I’m pretty sure she thinks that I was switched with her real daughter at birth.

  Quinton emailed me on Monday at work, which I appreciated. I’m not a patient person and I hate the game where a guy waits the obligatory three days before contacting me so he doesn’t appear to be desperate. Unfortunately, Quinton’s writing was atrocious. He couldn’t spell, didn’t know grammar or punctuation, and wrote as if he were an eight-year-old girl.

  He asked me, “What muzic u like”

  I replied, “Anything but country,” which is technically true, though in actuality, I barely own any CDs and mostly listen to easy listening stations or Pandora. I love Neil Diamond Radio and Air Supply Radio. The downside to these stations is that the advertisers are under the mistaken impression that I’m either a hopeless romantic or a baby boomer. Can’t I just listen to Making Love Out of Nothing at All without anyone jumping to conclusion that I want to see the latest sappy romantic comedy or buy Viagra and anal suppositories?

  Quinton typed, “Bluegrass 2nite”

  Hmm. I typed, “What exactly is the difference between Bluegrass and Country?”

  Quinton responded, “pic u up at 7”

  I was officially nervous. I guess it was possible that he was emailing me from a Blackberry or iPhone and omitting letters out of laziness, even though the bottom of the message didn’t say, “Sent from my iPhone.” Or, he could be dyslexic, in a good way, like Einstein. I decided to withhold judgment and go with the flow.

  Quinton picked me up exactly on time, bearing flowers. So far so good. He pet Sonny, and was a good sport when Sonny started humping his leg. We left my house and he opened my car door for me. What a gentleman.

  Once we got into the car, Quinton put in an awful CD, played twelve seconds of a song, took it out, put in a new CD and said, “You have to hear this one, too.” They were both techno songs, so I couldn’t discern the difference, but I said I liked them both because I didn’t want to instigate a conversation about my closet addiction to Delilah After Dark. Twelve seconds later, Quinton put in a new CD. More techno. This continued. It seemed very important to Quinton that I listen to his entire CD collection during our ten-minute drive. A little odd, but I focused on reserving judgment.

  The concert was at the Tampa Theater, a beautiful building in downtown and a Tampa institution. We were early, so we went to the bar next door called The HUB. Downtown Tampa does not exactly thrive after the workday ends, so The HUB was strictly a drinking bar. The drink special was incredibly strong well liquor, two-for-one. I assumed Quinton had picked me up over an hour before the concert so that we could go to dinner, so I hadn’t eaten anything. To make matters worse, I had just finished riding sixty miles, so I was especially hungry and dehydrated. I took my first sip of gin and tonic and felt it in my legs immediately. It tasted awful. I hadn’t had such a strong well drink since I was able to imbibe legally. I nursed it and by the time I finished that first drink, I was already a little drunk, but mostly just nauseous. Quinton, on the other hand, finished two drinks. I prided myself on my ability to pound liquor with the boys, so I tried to step it up, but it was just too nasty. Plus, my stomach, which had been spoiled by a lifetime of square meals and top-shelf liquor, was in knots. Quinton downed my second drink for me, and got us another round. I like a guy who can hold his liquor, and was duly impressed.

  The next gin and tonic seemed to be even stronger than the last. By now, other bluegrass concertgoers were entering the bar. Because I didn’t own any thrift shop clothes, I didn’t blend in with this crowd any better than the drinking crowd already gathered in the bar when we entered.

  We hung out, talking very little. Then, Quinton announced it was time to get going. I looked down and his two drinks were gone. He downed my second drink, his sixth, and I’d put just enough of a dent in mine that I could leave it on the table without quite finishing it and feel I’d done my duty.

  We walked next door to the Tampa Theater. Quinton bought three large beers; one for us to drink immediately, and one each for us during the concert. I took a sip of the communal beer and handed it to Quinton. He downed it and we were on our way. This was the moment when it occurred to me that rather than being embarrassed by my low tolerance, I should determine whether Quinton was an alcoholic. He was my driver after all. As we walked to our seats, Quinton ran into some friends and became animated. A good sign. Obviously he was very sociable once you got to know him. His friends passed us a joint. I’m no angel, but “Local Lawyer Disbarred for Smoking Marijuana in Public” was not a headline I aspired to read. Plus, I’d hate to get disbarred before my maternity leave. I passed the joint on like I was playing a game of hot potato. The concert began. The seats were good and I enjoyed the first two songs though I’d never listened to bluegrass before. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a very long attention span for concerts. Music was something I listened to while I was driving, cleaning or riding my bike. It wasn’t a visual medium and standing in one spot listening to music without multi-tasking was not my thing.

  I told Quinton I had to go to the bathroom. I did have to go, but not that bad. I just wanted a break in the action. He said he had to go too, so we walked downstairs. I got in the long line for the ladies’ room and he walked into the men’s room. When he came out, I was still in line. Quinton told me to just go in the men’s room because there was a stall I could use. I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to the concert, but any method of avoiding a line sounded good to me. I went to the men’s room, walked past the line of urinals and went into a stall. When I emerged from the stall, Quinton was still standing there. I walked over to wash my hands and he moved in with a kiss.

  I was caught a little off-guard. After my last dating fiasco, I was relieved by his aggression. However, I was not expecting a first date make-out session to present itself until I was being dropped off at the end of the night, and certainly not in a men’s room. The mid-date kiss was unique, particularly since I could see a line of men peeing in my peripheral vision. I ended the awkward kiss as quickly as I could and we went back to the concert, which seemed to go on forever. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand there any longer, it ended. I said, “Great, I’m starving.” It was then that Quinton informed me it was only intermission. Shit.

  “Do you want to leave?” he asked.

  “No, I’m enjoying myself,” I replied. As the words came out of my mouth, I had misgivings. “Unless you want to leave.”

  “Whatever you want,” Quinton said.

  I was tired, hungry and bored. It was 9:30 on a Monday night and I hadn’t even had dinner yet. “Yeah, let’s get something to eat.”

  We left the concert and walked toward Quinton’s car. He seemed to be walking a straight line, so I got in. Quinton immediately started swapping his CDs in and out again. It occurred to me that he had very severe ADD. Quinton took a few unfamiliar turns, then pulled into a bar called Tiny Tap, which was off the beaten path. I had heard of it through word of mouth, but had never been there.

  The descriptions of Tiny Tap were not an exaggeration. It was a dive bar for serious drinkers, with six bar stools and Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap. It was super tiny, dark, smoky and depressing. However, it perked up when Quinton entered. Quinton was to the Tiny Tap as Norm was to Cheers. He said hi to all of his buddies, introduced me around and asked if I wanted a drink. My stomach felt like it was eating itself. I told Quinton that I didn’t want a drink, but he ordered two Budweisers anyway. I don’t even like Budweiser. Fortunately, and unfortunately, both beers were for Quinton. He down
ed one during the introductions and took the other one to go. Bold move. I had never been on a first date where the guy ordered a roader. I was now convinced that Quinton was an alcoholic.

  I told Quinton I was tired and ready to go home. He said he would drop me off after dinner. I really wanted dinner and I knew I would have to get it myself if I declined Quinton’s offer, as my refrigerator was only stocked with beer, wine and Yoo-hoo. Besides, I felt I had earned a free dinner after the night I’d had. I sat back and let him drive to a restaurant. Two seconds later, I sat back up and decided to stay alert in case I needed to grab the wheel.

  Quinton pulled into an IHOP. At first, I thought an International House of Pancakes was an interesting choice, considering it wasn’t three a.m. Then I remembered that Quinton was high and it all made sense. I felt like I was watching a movie of a bad date, instead of being in it myself. Quinton was unfocused and not making any sense. When the waitress came, he said, “The lady will have pancakes, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, toast and waffles.” After placing his own order, Quinton got up, went to the bathroom, and didn’t come back until after the food was delivered. I was beyond stunned.

  He sat down and pulled my plate toward him. He placed a piece of bacon in a pancake, slapped a pad of butter in the middle without spreading it, poured syrup over it, wrapped it up and handed it to me. “You have to eat it this way.” I obliged, as I was way beyond questioning Quinton. He took one bite, dropped cash on the table and asked if I was ready to go. I had barely eaten, but was more than ready to go. On the way out, Quinton stopped by the pie counter.

  “Want some pie?” asked Quinton, his face hopeful like a puppy’s.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “Not even an apple pie?” he implored.

  “Especially apple pie.” I hate any dessert involving baked fruit, especially when it’s still in chunks.

  “Okay,” said Quinton with a small shrug. Then he ordered an apple pie and said, “You’ll love it.”

  I was only a mile from my house and considered walking, but it was night and my parents raised me to believe every stranger on earth was planning to rape and kill me, so I got back in the car, even though, at this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Quinton had raping and killing me on his agenda tonight. Three blocks later, Quinton pulled into the CVS on the corner near my house. Evidently we needed to get vanilla ice cream for my apple pie. The night seemed endless. I told Quinton ice cream wasn’t necessary, as I wouldn’t be eating the pie. He ignored me, pulled into the parking lot and went into the store.

  As I sat in the car, debating whether to get out and walk the four remaining blocks to my house, a cop pulled into the parking lot. He had pulled over a car and was beginning to administer a DUI test. I figured Quinton would never walk out of the store for fear of walking by the cop while he was Charlie Sheen-wasted, so I decided to make a run for it.

  I opened the passenger door just as Quinton strolled out of the store. He walked past the cop and waved. Then he opened the car door and presented me with a half-gallon of Häagen Dazs vanilla bean ice cream, a Chipwich ice cream sandwich and a Fudgsicle.

  He drove me home and opened the car door for me. I got out, my ice cream and apple pie piled in my arms, and said thank you and good night. Not so fast. Quinton insisted on walking me to my door and then brushed past me into the house. Sonny started going ape shit, so I petted him and ignored Quinton other than to say goodnight again, this time with a little more conviction. Quinton agreed it was indeed a good night, grabbed a Corona out of my fridge and went, uninvited, into the bedroom.

  Sonny, of course, jumped all over him, and began humping him and lining chew toys and tennis balls at his feet. This was one occasion where I would not be shutting my door and giving Sonny peanut butter jars. Quinton asked me if Sonny could be excused so we could have “alone time.”

  “It’s late and I have work tomorrow, so alone time will have to wait,” I said. “Until hell freezes over,” I added under my breath.

  Quinton could not focus on calming Sonny and romancing me at the same time, so he gave up and lay down on my bed. He poured the beer all over my sheets and the floor as he did so. Sonny started licking it up. Quinton said, “Wow, he likes it.”

  “No kidding. He’d eat cat shit for dinner and a used tampon for dessert if I let him. Of course he likes beer, it’s delicious.”

  Quinton didn’t hear any of this because he’d passed out. I should have expected that when an alcoholic actually spills his beer, passing out is imminent. Rather than try to wake him, I dragged him outside. I kept his car keys as a favor to society, and locked my door. The cool air roused him and he began banging on my door. I considered telling him about the hammock in the backyard, but I fell sound asleep on my beer-stained bed sheets before I had the chance.

  My alarm went off early the next morning. Danny and I had planned to meet at my house to spin around Davis Island. I opened the door to get my newspaper and nearly tripped over Quinton, who was asleep on my doorstep. I stepped over him and walked down my driveway to get the newspaper. Quinton’s car, which was parked askew, blocked my car in the driveway. On my way back inside, I dropped his keys next to him and shut my door, hoping the noise would wake him up and he would drive home in shame while I rode my bike. I went into the kitchen for breakfast and came upon melted ice cream all over my counter, along with an entire apple pie. Until that moment I had actually forgotten about that aspect of the night.

  Danny knocked on my door at five forty-five a.m., stepped over Quinton and started petting Sonny, who barked madly and jumped all over Danny.

  “What’s with the bum on your doorstep?” asked Danny without so much as a faint look of surprise.

  “Not sure I have time to tell you about the entire night on the two hour ride, but I’ll try to get it in.”

  “That bad?” Danny asked.

  “Worse.”

  We left the house and Quinton and went on a ride. Danny stared in disbelief as I told him the story. Danny admitted a bit sheepishly, “I knew he was crazy, but even I didn’t expect that.”

  “If you knew he was crazy why did you let me go out with him?”

  “Thought he might have changed. Plus, I didn’t think you’d want to go out with him.”

  “Why?” I said. “He’s my age, okay looking, works in finance, tamed his wild side with the death of his father. He sounded—”

  Danny interrupted me with a roaring laugh and said, “He’s at least thirty-nine.”

  “What? He said he was twenty-eight.”

  “He’s not. Four years ago he raced in the thirty-five-plus age category.”

  “Damn, being honest was one of the only things he had going for him.”

  “He’s not in finance either, unless you have a really broad definition of finance.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a loan shark or something. I think he repossesses cars.”

  “I thought you had to be tough for that job.”

  “He got the job through his sister-in-law.”

  “Do you know if his father is actually dead?” I asked.

  “It’s possible, who knows?”

  After the morning ride, hours later, Quinton was still on my doorstep. I started getting ready for work, which consisted of taking a shower then blow-drying my hair while I read the newspaper. I can be ready to go anywhere in twenty minutes. On my way out, Quinton was still there. His car was blocking mine in, so I couldn’t move my car unless I woke him. But waking him inevitably meant talking to him, so I opted to ride my bike to work. I put on fresh cycling clothes and packed a bag of work clothes.

  When I got to work, I realized that while I remembered to pack a matching necklace and shoes, I forgot to bring a bra and underwear. The air conditioning at my office tends to vacillate between ten and fifteen degrees below freezing, so this was a problem. I would have to avoid David more than usual throughout the day.

  Around 2:00 p.m., Quinton texted
me, “gr8 time-plans 2nite?”

  The mail man probably woke him up. I ignored the text. An hour later, Quinton called. I answered the phone, apologized for not returning his text, and told him I couldn’t meet tonight. He told me that he had an amazing time and couldn’t wait to see me again. Clearly I needed to be more assertive.

  “Quinton, how old are you?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “You told me you were twenty-eight.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Yes you did. I said I was twenty-eight and you said, ‘me too.’”

  “Oh, I was kidding. I thought you knew that. Are you mad about that?”

  “No, but the six gin and tonics, five beers, two joints and sixteen hours sleeping on my doorstep freaked me out a bit.”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Yes you did. Trust me, my memory is working better than yours today.”

  “So, is that it? You don’t want to see me anymore?”

  “No, I don’t. Sorry. I’m sure I’ll see you around on the bike though.”

  “I can’t believe this,” he said, and I think he was serious.

  “I have another call, I’ll talk to you later,” I said. A white, but necessary, lie.

  The next day, Quinton called me again. Stupidly, I answered.

  “Hey, what are you doing Friday night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have tickets to a monster truck rally.” Excitement and optimism were palpable in his voice.

  “Quinton, you’re a nice guy, but I told you yesterday, it won’t work out between us. As an aside, I have no interest in monster truck rallies.”

  “I thought about what you said, and I really appreciate it,” said Quinton, suddenly serious. “I know it must have been hard for you to admit to me that you think I have a problem. It’s great that you care about me enough to share that with me. Anyway, I took your advice, and decided to get help. I feel better already and I’m sure that by Friday, the problem will be gone.”

  “Your problem cannot be fixed in four days. It’s great that you’re working on it, but I wasn’t telling you to get help so we could date.”