Dating

by Dave Williamson

  That moment arrived in the breezeway of her parents’ house—a latticed enclosure between the side door and the garage. Barbara went inside the house to turn off the light and take off her coat and she came back out and stepped into my open coat, which I closed around her. So much anticipation, so much pleasure, so much goodness was packed into that climactic event called The Good-night Kiss. Not only the luscious taste of the lipstick but the sensation of her pliant lips pressing on mine, the scent of her facial skin up close, the murmur from her as I pressed, the way our two mouths fit together. As I continued to hug her after the kiss, she reached her mouth to my ear and whispered:

  “I had a fabulous time.”

  “Wow, so did I. Can we do this again whenever you’re free?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  And that was the way things went for the next several months. Except for a three-week vacation Barbara spent with her parents, on a car trip to visit her married sister Sandra in Toronto, we went out on a weekly date. We’d hold hands and talk and laugh and I’d kiss her good night in the breezeway.

  We went to a Halloween party at the home of Barbara’s friend Gloria, I dressed as a graduate in gown and mortarboard, Barbara as my parchment, in a kind of wrap-around gown with a wide pink ribbon tied at the waist. Afterward, in the breezeway, Barbara did something that she’d never done before: she slid the tip of her tongue into my mouth. This new dimension ignited a flame that burned happily throughout November.

  Only once did I think our level of intimacy was lacking something. That was the night Claude and I went out for a beer and Claude reacted to the news that I was dating someone with his customary “Getting much?” I coyly talked about where Barbara lived and how we liked doing some of the same things, only to have Claude report on the girl who’d sucked his cock in his car the night before. He made it clear there was a horde of girls out there that provided a vital service: giving guys experience. You shouldn’t date girls you respected until you were ready to get married, and the girls you married expected you to bring experience with you. He said I was making a big mistake if I was getting serious about someone I respected before I’d rutted around with a few horny broads who were good for only one thing. After that evening, I went back to my weekly regimen, and it took only one bracing breezeway embrace to convince me that I was living a full life.

  Many times that fall, Barbara and I double-dated. Parents liked their kids to double-date, the unspoken reason being that you were less likely to “get into trouble” if you were with two other people. Whenever I went out on a date, my mother—who was the least meddling mother one could imagine—would say, “Is anyone else going with you?” Even she implied that single-dating put you on the road to debauchery if not pregnancy.

  There were reasons why kids themselves preferred double-dating, or even triple-dating. Some guys worried about their communication skills, and they thought that if they didn’t know a girl well, it might be good to have somebody else along to help with the conversation. Some girls who were leery of what a guy might expect figured having another couple with them would inhibit the guy, prevent him from getting “fresh,” as they used to say. Some kids just thought a date was less serious if you had another couple with you.

  Barbara and I went out quite often with Gloria and Gloria’s boyfriend Tony. Gloria was pretty, shorter than Barbara, and perpetually concerned that she was losing a battle to make her chunky body less chunky. Tony was my age, in his last year of Engineering, and if he saw Arts men as lesser beings, he didn’t show it. He was nice enough, but he found endless excuses to pat Gloria’s bum, which he referred to as her “caboose.” At first, I thought that the liberties he took hinted at rampant sexual shenanigans when they were alone; after a few dates with them, I figured he took those liberties when he was with us because that was the only time he could get away with them. Whatever the truth was, his ass-­grabbing embarrassed me, since it fell into the verboten mauling category.

  Despite that, our double dates were fine, once I got used to the encoded banter that passed between Gloria and Barbara. A typical scene would find Tony driving his own Meteor, and Gloria half-turned in the passenger seat, so that she could look at Barbara, sitting behind Tony in the back seat beside me. Gloria said something like “… so Poodle went and did exactly what Nate didn’t want—” and Barbara said, “Don’t you mean Puddie?” and Gloria guffawed and Barbara laughed too and Gloria said, “Oh, Jeez, do you know why I said Poodle?” and Barbara stopped laughing just long enough to say, “Of course I do!” and I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. Neither did Tony, as far as I knew. If their banter went on too long, Tony would reach across and seize Gloria’s hip or buttock and say, “Get your caboose over here, Babe.”

  Tony and I seldom spoke to each other, except maybe when the girls were in the ladies’ room. He’d ask me about my job and, after I said how much I was liking it, he’d let me know that he’d never shopped at Radisson’s in his whole life.

  Sometimes Barbara and I went out with Don Stanhope, one of my colleagues at Radisson’s, a likeable guy whose favourite expression was, “You don’t have to be old to be a dirty old man.” Don was dating a girl named Milly from the Controller’s Office at Radisson’s. She made up for an ordinary face with a good sense of humour and beautifully applied makeup, and, for rather obvious reasons, she was known among the guys as Hilly Milly. Wherever we went, Don liked me to drive, and, after the usual pleasantries when we picked them up, you wouldn’t hear anything from the back seat except a moan or a snicker from Milly and maybe the odd “Don, don’t!” It put the onus on Barbara and me to carry on a conversation and act as if there was nobody with us.

  Hearing the other couple fooling around always made me remember that time with Mary, after the party at June’s, when Ed and Allie drove us home. I had to admit I viewed it with a certain amount of nostalgia.

  Then one night Bud took me out for a beer and told me he’d really like it if he and Vera could go out with us. I’d been avoiding a double date with Bud and Vera because she talked so damned much, so I tried to be vague, saying it was tricky to plan because Barbara’s hours changed all the time. After three or four glasses, Bud told me what he really wanted.

  “Jenkins, you’re one of my best buddies, right?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “You and I have been friends just as long as I’ve been going out with Vera, and that’s a long time.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m going to level with you, Jenkins. Vera and I are going to get married someday, there’s no two ways about that, but we want to wait till we’ve saved a bit more money, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “But this waiting can get to a guy. And to her, too. She has needs, Jenk, and God knows I do, too.”

  “Bud, are you sure you want to—”

  “Jenk, I need you to do me a favour. We’ll plan this date, okay? And you and Barbara will come over to Vera’s and pick us up and we’ll tell Vera’s mom we’re going out with you and you’ll deliver us home again, but, in the meantime, you’ll be taking us somewhere—I haven’t got that part worked out yet—”

  “Wait, wait. Hold it. You want Barbara and me to cover for you while you go somewhere and have sex with Vera?”

  “Jenkins, listen. Vera’s mom watches us like a hawk. We have to account for everything we do, and she’s just about insisting that we go out with another couple or she won’t let Vera out of the house. But, she likes you, Jenkins. She respects you.”

  “Bud, I hardly know her.”

  “Just do this little thing for me and—”

  “Bud, no. I’m not going to lie to Vera’s mother. And I certainly don’t expect Barbara to be a party to something like this.”

  “Christ, Jenk, I’m begging you—”

  “No, Bud.”

  So, while other guys were grabbing their girlfriends’ asses or feeling them up in the back seat or planning where they’d go to have a piec
e of tail, I was trying to be content with a hands-off policy. No matter how our double-dating went, the evening would be redeemed by Barbara’s willingness to dally in the breezeway for some good old French kissing. But by December, I was thinking about going further.

  I realized it was time I asked Barbara to go steady.

  We’d been to a house party and I’d watched Tony dance with his hand more or less on Gloria’s caboose most of the evening. In the breezeway, Barbara was out of her coat and inside mine and, just before I kissed her, I asked her.

  She answered, “Oh, yes, of course, Jenkins, yes!”

  In that instant I thought it might be the time, now that she had a commitment from me, to put my hand on her bosom. But it seemed all too mechanical, as if I thought her agreeing to go steady gave me a licence to maul her. Maybe I should tell her I loved her and then put my hand on her bosom.

  “I love you, Barbara,” I whispered.

  Suddenly, there was her hand, taking mine and moving it up her cashmere sweater, placing it … placing it squarely on her left breast.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Oh, God!” I gasped.

  Moments later, she said, “I’d better go in now.”

  “Yes,” I said, ungluing my hand from its new-found treasure.

  When I left, the night shone in theatrical splendour; the city resounded with symphonic crescendos. I didn’t need a car. I leaped from Barbara’s house to mine in a single bound.

  >

  Old Flame

  As soon as we’re in my car, Janie says, “I think I made a big mistake, coming to live with Jason. He and Krista, his wife, keep me on a short leash and they’re always telling me what I can’t do.”

  “I’m sure they mean well,” I say, backing the car out of the driveway.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure how much more of it I can take. Hey, at least I’m out of there tonight, aren’t I? Free! Free at last!” She pats my knee. “Sorry I called you Gerry—I’m just so excited about actually going out on a date. It’s a million years since I went out on a date.”

  “Really?”

  “I felt no need to, you know? Or … I don’t think I’ve been out on any dates since Harry died—not lately, anyway. Maybe I did go out a bit in Calgary … cripes, it’s awful, growing old, isn’t it? Losing my memory, calling you Gerry—by the way, how is old Ger?”

  “Janie,” I say, feeling worse about this evening every minute. “You must know Gerry died in 1999.”

  “Of course. See? There I go again. I guess it’s just hard for me to accept. I can still see him on the basketball court—a real smoothie but kind of sneaky, too. Were you on that team, Jenkins?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Funny, I thought you were. I wanted to look you up in one of the old Yarwood yearbooks after we talked on the phone, but I couldn’t find them. I know I brought them from Calgary. I think Krista must’ve put them somewhere. She does that, you know. Takes my personal things and stashes them God knows where.”

  Minutes later, I drive into the restaurant parking lot.

  “‘The Keg,’” Janie says, reading the sign. “I’ve heard of that. I think we had a Keg in Calgary.”

  I park the car and turn off the engine. Janie unfastens her seat belt and puts her hand on the door handle.

  “Janie, just a sec,” I say. “I don’t know any gentle way to tell you this, so I think I’ll just come right out with it.”

  “Are you going to tell me you’re gay?”

  I’m too depressed by the situation to smile. “No, no, nothing like that. Janie, back there at your son’s house, before you came down, he asked me to make sure you didn’t drink any wine, beer or spirits.”

  “Did he?” She looks hurt but not surprised. “Isn’t that lovely? You see how he’s trying to ruin my life? Did he tell you I was an alcoholic?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I am not an alcoholic. What did he say would happen to me if I drank?”

  “He didn’t—”

  “Jenkins, I’m not going to have a seizure, I’m not going to faint, I’m not going to drop dead on you. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be fine.”

  “Janie, I know this is bizarre—I should’ve discussed it further with Jason, but you appeared and there wasn’t any chance—”

  “I know. Wonderful. Don’t discuss it with me. What kind of a son is that? I’m going to drink what I damn well please.”

  “Janie, it’s just one evening. Let’s have a nice evening without booze. I won’t drink either. We don’t need booze to have a good time. I don’t know what Jason thinks the problem is, but we can have it out with him another day.”

  “You’re going to kowtow to that tyrant.”

  “I gave him my word.”

  “Sure put you in a lousy position, didn’t he? All right. I’ll go along with you.” She pats my knee again. “It’s nice to see you. Let’s make the best of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Let’s go. I’m famished.”

  I feel so relieved that I want to hug her, perhaps catch a flicker of my old flame. But she lets herself out of the car.

  Inside, we’re shown to a booth. The low lighting and the deep wood tones of our surroundings make the restaurant conducive to nostalgia. I expect us to talk about that night, relive our slow-dancing and our necking, take our imaginations to the brink.

  “What can I get you folks to start?” says our white-shirted waiter. “A beverage? We have a special tonight—”

  Janie says, “I’ll have … what’s that water called again?”

  “Perrier?”

  “Yes, I’ll have Perrier with a lemon twist.”

  “I’ll have the same, except with a lime.”

  “I’ll be right back with those.”

  Janie looks around. Her face in the subdued light looks almost young. “This is very nice, Ger—there I go again—Jenkins. Thank you for bringing me here. What’s it called, again?”

  “The Keg.”

  “Yes. I think we had a Keg in Calgary.”

  “I’m pretty sure there is one there. Probably more than one.”

  “It’s a chain, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very nice.”

  The waiter brings our drinks. “Folks, would you like to order now? Perhaps an hors d’oeuvre to start?”

  Janie and I exchange glances.

  “You know, we haven’t looked at the menu yet,” Janie says. “And we haven’t seen each other for—how long, Jenkins?”

  “Over fifty years.”

  “Yes, so you see, we have a lot of catching up to do. We’ll take our time, if that’s all right?”

  “That’s excellent, ma’am. I’ll just check on you from time to time, but the two of you just make yourselves at home.”

  “Having said that,” says Janie, “I’m starved, so could we start with some—oh, I don’t know …”

  “Some chicken fingers and, say, a honey dill sauce?” I say.

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Very good. I’ll be back with that.”

  As the waiter goes away, I say, “Where should we begin?”

  “Well, I’m dying to hear about your kids—and I want to tell you all about mine—they’ve been my life, after all. So why don’t you start?”

  It isn’t where I wanted to start, but since she’s been so co-operative about the booze question, I think I’ll humour her. I tell her about Tracy’s rhythmic gymnastics career, how she competed internationally, won medals. The waiter brings the chicken fingers and I explain how Tracy met an entrepreneurial guy, married him, and is now heavily involved in his sportswear company. Janie says she’d never heard of Clay Heller clothes and I’m sure she probably has, but I don’t press it. I go on to tell her about Brian and his acting career, which hasn’t exactly taken flight but is good enough to keep his CD and DVD collections growing to ridiculous proportions. When I tell her he’s based in Toronto, she says:

  “He pr
obably knows my son Pat—no, Matthew. Is your son in movies?”

  “He’s been in a few. Small roles. He does commercials when he can—even does a bit of stand-up comedy now and then.”

  “Matthew provides those big white trucks they use in movie shoots.”

  “I’ll ask Brian if he knows Matthew. What’s his company called?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Southern Signals or something. I can’t keep track.”

  “Brian has never married, but he lives with a woman named Naomi who works in the movie business, too. If Brian doesn’t know Matthew, she likely does—she works as a production assistant. They have a little girl named Kit.”

  “Is that your only grandchild?”

  “No, sorry. Tracy and Clay have a daughter Mason who’s a budding gymnast like her mother.”

  “I have—what is it—fifteen?—yes, fifteen grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.”

  “Wow!”

  The waiter stops by. “How are you folks doing?”

  “You know, I think I’d like to order,” Janie says. “What were you going to have?”

  “The prime rib is always good,” I say.

  We both order medium-rare roast beef with broccoli and a baked potato.

  When the waiter has gone, I say, “Your turn.”

  “All right, but first, I’d better visit the washroom. Do you know where it is?”

  I point it out and, as she leaves, I take a deep breath. I no longer want to discuss the past. I’m weary—and hungry—and I’m irritated by the orders Janie’s son saw fit to give me, and by my own stupidity for initiating this so-called date. I’d be happy to eat and run. I look around at the other patrons. The place is about half full, and the six young people across from us are getting noisy.

  “That’s better,” Janie says, returning in a cloud of newly sprayed perfume. It’s too pungent for my liking, not the pleasant nutmeg scent of yesteryear. “All right, where were we?”