The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!)

by Steven Scaffardi

  “I’m sorry about that, she just came over and…” I started to explain.

  “No need to apologise, it’s me who’s late.” Grace said as she hung her coat and scarf over the back of the chair.

  Wow, she looked amazing. More gorgeous than I remembered. She was wearing a black sleeveless silk jersey top, shiny dark grey leggings, and black heels.

  “You look nice,” she said as she sat down.

  Damn it, she had beaten me to it. All I had left in response was a pathetic “Thanks, so do you.” I groaned inside at how lame that sounded. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes please. Bacardi, lime, and slimline tonic.”

  As I carried the drinks back to our table I realised that I was already now on my fourth double vodka. I would need to pace myself if I was going to get through this date.

  I sat back down and surprisingly eased into conversation with her. The drink seemed to have a calming influence on me. She told me all about her job in market research, but her dream job would be to run her own bar in the Caribbean. She loved RnB music and romantic comedies. She had an older sister, and a pet cat called Smokey.

  She laughed at me. Not literally at me, but at my jokes. I had to pinch myself that I was sitting here with such a stunner. I noticed other guys around the bar looking at her and I grew in confidence at the fact that she was my date. I started to grow in other places too when she slid her finger around the top of her glass and then sucked the liquid off.

  I was so engrossed with her that I hadn’t realised how busy the bar had got while we talked. The people around us had formed a mini dance floor next to the table where we sat, and it was growing in numbers.

  “Let’s dance,” she said, her eyes widening with a big smile on her face.

  This was not good. When the big man upstairs had been handing out rhythm, he neglected to bless me with the dancing gene. I was so bad I looked like Frankenstein on acid when I hit the dance floor. My movements resembled that of a Daddy Long Legs. I had no coordination or thought to my movements, and would simply remain in one spot with too much arm movement. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  The DJ had started to play a full-set of the latest RnB and hip-hop tracks. I have a rule I lived by – no white man should dance to RnB, unless you are Michael Jackson of course.

  It is not natural for your normal run-of-the mill white guy, especially when you gyrated like a pensioner after a hip operation like I did. And if you were on the verge of being drunk then it was a total no-no. A drunken white guy dancing to RnB is never going to have a happy ending.

  “Maybe later, I’m not really in the mood right now,” I lied. I would never be in the mood. Ever.

  “Okay,” she said sitting back and curling her lips downward, playacting how disappointed she was.

  “Maybe after a few more drinks,” I stupidly said.

  With that she leapt to her feet. “Right,” she said. “In that case we had better get you another drink!”

  Five minutes later she returned with another double vodka and coke, and two shots of Sambuca. “Down it,” she demanded with a sexy little smile on her face. We both slammed the drinks back. She then slid the vodka and coke towards me. “This one as well. We need to loosen you up.”

  By now I had drunk seven double vodka and cokes and a shot of Sambuca, and I was starting to feel light-headed. She took my hand and led me on to the dance floor. She moved like serpent, her body moving in time to the beat. She pressed herself up against me. “Relax,” she whispered into my ear. But all I could think of was please don’t get a boner.

  I was sure that all eyes were on her. Inadvertently that also meant that all eyes would be on me and my total lack of rhythm. I attempted to limit my movement, sticking with the simple sidestep routine. But the more paranoid I felt, the stiffer my movements became. To complement the shuffled sidestep I started to bounce my shoulders up and down. I must have looked like a puppet on a string.

  Eventually she put me out of my misery, leaning towards me and kissing me on the cheek. “Thanks for the dance,” she said and she took my hand and led me back to the table.

  “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said excusing herself.

  I’ve blown it I thought to myself. I was worried she might not even come back. I hated myself for not being able to just let go. Grace was right; I did need to loosen up. I finished my vodka and coke, and made my way to the bar and bought two more shots of Sambuca and another round of drinks for us.

  “Snap,” Grace said as she got back to the table, holding two more Sambuca shots in her hand. We downed the shots and I took a gulp of my vodka and coke. I wiped my mouth, and took Grace by the hand. “Come on,” I said with a determined look in my eyes. “Let’s dance.”

  I led her onto the crowded dance floor and decided to let it all go. I started to feel the music and moved in time to the beat. After years of making such a big deal about not dancing, I was now making love to the music and it felt great. If God is a DJ then I was his disciple. A surge went through my body. For the first time in my life, I threw my inhibitions to one side and danced like man had never danced before. There was an edge to my performance and all eyes were definitely on me.

  Unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.

  In reality, I was completely pissed. I looked like an octopus that had only two tentacles left and was trying to compensate for the missing six. One leg remained completely stiff, while the other leg had a mind of its own and performed some sort of strange convulsion. At one point I busted out my version of the running man, then into the worm, completed with a roly-poly into the disco finger. My face was a picture of pure concentration as I bit down on my bottom lip and nodded my head to the bass line. A frown appeared across my brow to show my fellow dancers that I meant business.

  Not content with that, I followed up with a shimmy directed to different sides of the dance floor. I finished off with the lasso, ripping my shirt off and swinging it around my head, like a cowboy trying to snare cattle.

  The memory is nothing but a blur to me, but sometimes at night I wake up in a cold sweat from the nightmare of the complete horror performance I must have put on. Someone once sang a song called Murder on the Dancefloor. That night, that song became my anthem.

  I didn’t notice Grace slip away through the crowd that had now gathered around me and were egging me on to attempt the Macarena. I couldn’t exactly blame Grace. I can only imagine her embarrassment at having to dance with John Revolting. To top it all off, I decided to be a crowd pleaser and performed my version of Macarena. And if you can believe it, I somehow made my version even worse than the original.

  Finally I ran out of steam and staggered back to our table. Grace was nowhere to be seen. People were patting me on the back and congratulating me on a job well done, as they held back tears of laughter. I pulled my shirt back on, minus three buttons, and headed over to the bar. It was packed solid and I swayed in my vodka and Sambuca fuelled-state before pushing my way to the front. I obnoxiously waved a 10 pound note towards the bar staff. It took me an age to get served, and when I finally ordered my drink I decided to leave the new barmaid a tip so I would not have to wait quite so long next time. But a tall guy with long hair and a dark tan picked up my tray. I grabbed his hand. “That’s not for you,” I slurred. “That is for her.”

  Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she gets it,” he replied and tried to pull away, but I kept hold of his arm.

  “No, I want her to have it.” I forcefully said, my finger swaying in the barmaid’s direction.

  “Let go of my arm,” the barman said sternly and tried to pull away again. I made a grab for the silver tray and he tried pushing me back. “He is trying to steal your tip,” I shouted to the barmaid, somehow believing she would see that I was fighting for her honour and come to my aid.

  Instead she called the security staff over. Two burly doorman grabbed me; one holding me by the arms while the other lifted my legs up. They scooped me off the floor and car
ried me through the bar. I tried to resist, but even if I had been sober I was no match for these two behemoths. We reached the fire exit and they launched me at the doors, forcing them to crash open before I was dumped outside in the rain.

  I skilfully managed to land in a puddle in such a way that 80 per cent of my clothing was soaked through. From the distance a bright white light approached. For a moment I thought it was God. But instead it turned out to be a taxi. It skidded to a halt beside me, splashing the remaining content of the puddle into my face. The window wound down. “Dan?” I heard a familiar voice say. I looked up and Grace was looking down at me. “Is that you?” she said.

  “Grace, I’m glad I’ve bumped into you,” I said, dragging myself up from the gutter. “Do you fancy meeting up next week?”

  “Drive on,” I heard her say as the taxi pulled away and disappeared into the distance.

  Chapter 8: Valentine’s Day Massacre

  Saturday, February 14, 2009 - 8.01pm

  Drought Clock: 43 days, 16 hours, 36 minutes

  A week had passed since the now infamous first date with Grace. I had sent her a text the following morning to apologise and, unsurprisingly, I had not heard back from her. I couldn’t even keep the incident under wraps as Katie had told Rob the whole story. She even told him things I couldn’t remember. At one point I had apparently spotted someone taking the piss out of my dancing and had engaged in a heated exchange with them, only to realise it was my reflection in the mirror.

  So in the aftermath of what had been the worst period of my love life to date, the last thing I needed was Valentine’s Day. I really didn’t want to go out. The thought of spending an evening being reminded that everyone else was getting some did not really appeal to me in the slightest. But I’d promised Ollie I would meet him for beers. Rob had a date with Katie, while Jack was taking Anna out for a meal. Ollie had as many options as I did for Valentine’s Day and had nagged me to meet him for a drink as he reasoned that alcohol was better than any woman.

  I was meeting Ollie in a pub in Wimbledon called the Three Crowns. Unlike the dozens of trendy wine bars and gastro pubs that had cropped up in the town over the last 10 years, this was more of your traditional English pub. It was in desperate need of a paint job, with black and white photos on the wall capturing images of life in Wimbledon a century ago. It sold proper ale on tap rather than stocking the shelves with fancy coloured bottles of alcopops. I was confident this was just the place where we would not be exposed to countless romantic couples out celebrating their love for each other. Ollie was already at the bar when I walked in, nursing a pint, and pretending to text someone so people wouldn’t think he was on his own.

  “What time do you call this?” Ollie asked as we exchanged handshakes. I winced as he crushed my hand as he always did, not realising his own strength.

  “Sorry, mate,” I yanked my hand away. “Got here as quick as I could.” He already had a pint waiting for me. “So how’s work?” I asked taking that first satisfying gulp of the evening.

  “Not bad, you know how it is,” Ollie said, pretty much summing up his life as a postman. I nodded at him and raised my glass back to my mouth. I glanced around the pub as the silence between us grew in the air. We both knew what the other was thinking but neither one of us wanted to say it. Here we were, two single guys out on Valentine’s Day. Together. It didn’t get any sadder than that. We were on a man date. It was a sorry state of affairs. I was about to ask Ollie whether he delivered his own mail, but luckily he had a much more interesting topic of conversation.

  “I’ve been shagging this housewife lately,” he said with a big grin. “She’s a right Milf.”

  This was more like it. “How did that start?” I enquired, quite excited.

  “You know how it goes, mate. I start by slipping the post through the letterbox, and then I move on to slipping her one.”

  And it didn’t really need any more of an explanation than that. As men, we didn’t need to examine everything with a fine-tooth comb. No need for the little details. Ollie was shagging an older woman. That was all we needed. I raised my glass to him on a job well done.

  Obviously, that is a complete lie. He told me some disgusting stories about what he had been doing to this poor, lonely housewife. A gentleman never tells, but we were far from being gentlemen.

  Ollie’s revelation opened up the door to our first topic of conversation for the evening – women. Cars and football would come later. We turned our lack of female companionship on the most romantic day of the year by engaging ourselves in a bit of women bashing. It wasn’t our fault we didn’t have dates tonight. We didn’t even want a date. Moaning about women made us feel much better about our own inadequacies of not being able to actually find one.

  “Why do girls insist on chatting continuously when you’re watching the footy, but as soon as the adverts come on they shut up?” I said.

  “Yeah, that is what the adverts are there for. That is their chance to speak, otherwise, please be quiet,” Ollie said.

  “And why do they always expect you to know what’s wrong with them? If you ask them and they say nothing, then don’t expect us to press any further on the matter.”

  Ollie chuckled, “The thing is we know they’re lying when they say nothing but we just can’t be arsed with the hassle.”

  We both took the time to gulp down another mouthful of lager before Ollie kept the debate going. “You remember that girl Sue I was seeing last year? The one that was always sick?”

  I remembered Sue quite well. We all did. She was the one girl Ollie had managed to pull who seemed quite normal compared to his usual conquests. And she seemed completely oblivious to Ollie's complete lack of a brain. But she just disappeared one day and no one knew why. Even Ollie didn't know. We all took the piss of course, saying she had finally cleaned the shit from her eyes and seen sense. But this was news to me that she had been ill and I suddenly felt very guilty for taking the mickey all those times. “I didn't know she had been sick, mate. Was it serious?” I asked with a concerned tone.

  “I’m not sure really,” Ollie said, both hands pressed against the bar. “She would get these headaches. They always seemed to flare up at night when we would get into bed. In the last couple of months we were together they got really bad. She would be in so much pain that I couldn’t even touch her.”

  “You mean she got headaches when you wanted sex?” I asked, suddenly seeing where this was going even if Ollie didn't have a clue.

  “It got worse than that,” Ollie continued. “It got so bad that she couldn’t even talk to me on the phone because it would make the headaches more intense. Then one day I called her number and it was no longer in use. I never heard from her again after that.”

  Ollie went back to nursing his pint with a look on his face like he was still trying to search for the answers. I felt I should probably put him out of his misery and break it to him gently that Sue hadn't been sick. There were no headaches, she just took the easy way out; a bit like a man would.

  “Mate,” I started, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I think Sue was probably lying about the headaches?”

  Ollie looked at me and frowned. He needed answers. “So you think...” I watched his expression change as it finally dawned on him what had really happened. “You don’t think she died, do you? Would that make me a widow?”

  For a split second I thought Ollie was joking, but his face was deadly serious. Then I remembered it was Ollie I was talking to. Here is the guy who believed Jack when he told him that Winston Churchill was the bloke who sold insurance on TV adverts. At that point I gave up and decided that perhaps the truth wasn't the best option. “I’m sure she is fine, mate,” I reassured him. “You’re not a widow,” At least that seemed to cheer him up.

  “So I heard you got a bit drunk when you took that Grace out last week,” Ollie said with a smile.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I said avoiding eye contact. I really wanted to change
the subject. I’d already had Rob and Jack give me plenty of stick over this. The last thing I needed was the widow throwing his two pennies worth in. Time to unleash old faithful I thought to myself. “Hey, I think that bird over there is looking at you.”

  “Where?” Ollie turned round scanning the pub. It didn’t matter how many times I played this practical joke on him, he always fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

  “She just turned away when you looked,” I swigged down some of my lager. “Quick, she’s looking again.”

  Ollie spun around as fast as he could, but of course no one was looking. “You missed her again, sorry mate,” I told him.

  “I don’t believe you,” Ollie said still looking around the bar out of the corner of his eye just in case there was a chance I was telling the truth. “You’re just winding me up,” and he punched my arm, immediately making it go dead. “I’m going to take an eyelash. Get the drinks in.” He downed the rest of his pint before heading off to the toilet.

  I was only halfway through my pint and knew I was in for a long night if I was going to keep up with him. I ordered us another two pints, and attempted to sink as much of my first pint as I could before Ollie returned.

  “Well, look who it is,” someone said bitingly behind me.

  I knew that voice. I knew it all too well. I closed my eyes tightly hoping it wasn’t who I thought it was, but no such luck. I turned around to be greeted by Stacey.

  And her new boyfriend Dave.

  “Hi Stacey,” I said trying to be grown-up about the situation. I nodded and half-smiled towards Dave, extending my hand to him. Stacey slapped my hand away immediately.

  “I don’t think so,” she growled, her face all screwed up. “I’ve already told Dave all about you so don’t go thinking you’re going to be mates.”

  Dave just stared at me, a crooked smile on his face. “I don’t have a problem with you, Stacey, and I really don’t want any trouble,” I told them both.