It was a blind date that wasn’t blind enough. I don’t remember now how the date come to be but I do remember that I was to have dinner at her house. And so I went, a small bouquet of flowers in my hand. A friend of mine said she thought the two of us would like each other.
So much for friendship.
I arrive at the front door of this woman’s home. She welcome’s me in, is genuinely grateful for the flowers, tells me dinner is almost ready, asks me if I would like some coffee, and would I mind if we ate in the living room because a television special with the sexiest man in the world is coming on soon and she wants to watch it with me.
A voice deep inside me whispers that maybe this date might not be, well, my kind of date. But I don’t hear the whisper because I smell food and am too distracted and too stupid to listen to me.
Let me pause here for a moment to say, if a voice deep inside you ever whispers that you may be on the wrong road, listen up.
We bring out dinners into the living room and set them on the table in front of the couch. She is giddy with excitement. The special with the sexiest man in the world is coming on in five minutes, she tells me, and I swear to God she is swooning and I begin to worry she might fall off the couch.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“My God,” she says. “You don’t know? Oh… (she swoons some more)…he can have his way with me any time he wants (more swoon). And I’m not easy, I’ll have you know.”
“I can see that,” I say, and shovel a forkful of food in my mouth so I don’t have to speak. I wish she would do the same. But she doesn’t. She gets up and turns on the TV.
“Are you ready, Peter? He is so sexy this man. You’re not the jealous type, are you?”
“No, not my style.”
“Good. Good. This man is God gorgeous. He is amazing. Even you will think he’s sexy.”
I go for another forkful.
And then, the special began. It was a special with magician David Copperfield, who, then and now, looks to me like a carefully quaffed tropical bird
On the screen there is a large stage that glistens as if waxed and buffed for days. There is a puff of smoke and out of that puff comes, you guessed it, Mr. Carefully Quaffed Tropical Bird.
She shrieks with joy. “Oh, he is God gorgeous, just look at him!”
I don’t want to look at him. I want to drive the fork into my eyes.
There is a swirl and a flourish and a woman we are supposed to think is beautiful comes out of… wait for it… another puff of smoke! She is wearing a glittering leotard of some kind and a headdress with feathers sprouting out of the top which actually works pretty well since she is standing next to Mr. Carefully Quaffed Tropical Bird.
I have never been happier to see a commercial. My date, God help me, jumps up, looks at me, and says, “We have to hurry now, I can’t miss anything. I’m going to get some soda, can I get you anything.”
“Death would be nice,” I say, although for some reason a process I don’t understand takes over and the words that come out are, “No thank you.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she gazes lovingly at the television, races into the kitchen and is back in no time. To this day I’ve never seen anyone retrieve a soda as fast as she did.
Soon, Mr. Carefully Quaffed Tropical Bird is back on. She clearly wants to gobble him up. I, on the other hand, am wishing with all my might that he is a good enough magician to wave his magic wand and make me disappear.