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Real dates. Real disasters. |
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Jolene by frederique f. (37, M, calgary, canada) "Jolene had her shit together. she was twenty nine years old, owned her own home, and worked as a business analyst for a giant oil and gas concern. Jolene was bright, good looking and had an excellent sense of humor. she drove a sensible car and liked sentimental music. She was with me on one of my worst first dates. I met her (as is the case with the majority of women i have dated) at work. she came in and had me do a zodiac symbol on her, which is some pretty standard fare, tattoo wise. she was a libra if my memory is functioning properly. the attraction between us was immediate, and by the end of the tattoo we had arranged to have some drinks and a bite to eat at one of my favorite places on the following evening. as a safety measure, i suggested we meet at the restaurant in our own vehicles, so i could avoid a long, silent drive to drop her off if things didn't work out between us. the next day came and i went to work, diligently anointing the veterans and the uninitiated alike with my inky oil. i don't remember what tattoos i did that day, but i can guarantee there were at least two different star tattoos and some kanji. it was a long day. i was looking forward to going on a date with a woman of some substance for a change as i had been through a streak of dates with 20-25 year olds. the stupidity and/or vigor of youth was beginning to wear me a little thin. when i finished work, i drove home to shower and drop off the company car. the company car was nice, and free, but not first date material. it oozed common sense and responsibility, two traits which are admittedly not my finest points. instead, i was going to show up in my car. my baby. the most important woman in my life, rosie. rosie is a 1965 cadillac coupe de ville. she has a 429 cubic inch engine, done up with a racing cam, custom ceramic headers and exhaust, a four barrel performance carburetor, and a new rear end. before the rebuild, rosie had only forty thousand original miles on her odometer. for you metric folks, that's sixty five thousand kilometers, give or take a few. her two doors are heavy and hinged like the doors you might see on a bank vault. she's a loud girl too, big and obnoxious. i fucking love that car. i arrived at the restaurant a little early and went in to get a table, only to find jolene already seated, drinking a double rye and water. we greeted each other with a hug and took a seat. i ordered the first of what turned out to be many pints of guinness, another drink for jolene and we started talking. initially we talked about small stuff, our jobs, what we had done that day - good first date small talk. we ordered more drinks and some food. everything was going well until, behind the lubrication of a few drinks, jolene started talking about marriage and children. she started with how much she wanted to complete her idea of a perfect life by complimenting her home and career with a brat and a husband. i was boggled. boondoggled and hornswoggled. i found myself suddenly wishing she was a twenty year old with a job in retail and ten roommates, who was just out with me to experience something a little less than cerebral with the big bad tattoo man. it's not as though i haven't entertained the idea of having a child, and if i am going to bother breeding, hopefully i have the common sense to do it with a woman who possesses all the characteristics that i found appealing about jolene. but! talk of such things is strictly taboo on a first date. it makes the gods angry. it creates bad mojo. it usually scares men away. we ate and continued to drink. jolene continued to pound home the immediacy of her need to betroth and dump out a kid. i continued to pound down the guinnesses, picturing her biological clock as a dali soft watch, a mechanism which had melted from the friction of its unrelenting tick. i continued to feed her double ryes, and we got drunk. i got so drunk in fact, that after settling the bill, i asked her out for a second date. despite her major short coming of pressing the marriage button. i found jolene incredibly attractive and wanted to see her again. as we exited the restaurant and discussed the details of our next meeting, not twenty feet from a public bench, i spied an elderly man resting his ass on my cadillac. he was shriveled and grey and holding onto the handle of a medical oxygen tank. it was now my turn to commit a cardinal first date sin. i became angry. not raging, punchy angry, just pissed off. i hollered across the street - 'hey, dad! there's a fucking bench right there! get off of my car!" jolene immediately became defensive for the old bastard, maybe not realising that i'd rather fuck off both her and the old man if it meant getting my car home without scratches on her hood. the light changed and we crossed the street. jolene urged me to be nice. "be nice", she said. as drunk as i was, and as angry as i was, i tried to suck it up and treat the old guy as well as i could. as i got near the old guy, he slumped, trying to anchor himself against the hood of my car, should i try to physically remove him. in an eastern european accent, he starts wheezing a blue streak - "you don't scare me! with your tattoos and your shaved head!" i tried to reason with him - "i'm not trying to scare you, i'm trying to get your ass the fuck off of my car." jolene broke out crying. apparently when she told me to be nice, she meant be really, really nice. i thought she just meant not to punch or throw the old fellow. i reached for the old guy's oxygen bottle with the idea of leading him from my car to the bus bench, just twenty feet away. the old fucker grabbed up the bottle and climbed onto the hood of my car. now he teared up, scared as fuck he wheezes out - "i'm fifty seven years old and a university professor! when did a human life become worth less than a car?" fifty seven! the old prick looked a hundred, and had emphysema like he had been weened with asbestos cigarettes! i was half way through my response that my car wasn't worth more than a human life, and that i just wanted to leave, when he pulled out his cellular phone and dialed 9-1-1. drama! jolene, half cut, had by now quit crying, and started to see the comedy in this absurd exchange. the old guy repeated his story to the emergency operator, including his age and occupation, and that i didn't scare him. when he paused for a breath, i calmly asked to speak to the operator, only half believing that he had actually dialed the cops. i was shocked when he handed me the phone, and more shocked to hear a real voice on the other end. i explained my situation, and asked if it would be okay to just jump in the car and speed off in reverse, leaving dr. wheezy on his ass in the parking lot. to my dismay, the operator advised me that a cruiser had already been dispatched and i might be charged if i left. fuck! jolene and i, both well intoxicated beyond the legal limit but still planning to drive ourselves home, started to panic. gum! chew some gum! we filled our mouths with cinnamon gum and hurredly chewed, hoping to mask the reek of booze and beer. the cops showed up within two minutes. "what's your story?" asked cop number one, his partner making his way to the front of my car to question the old guy, still plunked down on the hood of the car. hoping to appeal to the cop's sense of sympathy, i explained that we were on our first date and that this crazy old cunt with the oxygen bottle was ruining it up for us. i told the cop the whole story, omitting only the fact that i was over point-oh-eight blood alcohol. jolene remained silent and apprehensive while i talked to the cop. i got the feeling that us seeing one another hinged on whether or not we wound up in the back of a police car that night. after the short explanation, the cops compared stories and the old guy got off the car and headed toward the bus bench. when i asked if everything was okay, the cop replied - "he's crazy, you two have a good night." the old guy and authorities now gone, jolene and i ended the night with a hug and a kiss, and made plans to see each other again. predictably, things did not last long between us. there was no child or marriage in our future, and i ended up nicknaming her 'the clock', a handle which she found repugnant. she never shared with me any of the names she called me when i wasn't there, but i'm certain they were equally if not less flattering. a word to the wise: always take a cab when you go out on a date, and leave your watch at home."
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