Oh, What a Night!
By Virginia Guido
My dinner companion was not a total dimwit because he did have some redeeming qualities. Let’s start with his method of picking me up at my house, honking the horn and shouting, “Yo, Jessie, you ready?” is often frowned upon by my neighbors. However, he didn’t run over my prized azaleas, so he has some respect for others.
While walking to his vehicle, I explained to him that it’s preferable to ring my doorbell, escort me to the car, and open the passenger door for me. He rolled down the passenger window and advised me to “Hurry up; we have to be at the Buffet Chalet in fifteen minutes before the coupon expires.”
At the restaurant, the waiter pulled out my chair for me, thus saving my date from going the extra mile. He did alert me to the fact that I had accidentally put my water glass on the tines of my fork. He didn’t need to demonstrate what happens to the glass when he pounded down on the handle of the fork. He was considerate enough to ask the waiter for towels rather than napkins to mop up the puddle of lemon water on my lap.
I watched his face with disgust as he scanned and salivated over the array of creamed and fried foods displayed on the buffet table. At least he used his napkin to wipe the drool from his mouth before he reached for the questionably culinary offerings. I cringed when he said, “Everything looks so great. Let’s keep filling up our plates until we burst. Money is no object. We can eat here all night for $5.99 a person.” Okay, he’s frugal. I thought he might be saving his money for something special; a less smelly car, apartment furniture, or an outfit from this century.
When I asked him to tell me about himself, he informed me that he was between jobs at the moment, but as soon as he got something steady, he was moving out of his mother’s basement! See? He does have goals and aspirations!
I gingerly picked at my “food” as he continued his monologue about what was wrong with the world when a decent guy like him can’t catch a break, no matter how many lottery tickets he buys. I glanced up from my dish to smile at him and thought, Should I tell him that he has creamed spinach in between his teeth? Mercifully, he punctuated his woes by taking a large, noisy slurp of his water and swished it in his mouth, washing away any residue of the leafy vegetable.
I never really got to talk about myself, my job, my dreams for the future. To be truthful, I don’t think it would have mattered to him anyway. I knew enough to restrain myself when he complained that “These damned Women’s Libbers and Feminists were making it difficult to find a decent stay-at-home gal who likes to cook and clean for her man.”
When it was time for dessert, he cautioned me that the pies, cakes, and cookies were not included in his coupon, and, “You could stand to lose a little around your middle if you know what I mean.” In his defense, he did pay the entire tab of $13.00 (11.98 plus tax). But he asked me to cover the tip because he had “Spent his last twenty on lottery tickets.”
On the drive back to my home, he was silent, almost pensive. Maybe he is profound, and I am too quick to judge him. Outside my home, I was debating whether or not I should ask him in for coffee when he turned towards me.
He said, “I’ve been thinking, and I feel we shouldn’t see each other again.”
My eyes widened. “Oh! Really?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for a fun type party girl, and you’re much too quiet and uninteresting for me.”
I didn’t know what to say as he went on.
“I got an image to uphold. I’m going places someday. And somebody like you would just hold me back.”
I sighed with relief. “Good luck to you. I’m sure there’s a gal out there just waiting for you.” I patted him on the shoulder and high-tailed it out of the car before he could say anything else.
It’s true. Even though I can’t remember his name, my dinner companion was not a complete dimwit, but he came awfully close to that category.
***
Virginia Guido is a retired NYC school administrator. She married her childhood sweetheart, Ralph, who is not the subject of her story. Virginia likes writing horror and memoirs about her eccentric past, which she considers the same genre. Writing is her therapy.