Year: 2001
Setting: Humboldt County, CA
I meet a Nice Guy who wears his hair in two braids and lives in an abandoned dentist’s office and stays up all night writing raps about the desecration of Mother Earth on his typewriter. He takes me on a moonlight hike. Half a mile into the hike, he goes oddly quiet. We are holding hands. His hand starts to twitch. I get that weird feeling you get when you are around people on hallucinogenics. Then: he is down, down on the ground. Flailing. All 6’5 of him. Through a series of frantic hand gestures, I learn that he is diabetic, and needs sugar. Of which there is none, because we are in the WOODS. I light a candle next to him (LOL, in hindsight), and run back to my car to scrounge for an expired fruit roll-up under the seats. I fall down in the mud 18 times. I return. I feed him the fruit roll-up.
Year: 2002
Setting: Deep suburbia, CA
A fellow has been begging me to go on a date with him (this is very rare, I assure you). For a variety of reasons, I am not into going on dates with anyone at this juncture. He persists. I acquiesce. I decide to beat him at his own game. I demand he take me to every suburban family’s Friday night ritual zoo and purveyor of fried food, Red Robin. We can barely hear each other over the din. I am quietly, mostly. “Do you know why I like this place?” I finally say. “I like this place because they have bottomless baskets of french fries. I like to come here alone, order a basket of fries, and read the New York Times. That’s what I do for fun.” I sit back. He stares at me. “You’re so…real,” he whisper-sighs. We move to New Orleans together two weeks later.
Year: 2006
Setting: Mission District, CA
It is the local hipster coffee shop’s one year anniversary blow-out prom party, by exclusive invitation. The very cute owner of my favorite bar asks to take me. We end up on sort of a double-date with another couple who are also on a first date. We dance, we laugh, we take goofy pictures. We pile into a van to go to an after-party. The girl on the other date is showing everyone her tattoos. “I got this tattoo of plaid because, I dunno, I just like plaid?” she says. Date and I had bonded earlier over people with dumb tattoos. “What’s the writing on your chest?” he asks her. “It’s a line from my favorite Decemberists song: ‘You Are the Heart That I Call Home.’” I suppress a snicker, and try to catch Date’s eye for a conspiratorial eye roll. He’s staring at her. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” he says in a low and husky voice. I find them making out in the hallway of the party an hour later.
Year: 2007
Setting: Pirate ship, CA
A well-known drummer from a local band sends me a message on Myspace (I KNOW, on multiple levels). He’s seen me at the bar (that belongs to the previous date), he sees that one of my interests is “train whistles in the night” (UGH, 26 year old self). Would I like to go with him to this pirate ship docked in the bay that holds sea shanty singalongs? Where we bring our own mugs and they ladle out hot apple cider? Maybe a picnic first? UM, YES! Cutest date idea ever! We have a picnic, we drink a bottle of wine (correction: I take a sip, he drinks the rest). We laugh, we frolic. Suddenly his band/friends show up (?). One friend (his “Best Friend,” she will have me know) starts to…bogart our date? We move to the pirate ship. Date is very, very drunk. These sea shanty-ers are very, very serious. Date is sitting next to Best Friend with his head slumped on her shoulder. He is slurring, shouting, singing off-key. Someone throws a paper cup at him. A little boy asks his father, “is that man a pirate?” The father replies, “son, that man is a drunk.” We are kicked out. Best Friend turns to me. “Do we need to give you a ride home?” she asks, sickly-sweet. We walk back to Date’s car. He is too drunk to drive. The car is a stick shift. Best Friend and I do no drive stick shift. We hail a taxi van. In the first row of the van sit myself and Date. Date’s head is nestled on my shoulder. In the row behind us sits Best Friend. Date’s LEFT ARM is awkwardly thrown over his RIGHT SHOULDER, holding Best Friend’s hand behind him. Take a moment and truly envision this spectacle. They drop me off at my house. Date calls the next day and asks me out again.
Previously:
