A Bedtime Story


My Date


by WillO


I had a first-date last night, with an intriguing lady I'd met on OKCupid
and chatted with a few times on line. From my door to hers is 73 miles,
but she seemed worth the trip.

I was in the vicinity of her house about fifteen minutes early, with a gas
gauge below empty. I stopped for gas.

This was when I discovered that my pockets were empty. In other words, I
had:

---No credit cards.
---No cash. And because I'm driving a brand new car, no hope of finding even
a quarter between the seat cushions.
---No cellphone.
---No slip of paper with the phone number where I was supposed to call her
to get last minute directions on where to pick her up.
---No condoms. (Not, as it turned out, a significant issue)
---No way to get back home (viz. "gas gauge below empty")

I *thought* I remembered her address, but the plan had been that she might or
might not be home, and if she wasn't, I was to call her (using the cellphone
I didn't have to call the number on the slip of paper that I didn't have)
and she'd direct me to an alternate location a few blocks away. This, of
course, was not going to happen.

The one saving grace was that I had my digital camera with me. I figured I
could probably trade it for a tank of gas and slink back home. If that failed,
I was doomed. The obvious ``call naiad1 for an emergency rescue''
strategy foundered on the whole ``no cellphone/no quarter for a payphone''
deal.

(Where were my pocket items? I'd lain down for a twenty minute nap before
setting out, emptied my pockets, forgot to refill them.)

So anyway: I went to what I thought I remembered was the right address. I
was ten minutes early. I knocked. I heard footsteps. Yay (sort of)! She
answers the door wearing just a towel, giving me a moment's hope that I'd
wandered into a grade-B porn flick. But instead she yelps ``you're early!
Still getting ready!'', over her shoulder as she runs upstairs.

There follows a flurry of getting-ready activity, involving her running upstairs/
downstairs/upstairs/downstairs grabbing an earring here, a shoe there. And me
thinking: At what point in this flurry is it my job to stop her and say:
``Ummmm. We might not be going anywhere.''?

There seemed no appropriate moment, so I waited till she was completely ready,
then announced that I either was or had committed a major fuckup. She looked
exasperated and said ``Only an American would think this was a problem. I've
got money.''

I said: "Ummm. I also need gas." She said: "Lets go buy you some gas."

It was only after I started pumping that I realized I didn't actually need to
*fill* the tank on her dime. This realization hit about ten dollars' worth
into the procedure, whereupon I replaced the nozzle.

The rest of the date was as lovely as a date can be, subject to condoms being
unnecessary. My periodic re-apologies were met, every time, with ``Don't be
so American''. The theory, apparently, was that only an American would have
been unsympathetic to my plight, and therefore only an American would have
contemplated the possibility of being met with a lack of sympathy.

I'll see her again.