Drive-by Love, part two: the games

We're going to meet and it's going to be great. Hopefully. May be dwelling a little too much on the question, what's worse on a first date: no physical attraction, or nothing to talk about?

It's all a game, isn't? Just a loose, undefined list of rules that aren't written down anywhere, but seem to appear whenever two people make each other feel "funny". Don't send another email. Wait. Don't seem too eager. It's exactly the type of self-consciousness you feel when somebody's about to take your picture. How desperate will this make me look? You have to wait. If you get her number in a bar, wait three days, then call. NO. She won't call you first. Well, maybe. But don't count on it. Wait. Then call. If you like her, wait three days to tell her.

Games change over time. Or maybe it's just what you stand to win, that changes. Playing cards used to remind me of trying to glean the finer points of euchre from my grandparents while watching them play at the cottage. Then it became playing games like "speed" and "asshole" with the cute girls who came to the place next door from ours. There we'd be, hiding from our parents in the woodshed - the sounds of our laughter and reckless abandon leaking through the walls, giving us away every time. What are you kids up to? Nothing. Just playing cards. Adolescence changed the nature of the game. Don't 'go swimming', go skinny-dipping! You follow?

They're having dinner. He suggested the place. She suggested the time. After work means he'll look extra kick-ass because he wears a suit. She's effortless and doesn't worry about it. New restaurant. He's been here before, for wine but not for food. She's been meaning to try it. Little plates. Meant for sharing. Weird combinations. Menu changes every week. He walks to the place, confidence growing with every step. Pictures her smile from the profile pick as he walks. Almost walks into moving traffic. Steady. Runs through a mental note of shared characteristics he's saved up. Talk to her about the theatre. Talk to her about politics. Talk to her about writing. Don't talk too much. Don't bore her into a stupor so that you have to pick her face out of the soup bowl. Checks his phone. Plenty of time. Shit, might be a little early. Pictures himself sitting alone waiting for her to join. Candle light for company. Waitress bringing water for conversation. Paces outside the place for several minutes before deciding it's cold enough to wait inside. Heads inside. Hostess looks at him. Takes his coat. It's one of those places. Follows Hostess upstairs. Minimalist atmosphere. Chairs and tables look back-breakingly modern. Two rows of diners jammed together. We're all listening to your first date conversation. HA!

Sits. Waits. Checks emails while he waits. Painfully typical. Waitress brings water. Yes, he's waiting for another person. Reservations in my name. Does she know my last name? My first name is too common. Shit. Didn't give her my last name. Waits. Sips water. Waits. Knows she looks beautiful but this is the part where he wonders if that's actually her in the picture or not. Because you hear all kinds of stories. That's actually my cousin. Yeah, that's me...five years and a hundred pounds less ago. No. It's her. She sounded hot in her text messages.

Drinks a glass of water. Then another. Kind of has to pee. Can't get up though. What if she comes by and I'm not here? She'll think I left or something. Calm down. And try not to ring your bladder out all over this chair. (That would be something of an introduction. Yeah, hey, I was just in the middle of pissing myself...how are you? Extend your hand out of routine, ignorant to the piss that's dripping from your fingers.) Relax, bud. It's really just the condensation from the glass of water you've been cupping for the last five minutes. Sits. Waits. Should have got a hair cut. Damn. This is like a job interview. Hi, so you got my add for a boyfriend. Do you have any references? Sits. Waits. Three cleansing breathes. One...two...

Hi. He gets up as she's making her way through the crowd. Last cleansing breath aborted.

She sits down. They sit down. She slides off her coat. He can't wipe the smile off of his face. She is pretty. She looks up at him. They both smile. He speaks first. So how are you? Good, glad to be out of the office. Me too. So you've never been here before. Blah. Blah. Blah. No. Haven't eaten the food, no. Drank the wine though. Speaking of wine. Yes. Drink menu. They peruse in silence. Subtle glances over the menu say smiles. Nice to finally meet you in person, he says. Yeah, you too, she agrees. And now the people at the table next to them can see this is a first date going down. (They stay for dessert.)

They order wine. He a red. She a white. First nothing-to-say look around the room occurs. All the fancy people. Restaurant policy is wear a uniform. He just looks at her and smiles. She always seems to smile back. What else can you do? Wink? No, that would be weird. They get the wine and spend a few minutes talking about wine. They look at the menus and spend a few minutes talking about the food. They put what with what? Really? Sounds weird. NO. It's trendy. OH. Okay.

They order something they can share. Then look into their wine glasses with despair.

Then he asks for her thoughts on online dating. So stupid. Says she's on there too so she can't really knock it. He agrees. Drinks more wine. She looks bored and he's recently found out that he has nothing to say. The food comes, they eat it. More wine comes, they drink it.

She asks for a refill and he pours her more. Wishing there was more than just the bottle between them.

~ to be continued ~

Drive-by love: part one

In the beginning there were butterflies in the stomachs of all the girls next door, a sense of conquest and adventure in the eyes of the boys - a curiousity, really. I remember it well, all the first times when you lay eyes on a person and something in your chemistry changes and now you don't look at her the same way anymore and thoughts of spending another day apart begin to tare you like a flag in the wind.

The moments that give you pause and take you back to a room where the sight of each other's faces seemed to part a sea people, a feeling like you're the only two people on the planet right here, this moment begins to snowball down a mountain and it gets bigger and bigger and once it roles through town nobodies lives will ever be the same. Everything thereafter becomes an I've-got-to-see-you moment, and you find yourself sprinting to her apartment through the rain to feel her place a hand on your face. The appearance of a toga and gold leaf crown not uncanny in the least.

Now, though, it was hitting the refresh page while staring at a computer screen waiting to see if there's a message, or if somebody new came to visit your profile. Sort of like drive-by love: your eyes cruise across the pages of the profile, you look at all the words in the tiny boxes and you get hooked on something. You continue to read the profile. When you finish, maybe you read it a second time, to see if there's something you missed. For some reason you choose to focus on the fact that she apparently "owns cats", which make you have asthmatic reactions requiring rapid self-medication. Easy tiger. You're just saying hello. Think of something to say. Does she have pictures of herself? She does. How many? Four, nice. Oh, she looks awesome in this one. Man, this chick is the hottest f*#king girl I've ever seen in my life!

Look at her pictures.

Think of something to say.

Look at her pictures, again.

Think of something to say.

What to say?

Everybody says that online dating cuts through the bullshit, and gets the asses of the lonely into the chairs of coffee houses and pubs all across this fair city. People are more easy going on the internet. Look, buddy, we're all here for a reason. Sure.

That may be true. People are always telling me about some friends they know who hooked up and hit it off right away. After listening to this sort of talk for a while, you naively form the opinion that people on the internet will actually be as open-minded as their search for a partner appears to be. They will want to meet.

The meeting places. It's always someplace neutral, like a coffee shop, or some casual dining affair a couples steps away from hotdog vendor. Some place mutually comfortable where the ambient noise is dialed down enough to hear the other person speak. So you can nod along, letting out a few "yeahs" in a half-hearted attempt to communicate that you're actually listening and not wondering if you can look at her tits during the time it takes her to blink. This way to the gentlemen's room.

Sometimes a month's worth of emails. She takes her time to reply, it seems. You reply right away. Doesn't that make me seem a little too...eager? Whatever, first introductions are always awkward, it's the impression they cause that sometimes sticks in a bad way.

Here's the story. She was twenty-two and he was twenty-seven. She was in school, he was in limbo. He knew this, she did not. Not yet. He'd wait and see what happens first before he lets her know just how pathetic he really is. They spent the first two days sending instant messages to each other, flirty, but not obnoxiously so.

He then asked if she had plans that night. Her disclosure that she was staying in tonight made him smile the smile of an opportunist. Suggested drinks. She lived sort of in the west end, he lived definitely downtown. Give me an hour, he said. She was down. Just a walk down the street from her place. Said she'd wait for him outside. Cool. He changed his shirt, splashed his face with cologne, and called a cab from his BlackBerry while waiting for the elevator. It's an apartment. He'll be downstairs. Five to twenty-minutes. Plenty of time. He didn't want to smell like smoke for the first meeting, but he was getting anxious and was pacing the handicap ramp, so he decided to give into the tug of self-medication. Flick. Light. Breathe deep and relax. Checked his phone, he called the taxi almost twenty minutes ago. Still not here. He'd better send her a text letting her know that he'll be a bit late, waiting for the cab. So sorry. Send. Inhales pathologically for the next several minutes. Checks the time on his phone like he's expecting a bomb to detonate somewhere nearby. Stares down the street. Empty. Looks for cars with white lights on the roofs. Walks down to the other intersection, parked cars line the street but no taxis. No taxis. This is a first date for Christ's sake. Wow this looks bad. I'd better text her again. Hey, still no taxi, I'm gonna walk up to Bank and see what happens. Be there soon. Send. She replies. Sure, sure. You're probably just ditching me. Huh? No way. Panics. Words rush to his mouth and once and stumble into each other. Comes out squished. Drops his phone. Landed on the top of his shoe, so no worries. Hey, I'm coming, I really am. Don't leave. She writes back, you've got another half-hour. Okay. Send.

Keeping the girl waiting. Not the fake-out game to play when meeting her for the first time. No. But there she was leaning against the building wrapped tightly in a winter coat as it was unseasonably cold that night. Snowing a little. There she stood. I told you I was coming. Again, really sorry about the wait. I guess my apartment is in a taxi black-hole or something. No worries. Cute smile. Ended up having a great time with her. Talked for three hours and a couple of cocktails each. Nice girl. He walked her home and they smiled at each other when they parted. That could have been really bad, he thought. Still reeling from the late taxi pickup. Oh well. The next day she texted him.

Another time there was this forty-something woman. Looked nice in her profile pick so he send her a message. Over the summer. To his surprise she writes back right away. Teacher, so, I'm off during the summer. Must be nice. Secretly unemployed. Describes it as vacation instead. They talk, they talk, they talk. She's from Montreal though. He's in Ottawa. Shitty. They get along right away and bond over a mutual love of running and hiking. She's in great shape, has the legs and ass of a woman half her age. Nice. Running, hello. Gotcha. She's going hiking the next day. For some reason asks him to come along. Yeah, he can get there by 7am. She'll pick him up at the bus station. Cool. All in one day. Sort of weird. But, whatever. She feels taken aback by her own impulse and he asks if she'd like to call him so they could actually talk. Yeah, that'd be good. Yeah. Here, that's my cell. She calls they talk. Tells him that she never does anything like this. He says, ah, it's going to be fun. Then she asks him. Are you a serial killer? He laughs. No, are you? They laugh. He tells her to relax, people say I'm disarming by natural and I've always considered myself an extremely non-violent fellow. Seriously, no worries. Good. Because I have two kids and they need me. I would think. Don't worry. We'll have fun, and you'll remain alive.

Wow. Really? A non-violent pact before a date. This was truly the first of its kind in his experience anyway. What sort of men had this girl been seeing before? What sort of dates were they going on? Yikes. Then again, maybe it wasn't all that weird. Girl tells me that her friends shamed her for deleting her profile. Tells them why, though. Too many messages. Hey baby, this and that. Pictures of...well, you know. Gawd. Tells them that she'd receive one hundred a day, easily. Friends don't believe her. No way. Not because she isn't pretty, just, no way that many messages. Oh yeah, she says. Watch this. Fakes a profile. Leaves the boxes blank, just a name. Not even a picture. Gives the girls a copy of the password so they can check it out for themselves. So they can watch the progress.

Not even three hours later. Twelve messages.

~to be continued~

Stale Bread

A loaf of stale bread under my head,

killer instinct in my eye but I don't bite,

you know why? cause it's suffocating quietly inside.

The second that it breathes, it opens its eyes, to their surprise,

a jack in the box with a fully automatic inside,

pull this car over, get the kids off of the ride,

they don't show it with their eyes, but they know a truth from a lie.

An intergenerational game of monkey see, monkey do...

do as I say my lit' homey, but not as I do,

a lot easier to say when you don't see the

three fingers pointing back at you.

I've got some of the answers, but I keep finding clues.

I used to wear this life like a costume, now it's a second skin.

Some clothes you wear start to wear you,

you're the first to hope you win, and the last to see you lose.

Go to church and you can learn about sinners and saints,

go to confession anonymous and you can lodge your complaints,

my angel in the mail came with a demon inside...

a full metal jacket against the skin of my pretty young bride.

The inside is what's real and the outside is fake,

don't' be Bart Simpson reaching for the electric cupcake.

Can't fix a broken home with a sludge hammer,

can't win the game throwing TD passes to Quintin Jammer.

It's hard to get on the right track without a ticket to ride,

it's tough to find the inner beauty when you're dying inside.