Bad Date 101

It is hot hot hot this week. Lower nineties, high humidity. I sweat
when I just look outside. Which of course reminds me of a story...

Back in the day, when I was out of high school, but still living at
home and attending junior college (hey, it was 5 miles away and
I had a scholarship), I had my worst date ever. It was even worse
than my he's going to murder me and hide the body date that I
blogged about last week.

"Kevin" was the boyfriend of one of my high school friends who
had gone off to college on a volleyball scholarship. Her, not him,
because around here boys don't play volleyball. "Denise" was
home for the summer. Kevin got it in his head that we should
double date. "I've got just the guy for you," he said.

"Roger" was a nice-enough guy. He was older than us, though,
by about 6-7 years. That is way older when you still think like
a kid. He was an adult. He even had a real job, a writer for the
St. Louis Post Dispatch. He was very polite and mature. I didn't
dislike Roger, but there was certainly no love connection there.

Kevin decided we would go to St. Louis to a movie. He volunteered
to drive his Jeep CJ5, which, though not exactly a luxury sedan,
was our best option. I had a Chevy Vega, Denise had a Mustang,
and Roger had some little sportscar. You know those writers--they
are just made of money.

The day of the big date rolled around, and the temperature had to
be in the 90s. It was one of those muggy, not-quite-sunny-not-quite-
cloudy days. Being from Redneckland, both men rode in the front
seats of the Jeep. Denise and I squeezed into the back. I don't mean
squeezed because we were fat--she was 5'10 and I was 5'8. We
folded up our legs and tried to catch a breath of air. Believe it or
not, this Jeep had no air conditioning. Kevin had on the canvas top,
but the flaps didn't give us much of a breeze in the back.

The ride from Redneckland to South County Mall took an hour.
During this time, the only conversation was between Kevin and
Roger. There was so much road noise that we couldn't talk to
the guys. When we got there, Denise and I were soaked with
sweat. I don't mean a little under the armpits, or on the upper lip.
My hair was dripping. Sweat had run down my back and down
my front. The whole waist area of my jeans was soaking wet.
Denise was as sweaty as me. The guys had normal sweat. I did
not even want to go in, I was so embarrassed. But we did. And
sweat makes you very cold in the air conditioning. At least it was
dark. I don't remember anything about after the movie, or the
ride home. I do remember the movie: The Frisco Kid.

To this day, I can not stand Gene Wilder.

I went out with Roger again, to dinner at some pizza restaurant
in Festus. That was only 30 minutes away, and we took his
sportscar. Roger ordered a pitcher of beer. And one glass. OK,
we're clear that he's an adult and I'm not. That kind of irked me.
I felt like a child. After that, I didn't really want to continue things
with Roger.

He dropped by one afternoon while I was on my carport shooting
baskets. Because there's nothing else to do in Hooterville during
the summer. You can only go to the slime pond (oops...now it's
the state park) to swim in the left-over lead-contaminated lake
so many times. So I'm all sweaty, standing in the sun, and here
comes Mr. Roger down the driveway. I kept shooting. He came
over and made a little small talk about how he'd been thinking
about me. Then he kissed me.

This wasn't some little peck on the cheek. This was a big ol'
tongue-stabbing slimy suck-out-my-entrails kind of kiss. I was
not prepared for it. Now this kind of kiss is fine if you want it,
and in the proper setting, but this was not it. Out of the corner
of my eye, I saw the sheer curtains of the living room window
move, and I knew my Hillbilly Mama was observing this untimely
molestation of her goody-goody daughter. That definitely did not
enhance the situation.

What did I do? I laughed. I had to break the suction of that kiss,
or my pent-up horsey guffaw was going to go right down loverboy's
throat and up into his brain cavity. The pressure might have popped
his eyeballs like one of those rubber squeezy little stress guys. I pulled
away with a 'pop' like when you open a new jar of dill pickles. "I've
got to go," I told him, putting my hand over my mouth so he couldn't
see the grin that was turning into a hysterical laugh. I ran into the
house, wiping off my mouth with the back of my hand. I left him
standing there under the basketball goal. Hillbilly Mama had made
herself scarce. I went to the window and peeped out. He stood
there a minute, then got in his sportscar and backed up the driveway.

I did not hear from Roger again. If I had know then what I know
now, I could have just told him, "Dude, I'm really not that into you."