Third Date (Chapter Three)

This time I will post the entire story. A few months have passed and Larry's on a third date. Hilarity ensues. The female character is based on a challenge we set up in my writing group to write a story about the same character. We gave her four or five traits and left it at that. This reminds me that I can write a story that isn't 95% dialogue.

Third Date

“So what’s the deal?” she asked. I smiled, liking her tendency to get to the point.

“Friday night. You, me, Rent at the Fox. . .” I said, purposely trailing off.

“That sounds romantic,” she said and soon the conversation was over.

Romance is the thing that gives the woman those Meg Ryan feelings, while the man gets to discover if they really are ribbed for her pleasure. Smart men try to create situations that are perceived as romantic, and women allow them to get away with it through years of supermarket-checkout-line magazine advice.

I didn’t really care about the conventions of romance. All I knew was that a third date was in the books.

The woman who came up with the premise that the third date was the sex date didn’t do a lot of legwork. She probably did nothing more than calculate the average cost of three dates when compared to hiring a lady of the night. Then she justified the calculation to women by saying that three dates was plenty of time to get to know each other. Men have bought into this convention, and the perception has become reality. If a woman gives a man sex before the third date, she’s a slut and he’s a stud. If the third date passes without sex, both parties just move on.

At least that’s what I’ve done. My time and money are valuable.

The number three has excellent parallels in the sports world. You don’t believe that your football team is any good until they win three in a row. Once a team wins three championships, they’re considered a dynasty. The third year is often considered the ‘break out’ year for wide receivers. If a coach has two bad years, he’s getting fired in year three.

I haven’t been in the dating world for a while, so I had to re-familiarize myself with the rules. The third-date thing is more of a guideline than a rule, but it’s solid incentive assuming you can’t rush things a bit. Here are a few of my rules of dating.

Never talk about particulars about an ex-anything. If a woman says “The last guy did so-and-so and it really pissed me off,” try not to do so-and-so, even if that’s sleeping with her roommate who would be willing to offer a third-date exemption. In the early stages of dating, it’s best to pretend that you have no past, unless she asks. Then, if necessary, lie.

If your date refuses to open up on a particular subject, don’t press it. Nell, my two-date companion, still hasn’t let me know where she lives. We met for coffee on the first date and an inoffensive chain restaurant for the second. On the third date, we’re meeting at the Fox. She could be an alien for all I know.

There are signs that tell you whether to proceed. Body language is important. If your date recoils when your feet accidentally touch, and generally avoids body contact of any kind, a good-night kiss is out of the question.

Feel free to go for the extra base. In high school, when a place of your own isn’t a given and playing music while messing around in the back of your car is a romantic standard, girls allow you to progress one base at a time. In college, those rules no longer exist. It took me half a semester to figure that out.

After college, if the woman invites you to her place or vice versa, it’s time for bedroom gymnastics. This doesn’t mean that you get to stay the night. More than once I’ve been pushed out the door before I knew that I was done.

Nell’s not like that. She claims to be a touchy-feely person, but we’ve progressed no further than a lukewarm hug and an ineffectual peck on the lips. The mouth-closed kiss of today is no different than the peck on the cheek, circa 1986. Open your mouth and you’re getting somewhere.

On our first date we met for coffee. I generally despise coffee places. There should be a constitutional amendment against the four-dollar cup of coffee. I drink coffee for two reasons. Reason one is to warm up. Reason two is to get that familiar jolt of caffeine. If you need some kind of milk product in your coffee, you probably should drink something else. Nell ordered a “Decaf skinny white chocolate mocha” with professional flair. She said nothing with equal enthusiasm as we sat and sipped for the next hour.

On our second date we went to a low-key chain restaurant. It’s one of those new concoctions that combines solid but not spectacular food with locally brewed beer of similar quality. The choice of date location probably says something about the enthusiasm level of said date. At the same time, you don’t want to blow your wad, so to speak, on a date when the best you’re going to get is a lukewarm hug and kiss. I ordered a barbeque chicken pizza and an amber ale while Nell went with the chicken fried steak. She ordered a martini. Nell didn’t pass the three-sip mark by the time I paid the check two hours later. We talked about the military-industrial complex and Freud’s mother issues. Actually no, we talked about something. Let me get back to that later.

The third date is time to step things up. Phil, my divorced lawyer friend, purchased tickets to the local opening of the musical Rent a few months ago. He bought them thinking of reconciliation with his ex-wife. When the show date approached, he had a girlfriend instead. I told him of my situation and he agreed to help.

Phil also had a parking pass. I assumed that it was in the lot adjacent to the Fox Theatre, but it turned out to be a sketchy parking garage three blocks from my final destination.

As I waited in the Arcade near the ticket booth, I admired the dressed-to-impress crowd. Some patrons dressed like they were going to a wedding or a prom. A scattered few had on jeans, but for the most part this was a see and be seen evening. My phone rang. I should have turned off the ringer, but technically the date had yet to start.

“Talk,” I said.

“My man Larry,” Desmond replied. “I didn’t think I’d catch you. Aren’t you courting some pretty young thing?”

“I’m in pre-court mode, Des,” I said. He doesn’t love being called Des, but tolerates it from me.

“Listen, man, I know time is moolah, so here’s the pitch. I need some copy, stat.”

“Can’t help you,” I said, eyeing a pixyish brunette wearing the latest from Saran Wrap.

“Is this the same Larry Smith who practically begged me for work just six months ago?”

“It’s not in my time budget right now.”

“Come on, man, it’s quick cash. Fifty bucks for an hour’s work. Take that sweet thing you’re courting out for dessert or something.”

“You know I have this steady thing.”

“Steady things don’t last forever. You’re going to make me go to plan B, you bastard.”

“Knowing you, it’s just a phone call away.”

“It is, but you have talent. The rest of these chuckers shouldn’t be writing for reality TV.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I replied. You never want to alienate a possible source of income.

“You appreciate jack. When you’re balls deep later tonight, think of me.”

“Bye, Desmond.”

At 7:40 I saw her.

I met Nell online.

Eighteen months ago, I helped a friend with a start-up Internet venture. I didn’t do much but help rewrite some of the instructions. I steered clear of the personality portion of the site, including the essay questions designed to draw out the potential Ms. And Mr. Rights. The dating site started local but Don had a plan, and nine months later it was purchased by a huge corporation. He now owns one or two small Caribbean islands.

What Don did before leaving the mainland for good was grandfather me in with a lifetime subscription to the site. He even let me create three different profiles for different dating needs. At first I thought I’d be cute and target my victims, because when I first started I had the audacity to think that I was above meeting someone online. One profile was the strong, silent type who just wanted to cuddle while watching Sleepless in Seattle on the Oxygen network. The second was a slang-slinging player who just wanted to have fun and leave a good-looking corpse. Profile three I saved for something close, but not exactly, myself. I put the least effort into the third profile and it got the most responses. I guess even so-called desperate Internet chicks can smell bullshit.

Over the past six months I checked my site mail on a semi-regular basis. There were times when I’d actually scan someone’s profile before letting her down easy. At least three times I dismissed a girl for a misspelling or flagrant grammar foul without even looking at her picture. I met women at Starbucks, or on the way to get my mail, or in a pinch at Modern Drunkard. E-mail was just a barrier.

One night when in flagrante delicato with a friend with whom I have a mutual understanding, it hit me. I was lonely. The closest thing to intimacy I had felt in the last year was on a long weekend in Asheville with a girl whose last name I couldn’t recall. I had a surgical procedure and my reaction was to all but pay a neighbor who also happens to be a nurse to take care of me when a few kind words would have sufficed. I spent half my working hours hustling for clients who didn’t pay well. The one client that did pay me well had no contact save my weekly assignment. My lack of going through the motions in my work is a point of pride, but I could have gotten away with it lately. Even the smallest acknowledgement of going beyond expectations would have meant the world to me.

Jon Papelbon retired the side in order, which was somewhat of a disappointment because I had to finish quickly. Cindy liked to do it while watching her Red Sox in tense moments. She had the MLB Extra Innings package and invited me over once a week. Nothing beat the sheer joy of our initial encounters in the middle of an eight-game playoff winning streak that included an impossible rally from a 3-0 deficit to defeat the hated Yankees. That was in 2004. We were in such a groove that I mistook it for love for five seconds.

I think we both knew that after the Red Sox won the World Series that it never was going to be the same between us. We met up occasionally out of habit but that was about it. There was no relationship. It was a proxy, and even as that it failed.

I know most men would be satisfied with baseball, beer, and sex, not necessarily in that order. It sometimes bothered me that this situation was fine, that I didn’t want more out of my love life. Then I did something about it.

Nell showed up ten minutes late, looking somewhat wobbly on her medium-heel shoes. She looked good in a simple black dress that flowed gracefully to her knees. I didn’t get the feeling that she cared much for her appearance, but tonight she made an effort on her hair and makeup and it showed. There was a moment of tunnel vision when I saw her and no one else, which was good since the Arcade area was packed. When I approached there was a moment of hesitation followed by a lopsided smile. I didn’t know yet whether that was a good sign or a “oh shit, the white boy spotted me” smile.

It’s easy to make assumptions on the third date based on incomplete information. Falling in love with the tip of the iceberg is what a friend once told me. It was as if Nell just dropped out of the sky and landed on our first date from what I knew about her. In most dating circumstances that would have been fine. Unfortunately, what she told me and what appeared on her online profile were two different things.

Nell didn’t know this, but she was in the middle of a test. People lie like crazy when dating. There are many reasons for this. Some people lie as easily as they breathe. They’re not willing to admit unsavory details about themselves, so they elaborate or omit details as necessary.

I’m not about to tell Nell, for example, that six weeks ago I talked Nadia, my Ukrainian housekeeper, into baring her breasts for me on the premise that I hadn’t seen a pair in the flesh in a long time. Nadia was quite miffed at me after finding a pair of panties in my dryer the following week. Cindy must have left them after our previous encounter. She would never leave things at my place on purpose, but she’s careless.

I’m also not going to admit that eight weeks ago I had surgery to remove a cyst. The very professional Nadine took care of me in exchange for goods and services, the goods being dinner and the services including one good nurse/bad patient scenario a couple of weeks ago. Yeah, we went there.

What are Nell’s lies? On her profile she said that she drinks occasionally. On our second date I had two beers and she took two, maybe three sips of a vodka martini with an expression that told me that she would prefer to be gargling razor blades.

Nell claimed to be a sports fan, yet when I casually mentioned the Super Bowl in our conversation, she didn’t know who played in the game.

Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not one of those guys who need a girlfriend who’s a sports fan. I do not date to find someone to watch the game with on Sundays. It’s not that I’m turned off by a female sports fan. Women generally have more important things to do, like go three-deep in their shoe closet.

I gave her my best 40-watt smile and offered her my elbow. It was an informal gesture but it allowed for our first extended physical contact. With the heels she was almost exactly my height. The low-cut dress allowed me to gaze at her toned back and shoulders for the first time. Me likey.

We had a brief conversation on exercise on our second date. Nell somehow let it slip that she went to the gym before work three days a week. I returned with a poor volley, admitting that I went to my gym approximately three times in the past year. I’ve never known a woman to be overtly turned off by my gut.

“Nice gams,” I commented as we reached the top of two sets of red velvet stairs leading to the balcony level. She smiled and nodded. I was already sweating.

An usher led us to our seats. I do love the décor of the Fox, with the wispy clouds and blue sky above to the ornate light fixtures hanging a hundred feet above the stage. The set was designed to look like an industrial warehouse.

“These are great seats,” Nell said. Her voice was deep and strong, like an old Aretha Franklin song. In her profile Nell admitted to loving the old Motown sound. She later admitted to an occasional gig at a jazz club, something that was notoriously absent from her profile. Note to men: Do not joke about karaoke with a woman who in any way considers herself to be a serious musician.

We sat mainly silent and watched the scenery before the show started promptly at eight. It wasn’t very long into the show that I recalled one of the downfalls of the old movie house. The acoustics were terrible. We were in the first row of the second level of the balcony and half of the singing, as this was a musical, was unintelligible. I started to make a comment to my date but I saw that she was mouthing some of the words.

I wasn’t particularly moved by the tale of New York City artists, some afflicted with AIDS, suffering through a cold Christmas Eve followed by a whirlwind year in Act Two. Some of the songs were catchy but my inability to follow the words was too distracting. It was like going from an HD plasma screen at home to watching an old TV at your friend’s house after misplacing your glasses. Perhaps I’m an entertainment snob, but these tickets were sixty bucks a pop and my date refused to share the armrest with me. Even in adjacent seats we stayed a foot apart at all times.

During the intermission I waited 15 minutes to spend $9 on a bottle of water and a Bass Ale. Nell smiled when I brought back her drink but I saw a hint of sadness when she saw what was in my plastic cup. I immediately wished that it was Jack Daniels.

The rest of the show was fine. We even touched elbows for a minute. She didn’t say much, but she did notice when I sent a text message to Phil. At the last minute the girlfriend bailed and he sold his seats. We were in a fantasy football league and he decided to be a funny man and make me a trade offer in the middle of a date. The offer wasn’t bad, and I spent too much time formulating a response.

I hadn’t yet felt a clear signal from my Nubian princess as to whether she liked me. We spent a remarkable four hours talking on our first two dates, yet I didn’t have a feel for her and I bet that she felt the same about me. I don’t like talking about what I do for a living. In reality I don’t love what I do. There isn’t a sense of challenge or discovery in writing for other people.

I try not to talk about music or movies because my opinions tend to be snobbish. Nell told me that her most-watched DVD was How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and I instantly tried to change the subject. I also mentally noted that she listed The Color Purple as her favorite movie in the profile.

So what did we talk about? If I heard the transcript I’d probably be surprised. I think I mentioned a memorable middle-school trip to Puerto Vallarta. Nell told me about a failed attempt at a Theology degree, five years of working retail, and then an eventual degree in management from Kennesaw State. It was then that I unwisely mentioned the Owls’ 2004 national championship, albeit Division II, in basketball in 2004. She gave me the look that my friends give me when I spend ten minutes discussing why the Texans made a franchise-ruining move by not drafting Reggie Bush.

We impressed each other with witty sayings and reminisces about our college life, like how my history of the 60s teacher considered Lyndon Johnson to be America’s greatest President despite his failed attempts to champion the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam War at the same time. Nell once stood up to a woman-hating philosophy professor so successfully that he offered to give her an A if she never returned to class.

I didn’t tell the story of how I slept with my Sociology teacher’s assistant, got the cheat sheet for the final exam, and pointedly did not look at her as I walked out of the classroom. I did tell her about how I fell in love with writing while in school, but I didn’t talk about my current frustration with the profession.

We walked to our separate cars and agreed to meet at Einstein’s as soon as we could. I got stuck in a terrific traffic jam of carbon dioxide inside the stuffy parking garage. When I parked in an abandoned pay lot Nell was in her 1990 Honda Accord, talking on her cell phone. I smiled at her. She frowned, turned away from me, dropped the phone where I couldn’t see it and opened her car door.

I got out of the car and walked around to meet her. The expression was no better.

“I have to go home,” she said.

“Is everything OK?” I asked, hoping that if they weren’t, that she wouldn’t tell me.

“Mostly. Listen, I had a good time. Can I get a raincheck on dinner?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her mind obviously elsewhere. I was moderately pissed and the anger transformed into a harder good-night hug than necessary.

“You look disappointed,” she said before kissing me softly.

“I suppose I am,” I said.

“You know what they say. Good things come to those who wait.”

“I’m not patient.”

“Neither am I,” she said with a wink. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I barely had a chance to say good-night before she was in her car, pulling away. Once the Accord took a left out of the parking lot I had my cell phone out. The Red Sox were on the West Coast, and their game started a few minutes ago. The Angels always played them tough.