Something rather amusing happened last night.
I had a date last night. An actual date, which involved going out to dinner, which involved the man paying with his credit card and then getting insulted when I went for my wallet (“Come on now, why do you want to go and do that? I’m a traditional Irish boy … put that away.”), which involved a polite exchange of phone numbers at the end of the evening.
Also, Lord help us and save us, he’s an Irish-American boy with cousins in “Southie”. He’s from Massachusetts obviously and is obsessed with the Red Sox. He wears a claddagh ring with the heart turned outwards, like I do. He is an engineer and runs a paper mill. He can speak fluent Latin, which was the main reason why I decided not to completely ignore him. Anyone who can speak fluent Latin is a TYPE of person, they may be pompous, they might NOT be pompous, but they have done something which I find so admirable, so fascinating. He is a pudgy pasty Irish boy. With freckles. This is my type.
The whole way this happened is rather amusing.
I met him, he struck up a conversation with me, and then half an hour later he said, “What are you doing for dinner? Will you have dinner with me right now?”
“Uh … sure.”
I haven’t been on a date-date in so long that I didn’t know how to behave, and made some mistakes. I said inflammatory things about Howell Raines at the New York Times, not considering that that might not be an appropriate getting-to-know-you topic. He said at the end of the night, “So … have you enjoyed yourself?” And I said breezily, “It beats the hell out of Will and Grace reruns!”
There was a pause and he said, “Wow. That was so insulting.”
I am out of practice.
I feel like I do not have a romantic bone left in my body. But … that didn’t seem to bother him.
We talked about our trips to Ireland. We talked about Latin. I grilled him on Latin phrases I needed translated. We talked about Rush Limbaugh. He explained Bush’s tax plan and why it is such a mess. He explained it very well. He provided context for me. We talked about the downfall of the New York Times. We talked about Salvador Dali and the Torment of St. Augustine. We talked about his cat, Floyd, who ate 3 birds in a 10-minute period, right in front of him. We talked about recycling (after all, he runs a paper mill). We talked about the band Oasis. We talked about my writing, what I’m working on now, what my goals are. We talked about God. He said, “The problem with church is that it wants to get between you and God.” He goes to St. Mary’s. He went to U Mass, Amherst.
I felt, at times, like an awkward prickly weirdo.
We met at Willie McBride’s. I was there to watch the Red Sox game and to write a bit. I find Willie McBride’s relaxing when nobody is in there. The man sitting next to me immediately struck up a conversation with me, and 45 minutes later we were sitting at Portofino’s, drinking scotch and eating shrimp cocktail.
He had come right from work at the paper mill, and was filthy, which I did not notice at all until he made a self-deprecatory comment about his appearance, which I found endearing. He invited me out to dinner and then said something that kind of went over my head. It turns out, he said, “Give me 15 minutes to hose off.” But … I didn’t really hear it. I thought he was running to A&P to get money, or something. I didn’t hear the 15 minutes part. So I waited, and waited, and waited for him to return. I was confused. Finally, my sanity returned, and I thought: I will NOT sit here for half an hour, hoping he will come back.
So I wrote a note on a scrap of paper that said: “What happened? Where’d you go, dude?” Then I left my cell phone number. I slipped the note into his cigarette pack, which he had left behind him, and I walked out. As I crossed the street to head home, I saw him hurrying towards me. He obviously had RACED home, showered like a MADMAN, re-dressed himself, and was RACING back to meet me. And here I was, totally walking away. He called out, “Where the hell are you going? I told you to give me 15 minutes!” (He lives right around the corner, as do I.) I said, “Oh … Jesus … sorry … I didn’t know what you were saying …” I also was mortified because he suddenly looked amazing, immaculate, in very very cool clothes … he cleaned up real good … and I felt like a scrub.
I said, “I left you a note inside.” I felt like a jerk.
He went in, got his cigarettes, came back out, and read the note in my presence.
He thought it was hysterical. “This note is a keeper. A total keeper.” He kept muttering to himself, “Where’d you go, dude?” He kept repeating it: “Dude. You called me DUDE.”
Despite the bitchy “Will and Grace reruns” comment, which, in retrospect, I can’t believe came out of my mouth, it was a fun night.
