Worst First Date: A Catastrophic Event
So let’s narrow this down to my absolute worst date. The date that was so catastrophic that it sticks in my mind one and half decades later, and will likely linger there for one and a half decades longer. In fact, with my luck, I will probably be old and wrinkled, suffering from twelve kinds of dementia and this date will be the only memory I have that is not fuzzy around the edges.
I was 17. In a voluntary summer school art class because I was weird like that. Every day I would spend my lunch hour at The Second Cup sipping on blueberry tea. Every day, the same chubby, socially awkward guy would blush when I ordered my tea, stammer his way through the typical pleasantries of dealing with a regular customer and then hover near where I sat, sweeping, dusting or wiping the same tables over and over. He reminded me of a bird nervously waiting for a crumb to drop – ready to flee or swoop in, depending.
On my last day of summer school, I ordered my typical blueberry tea. My spirits were high because I’d mastered the one goal I had set for the summer; I learned how to paint the perfect, realistic cloud. The Second Cup kid gave me my beverage on the house to help celebrate my win. Then, as I was about to leave, he blurted out, “Will you go out on a date with me?” His face turned a brilliant shade of red and sweat beads sprouted along his hairline and upper lip. Now, I will tell you that the last thing I wanted to do was go out on a date with this guy. Okay, that’s not true. The second last thing I wanted to do was date him. The absolute last thing I wanted was to see how red his face would get when I said no. So I said yes.
My date picked me up and we went to The Olive Garden. I’ve never been a fan of The Olive Garden, despite their bread sticks, which are so addicting I can only assume they are laced with crack. But I was hungry and he was excited so whatever.
About three bites into our meal this weird, sweaty dude shoved his plate away and proclaimed himself full.
He asked the waitress to take the plate away, which she did after he assured her the food tasted fine. He then proceeded to watch me eat my pasta. Conversation was sparse. I asked him plenty of questions but he must have suffered from severe shyness (or disinterest) because all he contributed was one, two or three word answers. All the while, he just watched me eat with an unnerving intensity – fork to mouth, fork to plate. After about five bites, I gave up and asked the waitress to take my plate away as well.
So dinner is a bust, what now?
I asked if he liked playing pool or bowling. He said he didn’t. He asked if I wanted to see a movie. An image of him watching me eat popcorn instead of the screen popped into my head. Um, no. I suggested joining a beach party with my friends. He seemed hesitant until I assured him my friends would be very stoned by now so they would be quite friendly with him. At this, he seemed genuinely excited.
We parked in the lot at the beach and went on foot to the semi-secluded area where my friends would party every weekend in the summer. Unfortunately they had cleared out by the time we arrived. The police occasionally raided these parties because the beach was public and under-aged drinking was/is frowned upon. I’m glad we arrived after the police and not before because my date had perspired up a storm during the short hike from the car. I couldn’t imagine him joining in the fun as everyone scattered and ran around and over boulders and bushes to get away from the cops. The police of course, would only half-heartedly chase us, cuffing and depositing home to angry parents only the ones whose altered state prevented them from getting off their asses. I don’t think the police enjoyed playing chauffer with drunken teenagers. Despite their lack of ambition, though, they would certainly have taken my date’s chubby butt home in the back of their cruiser.
Anyway, we walked back to Second Cup Guy’s parked car, at which point sweat dripped in buckets from his face and large, dark rings soaked the underarms of his dress shirt.
“Well,” I said, it’s getting late. Maybe we should just call it a night.”
And that is when he realised he locked his keys in the car. I could see them behind the window as clearly as I could see my purse, which contained all of my money and I.D., sitting in the passenger seat.
We spent the next hour walking back to my house so he could call his family and get one of them to bring him a set of spare keys. I did not even bother trying to make conversation during the walk because the poor guy poured sweat and wheezed so hard, I worried about his short and long term health. Every once in a while he would interrupt his huffing and puffing to whine about how his dad was going to kill him.
We finally arrived at my house only to find a party in full swing. At this point in my story, I should mention that I used to live with my cousins, all three of whom were the quintessential jocks you find in any cheesy high school movie. They were aggressive, mean, and would terrorize almost everyone who did not look and act like them. My heart pounded as soon as I saw all the cars lined up in our driveway and along the street.
My poor, innocent, completely doomed date and I entered the house. My cousins and their friends immediately zeroed in him. I explained what happened while trying to usher him through the crowd.
“Holy shit, did you guys run here from the beach?” laughed one cousin.
“This is what happens when you date fat losers,” said another cousin. “We’re going to have a talk, D.C.”
“You can use our phone but stay the fuck away from the fridge,” said the third.
Their friends joined in on these comments and a couple of them started to push him around a bit. I lost it, of course, and after putting the assholes in their place they stopped manhandling my date (I could be quite the bitch when the situation called for it).
Second Cup Guy called his dad, who agreed to meet him at his car but not one of my cousins or their friends would give him a ride back to the beach. They did not want his sweaty body damaging their upholstery, they said. I offered to walk my date back to his car but he declined. So I walked him to the end of my driveway and apologized for my cousins’ behaviour. Despite the disaster that was our date, he still tried to kiss me, at which point we heard a large rap from the bay window. We turned to see my cousins and their friends shouting and holding up their fists. The door opened and my date moved faster than I had thought possible for him, disappearing into the night.
Needless to say, I never heard from the guy again, which would have been a fortunate thing had I not wanted my purse back.
So folks, now that I have bared my soul and relived a snippet of my unfortunate past, why don’t you do the same? Give me a shorter version (because I tend to run off at the mouth) of your worst date in the comments section. Leave your email and you might even win a copy of my novella, The Rusty Nail. Then, why not check out all the other worst first dates floating around the internet courtesy of Rebel Ink’s anniversary blog hop. There are a tonne of prizes and equally painful stories…