So this gentleman, whose nametag read "Kavin," ordered a beer and asked if I had done "this" before. Nope! He hadn't either (or so he claimed). Kavin? I asked. Really? What kind of a name was Kavin? What terrible thing did the letter "e" do to his crazy stoner parents that would have led them to exact revenge by banishing it from their son's first name? One day he will meet some girl named Staphanie and they will live happily ever after. Maybe not Staphanie, the initial "staph" syllable is too evocative of other unfortunate "staphs/staffs," like staff meeting and staph infection. Jassica? As for myself, I've got all the correct vowels in the correct spots, so I knew it wouldn't work out between me and Krazy Kavin.
As Kavin and I made nice, I looked to see if my bespectacled face was making him uncomfortable. He didn't appear to be ruffled by anything more than the ordinary awkwardness that comes with socializing in general. I squinted about the place to take in the crowd. There were no trolls, no lepers, no maniacal haircuts, no strange odors. Speed-daters are normal. Speed-daters are just like you and me! The bell soon rang and I took leave of skatchball.
I sat at my assigned table and waited for the hottie parade to begin. My first victim was Mexican Sam, an ambiguously gay ballroom dancer from the East Bay. "Have you seen Mad Hot Ballroom?" I asked. This is really my only point of access into the world of ballroom dancing, so I thought I'd milk it. "Yeeees, I HAVE!" I motioned toward the high ceilings above us and whirled my head around to look at the all of the dating chaotics. "This is kind of a mad hot ballroom in and of itself, isn't it, Sam?!?" (Has anyone said anything stupider? EVER?) Anyway, I pressed on. "It's so fabulous that you dance! I could NEVER do that, I have NO rhythm!" I shrieked. Why, I wonder, is it part of my social repertoire to deny that I have any know-how or talent when it comes to what my interlocuter is interested in? I do this all the time. If they tell me they're into surfing, I'll scream "That's incredible! Oh, I could never!" and then I'll feign a zealous, dazzled, crackpot kind of curiosity, demanding that they tell me all about this or that hobby. "You kill people, like, in a serial fashion? Wow, that requires so much ingenuity, thinking of a theme and whatnot! I could never!" Someone could tell me that they read French literature for a living and I'd play dumb. "Oh my GOD, what is THAT like? I could NEVER!" I unwittingly give the other person license to talk about himself for ages on end, then I end up complaining that he was too self-centered. My bad. So Sam started banging on the table with a flat palm, keeping a well-timed tempo. "Can you do this?" he asked. I started banging in time. "Then you can DANCE!" By Sam's logic, cranky toddlers and hungry mental defects--the world's best bangers--are on their way to a career on the dancefloor. I was skeptical. But Sam was charming. Maybe we would have hit it off if I hadn't been fairly certain that he would have rather shared his green eggs and ham with Kavin, not myself.
Then came Ross. I'm generally not into blondes, but Ross was a vision. Jay and Jon had predicted Ross, the guy who was having trouble meeting the ladies because they were too intimidated to approach him. Either that or they assumed his GQ exterior was hiding a base, philandering personality. The devastating truth was that Ross was boring. That said, it was opposite Ross that I felt most uncomfortable in my specs, which just goes to show that physical beauty is universally unsettling for those who look upon it. And Ross, I sensed, encountered some difficulty coming to terms with a woman who would make such a poor eyewear decision. He sorta cocked his head to the side when looking at me--he needed to avoid the straight eyeline that led from his peepers directly through my hideosified glasses. Now that I think about it, though, Ross was wearing very high, very blue bluejeans. He might have been a Latter-Day Saint, which would explain everything.
Then came Todd, then came Phillip, then came Michael P., then came Doug. I will spare you the deets. Well, Doug deserves a bit of a paragraph. He was squat and pale, his shiny brown hair hung down to his shoulders, framing his shiny face. Really, his hair and skin--his coat, collectively--were genuinely brilliant. He must eat a lot of omega-3s, I thought. Or maybe he washes his face and hair in mayonnaise! I sniffed deeply in his direction to see if I'd pick up on a whiff of Hellman's. No Hellman's. Just fear.
Doug teaches biology at a community college near Berkeley. I asked him what his class was dissecting.
"This year we're looking at a sheep's heart," he said.
"No way!" I replied. "What ever happened to worms and frogs and such?"
"Yeah, we do those, too."
"Do you live in Berkeley?"
"No, I live in San Francisco. I love it. There are just so many oddball things to do."
"Oddball?"
"Yeah, I mean during the holidays I met up with this group of Santas."
"Santas?"
"There's this rogue group of Santas who dress up like Santa and do a pub crawl in Santa garb. It's awesome."
"Sounds awesome, Doug!"
The most discerning humanist, the most character-attentive novelist, the keenest eye for people COULD NOT have written a Doug. Doug was one of a kind. My small, beating human heart--quite unfit for dissection--leapt out toward him. He was loveable à ravir, kind, beautiful, unattractive in the most charming kind of way, quiet, generous with his spirit. I imagined his typical day. He wakes up in a lonely bed, then walks to the mirror and notices that the hole in the underarm of his Styx shirt is getting bigger--by now he can stick a whole bundle of fingers through it. It makes him feel so old and despondent that he wants to swear, but he says "Aww, man!" instead. Then he walks to the kitchen to put Meow Mix in the cat's bowl. Eventually he leaves to teach a bunch of young, unappreciative syphilitics about the left and right ventricles, the very core of the human organism.
This man deserves a queen. He deserves an angel. He'll find her, I tell myself. He will.
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