Since the TV fall premieres are taking over my social life, I’m adding a post from the past.
Here’s a story I had sent my girlfriends this past March.
Friday night I wound up at Brooklyn Bowl for the Derek/Susan Bowlive sit-in.
As one would expect, mama was accompanied by an icy cold glass of tequila rocks.
I rested said glass on a case of bowling balls, only to turn around two seconds later to find a gentleman sitting right where the beloved tequila had been residing.
“Excuse me, I think you’re sitting on my tequila,” said I.
The gentleman stood up, revealing my toppled, spilled glass wedged in the crack against the cushy lane seats.
“Let me replace that for you,” said the dark gentleman.
“No,” said I, quickly grabbing the glass and throwing the dripping remains down my throat, “That’s OK, I’m already drunk enough.”
“Well, then let me replace it for you another time,” pleaded the gentleman.
Apparently I gave him my number because he called me the next day. Not recognizing the number, I let the call go to voicemail.
We spoke on Sunday and made plans for Monday evening to go see The Allman Bros at The United Palace Theatre. He called himself Robert.
Sunday evening I was out having a few glasses of the brown stuff (after all, it was rainy) with my friend Tiffany. Surveying the circumstances of my next evening activity, dear Tiff inquired, “What’s this Robert’s last name?”
“An excellent question!” I retorted, “I couldn’t make out what he said on my machine, (a term I still use to refer to my voicemail). Here, you listen and tell me what you think he’s saying.”
I played back his message and handed her the phone.
“HA!” she said, “He didn’t say his last name, Jordan! He said, ‘Hi, it’s Robert, WE MET at the Brooklyn Bowl last night.’!!!”
So from here on out, we will be calling him Mr. Robert Weemit. Admittedly, my vision is far superior to my hearing.
The date was OK. He’s attractive (but I didn’t find myself resisting urge to rip off his clothes, or even throw him against the wall and kiss him like he’d never been kissed before), generous (those Allman tix don’t grow on trees), polite (but almost too much, I felt like I shouldn’t be cursing around him… which is limiting as certain colored words in my vocabulary make for such excellent emphasis), smart (he programs digital mapping, like google maps, but for the police dept.), and likes music (this helps). However, there was no spark, and the conversation was so canned, I felt like he had recently read an article in guy cosmo on “what to say on a date.” He kept hounding me with questions, firing them off one after the other before I’d even had the chance to finish the first one, and without having any of my responses lead to further discussion or sharing his answer to the topic.
I think the poor guy thought he had scored first row tix (they were avail that day actually) as he wanted our seats to be a surprise, and then hesitated a little when he saw the first 15 rows were double letters. We were in row A. “Row A!” I exclaimed, “This is the best sound in the house! Look, we’re dead center and right next to the soundboard!”
The Allmans rocked it. Mama got her “The Weight” (that Warren sure can sing ANYTHING!!), “Jessica” (best driving song evs), and “You Don’t Love Me” (in my top five for sure!)
After the show, we tumbled out onto 175th St and headed to the subway (passing the Jesus Deli, Jesus Hardware, Jesus Bar, and We love Jesus Rite-Aid.)
I gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him as the A train rolled into the 96th st. stop before darting out to catch a cab across the park. He was continuing on to Penn Station to catch LIRR to Mineola, the Nassau county seat.
I also sent him a thank you text later that week after the Bijou* craziness had subsided a bit. (*My dog had died suddenly the next day.)
Since then I’ve gotten random “Hi, Jordan, how are you?” texts. But predictably, none of my responses have triggered anything more than small talk (if it could even qualify as that…).
And that brings us current with the story of Mr. Weemit.