When
you’ve been on as many blind dates as I have, you come to recognize
“The Moment.”
What
I mean is this:
“The
Moment” is that very second, that very instant, that you know when
a date is going to end well, or going to end poorly.
I’m
not talking about whether or not you’re getting invited up for a
drink. I’m not even talking about whether there’s a goodnight
kiss or a second date in your future. I’m talking about “The
Moment” – that second where you either relax and start to enjoy
yourself, or realize that you are in for the kind of night where you
try to memorize all the horrible details, so that you can at least
get an amusing anecdote out of it.
I
wish I could say this was a funny story.
Maybe
it’ll be funny to you.
***
My
date with Jennifer was, naturally, set up by my mother. I say this
is natural because she’s been “retired” since she was about
twenty-five.
It’s
an odd story.
I
never knew my dad. The way my mom tells it, he was handsome and
dashing, and even though he took off the minute he found out that
he’d impregnated my mother, she still refers to him as, “My
knight in shining armor.”
I
finally got one of my aunts to spill the beans about the guy
responsible for half my DNA after plying her with several beers at a
family reunion. It seems that the guy left mom with some sort of
strange trust fund setup, which meant she could quit her job at the
local supermarket, deliver me, and live off some variety of compound
interest.
(It
also left us with enough money that I could see a really great shrink
about my issues with my absent father. My doctor said, and I quote,
“If he left you with enough money to pay my fees, you don’t
really need me. You need a girlfriend and a hobby. In that order.”)
My
mom needed a hobby as well.
What
I mean is this:
If
you’re thirty-seven years old, and you’ve never been married, and
your mother doesn’t have a job, you become her hobby.
When
I asked my mother what she knew about Jennifer, mom clammed up.
Which was different.
Most
mothers, when setting their kid up on a date, want to talk the girl
up. She’s so smart, or so pretty, or so well-liked, or so
talented, or in one memorable case, “So rich she’s worth marrying
just to knock her up and get a divorce so you can get partial custody
and some rockin’ child support and I can be a grandma and I don’t
have to worry about your financial security any more.”
But
Jennifer? Nothing. No info. I eventually got my mother to admit
that she’d met Jennifer’s mother at her book club, where they’d
been reading their way through a popular series involving wizards and
witches and their many adventures at school.
(When
I pointed out to my mother that the books were supposed to be for
kids, she admitted that the club had tried to read “Pride and
Prejudice” first, only to discover that everyone had opted to watch
the movie instead of slogging through page after page of turgid
prose.)
“Do
you know anything about Jennifer at all?”
“Well,
her mother is very… unique. I thought that if Jennifer was
anything like her, perhaps you’d get along.”
“Unique?”
I pressed.
“It
means,” sighed mom, “that I’ve been setting you up with normal
women for years and none of them have worked out, and perhaps if you
try eating the fried Oreo instead of getting the same old chocolate
cake again, maybe you’ll find you like the new flavor.”
I
love my mother, but her metaphors border on lunatic babbling
sometimes.
***
Going
on a blind date is not unlike trying to solve a murder mystery before
you hit the last page.
What
I mean is this:
Everything
you discover about your date is a clue about who she is and how the
night might go, starting with her place of residence.
When
you get to her house or apartment complex, you generally know what
kind of neighborhood you’re in, and how much it costs to live
there.
Jennifer
lived on the fourth floor of a five-floor walkup, in an
okay-but-not-great part of town. Which said to me she was probably
working a blue-or-pink-collar job and paying all the bills under her
own steam.
So
I was somewhat surprised, when the front door of her apartment
presented me not with a woman in her mid-thirties, but a woman in her
mid-sixties.
Her
hair was short, and a perfect, uniform white. The kind of white you
only see on old people wearing wigs. Her shapeless dress was covered
by a bizarre white robe shot through with some sort of metallic
piping.
Gold,
maybe? Silver? Hard to tell.
Also,
she was holding a stick.
I
stood there for a moment, as it finally hit me why my mother hadn’t
told me anything about Jennifer. She was old enough to be a
grandmother.
“Good
evening, Jennifer,” I said, when the saliva returned to my mouth.
The
woman in the door sized me up.
“I’m
not Jennifer.”
“Oh,”
I said.
Now,
perhaps that looked a lot like “The Moment,” to you, and on
paper, I can understand that. But rest assured, that was not it.
Granted,
I was in trouble. At this point, I had possibly insulted Jennifer,
and possibly insulted her, what? Mother? Grandmother? Aunt?
I
finally decided to plunge right in. “I mean, by, um – by saying
‘Oh,’ I meant, ‘Oh, of course you’re not Jennifer.’”
That
was also not the moment.
The
next moment was.
What
I mean is this:
The
woman in the doorway extended her hand. The hand not holding a
stick.
“I’m
her fairy godmother,” she said.
“Her
godmother?” I replied, as I took her hand, and gave it what I hoped
was a firm-but-not-too-firm shake.
“Fairy
godmother,” she repeated.
Now,
I’ve had “The Moment” early on before, but this was kind of a
first. I had always at least met my date before I realized that
things were just not going to end well.
You
can judge me if you want to, but people have gone to war on less
substantial grounds than the one that caused me to step through the
doorway, rather than fake a sudden urge to vomit while manufacturing
a story about how my lunch meat had smelled a little “off”
earlier in the day.
When
it comes down to it, though, I was lonely, and in my late thirties.
Plus,
hey, it looked like it had the makings of a great story, assuming I
made it through the entire evening. “And then, before I even got
in the door? I met her fairy godmother. She even had a wand. Well,
a stick, but you know…”
Jennifer’s
fairy godmother turned her back to me for a moment. “Jennifer!
Your date’s here!”
I
heard a faint “Coming!” from behind a door just outside my line
of vision.
The
white-haired woman turned to face me again. “Typical princess,”
she said. “Always running ‘just a little late,’ don’t you
know.”
“I
– uh – I don’t mind,” I replied, unsure of what to say. I’d
dealt with a few meddling mothers before, including one who took
pictures of me with my date before heading off, as though it was prom
we were going to, and not a first date at a minor league baseball
game. A minor league baseball game where we bought a lot of beer
because we were both over the legal age by a decade, and had
discovered that we had only one thing in common: we hated her mother.
“You
should,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder again. “If you
can’t put a princess in her place right off the bat, she’ll walk
all over you.”
At
a loss for anything else to say, I opened my mouth to ask the Fairy
Godmother if they lived together, when Jennifer stepped out of her
bedroom, dressed for – something other than what I had planned for
the night.
What
I mean is this:
I
came to her house in my usual first-date garb. Khaki pants,
turtleneck, sport coat, loafers. If you’re a guy, you’ll
recognize this as an easy dress-up-dress-down outfit. Good enough to
get you into a reasonably upscale eatery, but not out of place at a
bar, either.
She
was wearing – and I am not exaggerating to make this story more
amusing – a ball gown and a tiara.
I
think there are probably some girls who could have pulled this off –
but Jennifer wasn’t one of them. It’s not that she was
unattractive, not really, but she wasn’t hot or gorgeous or
stunning, or really any descriptive term that I could think of
outside of ordinary.
Her
straight brown hair was ordinary. As was her face. As was her
figure. As were her other accessories, which consisted of an
ordinary purse that didn’t go with her odd ensemble, and some
unmemorable jewelry.
That
was the moment when I decided to bail out. I breathed in, willing my
brain to come up with a reason I couldn’t go out – and found a
stick pressing against my nose.
Well,
okay, it was kind of up my nose.
Jennifer’s
fairy godmother leaned forward, and in a voice I’m sure only I
could hear, said:
“If
you hurt her, I will turn you into a toad.”
The
moment she stopped talking, she took a step back from me, and said,
pleasantly, “Sorry about that. The old balance isn’t what it
used to be, you know? I’m constantly bumping into things.”
“It’s
true,” confirmed Jennifer.
“No
harm done,” I said. I turned to Jennifer. “Shall we?”
Jennifer
stepped up to the woman in the robe and pecked her on the cheek.
“Don’t wait up.”
“Oh,
you know me,” she replied. “Won’t be able to sleep a wink
until I hear you come clumping into the apartment.”
“I
won’t keep her out late,” I said, and Jennifer followed me out
the door.
***
As
I let Jennifer into the car, I realized that I had a serious problem.
Outside of the threat to turn me into a toad. So, two problems,
really.
I
had no real place that I could take a woman in a ball gown. The
eatery I had chosen was on something of a mid-range scale, much like
my clothing for the night. There were better restaurants in town,
and I ate out often enough to get preferential treatment at a few of
them (provided I tipped everyone well).
But
were any of them ball-gown-worthy? No.
I
got into the driver’s seat and looked at my date, who smiled and
blushed. “Sorry about that. She can be…” she took a moment to
select a word, “overprotective.”
“I…
” I began to say, then trailed off. What was there to say about a
woman who clearly needed a visit from the nice young men in their
clean white coats? “You know what? Let’s not worry about that
right now. Let’s worry about where we’re going to eat.”
“I
thought you picked a place,” she replied.
“Well,”
I said, “I’m not sure if it’s quite up to the task of working
with that dress.”
Jennifer
looked at me, uncertain. “This old thing?” I was reasonably
sure she wasn’t kidding.
“You
know what? Why don’t we just go to the place I have a reservation
for.”
***
Mel’s
had been one of my favorite places to eat when I was younger, and it
remained so even now. Most of the reason I loved it was because it
never changed.
Literally.
The
place had been built twenty years before I was born, and when you
walked into the restaurant, it was like stepping back in time just a
little ways. The waitresses wore the same uniforms they wore sixty
years ago. Any and all furniture that had been replaced matched the
original décor exactly.
And
the menus were still the same large, handwritten, leatherbound menus
Mel’s had used the day it had opened.
The
menus were part of the reason I dug the place so much – there were
no prices on them.
Mel
was something of a genius that way. He had decided, as he handmade
the menus himself all those decades ago, to not bother writing down
any of the prices, so that he would never have to replace them. He
would simply tell his clients what the prices were.
The
waitresses had never been overjoyed about this.
But
I loved it. The food wasn’t cheap, perhaps, but neither was it
overpriced. And since my dates generally didn’t want to split the
bill with me, I looked good, because most of them assumed that if you
had to ask for a price, you probably couldn’t afford it.
Yes,
it was a sleazy tactic. Thanks for noticing.
We
were shown to our table, and we made small talk while we decided what
to order.
Once
our drinks were in place, and we were waiting for food, I decided to
push for actual information – a commodity that, even after sitting
in her vicinity for more than half an hour, I was still in short
supply of.
“So,”
I said, “what is it that you do?”
Jennifer
took a sip of her wine. “Oh, you know. This and that.”
“I’m
sorry, I should have clarified. What do you do for a living?” I
asked.
Jennifer
stared at me blankly.
I
tried again. “Your job? Where do you work?”
“Oh,
I see. No, I don’t do that,” she said.
“You
don’t work?”
“No.
Mother would never allow it. She thinks it’s beneath me.”
“Working
is beneath you?”
“Well,
I am a princess,” she said.
Now,
I’ve dated a few “princesses” in my life. I’ve dated the
girls that wore t-shirts that said Princess, I’ve dated girls that
have said, “I want to be treated like a princess,” and I have, in
fact, dated a girl whose name was Princess.
But
this was the first time I had one claim to be actual royalty.
I
took a large bite of the warm bread that had been brought to the
table, and chewed slowly, giving myself as much time to think as I
possibly could.
The
way I saw it, there were two possibilities.
The
first, of course, was that she was bonkers, which would explain both
the dress and the roommate, birds of the feather and so on.
The
second was that she really was an actual princess, perhaps of some
smaller monarchy that I had never heard of. This felt improbable to
me, because why would she be here?
I
swallowed, and took a drink of water, trying to extend my thought
process as long as possible. Finally, I asked what I figured was the
only logical question.
“So,
where’s your kingdom?”
“Well,
it’s not my kingdom.”
“Okay,
your father’s kingdom, then.”
“He’s
not a king, as far as I know,” she said.
“Then
– your mother. Her kingdom. Or queendom, if you like.”
Jennifer
smiled. “My mother’s not a queen. She’s a witch.”
I
smiled back. “You don’t have to watch your mouth around me. I’m
an adult. I’ve heard the ‘b’ word before.”
Her
smile faltered a bit. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well,
you just said your mother is a witch.”
“She
is a witch.”
I
felt like I had finally found my bearings. “You mean, she’s an
actual witch.”
“That’s
what I said.”
“And
she, what, performs spells, and puts curses on people?”
“Sometimes.”
“And
she flies around on a broomstick, and everything?”
“Well,
that’s what witches do, isn’t it?” she said, with a perplexed
look on her face.
“Of
course it is,” I replied. “Everyone knows that.”
Our
food arrived, and our talk turned to how good the pasta was, how
fresh the bread was, and the fact that the meatball recipe was one
from “the old country.”
I
talked a little about my work (sales) and a little about her hobbies
(“I collect unicorns.”) and an hour later the plates were cleared
and the evening had been pleasant enough. I paid the bill, and
tipped well, which is what you do when your date is in a ball gown
and tiara and it isn’t prom night.
Back
in the car, Jennifer turned to me. “It’s still pretty early,”
she said.
It
was a little after nine on a Friday night. Bars were open, movies
were running, and if I was willing to drop fifty cents on a
newspaper, I could probably find half a dozen things to do in the
city.
Instead,
I finally managed to squeeze out a lie. “I have to work tomorrow,
sorry. It was a last-minute thing.”
“Oh,
well, that’s too bad,” she said. “I had a really nice time
tonight. We should get together again.”
“Sure,”
I said. Lie number two. I was on a roll.
I
drove her home, walked her up to her apartment, and pecked her on the
cheek.
“I’ll
call you.” Lie number three. I was outta there.
It’s
true that it’s tough to meet a nice girl. The saying goes that
there are three predominant traits in women – smart, beautiful, and
sane, and you only get to pick two. With Jennifer, I was pretty sure
I was going to get one and a half at best, if you combined the traits
in some odd mathematical way.
I
went home and “lost” her phone number.
***
Nearly
a month had passed since my date with the princess, and since I had
shared the story with most of my friends in the first week, I had all
but forgotten about her.
I
was sitting in my apartment flipping through the channels when my
phone rang.
I
picked it up. “Hello?”
“Why
didn’t you call Jennifer?”
“Mom,
I don’t think…”
“This
is not your mother. This is Jennifer’s fairy godmother. Now,
answer my question.”
“Look,
lady. First of all, it’s none of your business whether I called
Jennifer or not. She’s a grown woman and…”
“It
certainly is my business. Do you know that she’s been crying for
the last four weeks? Do you know how hard it is to get tears and
snot out of a gown?”
“She
wears that thing all the time?” It was out of my mouth before I
could stop it.
“Jennifer
owns several gowns. Don’t be an idiot.”
“Well,
can’t you just, what, magic the stains out, or something?”
“Magic
doesn’t work that way.”
“Well,
then who washes those things? Magical mice?”
“We
take them to the dry cleaners.” The edge on her voice sharpened
even farther.
I
desperately wanted to meet the man who washed those gowns, week in
and week out, and never asked questions. I wanted to ask if,
perhaps, the magical ball gown cleaning mice worked at the dry
cleaners, or if, perhaps, they used magical lobsters.
What
I said was, “I understand that you care about Jennifer very much.
However, who I date and who I do not date is none of your concern.
I’m sorry that I didn’t hit it off with her, but I’m sure
she’ll find a nice man who adores all of her eccentricities. I’m
going to hang up now, and if you call me back, I will hang up again
and call the police.”
As
I began to pull the phone away from my ear, I heard this: “Do you
remember what I said to you, just before you and Jennifer went out?”
I
wracked my brain for a moment. “You said… you said that you
would turn me into a toad. If I hurt her.”
“That’s
correct,” she said.
“I
would like to point out to you that I didn’t hurt her.”
“I
have several soiled gowns that say otherwise.”
Now,
I admit, I can be a little shortsighted, but I’m not heartless.
Despite the fact that everyone surrounding Jennifer was clearly a
noodle salad short of a buffet, she didn’t seem to be a bad person,
and I couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, unlike most of the
women I’ve dated, she wasn’t used to not having men call back.
“Do
you want me to tell her that it isn’t going to work out?” I
asked. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her, it’s just that most
women…”
“Jennifer
is not most women. She is a princess. She is used to being treated
in a certain manner.”
“Yes,
of course,” I said. “But I can tell her that we won’t be going
out again, if that’ll help.”
“I
don’t want you to tell her you won’t be going out again,” said
the Fairy Godmother. “I want you to tell her when your next date
is going to be.”
“It’s
going to be on the fifth of never,” I replied, not unkindly. “I’m
sorry, but I’m just not interested, and unless you want me to tell
her personally, this conversation really is over.”
I
want you to understand something. I want you, the person reading
this, to realize that up until this moment, I thought I was dealing
with people who had, for one reason or another, just opted to live in
their own reality.
What
I mean is this:
On
the other end of the line, I heard words being mumbled.
I
said, “Excuse me?”
But
it sounded like: “Eth-cuthe Muh?”
My
tongue was hanging halfway down my torso.
I
gasped, and choked back a scream as I tried to push my tongue back in
my mouth with my free hand, while saying something that sounded like,
“Wha dith oo thoo? What dith oo thoo?”
Abruptly,
my tongue shrank, vanishing into my mouth. It was like having a
tongue cramp while someone shoved an ice pick through my tongue at
the exact same moment.
“I’m
going to give you one minute, to let your tongue stop hurting,” I
heard, through my ringing ears. “Then I want to hear this phone
ring, and I want Jennifer to answer it, and you’re going to set
your next date.”
The
phone clicked in my ear.
I
hung up. A minute later, I was dialing.
***
They
say that time flies when you’re having fun, but I find it even more
true that days take forever and months take no time at all.
I
spent the first three months that Jennifer and I were dating visiting
every local (and not-so-local) library, trying to find information on
magic and fairy tales. Ultimately, what I learned was this:
Authors
are totally full of it.
They
all contradict each other, the old fairy tales. The Brothers Grimm
kind of cleaned up the old folk tales and made them somewhat
consistent, yes, but everyone after and before them? The details in
their stories varied in every possible way, simply because the nature
of such stories is that you add your own details and subtract your
own details as need be.
As
for magic, well, that should be obvious. Just your basic illusion
type stuff, none of it real.
Even
research into the occult didn’t get me very far. I met a few
people who claimed to be psychic and a few others who claimed to be,
if not magical, then at least telekinetic.
But,
of course, the minute I told them about the fact that I was dealing
with a fairy godmother, a witch-no-not-a-Wiccan-yes-on-a-broomstick,
and a woman who wore gowns and tiaras all day, well, they all
recommended nice doctors to me, when they weren’t kicking me out
for trying to make them look foolish.
Eventually,
I gave up the search for a way out of my predicament.
Months
turned into a year.
I
found out that Jennifer really was a nice person, and really was
quite dull, because she had no interest in anything but being a
princess, which seems to involve mostly having nice gowns and
beautiful furniture.
And
her unicorn collection. Which was made up of real unicorns. Which
you can’t ride, because they hate being captive, and will gore you
on sight.
Somewhere
in there, a marriage proposal happened (all resistance was eliminated
when I briefly developed toe webbing), which put my mother over the
moon with happiness. Metaphorically.
***
My
wedding day, by the way? Pretty much where this story ends. They
put me in a ridiculous outfit (fit for a prince, I was told) and made
me memorize a really elaborate ceremony, much of it featuring arcane
language that I didn’t much understand.
I
got through it well enough to end up married, and it was at the
banquet that things took an odd turn.
Somehow,
my mother-in-law, and my fairy godmother-in-law, had secured an
actual castle for the wedding banquet.
In
the middle of the best man’s speech (I had begged him not to make
jokes about a fairy-tale ending) the doors of the hall suddenly
crashed open.
In
the doorway was the largest horse I’ve ever seen, and on top of
that horse was… well… a man. A very tall man, with
salt-and-pepper hair, and a goatee, and did I mention that fact that
he was wearing a suit of armor?
And
carrying a massive sword?
And
then, it happened – the moment that totally changed my life.
What
I mean is this:
This
all happened at the same time.
Jennifer’s
mom stood up.
My
mom stood up.
Jennifer’s
mom yelled out, “Lance!”
My
mom yelled out, “Lance!”
Jennifer’s
mom turned to the head table, and said, “Jennifer, that’s your
father!”
My
mom turned to the head table, and yelled out, “Artie, that’s your
father.”
Jennifer’s
face crumpled, and she started to bawl.
My
eyes got very wide, and I thanked everything that was good that I had
never been more intimate with my sister than a chaste peck on the
cheek.
And
then there was a flash of light.
***
Flies,
by the way? Not so bad. High in protein.
