So
… here I am invited to my son’s 21st birthday bash given by my
ex at a posh restaurant. Tuxes would be a good dress choice. Furs
and diamonds another. I have neither … nor do I have a date.
So … here I am invited to my son’s 21st birthday bash given by my ex at a posh restaurant. Tuxes would be a good dress choice. Furs and diamonds another.
I have neither … nor do I have a date.
I am not going unescorted – period! The personal columns were perfect (this was eons ago). I contacted a local guy; we talked and made a date (before I ever met him! I’m in a hurry for gosh sake). He sounded good, not like a predator or a recent parolee. He could put a sentence together. He said he was employed. I didn’t have time to chat, just meet me at the restaurant (did I mention it is posh?) I’ll be the one working my way around the tuxedoes and fur coats. I’ll wait in the lobby.
He said I would know him the minute he comes in. Oh boy … I was nervous. I was pacing and thought about taking up smoking. How would I know him? I was sure he looked like Paul Newman or Tom Selleck. No one walking in that door yet was close to that. I wait … and wait and pace and drag on an invisible cigarette. The guests are seated and I am waiting by the door … seriously considering bolting or feigning sick. I cannot go into that room without an escort. I see him! It has to be him. As he approaches the revolving door, for a split second I almost jump in and run down the street. OMG he is in an orange, yes, orange!! leisure suit. His hair is slicked back with something and his aftershave beats him through the door. I just stare and blink. Did I mention to him this was a dress up affair or … is he just stuck in the ’60s?
Now we have to enter the reserved birthday room, with personal waiters at each chair. My ex, looking more like Tom Selleck in a tux, and all of his well-dressed friends are sipping martinis. Conversation ceases and a deafening quiet hangs in what’s left of the air. Both of my sons, looking like bouncer bookends, stand up and start toward this guy. I ask for a double anything … and hurry. My date, and I use that term loosely, asks the closest waiter for a Bud Light. I’m kind of guessing right about now that his truck is covered with faded and torn Raider decals (probably Oakland Raider decals) and empty, crushed cigarette packs thrown on the worn out, cracking (probably faded blue) dashboard. Oh boy… It’s going to be a long night. I have to introduce him and I can’t remember his name. He resembles Buddy Holly and he’s from Hollister and he drinks Bud Light and I’m confused and I just call him Bud. I don’t dare make eye contact with one living soul in the room. My ex stands up, sucks in his paunch, downs his martini and saunters over to gloat. He introduces himself to “Bud,” sticking out his well-manicured, heavy gold-ringed hand and I have become quite shy and demure. Bud stands and comes up to my ex’s shoulder. I look at my watch and all of 7 – long, agonizing minutes have passed.How many more surprises could the evening hold?
Everything eventually does end including any life I may have had that night. Everyone was graciously phony to “Bud,” but I was the one who had to get home and he had the vehicle. My ex and his girlfriend get in to their limo … and wait to watch what I get into.
Topping off the night is our departure from this swanky restaurant.
“Bud” had a valet ticket and I had no inkling of what he drove, but I had a hunch. I am a pretty good “huncher.” All I knew was he had to “work” that day and came in his “work” truck. He was in construction, I think. Did we even discuss this on our first phone interview? Across the street, I hear the revving of a pickup with a missing muffler … and, oh by the way, in the back of the truck … a bathtub! He did come from work, indeed!! Oh the looks and snickers were merciless. All the way home I wondered how he was going to make it up the hill to my house. I offered to take a cab or call a friend or beg my ex to drive me home or walk.
The climb up the hill was painfully slow. The tub slipped further back as the incline increased. As we crested and started the decline, the tub started sliding forward. Metal tub + metal truck = screeeeech! My driveway is right here, just let me out. “Bud” the gentleman would not hear of it, but I insisted. He wanted to take me to my door. Not tonight, or tomorrow or this century.
As he faded off in to the sunset I decided re-examine a few things in my life. Dating through the personal ads would probably stop. Bathtubs in trucks would always bring a smile.
Morgan Hill resident Barbara Dykema took second place in the Survival of the Funniest: Finding Laughter in Life’s Challenges contest put on by the Gilroy Library during National Library Week in April.
