Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any more dysfunctional, he shoved the car door open and literally did a tuck-and-roll onto the off ramp embankment that would make Jean-Claude Van Dame green with envy. We’re talking, ejected himself from a moving vehicle in a fit of desperate fury. It was impressive, really.
I’m not trying to play the victim here; I know I’m partially to blame in all this. I feel like all the signs were there. Especially since I met James when he was on a date with another girl.
I spied them nestled in a cozy corner at the bar where I work. Lying in wait, I made sure to judge every shred of her before drafting a mental list that catalogued her every flaw (a practice I had perfected from four years in sorority and at least seven years of being a snide little bitch). When she went to the restroom, I sidled up next to him.
He wasn’t model cute, but still cocky enough to feel justified accepting another chick’s number during a first date. Just my type.
“You know, if you were on a date with me, I guarantee you’d be having ten times more fun. I’m really fun.”
“Well, aren’t you a friendly girl.”
“And forward, I know. I would do it differently if I was on this date.”
“How so?”
“Probably roofie you. That way, I get to survey the lay of the land before I make any kind of rash decision about getting involved with you. Similar to a credit check if you think about it.”
He laughed. Good sign. I figured he either had a sense of humor, or worse case scenario a new fetish I hadn’t encountered yet.
Days one through four of our relationship involved a whirlwind infatuation in which I used my trusty female tunnel vision to delude myself into thinking rock-hard abs were a fair tradeoff for a recent DUI and a distinct interest in double vodka tonics. I turned every negative into a shining positive. After all, vodka tonics were my drink of choice too; and if he got out of hand I could always down his cocktail every time he left for the bathroom.
It got weird on day five. After a few drinks at a friend’s sushi outing, James and I were smugly noting to each other our status as hottest couple in the room. As I’m smirking, he suddenly gets somber.
“I want to tell you something.”
The last time someone uttered those words to me, I found out what hot dogs are made of. The time before, I learned my most favorite uncle was about to become my least attractive aunt. The hot dog thing hurt.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
I stare at him. He studies me, hoping I’m blinking a Morse code response to his ill-timed confession.
“Look, you don’t have to say anything. But I’ve never felt like this. You’re The One.”
More blinking.
I immediately draft a mental list of most likely ways his mother must have messed with his head as a kid, and simultaneously scan for the exits.
“Look, I like you. But shouldn’t we be having sex without condoms first, or self-disclosing the harsh childhood memories that shape the adults we are today? You could go first.”
Now he blinks.
A Geisha girl walks by our table selling sake shots. He shoots out of his chair and throws a 50 onto her tray, downing four shots in rapid-fire succession. Then he makes a beeline for the bar.
On the way home, we had a shouting match fit for Springer syndication. I was appalled at his excessive display of booze consumption. He slurred with reckless abandon that only nice guys like him get duped by cold-blooded snakes in waitresses’ clothing like me.
The aforementioned Tuck-and-Roll Stunt Show began only a few minutes later. As he tumbled away, I thought I’d be more upset. But despite his agility, the spell was broken.
James made an appearance at my bar with Geisha Girl in tow about a month after we ended. He promptly ordered two double shots, and took both in succession.
Perhaps it is in a miracle of salvation like this that God appears. I thanked him, or my lucky stars or whatever you thank when you narrowly escape an oncoming big rig, and made a beeline away from the bar.