Gorilla Dating

by Kristen Ethridge

  “Primates, huh?”

  “Yeah, you know, gorillas, monkeys, chimps.”

  Thank goodness I didn’t just take a bite of food. Otherwise, I might have embarrassed myself as I laughed. “Oh, yes, I know all about chimps.”

  “So that’s your zoo memory as a child? Chimpanzees?”

  I haven’t even shared my office nicknames with Mimi or my parents. “No, I work with a bunch of them.”

  “What?” Jack looks perplexed.

  “It’s my inside joke with myself. I work with all these young kids who flap and squawk over everything. You know two of them, Laura Lynn and Logan. I call that whole group ‘the Chimpanzees.’ There are so many quirky personalities in our office, it’s like being in a zoo.”

  Jack’s head snaps back and a bellowing laugh escapes from his mouth. “You call them the Chimpanzees? Does Laura Lynn know?”

  “The Queen Chimp? No. Of course she doesn’t know. She’d beat me over the head with her notebook or something. These Chimps are much more sophisticated—they’re not into bananas or any monkey business like that.”

  “Kate Cormick, you are too much.” Jack fixes his cool blue laser gaze on me and flashed that orthodontist-perfect smile. He is definitely a force of nature. “Will you come with me to the Zoo Donors’ Gala?”

  He asks me in so smooth a manner I can’t tell if the invitation is planned or spontaneous. “Oh, like a business thing?” I pick up my water to take a small sip, and I’m a little stunned.

  “No, Kate, as in a date. My attendance is personal, not business. And I would like to take you with me as a date.”

  I feel my eyes stretching out, as if they’re turning to saucers. My grip on the water glass loosens and with a whoosh, it hits the table and turns on its side, pouring what was left in the glass straight onto my lap.

  “That’s a creative way to say ‘yes’, Kate. I haven’t known you long, but I’ve quickly learned that you do know how to make a moment memorable.” Jack stands up and walks over to my side of the table and uses his napkin to try and mop up the water puddling on the table before it too gets to my skirt. “You are saying yes, right, Kate?”

  I look down at my soaked clothing and shoes and then back to Jack.

  “Sure,” I sigh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  9

  Many aspects of chimpanzee behavior and social relations, emotional expression and needs, and intellectual abilities are similar to humans. … Both have the capacity for endless romping and play, are highly curious, learn by observation and imitation, and above all, need constant reassurance and attention. For both, affectionate physical contact is essential for healthy development.

  --From the Jane Goodall Institute’s “Chimpanzee Central”

  * * *

  My mother always told me if I could just meet a guy at church, I would have it made. It’s like the mythical unicorn of the good-girl dating scene. I know so many women who just want a nice guy they can confidently take home to their parents, only to have him turn out to be someone who likes to conveniently bend the truth or see other people or forget how to use his phone to return calls.

  According to my mom, a nice young man raised in church is the antidote to all the problems of my dating life so far.

  So, now it’s T-minus thirty-or-so seconds and counting for my first date with the church guy. He’s even gainfully employed. Plus, my parents have already met him and approved. Mom might just be on to something. Compared to some of the characters I’ve gone out with, Paul has potential.

  Now, while waiting, I am trying to play it cool, just sitting on my ugly-duckling hand-me-down couch. But I just can’t resist the urge to jump up and run into the bathroom to check my hair one last time.

  I hear a brief tap at the door, followed by two more taps.

  Careful, Kate. Just walk over and answer the door. Calmly. Just like opening the door to a conference room at work. Maybe if I think of this as a big presentation at work, I’ll feel better. I make presentations all the time. And that’s all this really is--a presentation of myself.

  Don’t think of it as a big date, I remind myself. Too much pressure in doing that.

  Just put your hand on the doorknob, turn it slowly, turn on the smile…and present.

  I swing the door open. He’s even cuter than he was when I first met him at Al’s. Neatly-trimmed brown hair, vaguely haunting steel-blue eyes, navy blue collared shirt, khakis. And a rose.

  I have always wanted someone to bring me a rose on our first date.

  “Hi, Paul!”

  “Hi, Kate. I brought you this,” he says, handing the crimson blossom to me. “I am looking forward to spending the night with you.”

  Whoa. Instantly, I feel my brow furrowing, ridge after ridge after ridge rising on my forehead, like mini-sand dunes. I don’t want to furrow. Pretty is what every girl always wants to be on a first date, not furrowy.

  At least I’m not the only one who finds themselves saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  “Uh, evening. I meant evening. I’m looking forward to sharing the evening with you.”

  Whew. Okay, nice recovery by the date. I was worried there for a second.

  “The rose is lovely. Thank you. Why don’t you come in for a second and I’ll put it in some water.” As I open the door and take the bud, he squeezes by me in the narrow entryway, and I close the door behind him.

  Paul surveys my living room as I rummage through cabinets, looking for a vase in the kitchen.

  “This is your mother, right?” he calls.

  “Which picture?” I stick my head out from behind the open door to the cabinet I was vase hunting in. He held the picture which sat on the end table next to my couch. “Oh, yeah. That’s my mom and me, at my college graduation.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Paul says and sets the picture down. Before I can even say thank you, he continues. “It’s easy to see where you get your good genes from. You’re pretty good looking. You’ll have great-looking children.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Pretty good looking? Great-looking children? Interesting train of thought my date seems to be riding. I clip the stem with what I think is supreme efficiency, considering I have never clipped the stem of a first-date rose before, then I gracefully slip it down the throat of the vase and into the water. Taking one quick glance back at my flower, I pick up my purse and headed to the door. “Ready to go?”

  “For a night out with you? Absolutely,” he says, laying his hand on my shoulder.

  My first instinct hits me fast and hard: speed up, take a half-step ahead of him and move his hand off my shoulder.

  I like to have my personal space respected, but maybe that’s my problem. Maybe this is what everyone else does these days on a first date. Maybe it’s been so long since I’ve been on a first date that I don’t know what people do on first dates anymore.

  I have never felt so old in my life.

  I am twenty-eight years old, I have just discovered that my brow reactively furrows like a displeased college professor, and I don’t know how to date.

  I make myself suppress the urge to take that half-step forward. You know, it’s not so bad having an attractive guy invade your personal space, I mean isn’t that a bit of the point? I just need to go with it and get used to this.

  Walking down the stairs from my apartment and down to the parking lot, Paul’s hand lifts from my shoulder and he fumbles in his pants pocket for his keys. I hear the “boop-boop” sound of the alarm turning off and can see the bright yellow parking lights flash on a silver Mercedes one row over.

  “That’s a nice car,” I say.

  “Well, I bought it while I was at my last job. I used to be a vice-president for one of the large credit card companies before I moved down here.” Paul steps around to the passenger side door and opens it for me.

  First a rose, then opening the car door. When I pair these acts of modern chivalry with the nice guy that I can bring home to mom and dad and gainfully e
mployed thing, it slowly occurs to me: I should get used to having a hand on my shoulder. His hand. This one may just be a keeper.

  Of course, I can’t help but remember earlier this afternoon when Jack Cooper bounded out of a Jeep that he’s probably had since college, in order to race around the car and open my door before I had a chance to do so. It’s funny…I appreciated that, but I didn’t put the “keeper” label on him.

  Because he’s not really a keeper. Everyone wants their piece of him, and in relationships, that only means one thing—heartbreaker. Same as what happened with Mark when he took the high-profile role with the Speaker of the House. I can’t let myself take the risk on that kind of guy ever again.

  The drive down Interstate 35 to the University of Texas’ Special Events Center seems pretty uneventful. The chit-chat flows like office gossip around a water cooler, and it’s mixing with the soft sounds coming from the stereo. Even the traffic on Austin’s congested freeway seems to be cooperating and we’re making fast time down to the venue. When we exit off MLK Drive, there’s a spot on the first row in the parking lot.

  Again, memories of this afternoon sneak into my head. The perfect parking spot opened up for Jack as soon as we pulled into the lot at the restaurant, too.

  As Paul and I are climbing the hill to the ticket booth, I can see that each of the lines is about five or six people deep. We pick the second line from the right and file in behind a group of college students. For just a second, the conversation is still.

  “So, when I moved from Maryland last month, my ex-fiancée stayed behind with her kids.”

  Fiancée? Oh, my goodness. Another involuntary facial reaction. This time, the head-cocking-to-one-side. Just like my Aunt Cathy. In every family picture, Aunt Cathy has her head tilted about thirty degrees to one side. And here I am, doing the same thing. First brow-furrowing, now head-tilting.

  Paul has a way of saying things that make my head do facial Pilates.

  “So…uh, you…uh…had a fiancée?” To my knowledge, I’ve never on a date with someone who has previously been engaged. I don’t know what the proper thing to say here is, exactly.

  Repeated use of the monosyllabic “uh” seems to sum it up nicely.

  “Yeah. I’ve actually been engaged twice. Well, the first one, we actually got married. We were married for four years, then got divorced. Then I was engaged again when I was in Maryland. We lived together with her two kids. We were together for about two years and engaged for one.”

  “Uh…really? So, you…uh, have done the engagement thing a few times, huh?”

  “Oh, it’s easy once you get the hang of it.” He gave a short laugh and then took two steps to the ticket counter. “We’re here to pick up will-call tickets for Kate Cormick.”

  As Paul is getting our tickets, my mind starts to race a bit. Now, it’s not doing a full-fledged NASCAR race, mind you—more like a go-kart lap or two—but it’s turning in circles, nonetheless. Of course, I wouldn’t have known he was married or engaged or lived with someone before. We didn’t talk about that at Al and Susan’s—I mean, how would it have even come up? Maybe, since this is the first date and all, he’s just trying to be upfront and honest.

  That’s probably it. Honesty is always the best policy. At least that’s what my mom says. Well, that and find a guy at church.

  Paul turns back around to me and fans the tickets out. “Your two tickets to John Mayer, as requested, my lady. Shall we go inside?” He offers me his arm and I take it.

  “We shall.”

  The lights in the Erwin Center are low as we walk into the arena, so Paul asks the first usher we encounter to show us to our seats. I’m impressed with where the seats are. Three sections over from the side of the stage, about eight rows back. The view of the stage is great.

  The star of the evening takes the stage, his casually untucked T-shirt and frayed jeans screaming “I’m a rock star and I’m so cool that I don’t have to iron.” As he starts into a song about dating gone awry, I try to stifle a laugh. This could be my theme song. On so many occasions, I’ve battled awkward conversations and found myself re-arranging silverware at the dinner table on a bad blind date.

  But so far, tonight, everything seems to be going pretty much okay—as long as I talk myself out of the urge to overthink things. Maybe my awkward date curse is broken.

  Well, except for that whole “I’ve been engaged twice before” thing.

  Maybe Paul just didn’t know what he wanted when he was younger. Maybe he’s like the Prodigal Dating Son, come home to realize that what he thought he wanted isn’t really what he needed. Except that his last engagement ended less than two months ago.

  Oh, well. I can’t really judge him for the past, right? I’d stayed with a guy in a nowhere relationship since college. What matters now is the present. For both of us. He’s attentive, funny, and well…he drives a nice car.

  What’s not to like?

  Except for the whole weirdly phrased “I’m looking forward to spending the night with you” statement back at my apartment. I shake my head, almost subconsciously, trying to clear the thought out of my mind.

  Wait. There was that whole “good-looking children” thing, too.

  Why am I doing this? I’m nitpicking what he’s said. He’s a nice guy. This is why I can’t have nice things. Or nice guys. Because I over-analyze things to death.

  It’s one thing to be organized and focused and given to analysis at work. It is entirely another to do it in an arena while listening to pop music with a guy who was interested enough in me to want to get to know me better.

  Earlier today, I was able to let go of my over-analyzing side and have lunch with Jack. But here I am, caught up in my own thoughts and unable to just go with the flow, as usual.

  “Ugh.” The noise pops out of my mouth before I realize I’ve let it go. Even over the amped-up guitar coming out of the oversized speakers, Paul hears me.

  “What’s that? Are you not having a good time?”

  “Oh, of course. The music’s great.” Your conversation habits are weird, but the music’s great… “Stop it, Kate,” I tell myself in the most parental voice I can muster.

  “You say something?”

  Oh, bother. That was my outdoor voice. Apparently putting my foot solidly in my mouth is not limited to outings with Jack Cooper.

  “Uh…this song’s great.” There’s that monosyllabic “uh” again. I flash him a smile, as if the only thing going on with me is a love affair with John Mayer’s Grammy-winning hit.

  “Good. I’m glad you like it. A pretty girl like you deserves the whole fairy tale. Everything she wants.”

  See, that’s more like it.

  Paul’s arm raises up.

  It’s like high school all over again. Except this is no movie theater and we’re not fourteen. His arm lowers and his hand rests on my shoulder. His fingers flutter back and forth across the curve that leads down to my arm.

  It feels like a million ants are marching on my left shoulder, but it’s not tingly. There’s no flutter in the pit of my stomach. Shouldn’t there be a flutter? There’s just that blasted personal space alarm, sounding in my head like the horn on a tugboat.

  At that moment, the song ends. I pop out of my seat as if I’m bread in a toaster and start clapping, giving all the fifteen-year-olds in their “Future Mrs. Mayer” T-shirts a run for the title of biggest fan in the arena. The Mrs. Mayer next to me turns her head and gives me a crazy look.

  What is going on here? This was supposed to be a great night. I wanted to see this show. I wanted to get to know Paul better.

  I realize then that it’s just me.

  I mean, I haven’t been on a date since breaking up with Mark. We went out for so long, and then he rushed out and got engaged to the next girl he laid eyes on, apparently.

  That’s all it is. Post-Mark jitters. I’m judging Paul’s actions based on my unresolved issues with Mark.

  And then there’s been all that crush-or-no
-crush stuff with Jack Cooper this week. No wonder I’m driving myself crazy tonight.

  Whew. Glad I got that figured out.

  I just need to sit back, let him rest his hand on my shoulder if he wants, and get used to the idea that there are guys out there who really do want to treat women like me like the special ladies we are.

  With that thought in mind, I lower myself back into my seat and plan to enjoy the rest of the set. Paul looks at me and smiles. “I think you’re amazing. What do you think about kissing on the first date?”

  I decide to stand up and clap for John Mayer again.

  The rest of the concert wasn’t too awkward.

  Okay, that’s only because stopped talking so much.

  But that’s the point of a concert, right? You’re supposed to listen. We walk back to our great parking space, almost wordlessly. That seems a little strange, but maybe it’s because he’s enjoying walking out in the great weather almost as much as I am.

  Or maybe he’s thinking about his ex-fiancée back in Maryland, since he did mention her three more times before the show was over.

  As long as I answered with my new favorite syllable of “uh…” and followed it with the corresponding syllable of “…huh,” I found that I wasn’t as bothered by his discussion of his ex-fiancée on my real, bonafide, nice-guy date, which was turning out to be a real, bonafide, rather…uh…interesting date.

  Paul opens the car door for me again, and I do chalk another point up in his corner. See. There we go. Back on track.

  The local top 40 station is playing a John Mayer song for everyone driving home from the show. “Did you have a good time, Kate?” Paul merges the car back onto the highway to head home.

  “Yes, Paul. I did. Thanks for coming with me.”

  “No problem. I’m just glad I’ve had the opportunity to see you twice in one day. First this morning, and now for the concert.”

  Well, that’s kind of sweet of him to say. After the way the breakup with Mark went, it’s nice to know that there is a guy out there who really does value the time he spends with me.