by BT Urruela
“I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t meeting up with some psycho,” she says, abruptly laughing. “So, I found your books and read them, too.”
“You did what?”
“The Honest Ones and The Wicked Ones… Those are your books, no?”
“Yes, they are, but you don’t even know my last name,” I say, taking a seat slowly and trying to process what exactly I’m hearing right now. “And you read both my books in a day?”
“Six hours, actually,” she corrects me and passes a cocksure nod. “I’m a very fast reader. As for your last name… I’m a very resourceful woman.”
“I’m not really sure what to say here.”
“That’s good, because I just had a few things to share with you,” she says with that unsettling smile that seems to grow increasingly creepier.
Immediately, my mind drifts to the occasional email I’ll get from a reader—more so when I was a bigger name—where that particular reader has a dissertation’s worth of ideas on how to make my book “better,” pointing out where I went wrong, and stating how I could’ve written this part better, or how I should’ve cut that part out. It’s a grueling side to this crazy little writing world. Do I want to get better as a writer… certainly. Do I not only accept, but welcome constructive criticism… of course, though it was easier when I had an iota of confidence in my writing abilities. But that’s what reviews are for. Give me the option to see it. And let my story remain just how it was when it spewed from my imagination. I know it’s what’s coming… and I’m quickly wishing I had chosen a shorter date. Or investigated her even a fraction of what she did with me.
“I was very disappointed in your indulgent use of foul language,” she says, passing me a prudish, judging glare. “I think if you took that, and all that unnecessary sex, out, it would make for a much better read. I believe that’s why your second book failed.”
The blood surges up my neck and throughout my head and I fight to keep a look of detest from my face.
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I manage to say through gritted teeth, my lips attempting a pseudo smile. “I like writing as realistically as possible.”
“You can do that without all the mature elements,” she retorts, a smug look passing over her face as her eyes meet the screen. “I guess I’m first.” She stands, making her way to the ball return as if she didn’t just shit all over my work.
“You know…” I call out over all the sounds around us in the bustling alley as she readies herself with the bowling ball, “sex and cursing are very much a part of everyday life for most people. Normal people.”
She looks over her shoulder, her head tilted down to where her eyes peer at me over her frames. “I choose not to clutter my diction with unnecessary filth. It’s a bit uneducated. Don’t you think?” She shrugs and proceeds to bowl, the ball darting straight into the gutter. As she walks back, she puts two hands up. “Oh, well. Such a stupid game anyway.”
“Well, your mind may not be in the gutter, but your ball sure is.”
“That’s funny,” she responds. “You should put that in a book.”
As I stand and meander over to the return, I lean over and grab the bowling ball, but shoot a glance back at her. “I just might,” I say. “I love putting experiences I’ve had into books.” I stand with the ball, pulling it to my chest and preparing to roll it, but my eyes remain on her as she shifts uncomfortably in the orange pleather seating. “Or like killing off people in books you despise in real life,” I add, shooting her a grin and a salty wink before proceeding to bowl. Four pins down, I am on tonight!
Walking back with a little exaggerated swagger in my stride, I catch her passing me a look that tells me she’s got a big juicy one just waiting for me.
“I also found out about your senior year. The drinking. The crash. Your friend.” Her words hang in the air and instantly the chaotic lights and sounds around us fade out. I see only her. I hear only those three lines. The drinking. The crash. Your friend.
“You’ve crossed a line,” I say sternly, trying my best to steady my trembling voice and calm the oncoming rage.
“It’s all public record. I don’t see how I crossed a line,” she says, folding her arms and trailing her focus down the lane.
“You think, because it’s public record, that gives you the right to throw it in my face on a first fucking date? You think, because I happen to be in a career where I’m sharing pieces of myself with others, that gives you the right to judge my hard-earned work?” The anger in my voice can’t be contained. I find myself jabbing a pointer in her direction and receiving a look of disgust in return.
“There you go with the language,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m sorry that I want to know about the person I’m meeting. I know what I want. I’m looking for marriage. And I won’t settle for just anyone.”
“First off, settle? Have you seen yourself? You’re not the gift from God you think you are. You are actually quite possibly the most abrasive person I’ve ever met…” She starts to say something and I put a hand up to stop her. “No. I’m not finished. Second, if you want to get to know someone, you ask them questions over the course of a first date, a few more dates after that if the vibe is right. You don’t dig into their background like it’s a fucking murder trial.”
“Language ag—”
“Language, yes,” I say, cutting her off. “Good God almighty, do I love the word fuck. It’s such a great fucking word. It can be used to describe someone… For example, you are an absolute fuck. It can be used to emphasize another word… like, you have got to be the most pompous fucking snatch I’ve ever encountered. Snatch… see, that’s another good one. Twat is too. Pussy is good, but overused. And cunt, well cunt should never be used to describe a pussy, or a vagina, for you puritans.” Her lip is curled back and she frantically works to remove the bowling shoes. I continue, “No, cunt is another good word used to describe people. If I had to use it in a sentence, I’d probably say, ‘man, I can’t wait to tell my buddy about this horrible cunt I went on a date with last night. The only thing worse than her retched company was the granny jeans she was wearing.’ Yeah, that’s a good one.”
She stands, her angry eyes set on mine and the bowling shoes trembling in her hands, her own shoes back on. She then shakes her head slowly from side to side.
“Fucking prick,” she mutters before hacking a wad of spit on the center of my chest and storming off.
“Now, now, Tabitha dear, that’s not appropriate language for an educated lady such as yourself!” I call out to her as she tosses the shoes on the counter with a thud and quickly makes her way to the front door. She lifts a hand and walks out of the bowling alley with a middle finger up just for me.
I’m still grumbling when I storm into the warm loft from the bitter cold outside. Removing my pea coat and throwing it to the ground, I kick off my shoes and beeline toward the refrigerator. I pull a frosty fifth of Fireball from the freezer, slamming the door shut behind it, and place the bottle on the counter with a loud ‘clink.’ Taking long, deep breaths as Dr. Thresher has advised in these situations, I try and contain the rage that reverberates beneath the surface of my skin. The image of Danny with his face split down the middle, like the remnants of a shucked oyster, wrangling my thoughts. I reach my shaky hands into the cupboard and pull out two shot glasses, setting them side by side on the counter. Gripping the bottle as best I can, I fill each shot glass, return the bottle to the counter, and down both shots in quick succession.
I close my eyes, my heart pounding in my chest, and a burn trailing down my throat. In my mind’s eye, I see the flashing sirens, the EMTs, and the shards of glass and twisted metal that was once a car. I see it all through hazy, drunken vision; my knees meeting my chest and the glovebox crushing my tibias and fibulas, but I can’t feel it. I feel nothing.
Opening my eyes, I scan the bottle’s label. Temptation too much to even consider fighting, I pour two more shots and down them one after
the other again. I run my hands through my thick hair, which is now coated in sweat, and take a slow, steady breath.
I can’t let this kind of shit get to me. I know it’s outside of my control, but nagging anxiety and overthinking are two of my strong suits. Crossing my living room, I feel the liquor start to kick in. Nothing serious, but that subtle warmth that trails its way up and down your skin. I grab my jacket from the floor and put it on before making my way out to the private garden for a smoke.
The wind nips at my exposed skin when I walk outside and take a seat. I shiver, digging my hands into my pockets to warm them up a bit. I’m such a bitch when it’s like this out, though the warmth from the liquor begins to creep up and down my extremities. There’s a joint already rolled and seated on the edge of an ashtray on the table beside me. I pause for a moment before shrugging and diving in, wrapping my lips around the joint’s end, and straightening back up with it in my mouth.
I pull the lighter from my pocket and light the joint, taking a few healthy puffs when my phone chimes. I trade the lighter for my cell and pull up the text.
Megan: I’m in your neck of the woods. Daddy-Os. Wanna meet for a few?
Do I want to meet for a few? Fuck yes, I want to meet for a few.
I work the keypad on my cell as best I can with my numb hands and the tipsiness that’s beginning to take over. I know there probably isn’t going to be a good outcome with this—those pesky twenty-five other dates and all, and Sami on my mind—but it’s not enough to matter. Not at this point. After shooting her a see you in five text, I dab the joint out in the ashtray, stand, and walk back inside.
The short walk to Daddy-O’s lets me know just how hard those four shots are going to hit me. I haven’t drunk like this in some time, so I can only imagine sticking with beer the rest of the night would be a good idea, or else she may see the college me. And that’s not good for either one of us.
Daddy-O’s is a quaint little bar with aged brick and large, plate glass windows, at the busy intersection of Bedford and Leroy. It’s one of those places that looks like it should be pretentious, but it isn’t in the least. The place is already packed, which doesn’t surprise me, and it’s tough to spot Megan through the crowd. I’m corralled out of the way by a couple entering behind me, and a wave of paranoia washes over me as they pass by with their eyes on mine. It makes me wish I hadn’t smoked that weed before meeting up with her. Weed and crowded bars do not go hand in hand. I think about booking it back to the house, crawling into bed, and saving face. I realize that’s no longer an option when I feel a hand clutch my elbow, and I turn to see Megan standing right in front of me. Her hair is up in a ponytail and falling, in all its glory, down her back. She’s got on a Jets hoodie and a pair of jeans, which I like a little bit more than I should. I can dig a woman dressed to the nines, make-up and hair done, and the six-inch heels, but damn do I love a woman who can dress down, too. I’m not the GQ type, nor do I ever want to be, so I need a woman who doesn’t have to treat each social situation like a beauty pageant. I bring her in for a hug, holding it for a moment before pulling back with a smile.
“So, Daddy-O’s, huh? I like your style,” I say, taking in that heart-jittering smile of hers, made even more white and effervescent by her dark complexion and the dimly lit bar.
“Hey, I may not make it out much,” she says, shrugging, “but when I do, I know what I’m doing.”
“Can I grab you a drink?” I ask, motioning toward the bar.
She points a thumb behind her and says, “I actually have a table over by the window. I just saw you standing here looking a little dazed and confused. Thought I’d help out.”
“That’s pretty much nail on the head, right there,” I respond, flashing her a smile. “Well, I’ll grab one for myself and meet you over there?”
“Sounds perfect,” she says, turning and sashaying back to the table. That can’t be an accident.
Approaching her table with a beer in my hand, she scoots the stool across from her out with her booted foot. Smooth.
“So, what brings you out tonight?” I ask, taking a seat, and sipping up the foam head.
“This is my weekend. And it’s been a hell of a week,” she says, lifting her drink, what looks to be whiskey on the rocks, and taking a small sip.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask, motioning to her glass.
“Woodford on the rocks,” she responds, taking another drink before setting it down on the small table.
“I’m not gonna lie, I feel like I should probably hand my man card over to you prior to our encounters. Just go ahead and get it out of the way, you know?”
She laughs, shaking her head and shrugging. “I have three brothers. It was just me and my mom with four men, so you either learned to push back or you got ran right over.”
I chuckle, passing her an understanding nod. “I imagine if you didn’t, you probably wouldn’t eat.”
“You have no idea. Friday was pizza night. Two pizzas go pretty fast in a house full of growing boys. I learned to eat fast and throw elbows.” She thrusts an elbow into the air and makes the cutest little scrunched-up angry face. She drops her hand to her side and laughs, a slight note of embarrassment in her expression and it’s quite endearing.
“I wouldn’t fuck with you.”
“I think you’d be alright. You seem to know your way around a gym,” she says, motioning to my arms, which have always had some shape to them, regardless of how much time I spend working out.
“Well, if I’m being honest, I’ve been pretty bad about it lately. I haven’t been to the gym regularly in a couple months.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. The twelve-hour shifts take so much out of me, I don’t often find the energy to make it there. I usually end up running. Helps clear my head.”
“I can’t imagine. I have no excuse. Which is pretty damn sad, considering what you do for a living.”
“Hey, I couldn’t write fiction to save my life, so there’s that,” she responds with a slight shrug. “We all have our own set of skills.”
“Have you always known you wanted to be a nurse?” I ask, the shots from earlier starting to really take effect now. My head feels like it’s in the clouds, but I notice a buzzed little twinkle in her eyes as well that settles me. I’m thankful to be sitting, as Daddy-O’s is filled to the max now, standing bodies in cluttered groups all around the bar. It doesn’t take much with these small, old school city bars.
“Did you come out alone?” I ask her, handling my beer and taking a small sip, more for something to do with my nervous hands than any real desire to drink more.
“Actually, I had a group of friends from work with me and they all kind of scattered at the same time a bit ago. I remembered you were from West Village and figured, what the hell.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. Today wasn’t my best day.”
“No?”
“No. I definitely needed the beer… and the company.”
“Mind me asking why it wasn’t your best day?” she asks. “For conversation’s sake only, I swear. I am not a nosy person.”
“Nah, you’re fine. It’s gonna be interesting trying to explain this, though.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” she says with a smile.
I pause, the words caught somewhere in my throat as I negotiate with myself over whether sharing this much is a good idea. I’m not ready for her to leave. I’m definitely not ready to go back to my quiet ass loft right now, but it’s very likely that’s just what she’ll do if she knows I was on another date before this one. Is this even a date?
“I’m waiting,” she says in a sing-song tone.
“Okay, okay, but you have to promise not to leave.”
Intrigue crosses her face. “That bad, huh?”
“Not crazy bad…” I take a sip of my beer as her eyes stay locked on me. I set the glass down, wipe my mouth, and let out a sigh of contentment, and she rolls her
eyes in return, motioning for me to get on with it. “First off, what was your worst date ever?”
“No way,” she says, brushing me off. “That’s not how this is going to go. You have to start.”
“I just so happened to have the worst date of my life today,” I blurt out, motioning to my beer. “Hence, the need for some social distractions.”
“Ohhhhh,” she says, her eyes wide, playfully looking like she’s shocked at the news. “So, the truth comes out. I’m the back up.”
I put a hand up and shake my head. “Hey now. We didn’t plan this, and back up is the last thing I’d call you. Try savior.”
She smiles and says, “Uh huh. Likely story.”
“I am so serious.”
“What made it so bad?”
“You have to promise to tell yours after me,” I say, putting my hand out. She shakes it and nods in agreement.
“Deal,” she says, removing her soft hand from mine and retrieving her glass with it.
“You ever have one of these app dates Google you before they even meet you?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“I told you, I haven’t been on many dates from that thing. I don’t really trust it. You obviously can’t say the same thing,” she chides, followed by that giggle of hers, and a stiff swig of her drink; not so much as a slight grimace when she takes it down.
“Hey now. I haven’t been on that many.”
“That’s what you said three days ago, and here you are on your second date of the day.”
“That’s a rarity in my life,” I respond, trying to sound convincing, though it doesn’t seem to come out the way I intend.
“Yeah, okay Rico Suave, don’t let me interrupt your story. You stopped at Google. I guess you got some pretty juicy stuff on there, huh?”
“Not really. That’s the craziest part about the whole thing. I’d get it if she found out I was convicted murderer or something, but there’s really not anything like that out there about me. Definitely not something that should be brought up on a first date.”
“What, you don’t like a girl who knows everything about you before the first date? Doesn’t that cut out a lot of unnecessary steps?” she asks, shooting me a playful wink.
