Just as Bridget had surprised me with a yes, so too did Sonya. This asking-girls-out thing wasn’t as hard as I thought. Sonya did warn me that her friends and family, and possibly a few mob hit men, knew who I was and where I lived, so there would be retribution if I turned out to be a cannibal. If she’d known she was going to meet my ex-girlfriend on our first date she might have preferred to be made into a lamp shade.
* * *
A few minutes after the show started I saw Kelly slip into a chair across the room. I pulled the front of my shirt in and out, fanning my chest, trying to battle the heat suddenly churning in my stomach. The feeling of nausea was not dissimilar to the one that occurs at the beginning of a courtship. How poetic of my body to bookend our relationship with queasiness.
During intermission Kelly approached and said hello. She nervously twisted her wineglass as we spoke, which made me happy. I introduced Sonya and the two of them fell into “hey-so-nice-to-meet-you” patter, their voices getting higher and higher as they strove to prove who was the friendliest. Luckily, the break wasn’t long, so we didn’t have a chance to discuss much more than Murray. Thank God for the dog or we’d have nothing to talk about.
“I decided I don’t like her,” Sonya said once we were back in our seats.
I decided I liked Sonya.
When the show ended, we headed toward the exit. Kelly was having a conversation across the room so we’d escape without the awkward goodbye. But we couldn’t evade Ryan, who stood by the exit holding a garbage bag. I didn’t want to talk to him, but at least this was a best-case scenario; it’s impossible to feel threatened by a man wearing a name tag and holding a trash receptacle.
“It was great to see you,” he said. “Been performing any improv lately?”
My inadvertent friendliness at the beginning of the night had caused him to think we were “cool.” But we weren’t “cool.” While Ryan and I hadn’t been close friends, we were at least friendly acquaintances, and you don’t move in on the girlfriend of a friendly acquaintance (Section 4.2 of the Geneva Accords). Maybe nothing physical happened between Kelly and Ryan until after we’d broken up, but something was going on, and even if there were a dozen other reasons Kelly and I split, what he’d done still wasn’t okay with me.
I wanted to say You knew me, man. You KNEW me. And you did it anyway. I wanted to see the noxious gas of guilt rise from his belly and putrefy his smile. I wanted to see in his eyes that he understood we weren’t “cool.” My relationship with Kelly may have started the same way, but at least I didn’t think I was “cool” with her ex. Have a little decorum, Ryan, we’re not cool!
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I told him about a couple shows I’d done recently and said a polite good night. I wish I took the high road because of a Zen-like compassion for all living things, but really, I just didn’t want to make a scene.
I did send a little message as I walked away, though. Get this—I threw my cup in the garbage harder than necessary, hoping some wine would splash on his khakis. It didn’t, but still, what a rush!
“Thanks for making me look good in front of my ex,” I said to Sonya outside.
“My pleasure,” she said. “It was fun to be the hot new piece.”
We smiled at each other. The night’s drama had made us into a little team, bonding us more than a normal first date would have. I’d kept my cool in front of Sonya, my ex had seen me with a pretty new girl, and I’d been calm and confident in front of the boyfriend. Lots of points scored in my quest to win the breakup, and even if this was purely accidental, they were points nonetheless.
After dropping Sonya off at a large house in the hills above Los Angeles where she was renting a room, I headed home. Instead of cutting over to the freeway, the fastest route, I took Mulholland Drive, the windy vehicular spine of the Hollywood Hills, and enjoyed the warm night with the windows down and my music loud. The lights of LA jumped in and out of view as I navigated the famous curves. Stretched out below me was a city full of women.
I wondered which one I’d date next.
Part II
* * *
TURNS OUT I’M GOOD AT DATING
8
* * *
THE PEDIATRICIAN AND THE PODCAST
My experiment was going well: I was meeting women online, dating, gaining confidence, having fun, and keeping all the relationships casual. Then something horrible happened—I met someone I really liked.
I was at a food truck festival in Venice with Kurt and we met up with a group of his friends, which included a beautiful girl named Amber, whom I ended up waiting with in a long line at the grilled cheese truck.
In Los Angeles, having an Instagram account is considered a full-time job, so I was astonished to learn that not only was Amber a pediatrician, she was a partner at her clinic and spent her free weekends going to Tijuana to give treatment to poor children. I consider myself nice—I tip well, give change to the homeless, and donate to Kickstarter projects for one-man shows—but this was another level of philanthropy. Even Mother Teresa was like, Um, Saturday is kind of me-time. . . .
After we’d obtained our melted cheese sandwiches for $12 apiece, we sat on a curb eating, talking, and laughing. By the end of the night we were already planning the next group outing, which we both knew was an excuse to see each other again.
Over the next month, Amber and I hung out a few more times, always with a group, and our chemistry was clear. I hesitated to ask her out on a proper date, though, for two reasons:
1. We had mutual friends. A stranger I met online was like a special guest character on The Matteson Perry Show who ceased to exist when the episode ended. If it didn’t work out with Amber, there would be repercussions, and it almost certainly wouldn’t work out since I was in a dating phase known as “trying to make sure it doesn’t work out.”
2. Amber lived in Orange County. For those not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Orange County is south of the city and is what would happen if The Cheesecake Factory were a county. It is also far away, taking between one and nineteen hours to drive there, depending on traffic.
Despite these reservations, I texted and emailed with Amber almost daily. We had reached the point where I needed to either cut off contact or ask her out. Ending our flirtation would have been the smart move.
I asked her out.
After a very long drive, I picked her up at her condo and took her to dinner. Sexual tension stilted our conversation as we ate. We might have kissed right there in the booth were it not for our overly attentive waiter who popped up every five minutes to see if we wanted to try the house cocktail. No, we don’t, because it looks like Barbicide is the main ingredient in the Blue Sapphire. Orange County really is the worst.
Back at Amber’s condo, we didn’t burst into the apartment and shed our clothing, but we did share a shy, slow, polite kiss in her living room. It was nice, the type of kiss exchanged by people who like each other, but are willing to move slowly because they have plenty of time for more in the future.
Which meant it was dishonest, because I didn’t want a future with anyone. I was supposed to be living life like I was on a plummeting zeppelin, minutes to live, ripping the clothes off a woman whose name I could barely remember. That was the plan, not this tender intimate stuff. It only took one kiss for me to see Amber and I wanted different things.
I almost had The Talk right then, despite it being only our first date, but she handed me a foil packet filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies and I couldn’t say anything. She had me. Snacks are the guy equivalent of flowers. A dozen roses won’t register, but a plate of brownies will make us swoon.
* * *
There was a second date and a third, and though we didn’t have sex, our relationship moved quickly. We talked almost every day, sometimes even by phone, this era’s “going steady.” I needed to have The Talk, but I kept chickening out, wanting to bask in the warmth of her he-might-become-my-boyfriend affection a little longer. A
fter every conversation, like a smoker declaring this to be the last cigarette, I’d vow to bring up our relationship status the next time we spoke.
Then, one night, I got this text: I think I am listening to a podcast you were on that I shouldn’t be.
I’d done a few podcasts, telling stories or being interviewed, but unless I’d blacked out and gone on The White Supremacists with STDs Show, none of my appearances had been offensive or embarrassing. I didn’t know what she was talking about.
She explained: It’s the one where you ask for dating advice.
Shit. I’d forgotten about that. Very shit.
Early on in my dating experiment, before I went out with anyone, I’d gone on my friend’s advice podcast and asked how to date casually. Amber was listening to the guy she was dating, who seemed interested in a serious relationship, talk about being not at all interested in a serious relationship.
I had recorded this podcast long before I’d met Amber, so I wasn’t being mean or cavalier toward her specifically. Also, we’d only been on three dates, we hadn’t had sex, and I’d made no promises of a future together. But it still must have been awful for Amber to listen to me discuss how to hypothetically break it off with a girl, while being said hypothetical girl.
Guess it was time for The Talk. I called her.
“Is what you said on that show true? Is that how you feel?”
I could hear hurt in her voice and felt the urge to fix it. It would be so easy. I could tell her I’d been enjoying casual dating, but meeting her had changed my mind. Her voice would soften as I explained the connection we had, and maybe there’d be tears. She’d ask if she could come over and, fueled by our newfound closeness, we’d have sex for the first time. Telling her what she wanted to hear would have been easy, but I couldn’t. Prolonging this any further would be a betrayal of her and my pact with myself.
“Well, I exaggerated my point of view for comedic effect, but, yes, what I said on the podcast is true. I’m trying to stay out of a serious relationship right now.”
I told her about my breakup and the vow to be single for a year in an attempt to break my relationship cycle. I explained that though I liked her and wanted to spend more time with her, I couldn’t be her boyfriend because I couldn’t be anyone’s boyfriend. There was only the buzz of cell phone static for thirty seconds. Finally, she spoke.
“I’ve been single for a while. I’m looking for something real.”
* * *
As I cut into my huevos rancheros with grilled cactus the next Saturday, I told the guys about the breakup. Kurt already knew.
“Yeah, you’re not well liked by that group.”
This surprised me. The conversation with Amber had been calm and grown-up. In fact, her composure and acceptance had impressed me so much I’d second-guessed my decision. It’s a real Catch-22 of relationships that breaking up with someone is one of the best ways to see their true nature.
“Amber’s pissed. All the girls are. You’re uninvited to Kendra’s party next week. And I’m getting a lot of blowback, so thanks for that.”
“Sorry. No more dating people I know. I promise. Back to strangers.”
We moved on to Evan. Joanna had been in town a few days earlier.
“I didn’t see her much. We did meet up at a party of a mutual friend, though. It was going well and I was having a good time, but she asked me to leave because she was feeling weird. I was kind of pissed about it, actually.”
“At least you’re finally a bit angry with her,” Kurt said. I was glad too—this was the first time Evan had been mad at Joanna.
“It did feel good to get mad. But it’s pretty much passed. We texted last night. She had a tough day at work and wanted to talk.”
Oh, my sweet Evan.
* * *
I didn’t totally believe Kurt when he’d said Amber was angry, but I got confirmation two weeks later in the form of drunken text messages. In Mexico on vacation, and with a few margaritas in her, Amber no longer felt so forgiving. She flicked digital knives at me from south of the border—I was stupid, I’d screwed up something great, and I didn’t deserve a girl like her. I did the only thing one can do in such a situation—I agreed with everything she said and apologized.
I’d started my experiment worried about getting women interested in me, but the bigger key to my goal might be staying out of a serious relationship. Not every girl wanted commitment, but some did, so I needed to make my intentions clear early on. I vowed not to slip so close to the event horizon of a relationship again.
9
* * *
THE GROUPIE
Kurt, Evan, and I were at Bros’ Brunch enjoying pumpkin crepes when I laid out my latest dating predicament. I’d gotten a girl’s number, but I was unsure if I should call her, not because of shyness or fear, but because I didn’t know if I’d gotten the right girl’s number.
I sometimes host a live show called The Moth, which features people telling real stories from their lives based on a theme. A couple nights earlier I’d done a show and as I left, a group of three women and one man said, “Great job.” I nodded a thank-you and kept walking, but before the end of the block I heard steps behind me and turned to see the guy from the group.
“Hey, I’m Will. My friends and I were about to go have some pie and would love to buy you a slice.”
Groupies at a rock show flash their breasts to get backstage so they can blow the lead singer. Storytelling groupies wait patiently outside to buy the performer a slice of pie. I accepted the invitation and we walked back toward the women.
“One of my friends digs you,” Will whispered as we approached the trio. Unfortunately, he did not deem it necessary to mention which friend dug me. I was now a romance gumshoe trying to solve what I call The Case of the Mystery Pie.
The setting for this mystery was a Marie Callender’s. I ordered my usual, pecan, straight up, no ice cream, and mulled over the three suspects in front of me. None wore a wedding ring. It could be any of them. This was going to be a long night.
Suspect 1—Linda—Approximately five-three, cute, round face, hipster dress, wide smile, architect’s apprentice. A sweet girl with an aura of shyness.
Suspect 2—Mary—Approximately five-six, slender build, freckled face, in graduate school for social work. The most attractive of the three women.
Suspect 3—Helen—Approximately five-eight, muscular, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, long blond hair. Not unattractive, but not my type. Of course, an undying love for me and my comedic stylings could sway me.
An hour later, there was only crust left on the plates and I had no leads. I had hoped someone would say something to incriminate herself or maybe I’d catch sight of a tattoo of my face on someone’s arm, but I got no hint at all as to who liked me.
We walked out to the sidewalk to say our goodbyes and no one offered their number, let a hug linger, or asked to get together again. If I hadn’t known one of them liked me, I would have gone home happy to have fans buy me pie, but now I was frustrated. I wanted my groupie!
“This was fun,” I said. “We should all stay in touch.”
I thrust my phone in front of me, where it stayed for a few awkward seconds.
“Uh, yeah, let’s trade numbers,” Mary said as she reached for my phone. I was most attracted to Mary, but her lack of enthusiasm made me think she might be a patsy.
As I walked to my car I gave my secret admirer one more chance, saying, “I’m easy to find on Facebook! Matteson Perry, with two t’s.”
* * *
“I don’t know if you’re doing this groupie thing right,” Evan said when I finished the story.
He was right. I’m guessing the lead singer of Def Leppard never shouted out I’m easy to find on Facebook—two p’s in Leppard!
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “It’s been two days and I haven’t heard from Mary. I could contact her to ask who liked me, but if it was actually Mary, I might ruin it.”
“Yeah
, I don’t think you should text her,” Kurt said. “Let the groupie come to you. That’s like the number one rule of groupies.”
Waiting was the only move.
Finally, almost a week after pie night, I got a break in the case. Mary texted: It was great to meet you the other night! Thanks for getting pie with us. You should find Linda on Facebook. Her last name is Marshall.
So it was sweet, quiet Linda. I couldn’t blame her for being shy; it can be hard to approach a hero (is hero too strong a word? I don’t think so). I friended Linda on Facebook and asked her if she’d like to get a drink. She said yes and (I assume) screamed like a girl suffering from Beatlemania.
* * *
Any usual date nerves were nonexistent because when dealing with a groupie, you just sit back and enjoy the idol worship, right?
Although our interaction probably wouldn’t qualify as “worship,” the date did go well. My jokes landed, my stories fascinated, and her body language was responsive. I felt like a boxer fighting an opponent who had been paid to take a dive.
Despite the ease, the date did feel a little strange; she knew me so much better than I knew her. Linda had seen several of my stories, either live or on YouTube, so she knew a lot about me already.
Before I’d told her where I grew up she mentioned that she loved Colorado. During a discussion of jobs, I mentioned working in Alaska and she said, “Oh, I like this one,” referring to a story I’d told about the experience. She seemed to know the basics of my life, while the only thing I knew about her was that she liked me (an admirable trait, I’ll admit). I spent the date trying to shrink the knowledge gap by asking her questions, but it never felt like we were on even footing.
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