I turned 66 this year.  I never expected to live this long, but it’s been a good ride.  Until the damned COVID, things just kept getting better and better.

Much to my surprise. 

Dating is one of the things that is so much better now than it was when I was an angst-ridden young adult. 

I went on my first date at the age of 13.  I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking.  I was married for 19 years and change.  Do the math – that’s 34 years I’ve spent dating.  A lot of different guys.  And a lot of them were just plain old, um, different.  I think I married the first guy I felt like didn’t need therapy. That turned out not to be quite true – he just hid it well. 

Don’t get me wrong, I adore men.  I really do, but I’m here to talk about my worst first date.  It would have been about 1981.  I was 22, a disco queen, young and attractive. 

No, really.  I was.  When you get to be my age, you will look back and realize there is a beauty to youth.  I think that’s why so many people fight aging.

Anyway.

I was living in a really bad part of Milwaukee in a very nice apartment.  My landlord, get this, was a vice cop.  Nobody, and I do mean nobody, messed with me.  The entrance to my apartment was through Tom’s kitchen and, if he was off duty, he was sitting at his kitchen table in a t-shirt drinking.  Sometimes I’d join him and whoever else had shown up for poker and drinking. Most of the time, I just hit the stairs with a wave hello. 

One night Tom was alone, and he gestured for me to sit down.  So, I did. 

“I know this guy that you’d be perfect for.” 

I’ve spent a lot of years wondering what it had been about me that made him think we’d be perfect.

Anyway.

I had just undergone a breakup with the guy who, of all of them, needed therapy the most.  Free and single, I was.  I said, “Sure.”

The next night I get a phone call.  Honest.  I cannot remember this guy’s name.  I’m probably blocking as much of the memory as I can. 

We arranged a weeknight date.  It’s his night off.  It’s a work night for me, but I was a Disco Queen, remember?  I existed on 3 hours of sleep a night and was constantly scrubbing hand stamps off.

Thursday arrives.  It’s 6 pm.  I’m assuming dinner.  I worked as a paralegal back then.  I decide to stay in my work clothes, which will work for casual to nice. 

A muscle car rolls into the driveway.  And Worst Date Ever honks. 

Now then.  I’m young and stupid.  I let him get away with that. 

I open the passenger door, slide into my seat, and say hello.

Worst date ever kind of grunts.

He’s fairly good-looking, but not dressed to impress — flannel shirt and jeans. 

He roars in reverse out of the driveway, leaves skid marks as he shifts from reverse to drive, and aims the car in the general direction of downtown Milwaukee.

I’m chattering away and getting one-word responses if he says anything at all. 

“So! Where are we going?” I ask.

“This place I know.”

With that, he speeds through rush hour traffic, weaving in and out and running red lights. 

I put on my seat belt. 

He laughs.

After this terrifying trip through Milwaukee, he turns into a parking lot.  I look around trying to figure out just exactly where we’re going. 

He gets out.  I wait for him to open my door.  Silly me.  But he just continues walking.  I catch up with him in time for him to open the establishment door for me.  We get inside, and it’s a vestibule with another door with a peephole. 

We pass muster, and the door swings open.  No hand stamp.  No cover charge.

Before ushering me in, he drops his gun into my purse.  I look at him.  Worst Date Ever says, “Not allowed to carry in a bar.”  My eyes are adjusting to the darkness of the bar as he leads me to a table.  Without asking my preference, he goes to the bar and orders. The place is near empty save for the bartender and a couple of guys at the bar.  It is dead quiet except for the rumble of the ice machine. I can hear Worst Date Ever say, “Two Pabsts.  Jack.  Two Shots.”

Because of this date, I adopted the rule of meeting them somewhere, so I always had my car.

He brings the drinks, making two trips, and sits down.  Before he’s in his seat, music roars through the speaker system – loud, hardcore metal —and a woman dressed only in a dental floss G-string, pink ruffled anklet socks, and red stilettos walks onto the stage.

She is chewing gum. 

And begins, um, dancing. 

I guess you can call it dancing.  She is so bored or stoned, or maybe she just can’t handle the heel height, but she just kind of shuffles around to a beat that only she can hear because in no way does it syncopate with that coming out of the speakers.

Worst date ever doesn’t take his eyes off her.

Did I mention I loathe beer?  Not much of a fan of Jack either. 

I sipped the beer.  Pushed the Jack away.  He grabbed it and chugged. 

By this time a cocktail waitress appeared.  She had a few more clothes on than the dancer, but not much.  He looks at my barely-touched beer and tells the waitress another Pabst.  Another Jack. 

The music is so loud he is yelling.

The dancer begins shuffling and gyrating.  Evidently, this is her money move. Her head is thrown back like she’s enjoying herself. 

She is not.

Neither am I.

I did tell myself that this will make a great party story – My Worst Date Ever. 

I don’t have a car.  Cell phones aren’t a thing yet, and I don’t see a pay phone anywhere.  I am stuck.  I chain smoke and sip the beer.  I went to the ladies’ room and then left without using it.

I am getting close to saying something, but decide against it.  He might have left me there.  In fact, I’m sure he would have.

After his third beer and fourth shot, and without a word, he gets up.  He tucks a five into the dancer’s G-string and locks eyes with her. It seems we are leaving. 

But I think he’ll be back.

In the vestibule, he holds his hand out.  I look at him.  He points at my purse.  Ah. The gun.  I hold my purse open and let him grab it.  I’m afraid I’ll accidentally fire it.

If I touch it. 

Maybe on purpose. 

I’m pretty good with a gun, and I’m pretty indignant by this time.

I head for the car, open the door, and get in.  He takes his time, stopping to pee on the side of the building. 

My sentiments exactly.

I fasten my seatbelt.  It’s 1982– nobody wears seatbelts.

He aims the car in the opposite direction.  Weaving.  Running red lights.  I just close my eyes and count the minutes. 

One Mississippi Two Mississippi. . .

Neither of us says a word.  When we get to my block, he slows the car, not even pulling into the driveway, and I get out before the car is even completely stopped.  

I’m not sure he had any intention of braking.

I walk into the kitchen and Tom is playing poker with two men and a woman.  I’m pretty sure they are all cops.  They have the look.  There is cash all over the table.

I give Tom a look.

He leans back and laughs.  “Not good, eh,” he says.  He doesn’t ask.

I stomp up the stairs, making as much noise as I can, and then I slam the door.  They all burst into laughter.

I aged a lot that night. Grew up, maybe.  I established several dating rules. One of which is no cops, ever, not ever, never. Never again. No.

Another being to take my car every time until I’m sure they’re not a psychopath.

A third?  Be very wary when someone says, “I know someone who’d be perfect for you.” 

I’ve been dating for 34 years.  There’s nobody perfect.  The perfect relationship involves allowing for one another’s idiosyncrasies while not losing one’s self.  Write that down.  It’s truth.