He texted me and invited me for coffee in the afternoon, which is about as harmless as you can get for a date. I agreed and was actually fairly enthusiastic. He made one single attempt to get me to have coffee at his house, but I pointed out that he could kill me and throw me in a pit in the basement. Hasn't he watched every horror movie ever? We agreed on Village Inn.
Dre arrived dressed in all black. Black beater tank, black leather jacket (did I mention it was fucking July and he walked to the restaurant), black pants, shoes, and some weird spiked bracelets/belt combo that looked far more appropriate for a Type O Negative video than a July afternoon coffee date at Village-fucking-Inn in Colorado Springs. If the comic book guy from The Simpsons had sex with Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, you would have my date, who, by the way, was definitely using a photo from at least 10 years ago.
He greeted me with a handshake and slid into the booth, beginning the conversation with, and I wish with all my heart I was lying: "Do you ever think that the Matrix really is real? Like the movie itself was this warning to us all and you and I are just sitting here right now while our bodies feed the machine?"
I sat, staring, slightly stunned, wondering if he was joking or making conversation, or just fucking insane. "Well," I said, "It was a pretty good movie. I guess if it were real, I'd probably prefer to remain a battery. I mean, living with no sunlight or real food would suck ass. I'm too lazy to fight machines. They can keep my energy. I'll stay in my pod."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "It's just that I feel so often that everything around me is slightly, off. Not real. Not quite there, you know?"
Oh. shit.
Oh. shit.
He continued, "I could easily see it all being a great facade—"
At this point, thank fuck, the waitress showed up and interrupted to ask him what he wanted to drink. He looked over at me, and then, staring intently at my breasts, slid a single $20 from his wallet and smoothed it on the table. "I have exactly $20," he said, still staring at my chest. "You can order anything you want as long as it will make the total bill under $20."
I sat there for a moment, my eye-fucked breasts and myself, and wondered briefly if I really was in the Matrix and some computer dude decided to fuck with my specific program to spike my performance.
"Ummmmm," I mumbled, "I have my own money. I'll buy my own food."
"My mother would kill me if I let a lady pay," he said, glancing at the waitress for some sort of validation that he was a gentlemen, even as he continued to take unsubtle peeks at the visual topography of my body. The waitress ignored him and gazed out the window, disinterested, and likely wishing she could run away, far, far away from this place. I wondered if she would take me with her. We could die together like Thelma and Louise, my new best friend and I. Ramp off a cliff in Palmer Park in my Ford Focus, blaring Fuck Tha Police while we ate peanut butter pie with our bare hands. Hopefully we'd crash into one of the fascist mansions marring the landscape. Poetic.
"I'm a feminist," I said, unnecessarily, miserably, "I buy my own food. Peanut butter pie. With vodka. A double." The waitress smirked and Matrix Guy regarded me quite seriously.
"I don't drink," he said. "I'm bipolar. It messes up my medication." He paused. "But sometimes I drink anyway. I just have to skip my meds."
Jackpot.
Matrix Guy proceeded to order his meal and his coffee as I sat there wondering how to get the fuck out of this quickly and gracefully. But first, pie. I wasn't leaving without it.
As I sat there and tore napkins and straw wrappers to bits like a stressed-out gorilla in captivity, Matrix Guy began to weave his totally-terrible-for-a-first-date tale of woe. His girlfriend left him years ago. He was going to kill himself after she was gone, but then she told him she was pregnant with his child and he suddenly wanted to live again. Now he lived in his own apartment and she drove him places because he didn't have a car. They got along well even though she was a "fucking bitch." He enjoyed role-playing in the park with his friends. His real name was Ryan, but they all called him Dre because that was his wizard name. He was a pretty badass wizard and all his friends respected that.
I started to reassess my life choices.
The waitress finally returned with our food and I began to down my pie like I was in a contest against Kobayashi and the fate of humankind depended on my ability to finish.
"You have a healthy appetite," he commented, as I forked half the slice into my mouth in one bite.
I ignored him and began to actually consider the cliche system of begging my best friend to text me with an emergency. As he ate, he brought up the Matrix again. "The part that really gets me is the people around me. They all just seem like they're playing a part. Like the woman in red."
"Wouldn't that mean you're playing a part, too," I asked.
"No. Because I'm a knower."
Yes. I make bad choices. I should never, ever be allowed to pick my own dates ever again. Ever. I considered excusing myself to the bathroom and pulling the fire alarm like a teenager trying to get out of a science test.
"Would you like to step out for a cigarette," he asked. He pushed his plate aside.
I very much did in that moment, so we went out in front of the restaurant, where Matrix Guy promptly asked for one of my cigarettes. And my lighter.
"My favorite times to smoke," he said, taking a deep drag and regarding me seriously, "are after a big meal ... and after good, hard, sex. How about you?"
And there it was. The final straw. I let that moment hang in the air between us, wondering if he'd pick up the awkward social cues I was radiating. He did not.
"I don't have sex," I lied. "I'm waiting for marriage."
"Oh, I never have sex on the first date," he said, also lying, because no one ever fucks this guy, first date, last date, prison date, or otherwise. "But I'm very good. If we ever get to that point."
I began to look desperately for my phone, which I had left on the table. This needed to end. Now.
"I'm going back in," I said. I crushed my cigarette and opened the door.
"Great! You go first so I can enjoy the view."
I gagged a little and ran to the booth, frantically flagging down the waitress for my check. Matrix Guy came in and sat across from me as I checked my phone and began to text my best friend for help.
"I'm so sorry," I lied, brandishing my phone and all but throwing silverware at Louise to get her the fuck over to my table with my goddamn check. "My ex-husband needs me to get my kids. I have to go."
"How disappointing," he said. "We've been clicking so well." As a side note, the motherfucker could now add delusions to his bipolar diagnosis. Severe fucking delusions.
"Mmmm," I muttered, noncommittally. "Such a bummer, but I must be going." At this point, our waitress was going to fucking die. I was going to strangle her. She was no longer in my suicide fantasy. She was dead to me. Where was my check?!
She finally brought the bill and I paid while Matrix Guy skulked behind me, likely gazing at my ass and imagining our first special after-fuck cigarette together, the one we'd smoke before his ex-girlfriend picked him up and drove him home.
He began to pay, too, and I headed for the door, hoping for the safety of my sweet, sweet car before he could leave. Unfortunately, the asshole had cash and stiffed Louise on the tip, so he was easily able to catch up to me as I got to my Focus and climbed in.
"So what did you think of me today," he asked. "Did I earn a second date?"
I pretended I couldn't hear him and closed the door, then waved politely through the rolled-up window as I peeled out of the parking lot at about 50mph. Thank the dark gods, I was free.
And then my phone chimed.
Matrix Guy: Text me when you get home safe, k sweetie?
No. NO!
Until that moment, I had always done my best in my dating life to politely brush guys off and not leave them hanging. Not this time. I never replied. Not to that text. Or the other texts. Or his messages online. Or any other method. Sometimes, it's just better to be rude.
Whenever I feel guilty for not being blunt with him, I like to imagine that instead of feeling sad or hurt, maybe he thinks that Neo finally found me and I took the Red Pill. That I'll come for him someday. He is, after all, a knower...
"I'm a feminist," I said, unnecessarily, miserably, "I buy my own food. Peanut butter pie. With vodka. A double." The waitress smirked and Matrix Guy regarded me quite seriously.
"I don't drink," he said. "I'm bipolar. It messes up my medication." He paused. "But sometimes I drink anyway. I just have to skip my meds."
Jackpot.
Matrix Guy proceeded to order his meal and his coffee as I sat there wondering how to get the fuck out of this quickly and gracefully. But first, pie. I wasn't leaving without it.
As I sat there and tore napkins and straw wrappers to bits like a stressed-out gorilla in captivity, Matrix Guy began to weave his totally-terrible-for-a-first-date tale of woe. His girlfriend left him years ago. He was going to kill himself after she was gone, but then she told him she was pregnant with his child and he suddenly wanted to live again. Now he lived in his own apartment and she drove him places because he didn't have a car. They got along well even though she was a "fucking bitch." He enjoyed role-playing in the park with his friends. His real name was Ryan, but they all called him Dre because that was his wizard name. He was a pretty badass wizard and all his friends respected that.
I started to reassess my life choices.
The waitress finally returned with our food and I began to down my pie like I was in a contest against Kobayashi and the fate of humankind depended on my ability to finish.
"You have a healthy appetite," he commented, as I forked half the slice into my mouth in one bite.
I ignored him and began to actually consider the cliche system of begging my best friend to text me with an emergency. As he ate, he brought up the Matrix again. "The part that really gets me is the people around me. They all just seem like they're playing a part. Like the woman in red."
"Wouldn't that mean you're playing a part, too," I asked.
"No. Because I'm a knower."
Yes. I make bad choices. I should never, ever be allowed to pick my own dates ever again. Ever. I considered excusing myself to the bathroom and pulling the fire alarm like a teenager trying to get out of a science test.
"Would you like to step out for a cigarette," he asked. He pushed his plate aside.
I very much did in that moment, so we went out in front of the restaurant, where Matrix Guy promptly asked for one of my cigarettes. And my lighter.
"My favorite times to smoke," he said, taking a deep drag and regarding me seriously, "are after a big meal ... and after good, hard, sex. How about you?"
And there it was. The final straw. I let that moment hang in the air between us, wondering if he'd pick up the awkward social cues I was radiating. He did not.
"I don't have sex," I lied. "I'm waiting for marriage."
"Oh, I never have sex on the first date," he said, also lying, because no one ever fucks this guy, first date, last date, prison date, or otherwise. "But I'm very good. If we ever get to that point."
I began to look desperately for my phone, which I had left on the table. This needed to end. Now.
"I'm going back in," I said. I crushed my cigarette and opened the door.
"Great! You go first so I can enjoy the view."
I gagged a little and ran to the booth, frantically flagging down the waitress for my check. Matrix Guy came in and sat across from me as I checked my phone and began to text my best friend for help.
"I'm so sorry," I lied, brandishing my phone and all but throwing silverware at Louise to get her the fuck over to my table with my goddamn check. "My ex-husband needs me to get my kids. I have to go."
"How disappointing," he said. "We've been clicking so well." As a side note, the motherfucker could now add delusions to his bipolar diagnosis. Severe fucking delusions.
"Mmmm," I muttered, noncommittally. "Such a bummer, but I must be going." At this point, our waitress was going to fucking die. I was going to strangle her. She was no longer in my suicide fantasy. She was dead to me. Where was my check?!
She finally brought the bill and I paid while Matrix Guy skulked behind me, likely gazing at my ass and imagining our first special after-fuck cigarette together, the one we'd smoke before his ex-girlfriend picked him up and drove him home.
He began to pay, too, and I headed for the door, hoping for the safety of my sweet, sweet car before he could leave. Unfortunately, the asshole had cash and stiffed Louise on the tip, so he was easily able to catch up to me as I got to my Focus and climbed in.
"So what did you think of me today," he asked. "Did I earn a second date?"
I pretended I couldn't hear him and closed the door, then waved politely through the rolled-up window as I peeled out of the parking lot at about 50mph. Thank the dark gods, I was free.
And then my phone chimed.
Matrix Guy: Text me when you get home safe, k sweetie?
No. NO!
Until that moment, I had always done my best in my dating life to politely brush guys off and not leave them hanging. Not this time. I never replied. Not to that text. Or the other texts. Or his messages online. Or any other method. Sometimes, it's just better to be rude.
Whenever I feel guilty for not being blunt with him, I like to imagine that instead of feeling sad or hurt, maybe he thinks that Neo finally found me and I took the Red Pill. That I'll come for him someday. He is, after all, a knower...
