About four months after recovering from the hooker incident, I accepted a date with a guy who often visited my neighbor. “Todd” wasn’t the best looking guy in the world, but he was rather persistent, so we went to coffee at Starbucks after work. I left my car at work and he picked me up—not a smart thing to do in case you have to pull one of those oh-I-have-to-go-to-the-bathroom slip-out-the-back acts.
After sitting down with my espresso and his straight-out-the-canister blend (that should have been a good indication of how interesting he was), he started talking. WE didn’t start talking. HE started talking. And before long I was daydreaming about sorting my laundry, making grocery lists in my mind for shopping trips I’d make two years down the road, wondering how proton laserbeam therapy actually works. He never asked me a question, never paused for me to speak. I did manage an occasional “hm,” “uh huh,” “oh.”
Thirty minutes later I excused myself to the bathroom (I couldn’t escape—my car was at work), so when I returned I picked up my purse and said, “Well, we better get going! I have an appointment to have all my teeth removed. ha.ha.” He started talking again, all the way to the car . . . all the way back to my car. Finally, we reached our destination. Safe at last, I thought.
Ang: Thanks for the coffee, Todd. See you!
Todd: (touching my arm) Wait, can I see you again? I really like you!
Ang: No, I don’t think so, Todd. But thank you.
Pause.
Todd: Hm. Well…ok…do you think I could just get a handjob then?
You’d think after nearly sharing an appetizer with a hooker a few months earlier I would have been totally on my game. But no, I was shocked. So I just started clapping.
Ang: Bravo, Todd! You are SUCH a funny man! Bye now!
And I got out of there as fast as I could. I’d see him occasionally at my neighbor’s house and every time we saw each other I never said a word. I just started clapping.
Bravo, Handjob Man!
