True Stories: Dates From the Fiery Depths of Hell "Cuckoo for Carbopuffs!"

My tale starts as they all do, coming from getting something to eat. This time was yummy dinner at B's house, damn shame that I can remember that all these years later. (The procurement of food is high on the "To Do" list for my crew.)

The year-late 90's-ish, his name unnecessary (just because you're crazy, doesn't mean you're not litigious). Let's call our Gentleman Caller of Doom: "D." We will call him that because that's the first letter of his name. M'kay?

***

I met D. while trying to hail a taxi on a dead cold winter night, in the middle of BK. He was driving in the opposite direction and proceeded to whip his ride in a General Lee style fury across 2 lanes of traffic, and then U turn. Cause I was pretty. Yep, I'm a sucker for a compliment. He turned out to be quite the looker. Imagine a buff Al B. Sure- with 2 eyebrows. Kind of yummy.

On my left, my partner in nonsense, witnessing the entire 'transaction'- affirms. "Oh, he's cute! He's really polite too" (he called her ma'am) "Now, I predict that that shit's going to work your nerves-plus it's kind of scary. But he's REALLY CUTE!" I can always count on Mel for these important judgment calls. "You should totally go out with him!" We are a shallow people.

Yadda yadda yadda plans for the next Saturday. The red flags begin to slowly unfurl, by the time Saturday night arrived- I'd already received 5 "Are we still on? I'm so excited!" calls. I started seeing hints that the young man's brain was possibly held together with an intricate system of scotch tape and toothpicks. I wanted to bail, but didn't have the heart. "Heart is for suckers!" Serves me right, for what's about to happen to me. "Punk ass trick!" (Sorry, I was having a tough love moment with myself).


Uber-On time D. picks me up. He's wearing his best trench coat, business casual slacks, the hardest of hard bottom spit shined shoes and a white fancy man blouse, buttoned tight enough to bruise his esophagus. I'm in jeans.

He holds the door open so I can climb into his non-descript automobile, the kind you see the plain clothes cops drive in all the Law and Orders. I think, "That was polite, he can't be that bad."

During the ride from the Bronx to Manhattan, he prefers to interview me, rather than just let conversation organically happen. I am certain he read this in his 'How to Date in the 1950s' book.
D: So what to do you do? Are you fulfilled, is it everything you thought it would be?

Me: Yea, Telecom gets me moist.

D: (Silence- apparently my gutter humor does not amuse).

Me: (attempting to turn change the subject to something lighter) Sooooo, where did you go to school?

D: (tight lipped) Actually, I was in the Army. But they released me for having flat feet.

Me: (laughing because I think he's gotta be joking) Wow, I've only heard that in those army movies. Besides- why would they let you sign up? Did you wear your 'stunt-feet' that day?

D: (un- amused and un-phased by me- repeats). I was in the Army; they released me for flat feet.

Me: Um okay

D: I'm a personal trainer now. And I'm going to culinary school to become a chef.

Me: (Instant woody, cause I'm a greedy bitch). Now that's sexy talk right there!

D: Hunh?

Me: Never mind.

D: I hate my mother. She's a fucking bitch I hope she dies.

Me: (Now I'm the speechless one. How in the hayle did we get here?)

D.: She had me committed when I was 16 you know.

Me: Nooo, (nervous laugh) I didn't know.

We're now dangerously close to the Hudson River Boat basin, if you've ever driven down there at night you know how easy it would be to kill a bitch, and stuff her in the trunk of your non-descript ride.


Him: I hope she dies.

Me: Yea, you mentioned that.

D.: I'll dance on her grave.

Me: (Oh damn, I'm a dead woman. When we get out, I'll feign some kind of uterus disturbance and take a cab home. Yea that's it!)

D.: Wanna go to the Saloon?

His mention of the yummy restaurant that once lived on 69th and Broadway directly across from Lincoln Center perks me up instantly, because I am greedy. I think I mentioned that, previously- keep up.

Me: Well, sure!

We park and make the only kind of small talk people can after one mentions wishing for the death of one's mother.


Now here is where the date takes a nosedive. Seated at the table, I proceed to order the way a woman who is going to be killed in an oedipal rage should enjoy her last meal. Yes, Siree! I'll take your finest sea crustacean appetizers, wine (just leave the bottle please!), entre, and hell let's have a salad to cleanse the palate. Mmm is this piping hot bread on the table, I smell? Oh and exotic cranberry butter! Oh Lord you do work in mysterious ways. Well as my hand was reaching for my final taste of bakery goodness. I felt the basket move away. Apologies, I almost forgot D. was there. Well this crazy mother hating son of a bitch, held the basket in one hand as he waved for the waiter with the other. "Oh we don't need this." I heard him say. And then he big finished with "I bet if you cut down on carbs, you could lose some weight."


The chicken head that lives deep inside every bougie black woman pulled off her gold bamboo earrings and said: "Oh no this muthafucka di'nt!"

Bianca dates hard...so you don't have to.