I have always said that to live a life of true happiness, everyone must first brave five evil first dates. “Evil” here does not mean “bad” or “wrong.” This particular use is more closely synonymous with words like “heinous,” “vile,” and “nefarious.” These dates send you flying back to your roommates with wild eyes; they send a tremor of disgust up your spine and leave you cringing at their memory. These are the five evil first dates.
These dates are not sequential or predictable. You don’t get a card that says, “Watch Out!” the night before or a visit from three ghosts warning you to change your plans before the clock strikes twelve. These dates appear innocuous. They could happen to anyone, and they will happen to you.
***
The first of five is what we call “The Sweater.” This date was supposed to occur at a Chili’s, but The Sweater doesn’t like Chili’s because he choked on their Chicken Crispers last time he went. So, the date is at Starbucks. Not much to choke on there unless you start gnawing on the cups.
The first problem with The Sweater is that he’s forty minutes late.
It’s Starbucks, so you basically ordered as soon as you got there. You tried to sit by the door and look like you were expecting someone, but after a few minutes the barista was making so much eye contact that it felt like you were letting her down more than your grandma when she saw your tattoo.
When The Sweater finally walks in, you decide to be friendly. You compliment him on his red shirt. He says it’s pink.
There’s no way.
Oh, but there is a way. There is a way that his shirt could be pink. It’s because, as his name suggests, he’s sweated so furiously and profusely that the entire shirt is drenched and has, like a mood ring on an angry child, entirely changed color.
Maybe, you think, you can move past this. So far, you aren’t sure that he knows you know how ungodly sweaty he is. You hope he starts drying out soon. Maybe you can pretend you’re waving away a fly and secretly fan him with your hand. What’s the hand-power to full-body-sweat drying rate?
There’s no mention of the fact that he’s almost an hour late, so you sit down and try not to look at the shirt.
He moves his hand across the table. You stare at the line of sweat that slides out from under it. He asks a question, but you could not be more distracted. Thankfully, the barista has her gaze locked on him like a caffeine-powered tractor beam. He gets up to order.
“Americano, hot.”
God, why?
He grips the cup, wet steam floating up into his face. A single bead of sweat drips down his nose and you watch as it splashes saltily into his coffee. There might be vomit in your throat.
“So, what kind of stuff do you like?”
How could someone this damp be so dry?
Your response must not be satisfactory, because he announces that the date “started later than he thought” (I wonder why?) and he needs to get back to his apartment to watch football.
You stand to say goodbye. He moves forward, not towards the door, but towards you. He opens his arms.
No human should ever be described as soggy, but when The Sweater envelops you, there are no other words. It’s so near waterboarding that you’re certain he’s violating at least one Geneva Convention.
You can’t even breathe a sigh of relief when he’s gone because your entire body feels like a biohazard. Inhaling could bring infectious particles into your lungs.
The Sweater is the first of five.
***
The second evil date is not always immediately identifiable, but once discovered, is by far the most fun. We call this one “The Fibber.”
The date with The Fibber is always in a Buffalo Wild Wings. Something about the constant presence of televised sports, trivia, and men named Mike brings out the worst in this person.
You just ordered and they’re telling you about one of their friends, Peter. They brought him up because you mentioned something about math. The only issue is that the person whose life they’re describing is not Peter’s, but Matt Damon’s in the Oscar-winning film Good Will Hunting. You’re clued in when The Fibber mentions Peter’s wise-yet-humorous psychologist (Robin Williams) and that he’s a janitor, but also a mathematical genius.
Despite this first, and ridiculous, lie, you do really want your parmesan garlic wings, so you try to change the topic. The first thing that comes to mind? Politics. No, not a great date topic. Not to worry, though. The Fibber has it covered.
“Oh, yeah, my uncle actually worked for Ronald Reagan when he was president. He was actually best friends with him. They sometimes still go golfing.” They throw in a convincing chuckle. “I hear he’s got a mean swing.”
It’s amazing Ronald has that much vigor since he’s been dead since 2004, but you sip your water and nod. The best thing about The Fibber is that they don’t stop if they don’t know they’re caught.
“Wow, so tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”
They take a deep breath, drawing in the oily air and television static, cooking up a little Buffalo-fueled lie.
“I had a twin, but I absorbed him in the womb.”
You mangle your laugh into a gasp.
“I do have a sister, but she lives in Canada and is in the CIA.”
You can’t resist.
“That’s so interesting, is that the Canadian Intelligence Agency?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Mhm. What kind of missions does she go on?”
The Fibber spends a moment deciding whether they should start plagiarizing Jason Bourne or think of a movie without Matt Damon in it.
After a long drink of water, they say, “It’s classified.”
These dates never have a follow-up, because something sudden and unexpected always happens to The Fibber. They get in a car accident or their long-lost aunt from Singapore visits on the day of your next date or they have to go play golf with a deceased president. The reasoning is unpredictable, but the result is always the same: a pure, baldfaced lie. Just be glad they don’t absorb you like the twin.
***
The third installment in this quintet of evil is “The Driver,” and, my god, would he love that title.
The Driver, like all men without identifiable personalities, is in love with his car. This date takes place exclusively in his vehicle, because the proposed date location is never within walking distance of any place you’ve ever been. He has to pick you up. He’ll just swing by. He doesn’t even need to show you he can parallel park. Not because he’s not good at it. He is. The best, maybe. He’ll just sit in the street outside your apartment and honk. He might even start honking to the drum beat of “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit.
When you get in the car he’ll ask if you recognized the honk pattern. Because you’re not Horn Shazam, you don’t, which is exactly the answer he was hoping for. It’s a song from the first Fast and Furious movie. Of course.
Once you’re in the car, safely buckled, he doesn’t check his mirrors and peels off into the street, engine grinding and wheels shrieking. He’s removed the muffler, so it sounds like you’re in a combine running over human bones. Romance is alive.
Every red traffic light is an affront to The Driver. He hammers his hands against the steering wheel and gestures to the car stopped in front of him, which is, most frequently, a Honda.
“We could’ve gotten through. He shoulda gone.”
You’ve never had anything in common with Rihanna, but, in these moments, you wish he’d shut up and drive.
Every green light is God’s gift to The Driver. Each emerald bulb gets a “Green wave!” or “Bless up!” The bless ups are the most exciting, because he takes both hands off the wheel to point up to God. Sometimes he even signs the cross which gives an extra ten seconds of unmanned steering time. Fifteen when he forgets to tap his head and has to redo it. You’re not religious, but you hope he really does have heavenly connections. Jesus take the wheel.
Yellow lights give The Driver a surge of adrenaline comparable to a mouse on cocaine. He whoops and reaches over to shake your shoulder, slamming your head around while he goes 80 through the intersection.
“You know,” he says, “cops actually can’t arrest you for speeding if the light is yellow.”
Oh, how wrong he is.
The Driver never gets pulled over. He’s protected by some invisible shield that lets him do the stupidest things you’ve ever seen while playing the worst music you’ve ever heard. There are only so many times you can listen to “Highway to Hell” before you start hoping you’ll die and go there.
A shortcut with The Driver is always the longest and worst possible way to get somewhere. Children narrowly escape flattening and numerous one-way streets are reversed all the way down before you offer to turn on Google Maps. This is the greatest insult he’s ever received. He knows the streets.
Pray you never arrive at your destination, because the moment The Driver steps out of his car, he becomes an encyclopedia for every part of the vehicle.
The wheels? Oh yes, he knows what they are, and he just had them rotated. He kicks them to show you how strong they are.
His headlights? New. Wanna see? He blinds you.
When it’s finally time to go into Texas Roadhouse (yes, Road), you ask what he’s getting.
“The All-American Burger.”
You don’t even have to ask why.
“I believe, well, my philosophy is, that everything made in the U.S. of A is superior.”
You wait for it.
“Just look at my car. All-American Chevrolet.” He turns, blowing a kiss back at the parking lot.
Dates with The Driver always end in an Uber ride home.
***
The fourth evil date is often physically attractive, meaning the horrors truly come from within. We call this fine specimen “The Bulker.”
The Bulker is instantly recognizable for his John Cena physique and, like John, his truly invisible sense of self.
The date is always at P.F. Chang’s. Why, you ask? Well, certainly not for their fast casual Anglo-Chinese dining experience. No, it’s because of their high-protein spicy chicken.
He’s already ordered it by the time you arrive and is checking out his calf muscles in the reflective metal wall paneling. Like Narcissus if he shot up steroids instead of talking to nymphs.
“You know this has thirty-nine grams of protein?”
You’re sitting at a table, staring into the depths of the spicy chicken bowl he ordered “not too spicy,” and it’s truly the only depth available, because the conversation is barely skimming the surface.
You prompt him with the most underhand of underhanded questions. It should be an easy hit. A line drive.
“So, what were you up to before this?”
A winning question for a man with but one hobby, because he never has to memorize any other answers.
“Gym.”
Your lettuce wraps arrive and you receive a dubious look.
“That’s probably like 100 calories.”
And how does he know this?
“I’m actually starting my own app. It’s for, like, fitness food tracking.”
“Like My Fitness Pal?”
Oh, boy, was that the wrong question to ask. The Bulker always has an unfathomably large head (perhaps some kind of metaphor), and his turns the color of underdone chicken.
“No. My Fitness Pal is for moms. This is for hardcore shit. You’re gonna be able to, like, put in your bulk and cut and, like, clock all your meals and it’ll give you, like, suggestions for workouts.”
It’s like he’s reading the My Fitness Pal customer value proposition.
“What’re you going to call it?”
“I’m working on that part. Gotta really think.” Jury’s out on whether he possesses that skill. He’s still red. “Man. The spice in this thing.” He gestures down to his chicken.
“You want some water?” You will happily get up from the table and go get some water and stand by the water fountain until he forgets you’re there and leaves.
“Nah.” The Bulker reaches down into his gym bag. A foul stench lifts into the air. He brings out a gallon jug of brown liquid. “I got my protein shake.”
The level of constipation he experiences must be extreme.
A date with The Bulker is never complete until you receive some kind of unsolicited workout feedback.
You finish your lettuce wraps. He’s fixated on your armpit. Here it comes.
“You know how to lat spread?”
“No.”
“Here, lemme show you.”
He gets up, contorts his chest, flips his head back, and pushes out his back muscles. His lats are indeed spread like small glider wings. You hope a strong gust carries him away.
“You should work on your lats.”
It’s blatant. It’s plain. It lacks taste and tact. It’s not unlike the chicken and rice The Bulker consumes by the pound each day.
The Bulker is always smacking his thighs. The table. The wall. The doorframe when you exit the P.F. Chang’s. You assume you’d be thrown in this mix if you went on enough dates.
You never have to ask The Bulker where he’s headed post-date. He has but one reply.
***
The fifth of five is the one truly evil first date. The final boss, if you will. We call them “The Killer.”
A date with The Killer is unlike a date with The Sweater, The Fibber, The Driver, or The Bulker. A date with The Killer is pleasant and sweet.
The Killer opens doors for you. The Killer knows how to ask questions.
“Do you have siblings?”
“What kind of movies do you like?”
You can go on and on with The Killer. They get you. They understand. They’ve gone on dates with The Fibber and The Driver. You laugh together over your shared basket of Chili’s complementary chips, because, unlike The Sweater, they haven’t choked on a Chicken Crisper, so the restaurant is an option.
When you ask them things, they’re articulate. They know who they are. They do more than drive from the gym to their house to the gym. They would never ask you to stare into a car headlight, even if it was American made.
When the food arrives, they are remarkably normal. They smile. You develop a shared joke about how your waitress keeps forgetting straws. Is it funny? No, but it’s yours. Yours as a pair. As…a couple?
You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You chew your chips slower. You need more time to evaluate.
The Pakistani Dutch poet, Ehsan Sehgal, said, “The killer kills in a minute; whereas, the executor of false happiness or fake hopes stays killing you every moment of every day.”
This one isn’t called The Executor of False Happiness or Fake Hopes, because they’re not. They’re The Killer.
And the kill is instant.
You don’t expect it. You’re smiling, you’re laughing. They’re saying something about going to the grocery store. It’s the best story about a grocery store you’ve ever heard. And then, “I eat bananas with the skin on, so I try to find the ones with the least brown spots.”
And the Chili’s $6 Margarita goes cold in your hand.
The Killer kills with a single phrase. A single word, sometimes, if that word is “Bazinga.” The space between you has died. It’s coffined and buried and trodden on by hundreds of feet.
The Killer is worse than his counterparts. An evil first date with The Killer treads on the soul. It droops the shoulders and weighs on the mind, so the head falls forward. The Killer kills your posture and snuffs your hopes for romance.
The brutality of The Killer is mentally draining and physically exhausting. Yet, you must experience it. To go on a date with The Killer is to join the ranks of datees everywhere. Downtrodden and depressed, but still united. One day, the revolution will pull them from their stupor and send them into battle once more. At Olive Garden. Panera. Red Robin. From the fields, from the mountains, from suburban Connecticut, they rise.
One beacon of hope, illuminating the way, instilling in our hearts and minds the potential for a first date, not evil, but good. Absent of protein and sweat and lies about Ronald Reagan.
Friends, we look to a brighter future. We must join hands and sally forth.
Onward.
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 