I pull into one of the hippest neighborhoods in the city ready for a jazzy night.
After 30 minutes of searching for parking I’m officially ten minutes late and must surrender to pricey valet.
I just love passing the truck’s keys to a man who parks BMWs all night.
He hands me the valet ticket and I race to the door to avoid the rain pelting my wavy locks. Naturally I don’t have an umbrella. I knew it was raining, I don’t know why I don’t have an umbrella. I actually bought a really cute blue and white vintage style umbrella. I just never have the umbrella when it’s actually raining.
Inside is like a 1940s nightclub where Humphrey Bogart would have smoked cigars and drank scotch while sitting at a small round table listening to a jazz band.
So this is jazz – no singing, just lots of meandering rifts from guys wailing on instruments for hours on end.
I don’t have a clue where to begin looking for this guy. The place is packed with people and I barely know what he looks like. Put more than one photo online buddy.
At least he thought to pass along his phone number.
I text: “I’m here, standing at the end of the bar.”
It’s an odd scene – meeting a stranger hoping he’ll provide you marriage and babies. It calls for alcohol. Dirty gin martini straight up.
A tall, slim, dark-haired man makes his way over.
He has a mug of beer in hand, gives me a hug and asks if I would like a drink. Just then, the bartender hands me the martini complete with two fat green olives.
Now what?
I ask about his job.
He hates his job. He works too much. He travels too much.
I ask where he lives.
He lives in the priciest part of the city (cha-ching – mental cash register bells ring). He doesn’t like his new neighborhood. He used to live in this artsy swank neighborhood. That was better. Why did he leave the artsy swank neighborhood? Because his relationship with some chick fell apart.
So I ask about jazz. Does he play?
He did, but doesn’t have time now because of the lousy job and the lousy commute from the lovely, oh excuse me, horrid neighborhood.
I want to kill myself.
I order another drink.
With two martinis tossed back, the jazz sounds jazzier and Jazz Guy is a little less dreadful. He actually smiled a few times – when he wasn’t complaining about not finding seats, hovering over people with seats or trying to sneak into seats where we shouldn’t be seated. By the way he was definitely on drink number five.
I passed the one hour mark and had enough of Jazz Guy and his jazz club.
Mental note – always, always give an advanced warning for ditching after an hour and a half – dinner with girlfriends, late night drink with girlfriends, movie with girlfriends. Basically fib about any plans so you can escape your date. What if you’re having a great time? Leave ‘em wanting more.
After two hours of a lot of jazz and little talking (the music was too loud for talking, thank god) I hinted about having a work obligation in the morning and suggested wrapping up the night.
Before heading out the door, I excused myself to the bathroom. As I stood up from the toilet and turned to flush, I watched my valet ticket fall out of my pocket and into the toilet.
Great.
I explain the problem to the valet in detail. I simply could have said ‘I misplaced my valet ticket.” But no, I figured the valet would be less apt to suspect me for a car thief if I offered excessive, uncomfortable information.
I tell Jazz Guy there’s no need to wait. I secretly don’t want another guy seeing my dirty pickup. We hug goodbye. He hops into a cab and drives off.
Still waiting for the valet to pull up my truck, I receive a text.
It’s Jazz Guy: “Had a great time tonight.”
I don’t know whether to respond. I don’t want to lead him on. I’m pretty sure he’s not my husband.
My red truck arrives but is barely recognizable since it hasn’t been rinsed with water since the last rain shower.
I pull onto the road and my mind begins to drift. Oh Canada.
Whenever a date fails to excite me the wheels in my brain reverse. I revert to giggling in bed with Oh Canada while watching Reality TV, or riding an elephant together in Thailand where my toes continually, and intentionally, bumped his toes. My thoughts land on any one of the lustful memories of Sunday afternoons where we took hours to get out the door to meet friends.
Oh Canada.
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