Worst Date Ever
So, there was this guy� Dave. Dave Masc-er-um-right-yeah-that-guy. He was cute as hell and he was hitting on me in the Mexican restaurant I was working at in northern California. Slick and suave. Oooh! The next night he came back� and the next night� and the next night.
Well, good ol’ Dave asked me out that fourth night of enchiladas and frijoles, and I said “hell yeah!” The next night he picked me up in his yellow (yeah, yellow- I know, girl, look for the signsâÂ?¦) Corvette.
Did I mention that Dave was a race car driver? I may not have- I may have thought that Dave had mentioned it enough for both of us.
So, as I was saying, Dave picked me up in his yellow (ahem) Corvette. He ostentatiously announced that we were going to “the city” for dinner, and that he had “arranged” the whole evening. My unsophisticated heart went “pitter-pat.”
So, we set out for “the city”, a good hour away from the town I was living in, fought traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge for a sweaty twenty minutes, navigated the labyrinth of one way streets and no left turns that comprises the city of San Francisco, paid an astronomical fee for parking, and walked several long blocks to the swanky restaurant at which he’d “arranged” for our evening to begin.
It would appear that when Dave said that he had “arranged” the evening, what he meant was that he had called the restaurant and inquired if they were open.
“Two for dinner,” Dave announced pompously.
“And your name, sir?” replied the Maitre d’.
“Masc-er-um-right-yeah-that-guy. Two for dinner.” Dave winked and flashed me that Colgate smile.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t find your name. When did you make the reservation?”
Now, I was a nice kid, and I was certainly enamored. A simple retreat, a couple of laughs, and a good hearty meal at the diner down the block would have suited me just fine. Dave, however, was incensed. Apparently a 25-year-old in a yellow-ahem-Corvette deserved better treatment, and he proceeded to make the Maitre d’ aware of his station in life. Sadly, that station was getting nothing but static.
I bowed my head and attempted to creep closer to a couple standing behind me, hoping that the good folks who had thought to call ahead for a reservation would mistake me for a member of their party. To his great and benevolent credit, the Maitre d’ did turn his bovine gaze from Dave’s purple, contorted, spittle spraying countenance to give me a sympathetic look.
Dave wound down, grabbed my hand, pronounced the evening over, and dragged me from the restaurant. I followed along behind him, tripping in the heels that I cannot stand to wear, and hoped that he planned to put the yellow Corvette into turbo drive and get me home so that I could quit my job, fake my death, and acclimate myself to the early morning hours and the heavy tug of the habit experienced by the fine sisters of St. Virginia’s Convent for Recovered Shoe Fanatics and Bad Date Refugees.
Well, the turbo part happened, but home was a long way off. We hit the Golden Gate Bridge heading north. Dave sullenly paid the bridge toll and screamed away from the booth, tires squealing, rubber burning. We were half way across the nearly two mile long bridge when I, gazing into the passenger side rear view, noted the most amazing thing.
A tire.
Our tire.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Sparks!
Dave (did I mention he was a race car driver- wait, no, he handled that) wrestled the car to the side of the bridge while I stared into the rear view, transfixed, as, in slow motion, the tire that had once been attached to the rear passenger side axle of the yellow-ahem-Corvette bounced off behind us, struck an oncoming car, ricocheted off that car, struck a car several vehicles behind us, and bounced perkily off over the side of the bridge and into the great, gray San Francisco Bay 748 feet below.
We will now pause to allow the heart rates of the participants of this date to return to subatomic levels. Please enjoy the music while you hold.
Thank you for holding.
So, we stepped from the yellow-ahem-Corvette, which was now disabled in one of two open northbound lanes of the Golden Gate. I attempted to ignore the fact that the ground beneath my feet was actually not ground at all. It was the steel mesh of the bridge which provided my less than heights friendly eyes with an excellent vantage point of the stunning drop we had just narrowly escaped plummeting. The blaring of the horns was an appropriate accompaniment to the noise in my head.
About fifteen long, adrenally infused minutes later, a large barge of a tow truck arrived to unceremoniously shove Dave’s beloved yellow-ahem-Corvette off the bridge. Sadly, the machismo mobile was pushed off the bridge in the traditional way, up along the outside lane into Marin, and not over the rail into the bay.
We spent the next three hours silently, sullenly waiting at a rest stop. We were waiting for his mother to arrive and pick us up to take us back home. There seemed to have been some difficulty locating her.
I am not sure why it was so hard. As it turns out, he still lived with her.
