Really!?!

So long story short, this guy gets in touch with me.  Someone has sent him my blog and he decides that I am just his cup of tea.

The line in my “About Me” section about being a member of the National Trivia Bowl Hall of Fame must really resonate with him. For days, he bombards me with obscure song lyrics and asks me to name the musicals from whence they came.

Piece of cake.

I play along for awhile and then call a halt to “Name That Tune.”  By that time, my pen pal- let’s call him Lyle- decides to take our relationship to another level.

He sends me his stats.

Age: 69.

Where he lives: Right down the street from me.

Some of his recent photos: blond-haired, green-eyed, very fit in tennis shorts and golf clothes, cute.

He asks for my phone number.

Dear Readers, I give it to him.

Then he takes it to the next level.

He calls and is pretty charming and funny.  We talk for awhile. (More music trivia.  This time I have to sing “Satin Doll,” for pete’s sakes.)

I pass this test with flying Teddy Strayhorn colors and then Lyle wants to know if I will accompany him to a club that features Big Band Music.

I think about it, but before I can make up my mind, he casually mentions that the best way to get there would be to hop on the bus.

Really!?!

I hate the bus.  The starts and the stops makes me sick to my stomach. No way to please a lady.

So I demur by telling him that, although I love Big Bands, the bus thing will have to go.

He’s a little affronted but he (grudgingly) agrees to break out his car and pick me up at 5:30.

But as it turns out, the club isn’t featuring Big Band stuff tonight, so he calls later and suggests Plan B.  Would I now like to go to the Dock at Montrose Harbor and have dinner?  Same time.  Same station.

Sure.

What kind of car does he have?

A black Kia K-something.

Meh.  (You know I like great cars.  And I’m one judgmental be-yatch. But ok.)

Game on.

Promptly at 5:25 I go downstairs and wait outside my building for the black Kia to pull up in front of my door.  Now will or will he not be on time- I abhor lateness- and will he get out of the car and escort me in? (First secret compatibility test.)

At 5:30 a black Kia rolls down the block.  But then it parks on the OTHER side of the street and nothing happens.

Nothing.  Nada.  Nobody gets out.

Really!?!

Five minutes later, I give.  I walk across the street and knock on the passenger side of the car window.  He rolls it down and indicates that yes, I indeed, have found him.

He motions for me to get in.

When I get in the car, there he is.

79.

And in his gnarly old hand?

A roadie.

A red Solo cup- that is not filled with lemonade.

Really!?!

I could smell the booze.  And I could see he had lied to me about…

Um…

Everything.

Now I’m pissed.

Don’t worry.  He isn’t drunk.  But clearly it’s a big red flag that he needs booze on the way to dinner.

But I have more important fish to fry.  The weather has changed and eating outside at the Dock isn’t appealing to me any more.

“We’ve had the better part of the day.  I think we should eat somewhere inside,” I suggest.

He’s silent.

I want to make it easy for the guy.  “I eat anything but Greek and sushi,” I say helpfully.

“You’re pretty bossy,” he observes.

Really!?!

“Well, that gives you a lot of leeway.  Where do you like to eat?” I ask.

“Mia Francesca, ” he replies.

Perfect.

I like it- and it’s close enough that he can’t drink too much on the way.

“What’s in the cup?” I ask.

“Orange juice.”

I laugh.

“Yeah, right.  Like W.C. Fields’ orange juice.”

Even he laughs.

“Well, maybe I spiked it a little,” he concedes.

Really!?!

Mercifully, we quickly pull up to the restaurant.  He cruises into the valet parking space- but there’s a problem.

“I only want to eat here if we can sit on the back patio.  The main room is too noisy,” he states.  “I’ll ask the valet to find out if we can sit there.”

Lyle inquires.  The valet speaks no inglès.

Stalemate.

He just sits there.

So I finally offer to get out and ask the maître d’ if we can sit on the back patio.

He gallantly assents.

Really!?!

I ask, we can, I go back out and give him the “thumbs up” to leave the car and come in and…

Nothing.

No movement from inside the vehicle.

I walk out of the restaurant.

He rolls down the window.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says.  And he drives off.

Really!?!

Well, fuck it.  I’m hungry.

I go back in and tell the maître d’ to seat me.  I tell him that if an old coot comes in, to show him where the table is.  (I also tell him that if anybody better shows up, please seat him at my table.)

He laughs.

I’m sitting at the table when Lyle walks in.

Nope.  Strike that.

Hobbles in.  He can’t walk any too well.  Limping and lurching from side to side because – as I know from my experience with my ex- his knee replacements and/or hip replacements make walking straight ahead difficult.

As he slooooowly makes his way over to the table, the look on my face must be one of sheer horror.  Where is the tennis-playing dandy of the pictures he has sent me?

Dead as Fred Perry, I’m thinking.

“Boy, you look serious,” Lyle remarks.

I’m too speechless with the combined annoyance of his inability to walk and the fact that Cheap-o has undoubtedly parked the car himself rather than pay for the valet.

But soon it’s Lyle’s turn to be turned off.

He is NOT impressed with my Diet Coke order.  Argues and cajoles and wheedles and finally resigns himself to drinking alone.

But no matter.  Two Ketel ones on the rocks with a splash in rapid succession quickly puts him back in good spirits in no time.

Really!?!

Cocktail hour is interminable.  So are my attempts at small talk.  He asks a lot of questions and he bitches about the people he usually hangs with when he’s down in Naples, Florida for the winter.

“They’re all well-off, shallow and stupid,” he reports.  ‘They talk about tomorrow night’s dinner reservations.  All the widows do is get manicures and go to the beach.  The men are just as bad.  They are on their third wives, they play cards or golf every day and they don’t want to do anything else. What am I supposed to do with that”

(Actually this is one area on which he and I concur.  Bill spends the entire winter in Naples and I call it “Assisted Living.”)

By this time the poor scorned waiter has made his fourth sortie to the table and I’m starving.  The minute he bravely comes over again, I pounce.

“Let’s order, shall we?”

Lyle gives me the once-over.

“Are you very hungry?” he queries.

Really!?!

I guess he wants to share a dinner.

“Yes,” I state.  And I order the roast chicken.

(I am not usually a free dinner ho.  But this lying SOB really deserves it.)

He does the same.

We eat and talk- at least the chicken is great- and then, finally, he’s downed his last Peroni and paid the check.

I ask for a doggie bag.  He gets one, too

We get up to leave.

Of course he has to go to the bathroom.

Really!?!

We walk to his car.

(That is to say I walk. He stumbles.)

When we cross the street, he puts his cold dead hand on my neck. It’s not to guide me. It’s more like he needs to hang on to something.

He takes me home.

(But first he turns the wrong way and has to make several u-turns to right his course.)

Really!?!

I give up.

At a light on Sheridan Road, I jump out of the car.

“Thank you for dinner. Good luck in Florida,” I call as I run for my life.

And lose my phone number, I think.

Really.