Pasadena Companion

I received Priscilla’s number through a brief correspondence within the firewalls of safety managed by the online dating site. I didn’t know her last name, and to be real, how could I really be sure that her name was actually Priscilla? Her bio and vitals described her as pretty much like any single girl looking to find someone special in the greater metro area. We were both in our thirties and our respective posted pictures looked to be current without any filtering or digital dressing. Body type: athletic. Smoker: no. Drinker: occasional. It was all pretty vanilla and straightforward. Priscilla only offered a few words in the area dedicated to her idea of a good time, “laughing with friends.” That’s it, she liked to laugh with friends. I wasn’t sure if that qualified for the mandatory word count associated with this entry field on the dating site. I wondered if she would enjoy laughing with a stranger. I wondered if “laughing” was code for something else, or “friends” was a metaphor for exclusionary. Was she going to exclude me before we even encountered one another on a first date? In the area of Priscilla’s bio dedicated to the things she disliked, or what defined something far less than a good time, she was quite prolific. In fact, I was confident that the word count may have cut her off. Delicatessen food and an avoidance of all cured meats really stood out, but I was trying to mentally file this under the header of something she could dislike in the context of a relationship. In my self-coaching of things to talk about and things to not talk about, I felt the omission of cured meat and discussing institutions dedicated to the promotion of delicatessens, let alone referencing specific delicatessens in our immediate vicinity, did not represent a material compromise on my part. Unless, by chance, she is the one to determine the location of a first date, and as it turns out, she suggests a local deli for a pastrami on rye with coleslaw and a pickle. That could be a test. Priscilla may want to test me to see whether I really studied her bio, and whether I really cared. Is he a caring person? Of course I am. If there’s an opening, and we get that far in the first phone conversation, I’ll suggest something in the realm of an Italian restaurant. No antipasto.

I found an isolated room at work. Huddled with myself and the phone receiver, I called Priscilla. I was bent over in my ergonomic seat with my head almost beneath the edge of the desk in front of me. By consolidating my body and aligning my muscles in the polar opposite of relaxed, I felt that I could mask any nervous quiver in my voice or unexpected high note on a random vowel. This was the number I was given through our light chit-chat emails. Not counting the alert email from the dating site, which notified me of a connection made, there were four emails that went back-n-forth to be exact. Two from me and two from Priscilla. This was the number and this is her name. Of course she’ll answer with a, “who?” After a pause, she’ll chuckle and explain that Delilah is her actual name, but of course with so many men stalking her and the pending divorce, I can understand her innocent deception, “right?” It’s ringing. I’m on the fourth ring. If it goes to a fifth ring. I could appear desperate, or maybe that show is already sold out and in big neon lights over the Gershwin Theatre. “Desperate”, the story of a west coast thirty something man, hunched over in a small meeting room he did not reserve with company central planning, now stalking his second prospective date of the week.

“Hi, this is Priscilla with Keynes, Booker, and Tofsky.” That sounded a bit robotic. Am I listening to a recording, an outgoing message? Is she an employee of a law firm, an accountancy, or possibly a dentistry? It could be a new age media consultancy, but they usually have breakthrough, state of the art names that express their inherent marketing prowess. My god, where is she on the totem pole of Kreviss, Bomb, and Tufky? My mind is suffering through micro contractions and my mouth will not dilate for the birthing of words. Am I about to ask the woman who cracks the whip in this organization that towers over anything I’ll ever be a part of — on a date? No, no, she’s the current President of Kurve, Ball, and Tall. OK, no, wait, I need to slow down. This pause I’m living in, it’s widening and we’re about to become awkward before I’ve said one word outside of those I typed to Priscilla a few days ago. Here it goes, “Hi Priscilla (if that’s truly her given name), it’s Jeff, from the emails with the web site, the dating site.”

I spoke and I was recognized. Her name was in fact Priscilla. It was an accountant’s office and she was an Associate C.P.A. Before I had a chance to politely ask if this was a good time to talk, Priscilla beat me to the punch. She was very sweet and confident, telling me that it was a perfect time for me to call. As it turns out, she was thinking of calling me just moments before the phone rang in her office. I told her a little about my work. On my end of the call, I physically evolved from my hunched over self. We travelled to the village of dating war stories, and stepped into each other’s history hut to examine the curated highlights of deceit, character flaws, and questionable scruples of long ago boyfriends and girlfriends; the discarded romantic past. We spoke with a confidence, placing us at the beginning of something special, something that would not end up as memories to forget and get over. The possibility of happiness with another person was intoxicating, and we passed a phantom opium pipe back and forth — loosing up a bit more with each breath and anxiously revealing things that would better fit a later phase of a longer timeline, or not mentioned at all, ever.

The date was set. We both lived in different corners of Southern California, and we’d meet in the middle. We set a day and a time to meet in Pasadena. Saturday night, seven-thirty, Old Town Pasadena. I suggested a slightly upscale restaurant. Reviews and friends agreed that the vibe would be good, and if we got stuck in a vein of awful conversation or an awkward moment arrived out of nowhere, this restaurant establishment would carry us forth. Happy people would surround our table and rub their happiness all over our souls. Cheerful visual cues and savory smells would hit us from every direction with romantic reinforcement. We’d eat a blissful meal and chew our food through smiles and sweet glances at one another. There was plenty of time between the confirmation of our date and the actual day of the date itself. There was time to consider a haircut; maybe just a trim. Time to review the landscape of my wardrobe and determine what choices were presentable and clean, or what cleaning lie ahead. Time to take an inventory of my physical flaws, make a mental note for the things I could eventually fix with the aid of a doctor, and hurl the balance of defects over a mental cliff. Time to make two visits to the gym for extra long cardio workouts and display myself as the true semi-athletic build touted in the questionnaire. Time to review the map and estimate my travel time from home to the final destination of our date. Time to review the online dinner menu of the restaurant and think about food that would not become lodged between my teeth during the happy, smiling, and romantic meal that awaited us.

From the time I woke to mid-afternoon, Saturday was an exercise in staying modestly busy. I didn’t want to take on a chore or project that could evolve into an all day monstrosity, but I did need to stay occupied to subdue my high degree of expectation for the person-to-person connection that was now hours away. I didn’t have any pets, but I had plants. Ten minutes later, the plants were all watered. Something more ambitious needed to take place, as I had way too much time on my hands to concoct a way to screw up this evening’s long awaited event. Next up, look through the pantry and refrigerator to build a short list of things to shop for. An hour later I was back from the local grocery store. My food stuff inventory was stable and replenished. How was my cash on hand looking? Done, no need to run to the bank. I started to look through old mail to determine if I could write a check and pay a bill. Maybe that would knock off another thirty minutes if I over-analyzed the outstanding balance on my car loan, or methodically reviewed the details of individual charges on a credit card bill. I was saved from paying my bills with a knock on the door. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment complex with no elevator. A knock at the door represented maintenance, someone selling their religion, or my landlady snooping around in search of illegal pets, drugs, or roommates. I was receptive to the possibility of a distraction as I made my way to the door. The benefits of converting to a religion or religious cult could take a long time to explain, and a step-by-step walk through the complimentary literature could consume up to an hour. After unlocking the deadbolt, I swung the door open to greet the knocker. My contrived smile that was fully prepared for a solicitor morphed into a genuine smile and greeting. An attractive woman stood before me with a small plastic grocery bag in hand. “Hi, I’m Sandy. I live over in the front, on the second floor. You left this at the store.” I was confused for a moment and realized that I had picked out all of the produce Sandy held before me, but it was not in my refrigerator. It was in fact the produce that I just shopped for earlier, but my face displayed my tangled mind. As I reached out to relieve Sandy and take the produce, she explained the details for how I walked away and left the bag at the store’s check-out register. Sandy was two places behind me in line and recognized me from our apartment complex. When the check-out lady was yelling after the guy who forgot his groceries, Sandy offered to get it to me. I had never seen Sandy before and I wasn’t sure how she found my door. We spoke for quite a while and Sandy told me about the Sunday jazz events in the local park. She invited me to join a group of her friends and suggested I bring something for their potluck meal. This was better than a new religion or a cult, and there was nothing to study or memorize. I don’t know how Sandy found me or why I never saw her before. After a short time talking in my doorway, I’d be sure to spot her in a busy grocery store or a crowded park.

Driving north to Pasadena, I was precautious to drive a little slower than usual. I didn’t want to become entangled with a road rage demon or fall victim to another driver’s accident destiny. It was winter in Southern California. The air was cool and dry. It was already dark with a sundown well before six o’clock. Hundreds of thousands of cylindrical lights rolling through paths six lanes wide. All coming at me in a parallel universe. I followed hundreds of thousands of square and rectangular red lights between concrete barriers and beneath overhead transport exchanges. I migrated to a new path four lanes wide and then to another only two lanes wide. Winding through hilltop communities and under pedestrian walkways, I finally found myself slowly cruising through a refurbished commercial district, looking for parking in Old Town.

The reservation is under my last name. The parking and my walk over to the restaurant took a bit longer than anticipated and I’m no longer an easy going early bird date. I’m actually five minutes late. She is already seated according to the hostess. I had envisioned arriving about ten minutes early and greeting Priscilla in the entry way. We’d wait for our table to become available and engage in some light talk. We’d continue talking in continuity with our long and overly detailed first phone call. We’d follow the tone of our date confirmation emails. Happy and full of promise. I was led to our table with Priscilla already seated. Within ten feet of my approach, she looked in my direction and I immediately realized that the tone of this meeting would be different from the phone call and different from the emails. I was approaching a hostile corner of the room. The cheerful cacophony of the room and the savory smells of fine cuisine would not pierce the dome of harsh judgment I was about to sit beneath. I reached out my hand to lightly shake Priscilla’s with a warm hello mixed with a hint of laughter. I knew that I was now beyond five minutes late, with the hostess adding critically important additional late-minutes to my deficit, as she fumbled through menus and wine lists to make our journey through the dining room secure and official looking. Of course, the table was already covered thick with the same menus, wine list, and a Sunday newspaper worth of promotional literature for food items, eatery clubs, reward points, and off-menu dining specials for each day of the week and various segments of each day. This particular restaurant was actually part of an exclusive chain residing in select cities, and the exclusive chain was a part of a larger conglomerate holding company, which managed many themed restaurants for a variety of demographics. We fell into the demographic category of male tardy date and female counerpart looking for a respectable apology. I took my seat. I apologized while sharing the depth of my best intention planning to arrive early. Priscilla took note of my apology. She kind of let me off the hook by explaining how easy it was for her to simply walk from where she lived, and she could understand that a twenty mile ride and parking might present a more complicated situation in terms of timing. That struck me as odd, because on our phone call, Priscilla had mentioned living many miles from here. Pasadena was agreed upon as a good meeting in the middle.

From the time we shook hands through the time of our early conversation, which included the details of my journey to the restaurant, her smile was very forced. Priscilla, looked at me with some degree of puzzlement. I tried to talk through the confused arrangement of her eyes and the slight tilt of her neck. While I used words and a friendly tone to work past the initial set-back associated with being late, I was having a hard time getting Priscilla to come on board the happy ship. I had my tickets in hand, and everyone around us was cheering for us to embark on good times. She tilted her head further and leaned forward ever so slightly. Priscilla was not looking at someone else behind me. She wasn’t going to tell me that I reminded her of another person she once revered, loved, or admired. I could sense that Priscilla wanted to reach out and peel back my skin to reveal the person behind the mask. She was incredulous that I was the person before her. This was all developing very slowly, but I couldn’t climb this slope any longer. I had to take a break from the words. I sipped some water and decided to move in a completely different direction. I wanted to acknowledge the mystery of Priscilla’s facial expressions and inquisitive body language. “Do I look different than my online picture?” With this question placed on the table amongst the wasteland of culinary literature, I saw a small sign of relief on Priscilla’s face. “You don’t look anything like your picture”, was her response. The core was exposed. I needed to act quick or there was going to be a serious meltdown that could effect the entire restaurant. I was the proverbial man in the malfunctioning space capsule with one minute of oxygen left. I needed to look away from a reactionary reflex and sprint toward my analytical self. “I see”, was the best I could do to affirm her observation, which was obviously ridiculous. I walk through some simple facts. This was a recent picture. My hairstyle and cut was virtually the same. I was in casual attire in the picture, and I was here in front of Priscilla in similar casual wear. “Did you think I was taller?” I listed my height as 5’ 10”, but maybe she didn’t read that part of my vitals. Time was up. Priscilla didn’t want to play qualitative analysis and the capsule’s oxygen was depleted.

“You’re not the person I was supposed to meet tonight. I thought you were going to be someone else.” The confession was made. I was late and I was not the right person. Nonetheless, we were here, and I still had tickets for the happy ship. Indirectly, she admitted that she was a player and juggling a few men on the dating scene. Priscilla was becoming cold and business like. We couldn’t reach an agreement and she needed to extricate herself from this neutral site. I knew that the date was over. Without a real belief that I’d receive a yes, I made the offer to at least go through with dinner and share a polite conversation. Priscilla’s rejection of this idea overshot my expectation for a no. She made it clear that I wasn’t in her current mix of prospective male companions, but I was something from the discard pile that somehow slipped back into her playing hand. No food specials, no appetizers, no wine, and we were definitely not going to join their dining rewards club. That was all behind us now. I awkwardly trailed Priscilla toward the restaurant lobby where we made a quick goodbye. It was not nice doing business with you. We will not reconsider your services in the future. Priscilla headed to the lady’s restroom and would eventually find her way to a decent relationship somewhere else in Pasadena. I headed out to the crisp California night air. The air was rich in oxygen and I could breath it all in. I could reconfigure my thoughts, shed the damaged parts, and complete my mission with a safe journey home. Tomorrow was Sunday. Jazz music would play in the local park.