Good Date/Bad Date, by Matt Shirley

Some time ago, I went on an impromptu date with a girl we will call Schmelissa.  I describe the date as impromptu because it was thrown together at the last second—a combination of her getting off work early and me being very lukewarm about my evening’s plans.

Let me first state that Schmelissa was very busty indeed.  This has nothing to do with the story; I’m just trying to paint a picture here.

On this fateful Saturday night, I received a call from the Schmelissa in question, inquiring as to whether I had any plans for the evening.  I did, but as previously detailed, Schmelissa is busty, so I quickly broke them.  I agreed to meet her at her workplace—a bar where she was training to become a server, since she had just moved to the area.

Assuredly, she had been offered this position because of her vast experience in the food service industry (zero years).

When I arrived, we exchanged pleasantries and quips about my circus-like tallness, and ambled to the bar, where we plopped down on two stools and surveyed the scene.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the first time I had ever spent an entire date nestled up to a bar.  It was, for the lack of a better term, shitty. Instead of looking at each other across a table or high top, we were forced to crane our necks to the side whenever we wanted to speak, which made us want to speak a lot less.  It should be noted, however, that there was a tradeoff.  Schmelissa knew the bartender working that night, and being the kind gentleman that he was, he procured us many a drink, free of charge.

Unfortunately, his gentlemanliness—toward me, at least—was short-lived..

As the night progressed, I felt like I had a decent rapport with Schmelissa.  We shared a lot of the same interests and had similarly sarcastic senses of humor.  She seemed to like tall guys, and I like bustiness.  A match made in the clouds.

But as 11 p.m. rolled by, a mysterious man arrived, changing the night’s outlook.

Let’s back up a second.  It’s crucial to note that one of our first conversation topics was the bartender, an acquaintance of Schmelissa’s who was thusly doing a great job of keeping my bar tab low.  Schmelissa expressed her adoration for this man, but I didn’t get a sense that there was a romantic connection between them.  The bartender was long-haired and unkempt and looked like he belonged backstage at an AC/DC concert, toting gear and filtering teenage groupies for the band.

But in talking about this bartender, Schmelissa mentioned that AC/DC dude’s roommate was a really cool guy who was a “Canadian” and who might come by later. In response to this information, I made what I believed to be a stereotypical jump to chronic north-of-the-border alcoholism and said, “Oh, he should come by.  Those people love to drink.”  She was confused by my comment and I was confused by her confusion.  But we shook it off, and I looked forward to his arrival; I had never met a “Canadian” I didn’t get along with.

Back to 11 p.m., when the mysterious man arrived.  The bartender brought two drinks — one for the man and one for Schmelissa.  Cleverly, he then used the two drinks as a bridge, reintroducing Schmelissa to his roommate, the “Canadian.”

Schmelissa introduced me to the man, whose name escaped me three seconds after she said it, and tells me that this is the comedian she was talking about.  My response to this NEW information: “Awwwwwwwwwww, fuck.”

The COMEDIAN was a good-looking guy and he seemed to be as outgoing and witty as I was, if not more so.  Additionally, he was new.  He was the cool kid who showed up late to parties but still knew everyone.  He sidled up on the other side of Schmelissa at the bar, and as the two chattered away above the din of the crowd, I was left to my own devices.

Eventually, I realized I was screwed.  The comedian had me in a tough spot; a position in which there is no way I could look cool.  If I got angry with Schmelissa and threatened to beat the guy’s ass, I would look like a psycho.  If I stormed off without a word, he would stay and have the unfettered freedom to make snide remarks about my behavior or my shirt or both.  If I stayed and kept to myself, he would continue to chat her up and their bond would grow stronger.  In each scenario, he would win and I would lose.

I knew I had to cut my losses, so during a break in the conversation, I pulled Schmelissa to the side and asked her if there was some sort of “thing” going on between her and the Canadian comedian.  Her reply: “I don’t know!  That’s such a hard question to answer.  It’s a tough situation!”

And that was all the evidence I needed.  Earlier in my life, I would have deluded myself into thinking that there was still hope in salvaging the evening, but as I grow older, I try to keep the delusions to a minimum.

But as I got up to leave, conceding defeat to my comedian foe, Schmelissa seemed shocked.  “Are you mad?!?” she asked, within earshot of the c-word.  I shouldn’t have dignified this obvious defense mechanism with an answer, but I simply said, “No,” and turned to shake the comedian’s hand.  To add insult to insult, he decided to invite me to one of his upcoming gigs:
COMEDIAN: “Hey man, you should come to a show.  I’m down in your part of town every Sunday.”

MATT: “For sure!  I’ll have to do that.  It was good to meet you.”

COMEDIAN: “Have a good night, bro.”

What a fairy I am.  In my head, I wanted it to go something like this:

COMEDIAN: “Hey man, you should come to a show.  I’m down in your part of town every Sunday.”

MATT: “I’d sooner you jack off onto my corpse.  I hope you get AIDS.”

But to be fair, it wasn’t his fault.  He’s a guy who was invited into a situation he knew nothing about.  He ran with it, and won.

As I walked to my car, I realized I was pretty angry.  Not only was the comedian probably going to take Schmelissa to Poundtown partly because of some drinks that I bought her, but the whole fiasco went down in an unnecessarily disrespectful manner.  Schmelissa could have easily sent me packing long before the comedian got there.  Or better yet, she could have ignored the comedian altogether and instead focused her attention on the guy she invited on a date.  Either option would have been far superior.

Alas, there was nothing I could do other than travel that high road everyone’s always talking about and try to keep my fingers away from the buttons on my phone that I would use to compose the fiery text message I so sorely wanted to send.

I did write one, though — to my little brother, who I knew I could count on.  With the balances of relationship karma in mind, I typed simply and succinctly, “Do me a favor and go treat some girls poorly for me.” His response, without a question:

“No problem.”

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