Ever suddenly discovered that something you thought was completely wrong, and found out that you were an asshole? I did.
I never ask women out. Look in most dictionary's and you'll see my picture next to the entry for 'gutless bastard'. I don't know why, but when I think of putting myself out there, I immediately find myself right back in ninth grade. I gain weight, I feel pimples cover my face, and my voice takes on this tone that makes the Squeaky-Voiced Teen from the Simpson's sound like Robert Mitchum. It's sad. Very sad. And emasculating.
But this one time, I did it. At work no less.
I was behind the counter, at a copy shop on a beautiful Wednesday, and she came in, looking to fax something. A little chatting, a couple of corny jokes, commiserating over the fact that her fax wouldn't go through, all in all a nice couple of minutes. She said her name was V (Thomas Pynchon stole that from me), and she was new in town. So on impulse, I mentioned that one night every week during the summer, there was a free movie in a park downtown. I went almost every week, and maybe she'd be interested in coming along...? And V said yes.
On the appointed day, I met V at the shop, and we caught the train uptown. We got there early to stake out a spot, grabbed some food from a local shop, and hung out, chatting, until it was dark enough for the movie to start. Good times. The conversation was smooth without any of the uncomfortable pauses that are the usual hallmarks of my dates, and our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well.
Right before the movie started, V said she was going to run to the public restroom so she wouldn't miss any of the show, and headed out into the gathering twilight.
She never came back.
The previews rolled, and then the movie itself began. Stalag 17, as I recall. Not my idea of a date movie, but it was free, I was poor, and sometimes you just don't get to choose. I sat there, people packed in on every side, growing more and more incensed as the time ticked by. Jesus, she must have secretly hated me! She'd even abandoned a lighter and half a pack of smokes. Just broke and ran. Well, fine, I fumed, fuck 'er. Bitch.
Anybody see where this is going?
I sat through the entire film. Didn't get any joy out of seeing Peter Graves get killed, needless to say. But screw it, I was going to see this film all the way through to the last credit.
After it was over, I headed out into the night. On impulse, I hit a payphone and checked my messages. If you think there was a message from V, you are incorrect.
There were two messages from her. The first explained that V hadn't kept track of where we were sitting, and couldn't find her way back. The second was left about twenty minutes later, and, in a disappointed tone of voice, V said that she kept getting yelled at to sit down, and was heading home. Guess she hadn't abandoned her cigarettes, after all.
I did call her then, but I don't seem to recall being very contrite, or apologizing at all, even. V was less than enthused, herself. And we never spoke again.
This all happened about five years ago. I swear to god, it didn't occur to me until about a month ago, I mean really hit me, that I should have gone looking for her. It never even crossed my mind, not once. Nor did being actively sorry, or explaining my thought process to her, maybe turning it into something we could laugh over. Not for five years.
My friends tell me I'm smart, but I know better. I look back on how I screwed up then, and how it took five years to figure out what I should have done, and I know the truth: I'm the King o' the Maroons.
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