|
by D. Cashon Klein
I sat in a quaint, little, beachy bistro
in a quaint, little, beachy town that was way out of my comfort
zone. I tend to stay within a ten-mile radius, unless someone else
is driving. It was hot. I wore jeans. There were women in bikinis
all around me. I resolved to leave as soon as I finished my Corona
if my blind date didn't show.
I was there to meet an Australian named
Frank. We met online. Please don't judge me and think I'm stupid.
I'm just curious. Really. I'm not looking for a husband. The only
way I would actually live with a man long-term would be in a big
house with two separate wings and a calendar in the middle on which
we could schedule meetings.
Alas, Frank arrived before I finished my
beer, thus sealing my fate. I would be staying to muddle through an
awkward situation.
We sized each other up. "You don't look
like your pictures." He said. "How recent are they?"
I thought that was an unusual question for
an icebreaker. I thought a person said things like, "Did you have
trouble getting here?" or "Isn't it beautiful here by the beach?"
or "You look nice this evening. May I get you something?" But what
do I know? I'm new at this. So I answered, "One picture was taken
this past Christmas, and the other two were taken in April."
He squinted at me as he rummaged through
his pockets for a cigarette. "It's funny how people can look so
different from a picture," he said.
"Are you saying I should post new
pictures?" I asked.
"No darlin'. I'd go with the ones
you've got." He laughed, winked, and punched me in the arm as I
took note of the fact that he has no ass and a person could hang
glide in the deep wrinkles of his face. We hadn't talked for more
than ten minutes when he ordered the second of about ten pints
he'd have before I'd extricate myself from the evening.
There were moments when I actually almost
liked him. He has lived all over the world. He has a great accent.
He paid for my cheeseburger and beer. But Frank is not a person who
likes people. Let me clarify. He doesn't like fat people. Had I
had an inkling of this during the first half of this date, when he
was fairly sober, I would have taken my leave. But there I was,
ensconced in a cheeseburger and fries. I hadn't eaten all day. He
kept ordering beers for me that I did not drink because I could
barely get through my second one. (I'm more of a wine person).
There were sweaty, beer bottle soldiers all around my plate.
I faced the water. He faced the back of
the patio where others sat at tall, square, metal tables. We
perched on metal bar chairs that were impossible to scootch up to
or away from the table. A trip to the bathroom was a challenge. I
had to sort of "tip" myself sideways until my foot touched the
deck. I could then, using both hands, maneuver the chair away from
me.
Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. The
wind whipped around us. There was lightning off in the distance. I
thought about people who got hit by lightning on cloudless and
sunny beaches. I told him it might be a good idea to wrap up our
date so I could get home. He ordered two more beers. I silently
said a prayer to God so that She would not let me die there with
that man.
"OH MY GAWD." He loudly exclaimed. "Turn
around and get a look at THAT."
I had no idea what he referred to so I
asked him why I should turn around.
"That girl's ARSE is literally SPILLING
over the sides of her chair. It's disgusting! She has thighs
bigger than my whole body!" He lifted up his shirt. "I go to the
gym four days a week darlin'. Go ahead, touch me stomach...touch
it. You'd never know I was sixty!"
I did not touch his stomach. I believe my
jaw had dropped a little. I was mortified.
"TURN AROUND and look at how bloody fat
she is."
I leaned over the table at him and hissed,
"I will NOT do such a thing. What's the matter with you?"
"Darlin, that girl can't (pronounced
KONT) be more than twenty. She'll be DEAD before she's thirty."
He said this as he threw back another pint and lit a cigarette.
"Oh....I see now." I seethed, "You're
concerned about her. You care about her. Am I right?" He gave me a
look as if this hadn't occurred to him but it was a good angle to
take so he would go with it.
"Well of course I care about the poor
thing. Now just swing 'round and take a gander!"
"I have to go now Frank. Thank you so much
for the beer and burger. I want to get out of here before the storm
comes ashore."
He took my arm. "I thought we could get
some coffee and I could show you the view from me condo."
I told him I would absolutely NOT go to
his condo.
"All these blokes here know me." He swept
his arm from one side of the place to the other in a grand gesture.
"I'm not a rapist. I just want to show you the damned view and
have some coffee. These blokes will tell you I'm a nice guy."
Again, I told him NO and reminded him of
the many headlines that read, "Body Parts Found in Back Yard.
Neighbors Say Killer Was a Nice Guy."
He staggered me to my car. When I got home
I emailed him that I am not the woman for him because I actually
LIKE people he would consider fat. I like ALL KINDS of people. I
don't give a RATS ARSE about six pack abs that disguise ugly
people, or even six pack abs on nice people. It's the stuff on the
inside of the wrapper that delights me. And by the way, thanks for
the cheeseburger.
Have a nice day.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor
resident.
|
Front Page 
Humor 
