cal. (san francisco, circa 2009.)
I wasn’t sure what to expect as I pulled my car to the curb near Weird Fish. I was meeting Cal, a soon-to-be-40-year-old born and raised in the Bay Area. According to his OKDoMeNow profile, he was 5’10,” lived in Oakland, worked in graphic design by day, but had a real passion for music. We’d talked on the phone once prior, and noted that we shared a dorky interest in astrology.
I spotted him sitting on a bench outside the restaurant, a huge hardcover book oh-so-intellectually perched on one knee. “Hey, it’s nice to meet you,” he said warmly, standing up to greet me with a smile and a hug. I could tell by the width of the smile (no, really) that he was pleased enough by how I looked. (I’ve been on enough internet dates to have mastered the art of determining, within the first 30 seconds, whether or not a dude’s attracted to me. I don’t deserve a prize for that, of course — men aren’t usually too hard to read.)
Cal passed my initial etiquette tests — he held the door, let me enter first. He even (shock, awe!) skimmed my lower back with his hand as the waitress guided us to our table. “Cute,” I thought.
And he was cute – he really was. Like the holy grail of internet daters, Cal was one of the very few rare birds who actually looked better in person than in his pics. He was a pleasant surprise, this Cal, now gazing at me across our tiny candlelit table. His eyes were a steely blue, his hair a shaggy almond-brown. He was stylish in a retro-cowboy sort of way. Wearing a polyester western-style shirt, a vintage leather jacket, jeans, and boots, Cal clearly made an effort to look cool, but he didn’t try too hard. Perfecto.
Perusing the menus, we swiftly dealt with a moment of awkwardness as the waiter asked us whether we wanted wine. “I don’t drink,” I blurted. The information plopped onto the table like a heavy hunk of butter, but Cal hardly blinked. “OK, I’ll have a Pilsner. Do you want some sparkling water or something?”
Ah, all was good… Especially the fried dill pickles we shared as Cal told me about his band, the Lunars, an unknown local indie-psych act. Mild alarm bells sounded when he mentioned a possible future move to Cincinatti (leave the Bay area for Ohio? Um, why?), but, ever the Little Internet Dating Pro, I avoided lingering on any iffy subjects.
By the time the waiter dropped off the check, I’d already begun to fantasize about our future – raising a baby or two in a cozy cottage in Oakland, him supporting us with his adorable bellbottom-wearing world-famous ’60s-throwback band, me contributing big bucks from the skyrocketing sales of my bestselling memoirs. We’d open an animal sanctuary and spend summers in a red-shuttered cottage just steps from the Pacific.
“So…what should we do now?” I asked as we stepped outside into the chilly April air. He reached for my hand and gave it a quick brush with his thumb before holding it firmly in his. “Weeeeeeelllll, my friend Tamara is playing at the Makeout Room. She sings the greatest, most depressing alt-country love songs you’ve ever heard.”
“Depressing alt-country? My favorite!” I exclaimed happily, and we walked the couple of blocks to the venue. After grabbing a table, Cal ordered a pint of beer and a shot of Fernet. I tried to act unfazed, but I was slightly put off by the sight of the shot in front of me. Being almost 3 years sober, I didn’t generally enjoy having gorgeous glasses of fragrant booze in such close proximity. I didn’t say anything, though. It was a Sunday night; maybe he was, uh, cutting loose?
He scooched himself closer and put his arm around the back of my chair, stroking my hair. I laid my hand on his leg and felt content. Could this be him – my long-awaited Next Boyfriend? After nearly four years of sad nights and gazillions of dates and dashed hopes and busted expectations and “not quite rights” and “no chemistrys” and “not a good fits” and “incompatibles”, could this psychedelic almost-hipster finally be someone I could make a go of it with?
No, actually. Not at all.
“So I did stoned yoga again this morning,” he announced after his friend’s band had finished. “It was amazing. I took a nice big bong hit, rolled out of bed and was more flexible than I’d ever been before.”
“Huh.” I didn’t bother attempting to hide my freaked-ness. “Stoned yoga? Were you naked? Is this something you do…uh…often?”
He delicately sipped his shot of Fernet and said, stonefaced, “Yeah, naked. And yeah, I guess I do it sorta often. My flexibility just keeps getting better. I totally get a spiritual release from it. The pot helps with that, too, of course,” he laughed as he rubbed my arm affectionately.
“Pot…Um…do you smoke pot every day?” I asked awkwardly. My heart felt caught, like it had just tripped over a curb.
Cal’s face darkened. “Not every day. Most days. But it’s not, like, a big deal. I’m not some dumb stoner. I don’t see anything wrong with smoking a little MJ every once in a while,” he insisted, eyes narrowing. I dropped my hand from his leg.
“I’m not sitting home doing bong hits all day. I have a job, y’know? I take one big hit in the morning and I’m good to go for the rest of the day.” He paused, searching my face suspiciously as I sat staring in silence. “Just because you’re sober doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t explore certain substances if we want to.” He dropped his arm from the back of my shoulders. “Dude, I don’t have a drug problem or anything. I wouldn’t smoke in front of you if it made you, like, uncomfortable or whatever.”
Another one bites the dust, I thought bemusedly as the pseudo-relationship that hadn’t even begun shriveled up into a tiny ball and died.
“That’s sweet of you,” I said, irritated by Cal’s defensiveness. “What about other drugs — coke? Do you do coke, too?”
He sniffed helpfully (so that’s how you do cocaine!). “I do it from time to time, sure. If I’m hanging out with a bunch of friends, partying or whatever, and someone passes around a plate, I’ll do a line. I did some last night, actually, at my friend’s dinner party,” he offered.
This date was growing more ridiculous by the second.
“My favorite, though, is mushrooms. I loooove mushrooms. I haven’t had any in a while, though — almost 3 months!” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Cal, you’re telling someone who hasn’t had a drink or a puff or a snort of anything in almost 3 years — you’re telling me you really believe 3 months is a long time?,” I said. “I can’t date someone who does drugs super-often. I’m sober. It’s not healthy for me to date someone who uses anything everyday.” I stood up to leave. He walked me to my car. We both got in, and he continued his futile assurances that he would never let his drug use affect me, and that he wanted to see me again.
Then he kissed me. The kiss started out quiet and sweet; but after a minute Cal shoved his tongue down my throat and jiggled it around like a limp, dancing noodle. What am I, in junior high school again? I pulled away, my lips and chin (yes, my chin) soaked with spit.
A 40-year-old in-denial addict who actively enjoys naked yoga, and also qualifies as the world’s worst kisser? Um… no.
I drove home.
