"I was born in New York," he garbled. Half-chewed shrimp peeked out from between his lips, then slipped back into his mouth. Apparently, this was the appropriate time to answer my question. I sat panicking opposite him, hoping to avoid the inevitable.
"But my family moved a lot."
Horror as it sailed across the table. The mountain of cud landed on my shirt below the table line. He didn't notice. I breathed deep and wiped it off with my napkin.
"Mostly small towns in upstate," he continued. Good thing he didn't have a lisp. A glob of red spit landed on the middle finger of my right hand. I did my best to be discreet, but I really, really wanted to show it to him first.
"See this, you vile prick? This is what I think of you!"
He wasn't vile—almost decent-looking, if you like Jay Leno—and he might not have been a prick; he just wasn't my type. Instead of the bird, I gave him my attention.
"But we ended up in Connecticut," he said, still grinding that poor shrimp. I offered him the patented "Shoemaker fake", a feigned smile of interest in whatever any given Man Across The Table was saying.
Blind dates are the most atrocious of human inventions. Hurl two people together who have nothing in common but loneliness and the desire to be rid of it, and call it good times. I'd much rather be home eating soup, or reading Stephen King, or masturbating. Or all three, simultaneously.
The oddest feeling crept into my chest, then. I couldn't catch my breath. My eyes flicked around at the vibrant Indian décor, noticing how it suddenly seemed more tactile, then at the faces of the diners: A family of three, or was it four? Was that a little boy or a monkey? I whipped my head back focusing on my date...oh..what was his name? Good God, what was happening inside my body cavity?
"Are you all right, Lauren?" Mr. No Name asked. I couldn't form a reasonable response, so I bared some teeth and dropped my head toward the empty plate, ready to vomit.
"Lauren, are you OK?"
I really wished he would stop bothering me. He stood up and came to my side of the booth. Great. Now, everybody was going to think we were a couple.
"Can you talk? Can you say something?"
What a nag.
It felt like Hemingway's Old Man had crawled inside my stomach and was rubbing everything around, squeezing my stuff tight in his big, craggy, calloused hands, getting ready to gut me like one of his fish. Talk about bad luck.
"Can you lay down? Why don't you lay down?"
Did he think I was just that easy? (And goddamn it, it's 'lie', you boob!) The pain slowly crept between my shoulder blades, up the back of my neck, to my jaw. Even my teeth hurt. I opened my mouth and tapped them with my fingers, just to verify. It felt like someone was sledgehammering my face.
My date gave me a funny look. Up 'til then, I'd been fairly calm in my agony, but something in his eyes pulled me out of that and threw me headlong into unfettered panic.
"I don't want to die!" I belted so everyone in Calcutta could hear. All movement stopped. Even the music, which I thought was strange and surreal, like in a movie. I was the star, poor Sarah Jessica, stuck on this awful date with Jay Leno's stand-in, and I was going to die an ugly, unpleasant death.
The manager hustled to our table to do damage control and find out why the crazy lady was screaming; but, by that time, I was already down. I found the floor with my face and stayed there until Mr. Someday I'll Remember His Name But It Really Doesn't Matter Anyway picked me up. I was a drooling idiot and couldn't form one single cohesive thought. Not one. Maybe one. He smelled great.
"… neeeee paper fwwwubbb… toilet. Hurrzzz bad… riiieeee wiiiuh," was all I could manage.
I wanted to write a last-minute will. I'm not sure why 'toilet' came out, but my intent was to leave everything I owned—my '86 Honda Accord, my Bose radio, G-4 Powerbook and two handmade porcelain dolls (part of a larger collection I apparently wouldn't have the chance to build)—to my dog, Goonie. But since both of my hands were numb, it would've been difficult to write anyway. I whacked him upside the head, just to verify.
"OK. Well, I'd rather you squeeze my hand, but if you have to, go ahead and give me your best shot. I can take it."
Was this his feeble attempt at humor in a dire situation?
Well, it worked. I didn't slug him again, though. Even at death's door, I felt two in a row might be considered rude. The gesture didn't go unappreciated; I managed half a grin and forgot my pain as he caught my eyes in his.
"I called 4-1-1," the manager said.
Of course he said '9-1-1', but that's not what I heard in my death fog.
"Lauren," said my date,"I'm going to lie you down in the booth, now, and we'll make sweet love 'til morning comes."
I'm sure that's what he said. Or maybe it was just the first part. And would he ever learn his grammar?
He put me down.
"Oh shi' hurz! Hey, don' stare!"
I was convinced the entire city of Hartford was peeking over his shoulder at me curled in fetal position in that booth, waiting to inhale my last breath. Human beings have a quirky fascination with death. Rubberneckers all.
