Hooking Trout - 3. Speed Dating Drama

As bars go, O’Riordan’s could easily be my kind of place.

Monday night, and there’s a small mixed crowd of people, after work colleagues maybe, chatting and drinking. Against my better nature, I am here for the speed-dating, although my moral compass has still not found north. But after a phone call from Danny, I learned the true depths of my predicament, exacerbated by my meddling friends and family. Had I come clean at the party, he tells me, I might have been able to get away with telling her the truth. After a call from ‘that dear, dear girl’—Marisse playing the part of my fiancée—Grandma Beth is now firmly convinced that I am getting hitched to Wendy. How the hell do I back out now? After Danny hung up, I talked to June and got the inevitable lecture.

“Wake up, Trout. This is not just about you, this is about Cedarwood. Not any place. Cedarwood. All those vacations and memories you told me about, all your hard work helping your grandpa get the place patched up. Don’t you think it’s your duty to follow this through?”

June knows my Achilles heel. From the age of six, I spent most summers at my grandparent’s country house, afternoons playing on the deck or splashing around in the pool while pop worked, evenings with the whole family taking walks along the beach, waking to the smell of Grandma Beth’s trademark banana pancakes. And I loved nothing better than helping grandpa fix up the place, nailing paintings to the wall while he explained about the life and works of the artists, inventing names for each of the bedrooms, and then crafting wooden plaques in his workshop, and finally fixing them on the doors.

"Mr. Spencer. Are you ready?” comes a voice I’m sure can be heard a few blocks away, bringing me out of my reverie. “We're all waiting on you.”

A plump owl of a woman stands in the doorway to the function room, her huge eyes magnified by oval framed glasses scanning the bar area. When she waddles toward me, her autumnal tweeds scrunch, and feathered tufts of red and orange streaks bob up and down from the shady bird's nest of her hair. She hugs a clipboard under one wing and stops before me, a scarlet manicured claw held out in greeting.

"Hi. Name's Sally Ann and I am tonight's Romantica Express speed dating organizer. It's okay, I recognize you from your photo. You're a speed-dating virgin, aren't you?"

Maybe it's my imagination, but the bar seems to grow unnaturally quiet. I nod and pretend not to notice the attractive blond barman I'd been chatting with earlier, roll his eyes before retreating to the storeroom at the back of the bar. I’d been this close to getting his number.

Meanwhile, the owl has scratched me off her list and plucks a round sticky label scrawled with a large number which she slaps onto my jacket lapel.

"You'll be number three tonight. Please come on through to the meeting room. I've already briefed the girls but I left the boys until you showed."

She leads me into the private, oak paneled backroom where the other men, sitting or standing, cast nervous glances my way. Maybe I should have googled the dating site, because I had no idea about the straight uniform most of them have adopted, which largely consists of plaid shirts, denims and leather belts with huge buckles. Someone has overdosed on Aramis aftershave which hangs in the air like a gas attack and makes my eyes sting. No doubt at all, they are one hundred percent straight. I spot a Fred and Barney, a bespectacled Shaggy without Scooby, a couple of Elmer Fudds and someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to Abe Lincoln, but clean-shaven and decked out in glossy black leather chaps. I doubt any of them can even spell the word manicure. Everyone is trying hard not to meet the eyes of others, while still savoring the kinship of a hunting party. When the owl shuts the door behind her, I resist the urge to head for the fire escape and run screaming into the street.

"Okay, gentlemen, this evening is straightforward enough. Each table has a number from one to sixteen. Ladies remain seated the whole night. The men wear numbered labels. You all start at the table that corresponds to your own number." She wiggles a gloss red fingernail at Abe. "You'll begin at one, you at two, you three and so on. After four minutes, a bell will sound and you'll have one minute to finish up and move on to the next table. Until you've visited them all. You have a date card so keep notes on the potentials you meet. Jot down things like name, age, ethnicity, favorite foods, books and some more intimate things you like about them such as—"

"—big hooters?” Barney chuckles, and nudges Fred.

Nobody acknowledges my eye roll, because the owl pauses, cranes forward and peers over the top of her bifocals. After a few seconds tick by, everyone falls deathly silent.

"I was going to say perfume, hair color, complexion, eyes, that sort of thing. We are a professional introductory organization Mr. Poppinjay, not an escort service or a hook-up app. Please treat our other guests with respect. Okay gentlemen, if there are no further questions, let's get started."

At table number three, the thin, waspish woman introduces himself as Ann. She doesn't seem to want to make eye contact, preferring to examine her own cuticles or the wall rather than my face. Putting her reaction down to first date nerves, I launch into the introduction prepared in my few minutes at the bar, but she seems twitchy, sniffing and looking at her wristwatch. At one point, she stares over each of my shoulders, eyes darting to the left and right as though deciding on the best escape route. Undeterred, I finish and smile encouragingly, quiet for a moment, to give her an opportunity to respond.

We sit in silence.

“So Ann. Tell me about yourself,” I venture, as she studies her bony hands. "Like, who's your favorite author?"

She glares up, eyes wild.

"What kind of question is that? Who says I even enjoy reading? I can't stand when people make assumptions. You know what assume does, don't you?"

She snatches her pencil and scribbles the word 'ASSUME' on her pad then draws vertical lines, before and after the U. Of course, I've seen the The Odd Couple a number of times, but then notice that beneath each of these sections she continues to draw something. Satisfied, she spins the pad around to face me.

"It makes an ass out of you and me,” she says, pointing the pencil towards me. "And more you than me."

After this rapid outburst, she slams down the pencil, folds her arms and turns her head to the right, to the line of other tables. Perhaps in protest, the pencil rolls to her side of the table and falls to the floor. While she stands and bends to retrieve it, I look down at the doodle. The first is the goofy-toothed face of a donkey followed by two 3D block arrows, one pointing at me, the other at her. They're really good; the cartoon donkey in particular looks like the work of a professional.

"Nice," I say, with a chuckle.

"I beg your pardon?" she says, sitting back in her seat.

“Your ass. Cute," I add.

Even being gay, along with most of my gender I am not the sharpest pin on the cork board when it comes to handing out compliments. When I look up smiling, I barely notice the little color she had in her cheeks has drained away.

“No, I mean it's really something,” I reply, still not catching on. "Is that what you do for a living?"

Unlike some of my bitchier gay friends, I usually mean exactly what I say; no hidden agenda, no intentional Oscar Wildean witticisms, no hyperbole or purposeful antonyms. Okay, so sometimes I’m not so good at filling in important gaps where the art of explanation is concerned, but generally my remarks are innocent enough.

"Nice ass? Are you serious? You think I'm some piece of meat?” Her face is ashen now and I feel my own draining to catch up.

"What? No. Of course not. I meant—" I point with a trembling finger at the picture. "I meant your—donkey drawing is really…"

Her wild eyes bob between the paper and my face as though she's caught sight of a kilted Scotsman in a Bounce House. Eventually she relaxes, but her expression is still strained and uncomfortable. I pause before daring to speak.

"Do you want to tell me something about yourself?"

"What for?"

"Isn't that what we're supposed to do—you know—in the five minutes we have together?"

"I repeat. What for?"

"Well, the leaflet says—"

"The leaflet says, so we have to conform? You do everything you're told to do?"

"No, but—"

"No, but. Be honest. Isn't this whole thing just a pathetic front for lonely, desperate people to come together and find out first-hand what rejection feels like, rather than imagining it from the solitary confines of their sorry assed one-bed apartments?" she says, before glancing over my shoulder again. "For chrissakes, surely that's five minutes already?"

I tell myself this torment is perhaps the result of a personal challenge from her therapist. After a glance down at my list of conversation topics, I decide to skip favorite comedians. In the remaining seconds, I manage to squeeze out of her that she's a vegetarian, but not vegan; she lives, for the most part, on Greek salads, but not exclusively; and is writing a book about Vietnamese Communism, but not for any commercial gain.

After an eternity, the buzzer sounds for us to swap seats. One down, fifteen to go, Kill me now. Before leaving, I scrawl on my pad against table three:

Ann. Feta. Minh.

***

Miss E. Singer at table six must have rushed to get to the dating session because she still wears a FedEx name badge. She tells me her name is Elizabeth. A big framed a woman, she has a large face and blunt, angular features. I’m almost tempted to ask if she has a twin brother, because he would be just my type. Her braided blond hair and thick eyebrows are nothing short of Wagnerian.

I choose not to mention the badge and launch straight in. After three minutes of general introductions, I cut to the chase.

"So Elizabeth. Where are you from—originally?"

"Austin. Texas."

"I see. And your family is from—?

"Austin. Texas."

"Yeah? You look sort of—"

"What?"

"Well sort of—European. Where were your grandparents born?”

"Austin. Texas. What are you trying to say?"

"No. Nothing. You have almost Aryan features, Germanic. Strong, sort of chiseled. Classical almost. Not something you see in your average American woman."

"I used to be Richard before the reassignment surgery.”

“Ah. That would be it then.”

On my way to the next table, I jot down:

Elizabeth. Miss Singer. Dick.

***

As I approach the vision at table seven, she gives me a smile warm enough to melt granite. She is Asian, possibly Chinese, slight of build and has beautiful dark, silky hair and eyes the color of milk chocolate. Everything about her shimmers with a friendly, sensual aura. I am about to speak when she holds out an alabaster hand in greeting.

"Hello. My name is Rose Zhang. I am Chinese from Shanghai but my family move—moved—to New York two year—years—ago. You are very handsome. Please tell me about yourself."

For Rose, I break from the regular program and rattle off some candid things about myself. She smiles and laughs gently, nodding and encouraging. From time to time, I catch her glancing at my lips as I speak. Certainly, compared the last two candidates, Rose is a definite possibility.

"I guess my major passion is football, American football I mean, not soccer like they play in China.” It is too, a passion of mine, and a constant source of amusement for my gay friends who only see oversized men in helmets, padding, the only saving grace being the tight bubble butts. “I'm a huge Giants fan. I don't suppose you like football, do you?"

She pauses for a second and smiles.

"Yes."

"You do? Wow. You ever been to a Giant's game?"

She nods again, letting out a trickling laugh.

"Yes."

"You have? Excellent. Which game did you watch?"

She exudes a gentle, purring laughter, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her gaze floats up to meet mine, as she stares deep into my eyes.

"Yes."

She notices my confusion and a flicker of panic crosses her face.

"No. Yes. Uh—my name Rose? Rose Zhang? You handsome. Very. Yes?"

After attempting unsuccessfully to pull myself together and resuscitate the conversation, I leave feeling inadequate and more than a little embarrassed. Once installed at the next table, I overhear her perfecting her carefully prepared speech with a new guest sitting opposite.

"... but my family moved to New York two years ago."

***

Even though I announce myself, the well turned out blonde woman at table nine doesn't give me her name or say much, She mostly responds to my questions with short answers, a little like Ann but without the frostiness. For most of the five minutes she sits smiling like a shop mannequin which I translate as disinterest. Wary of making the same mistake I made with Ann, I play things cool and keep the questions short and innocuous.

Although I have never seen such over-the-top green eyes and platinum blond hair, there's something oddly familiar about her. I'm about to ask her if we've met before when the buzzer sounds.

***

At table ten, the dater called Adie has folded a piece of paper over and written her name in purple pen, with a large pink heart dotting the 'i'. She wears a pink V-neck tee a few sizes too small which barely constrains her ample bosom and has the word Loaded plastered in black glitter across the front. Her voice is deep and gritty, and she speaks so fast that after a while her voice begins to sound like roadworks.

"Okay, honey. The name's Adie but friends calls me Dee. Sometimes double-Dee. Haw, haw. Anyway, here's me. On the lookout for something serious. Get me? Serious! No time-wasters. I'm thirty-nine, five seven in heels, thirty-six double-D—yeah, they are real, but no prodding or poking 'til I get to know ya better—straight talking and don't take no crap. No time for hobbies but if you're offering me a drink I'm a hard liquor kinda chick, if you know what I mean? Haw, haw, haw."

Her laugh reminds me of a wildlife program I once saw, set deep in the Amazon rainforest where hidden birds screech out to each other in strangled voices, under cover of extravagant trees and foliage.

"So when Fran told me about this meet-up thing, of course I was interested. What's to lose, huh? I mean, it's gotta be better than sitting at home waiting for a white knight to bang on your door. Or black, come to that. Or any color, I mean, I got no issue with race or creed. Heck, I've dated more species in my time than all the extras on every Star Trek series ever made, if you know what I mean? As long as he's got a pulse and ain't dribbling into his diapers yet, huh? Haw, haw."

"Anyway, we both come along last week, Fran and I, and had such a hoot, thought we'd come back again this week. Did I mention Fran? Yeah? You done Fran already, huh? Green streaks and diamond nose-stud at table four. Her husband—they're separated, I suppose she told ya—anyways, he don't mind, says it keeps her off the streets. Me, I'm divorced. Three times. One more and I get a honorary medal from the Zsa Zsa Gabor Foundation—just kiddin'! Haw! So I been round the block and don't mind talking about anything. But you oughta know up front that I don't do politics and I don't do religion. Christ, there're enough problems in this godforsaken country without bringing God into it, know what I mean? And I don't cook neither, in case you're looking for a mother-substitute. Got enough without having one more ass to wipe up. So how about you? What's your story?"

She catches me off guard with her question. During her last outpouring, my gaze had wandered back to smiling Rose a few tables away who now appears to be having an animated two-way discussion with a skinny, bespectacled guy.

"Yeah, sure you been around, you go that kinda look. Handsome enough to be gay. You're not gay are you? Not that I got anything against 'em. Hell, one of my ex-husbands turned out to be gay. It's only I expect a little more than a manicure and a Liza Minnelli movie when the lights go down, if you know what I mean? Haw, haw. That's one of Fran's. Did you meet Fran? Table four? She's separated, did she tell ya…?"

While she carries on talking, I scribble on my notepad:

Serious Adie (Dee).

***

By eight o'clock, I struggle up from the last table less than inspired. Kim, a pretty lawyer working in-house for a large investment bank, who spent most of the five minutes either glancing nervously at her smartphone or apologizing curtly but answering an urgent call from a client, is still on her cell. Sally Ann has let the women—those who have found no match—leave first and, even after the men have left, I wait around for Kim to finish her call. Instead, she waves me off with a sad smile.

When I pass the Shaggy dork, he is still deep in animated conversation with Rose and I realize he is speaking to her in a language I figure to be Chinese.

Outside the function room, in the main bar, I let out a huge sigh of relief, feeling an instant connection to the anonymous clink and clatter of the Monday evening revelers. Two good looking guys leaning on a tall bar table glance over and grin at me as we file out. Encouraged that I haven’t lost my gay charm, I flash my best smile and watch them turn to each other and laugh. It's only as I approach the barman that I peer into the mirror behind the bar and realize I am still wearing badge number three. Muttering a silent expletive, I rip the sticker off my lapel, order a double Bourbon on the rocks and curse Doug. The blond hunk serving behind the bar I'd chatted with earlier is nowhere to be seen, so I pounce on the one empty barstool at the crowded bar, eager to be lost in the drink and the hubbub.

“Keeping my seat warm?” comes an irritated female voice.

I turn and am confronted by the top of a hazel haired head as the woman bends to the foot of my stool, to a shopping bag I hadn't spotted. I am on my feet instantly.

“Sorry. I didn't realize the stool was taken."

As she draws level, she lets out a little gasp. "Oh my gosh. It's you."

“Maddison High. Amanda Crowley, how the hell are you?" I say, with a certain amount of relish. The truth sinks in and she reddens for a fleeting moment. I mask a twinge of pleasure. “Remember Tina’s party? Beautiful manoeuvre. Truly masterful.”

If I am questionable dating material now, I freely admit to being more so back then. Donnie ‘Madonna’ Beckworth had been my best friend. Donnie claimed his closet had been his mother’s vagina. Loud, proud, flamboyant, and prone to take shit from nobody, I was correctly labelled gay by association. However, from early on Donnie and I knew we were never going to be anything more than buds. So while he struggled through high school to find any guy brave enough to partner him, I had a secret stream of down-low encounters with hormonal boys wanting to experiment. Discreet became my middle name. The night I finally snared Mark Buchanan, one of the new basketball players to the school, Amanda 'don't call me Mandy' proved herself to be a truly worthy adversary and managed a three-sixty. Dragged him out of the party from right under my nose. After that, I had a newfound respect for her, and we even hung out a couple of times.

"Did you spot the speed-daters." She says as an aside, the words issuing from behind her hand as one of her familiar traits floats back. "Talk about sad. Lonely Lucy's and Desperate Dan's hoping to find the perfect match."

"Oh. Yeah. Bunch of no-hopers."

She bows to take another sip from her drink. As far as I can remember, she had always been a plain tee-and-jeans, light-on-the-makeup kind of girl, something I'd admired about her. The fact that she doesn't have a model's perfect form—hers is not so much hour-glass as carafe-shaped—doesn't bother her either.

Her claim to color lies in the assortment of hair bands she uses to wrench her short auburn hair away from her face, and her vast collection of shoes and handbags that, as a rule, match the bands. Today, she sports an original LV shoulder bag with tan shoes and headband.

"Seriously though. You'd have to be pretty desperate to stoop that low, wouldn't you?"

“I guess,” I say, lowering my gaze to the red, beer-sticky carpet.

We both take a sip of our drinks and she glances to the opposite end of the bar.

When our eyes meet again, I say, "You were number nine, weren't you?"

"Oh." Like a stop light, the little red beacon on her cheeks fades into view again. "What gave me away?"

I point to her feet. "The Gwen Stefani wig's peeping over the rim of your bag. And anyway, even with those green contacts—nice touch by the way—I'd recognize your nose anywhere."

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

She presses the cold glass of her amber drink against her right cheek, before pulling it away and glaring at me. Best line of defence is attack.

“The question is, what the hell were you doing in there? I didn’t see any sign up for pick and mix.” she asks, a legitimate question bearing in mind she knows my preferences.

“Long story. Find anyone you fancy?””

“Gotta be kidding. One sleaze ball even asked what color panties I was wearing."

"Short guy? Unshaven. Looked a bit like Barney Rubble?"

"How d'you know?"

"A wild guess. What did you think of number three?"

Carefully, she squares the glass back onto the beer coaster.

"Cute as ever. So come on? What the hell are you doing here? Was this some kind of sick experiment? Or—no!” Her eyes go wide, her mouth hangs open. “Have you crossed over from the dark side?”

“That’s the rainbow side to you. And no, not a hope in hell. Still me. Still gay.”

“Okay then, so why are you here?”

“Long story. For another day.”

Unusually for her, she seems satisfied with that response, even becomes a little more relaxed.

“So come on, what's happening in the world of Trout? Clearly not settled.”

As I am considering how to respond, the couple sitting next to us get up and go, so I pull a stool over and perch down.

"Nah. Same old, same old. Meaningless hook-ups every now and then. Busy with work, mostly. I qualified, eventually, as an engineer? Structural. Not had much time for anything else. How about you?"

"Me?" Her smile drains away. "Do you remember Roger? Roger Greenwell? Investment banker? No, maybe he was after your time. Anyway, we broke up five and a half months ago. He said he was holding me back, that I needed more than he could give. And with hindsight he was probably right, he was never fully committed, always a bit too pushy in the bedroom department, if you know what I mean? In the end I felt I got very little out of the relationship. Certainly not the big day I’d been hoping for.” Right then, though, she brightens, and holds up her right hand to show a stunning ring and rock. “Although I did get to keep this baby. My choice. Eighteen carat, white gold, cut diamond from Theo Fennel. Anyway, I'm living back home with the folks—which is not ideal. But I’m also enjoying 'me' time, trying to advance my career in advertising. And I’m certainly not desperate to find anyone serious right now.”

When she flicks hair from her face and stirs her drink with a thin red straw, I barely notice her foot nudging the carrier bag a little further into the shadow of the barstool.

“I hear you.” We sit enjoying the silence but my mind is racing with possibilities. Could Amanda be the one? Phrases including 'casual' and 'nothing serious' are pushing all the right buttons. While thoughts are swirling through my brain, her voice filters through.

“Come on, Trout. What were you doing in there? Was this some kind of social experiment?”

”Okay, look,” I say, making up my mind, and leaning forward to give her my full attention. “I have a proposition of sorts. I’m going to tell you something in complete confidence, and I want to know if you might be on board. I think we might be able to help each other out here. It’s gonna mean a lot of time and commitment, but could be very lucrative for you, for us both. You interested in hearing more?”

Her eyes widen. If there’s something I do remember about Amanda Crowley, it’s that she was always up for a challenge. A quick nod gives me the response I’d been hoping for.

“Okay. So, first of all, how do you feel about the name Wendy?”