I went on a date with this nice fellow named John who looked very nice on paper. He was nervous, which was endearing–I guess.
We met at a normal outdoor bar, had a few drinks, and then he realized I’d never been to Georgetown Piano Bar. At his insistence, we closed the tab and headed straight there.
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ I thought. ‘Just be spontaneous.’
Once at the piano bar, we settled down at a table semi-awkwardly in the middle of the room. A group of rowdy men wearing disheveled work clothes were crowded around the piano where a sweaty bald man enthusiastically banged out Don’t Stop Believin’.
It was difficult to maintain a conversation with the drunken, off-pitch singing in the background, so we hovered between listening and people watching. We debated the relationships of everyone around us–was the girl at a table next to the cluster of men part of their group or just a bystander? Was the old man sitting next to her their boss, or her dad, or an older gentleman having a rendezvous with a girl roughly half his age?
As John and I debated this dynamic, the music ground to a sudden stop mid-song and the sound of men yelling filled the room in its place. We barely had time to exchange looks when the older man (boss? sugar daddy? father?) threw a haymaker at one of the drunk younger men. As he pulled his fist away from the young man’s nose, a trail of blood followed and dripped audibly onto the floor.
Chaos broke out.
John and I leapt from our chairs and backed up against the wall as the drunken men grabbed their injured friend and held him back from retaliating. The bartender was between them in a flash and the girl who had been sitting at the table ran into the bathroom behind us. Everyone was yelling.
Finally, the injured man left the bar and the bartender mopped up the blood he’d left behind. I called over one of the men who’d been in the group and asked him what happened.
“Oh, yeah, my buddy is too drunk and said something pretty vulgar to that girl and it turns out the man with her was her dad, so he didn’t take it too well,” the man slurred as he loosened his tie.
“Wow, dramatic for a Tuesday evening,” I responded, kicking John under the table.
“So, you guys want to do some coke in the bathroom? Really get this Tuesday going?” The man asked, very casually.
UM EXCUSE ME I am on a first date, sir, we’ve just witnessed a bar fight, and now you’re offering us coke. What is happening.
…We politely declined and decided to call it a night.
I went on two more dates with John, but was disappointed when I realized he had reverted back into the comfort of his original cookie cutter mold.
Sure, all the qualifications were there–three years older than me, brown hair, green eyes, played soccer, great job, Barbour jacket, nice upbringing, a classy needlepoint belt, blah blah blah blah–but the excitement from our first date was just a fluke. Cookie cutter works for some, and there’s no shame in that, but it doesn’t work for me.
After the third date, I gave the “you’re a really nice guy, but I’m just not feeling it” speech. On to the next one.
Lilith/not a gingerbread lady