Bad Dates: Wipe My Weeping Eyes

Pierre was a husky blue-eyed blond attorney whom I thought was just about right for me. We met on an afternoon hike in the nearby mountains, and he seemed to enjoy my sense of humor as well as my looks. He was just a little taller than I was, and he had a barrel chest and big mustache. And the way he looked at me sometimes left me weak in the knees. Even though he was heavier than anyone I'd ever considered dating before. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I wasn't dating him--yet.

Pierre asked me to go with him to an early dinner one day, and wondered if I'd meet him at his apartment. Of course, since he lived rather close to me. When I got there I asked if I could please wash my hands--I'd put gas in the car. In his bathroom, there was hair everywhere. It was between 3-4 inches long and it was in the bathtub, on the floor, in the sink, and over the back of the toilet. I wondered how long it had been since the bathroom had been cleaned. But then, I noticed hair all over the place in that apartment. They must have a dog.

We drove up to the mountains to have dinner at Laws, a landmark mom-and-pop restaurant that serves fresh apple pie made from the surrounding apple orchard. It was wonderful. Walking out of the restaurant, something fell out of an overhanging tree and went down Pierre's neck. "Yikes! Can you get whatever that is down the back of my neck?" he asked, leaning forward and pulling the neck of his shirt back for me to reach in.

Suddenly, I realized why there had been hair all over his bathroom. It was his hair. He had hair about four inches long all over his back. Withdrawing my hand quickly, I tried not to act too shocked. Oh well...you can't get everything you want in a man, I thought. He's hairy but he'd be a great provider and family man.

Driving home, Pierre told me that he had tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and if I would just make our dinner, he would know how I cooked, and he would also be happy to be in my company. How nifty--two birds with one stone. He cautioned me that he didn't like swiss chard, but that garlic was his favorite food. In fact, he showed me several heads of garlic and a garlic press that he carried in the trunk of his car just in case he ate at a restaurant that didn't have enough garlic in the food. The message came through clearly: make something with lots of garlic in it. Not exactly fare for a romantic dinner, but I'd do it.

I don't remember exactly everything that I cooked up for that next Saturday night, but I cooked up a storm. I even took pieces of my good china and goblets for our use. He was delighted. Our supper began with cream of garlic soup, french bread, butter, and sparkling cider. Pierre was utterly taken with the soup and finished it off. Wow. He would have really horrible breath after that.

Then we wrapped up the dishes and went down to our box seats near the front of the stage. It was an all Mozart concert and we were both thrilled. I noticed that Pierre leaned into me as we listened to the music--he didn't hold my hand, but to feel him right up next to me was very exciting. I wished the concert would go on and on. Pierre was delightful company, chatting between numbers, making witty comments, and being a very attentive date. Maybe this was going to go somewhere.

At the end of the concert, people came streaming out of the arena and headed toward their cars, boxing in our car. We could only sit there, waiting to be able to get out. Pierre put in a cassette of Handel's Messiah so we could listen to something while we sat there. We listened to almost the entire tape before we were able to creep out of there at about 5 m.p.h.

As we pulled onto the freeway at 12:30 that night, Pierre turned over the cassette and asked if I minded that we listen to it on the way home instead of talk. He must really love that music. "Of course, Pierre."

We drove for miles listening to the familiar music. "He Shall Purify," "And the Glory of the Lord," etc. Finally, I asked, "Does listening to music like this help you stay awake?" He nodded, soberly. "Are you sleepy then?"

He shook his head, no.

That was strange. He didn't seem like he wanted to speak.

Just then, the Hallelujah chorus started. He turned up the volume and settled back into his seat with a very somber expression on his face. I listened for a moment and started to very quietly hum. Pierre sniffled. He had tears coming down his face!

"Oh my goodness, Pierre, what is wrong? Why are you crying?"

He shook his head as if to say, "don't ask" and made no reply. Yet he continued to cry. These were not tears of joy. "Are you okay?" He was clearly upset about something but it was quickly clear that he was resolute about not wanting to talk to me. I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose, steering the car with the other hand. He turned up the music and continued to cry and drive, all the way home. We had nothing to say when he dropped me off. Pierre still refused to speak to me, and I was baffled about why he was crying with such sadness. But there he was, red-eyed, crying, all the way home.

As we pulled up into my driveway, I thanked him for the wonderful concert and for his company. He nodded mutely, and stayed in the car while I struggled getting out the box with my china and the leftovers in it. Pierre waved half-heartedly at me from behind the steering wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I climbed the stairs to my apartment and went to bed. There was something very wierd going on, but I doubted that I would ever get to the bottom of it.

I still haven't.

I ran into Pierre and his wife at a friend's house a few years later. He took me aside and told me how hurt he had been that I had not returned his calls after our wonderful date. He was his old charming self again, even though he kidded and joked with me and not his own wife. She was a very pretty and very pregnant girl, about 10 years his junior. I just remember him as a Jekyl and Hyde personality. Who knows what he would have done on subsequent dates?

What in the world?

Another dodged bullet.