August 2005, Tempe, Arizona

By Dana Stevenson

“Christ, I’m not ready for this.”

It’s 8 o’clock on a Saturday night and I’m about to go on my first date in 27 years. It was a couple of chins and a few belt sizes ago when I met Jesse on a vacation in Lake Havasu City. She was a local in search of a boat and I had a boat in search of a local; it was a match made in heaven.

We stayed that way for almost three decades through a marriage, two kids and a grandchild before she went home for good six months ago. Her death was relatively swift but it has left a hole lingering where my heart used to be. Three days bereavement? It could be three years and I still wouldn’t be over her. I think that’s a good thing.

It’s been half a year and my friend told me he had a friend who would be perfect for me, so here I am sitting at Donello’s Pizza and Pasta, sipping a glass of Cabernet and waiting for Barb to arrive.

That couple in the next booth looks happy. Oh Christ, he’s nibbling on her ear. Get a room.

I wish I had someone to get a room with. I feel fat. This is a new shirt and it’s tight. Why can’t I buy the right size? I just need to accept that L is the new XL, at least in my life. I’d ask Jesse if my shirt made me look fat and she’d tell me no, it’s my stomach. Brutal, but true.

Oh. She’s attractive. Looks like a businesswoman. Nice suit, I could get into that, ohh and in comes the boyfriend. False alarm. Too bad. Jesse looked nice in a suit. I liked that pinstriped one I bought her for that job interview. Didn’t get the job, but she was hot. Taking that off her was as much fun as watching her put it on.

My palms are sweating. Do I have sweaty palms syndrome? I heard a radio spot for that once. Should have paid attention.

“No, thanks, I’m still waiting.” Good waiter. Comes around enough to act like he’s interested but not so much as to be annoying. Twenty percent tip. Here comes another family. When did this place turn into Chuck E. Cheese? Next thing I’ll see is a giant rat singing and dancing. I should have suggested Chili’s; there’s something for everyone there.

Liver. Liver and onions. The birth of our first son, when the midwife asked if we wanted to keep the placenta. Jesse was weak but disgusted. “Why the hell would we want to do that?” Some people slice it and fry it up like liver. Four years later, the birth of our second son. What does the hospital serve for lunch the next day? Liver. True story.

OK, do not talk about Jesse. Do not talk about Jesse. Do not talk about Jesse. Barb will not want to hear about her. Maybe just a bit of history, but don’t overdo it, and DON”T CRY. Oh crap, here come the tears again. How much crying can one guy do? There has to be some kind of statute of limitations on it. John Wayne would be so disappointed.

Nice napkins. Absorbent and soft. Good for sweaty palms. I’d like to learn how they fold napkins into swans. That would be nice. Where is this chick? Late people have no respect for others. Why am I doing this? What if I forget how to talk? What if we end up in bed? I don’t even know if I can get it up anymore. Calm down. She’s not a prostitute; it’s just dinner and some conversation. It will be an hour of hell, an awkward goodbye, and I can go home and watch Saturday Night Live.

Oh, that looks good. Chicken alfredo maybe? Is that a good date food? I don’t want to be slurping up spaghetti and have white stuff hanging off my chin. Oh crap, I have to fart. It was nice being out with Jesse. She’d act disgusted but I could always get her to laugh. She was amazed at how long I could hold a fart. Wish I could make money at it. Professional farter. Nice. Silent but Deadly for cash. Double-O Fart, licensed to kill.

“Oh, hi. Barb? Yes, I’m Dave. Sit down, sit down. Would you like some wine?”

“Oh, you don’t? It’s a sin, huh? Didn’t know that. Did not know that. Nope. Huh. Well…”

She has a mole on the tip of her nose. Don’t stare. Do not stare. “Just looking at your broach. It’s pretty. Is that Jesus on a donkey? Oh. Mary. Right. Jesus had a beard.”

I like Jesus. I just don’t need to go to church to have a relationship with him. Jesse always laughed when I told her if people really wanted to solve the health care crisis, they should all become Christian Scientists. Barb probably wouldn’t laugh.

Is the food ever going to come? “No, I’ve never heard anyone speak in tongues. There was that cabbie in New York; I didn’t know what the heck he was saying. Probably not tongues though. Cost me 50 bucks to go five blocks.”

Who cuts spaghetti with a knife? Maybe she’d like some Spaghetti-O’s. It’s the neat round spaghetti you can eat with a spoon, oh-oh, Spaghetti-O’s. That was a good jingle. I’m going to need more wine. In for a sin, in for a pound.

Please don’t order dessert. Please don’t order dessert. She ordered dessert. That’s at least another 20 minutes. The horror.

Tip on $37 is $7.40. All I have is a fifty. Close enough. “Shall we go?”

“Well, it was very nice meeting you. Yes, I live close. Just around the corner, actually. Do I want to what?”

I could have sworn she said fudge, but of course it wasn’t fudge. It was that thing Mary didn’t do to become pregnant. Barb was licking her lips. Holy fudge.

WWJD?

What would Jesse do? Or really, what would she want me to do? Would a night of physical pleasure be an insult to her memory, or would she want me to be happy?

I will never see this woman again. I won’t call her. I don’t want to know her, but I haven’t had sex in more than a year. WWJD?

“Barb?”

“Yes?”

“I’m in the silver truck. Follow me.” That’s the nice thing about Jesse. She’d get mad for a while, but she’d always forgive me.

Just like Jesus.

Dana Stevenson is a former newspaper editor and columnist who sold his soul to become a technical writer. He enjoys life in Tempe with occasional visits from his children and permanent visits from his two dogs. He is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, January 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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