dodging a bullet

There are people you date who seem too good to be true and are. Then there are people you date who seem just good enough for veracity. In them, you find a surplus of plusses—things you have in common, things you can laugh about, stuff upon which you share the same molehill’s vantage point—and you find just enough dodgy grey area that you are reassured.

This is not a story of either of one of those. This is the story of something altogether different.

It’s not a pyromaniacally bad dating story. I don’t really have any of those. I haven’t, as Donny has, met a girl, watched as she got really trashed, gone against my better judgment and shared in one more drink, done the gallant thing and helped said soused maiden into her apartment, only to have her cry “Rape!” at the top of her lungs when I was carrying her inside her door because she was too inebriated to walk up the stairs on her own volition. I haven’t had that happen.

But I did date a Pulitzer-prize winner.

We met on some middle-of-the-road dating site on the information superhighway. He came on like gangbusters, a thing that always makes me get wary as a sorority girl sniffing the beery whiff of a fraternity prank. But I googled him, I checked out his story and his writing, and I liked what I found, so I met him for drinks.

It was the winter of my discontent that predated SlutFest 2004. It was just previous to meeting Tyler, and it was a time when I was dating as if it were a part-time job. I dated a very angry jazz pianist who didn’t like to kiss and whose paper-strewn apartment was dominated by the hulking bulk of his baby grand. I dated a sculptor who wasn’t over his runway-model girlfriend and sobbed after we fucked. I dated and I dated and I dated.

In the midst of this chum-dating frenzy, I met the Pulitzer-prize-winning writer, with whom I went for drinks. He buzzed my apartment early that evening, for I had to get up in the wee a.m. to do something for a friend. We walked to a nearby bookish bar, found a seat and started talking.

He was inordinately interested in me. I mean, every question about what I was studying, what I was writing my dissertation on, what I was thinking, he responded to with level eleven enthusiasm. Everything. I admit, I was accustomed to being pandered to in this first-date situation—if a guy was at all interested in me, and most of them were, they usual high-knee lock-stepped into the Chelsea Girl dance squad pretty quickly. But this guy’s reactions were just a bit much, just a tad manic, just a hair hyperbolic.

And yet, he was attractive. He had been places and done things, he had witnessed extreme acts against humanity, he had written about them, and he had won prizes for it. I worked it a bit, to be honest, even though there was something a smidge smudged about this man’s presence.

I admit I worked it. I admit flicking my hair when seated and switching my hips when I walked. I admit I probably trailed fingers down my throat. I admit I worked it.

I admit that I told him my tattoo stories. And I admit that when he lifted his shirt and showed me his tattoo, I admit I was shocked. I admit that when I saw it, I wanted to look at my naked wrist and say, wow, look at the time, wow, I have so got to go. Call you! and turn my generous and good-natured tail out the door.

I admit this reaction because the tattoo he showed me was a bullet hole. Tattooed just to the left of his sternum, just over his heart, a red cartoon KERPLOW! of a bullet hole, just there, on his chest, right over his heart.

He showed me, and his face split ruefully. He covered the rue and smiled wanly and then covered his chest.

I admit I stayed. We talked some more, but all the time, as he was nodding energetically, as he was telling me repeatedly how good an editor he was, I’m half hearing him and half wondering what would make a person choose to do that to himself. And I say this as an individual with scars and tats and moments of poor judgment and a history of violence against the self and poor impulse control aplenty.

What would make a guy do that to himself? Because a KERPLOW! bullet hole is not a metaphor tattoo. It’s all text, no sub. So I had to wonder, What?

Quickly followed with Why am I still here?

Eventually, around 11:00, he walked me to my door. I kissed him good-night. Even now I’m not sure why. I just like kissing. And he was cute, for all the KERPLOW! Then, I went to bed with quizzical buzzing but a certain plan that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

About 4:30 a.m. the phone rang, jarring me out of my comfy cozy sleep. I opened my eyes, looked at it, and didn’t answer. When I got out of bed a couple of hours later, I listened to the message. It was the Pulitzer-Prize-winning writer.

“Chelsea.” His voice sounded vaguely fuzzy, like a worn sweater. “I just wanted to tell you I had a really great time tonight. I really hope I get to see you again because you’re a really great woman.”

Huh, I thought, nice sentiments, but why did they have to be communicated in the dead middle of the night? I went out for the day, did my thing, and returned home around 6:00. The prize-winner had left another message around fourish.

“Chelsea,” he said, “I just wanted to tell you I had a really great time last night. I really hope I get to see you again because you’re a really great woman.”

I was stunned by the similarity, but I had definitely deleted the 4:30 a.m. message, and this one was definitely dated 4:00 p.m. I thought about it, thought about the fuzzy pilly sweatery burring in his voice in the earlier message, thought about the KERPLOW!, thought about how he’d urged me to stay out, thought about how he’d asked me if I  liked to “party,” and I added it all up to blackout dial.

Whatever, in any case, no one calls me in the middle of the night who isn’t related to me or who doesn’t know at least a couple of my many passwords and/or PINs. Which I told the prize-winner when he called later that night.

He was, unfathomably, surprised to hear he’d called. He was, unfathomably, trying to convince me to go out with him again. He was, predictably, sorry. He talked and he talked and I maintained my reluctance to dating him.

He did send me a lovely big arrangement of flowers, though. I still have the vase.

And the story of the one who went KERPLOW!

Comments

[Traboyk]

Huh...well, I think tattoos should be a personal symbol. Which is probably why I have avoided them (can easily see good chunks of myself covered). But, that is definitely an interesting one. But a lot cooler than some I have seen or heard (a co-worker wants to cover his back withe the picture of his dog when the canine dies. He is also a NASCAR fan.)

[Suse]

Arty types, still that's one to tell the grandkids.

[Mark]

That's just sad. I never send a lady flowers if she said she didn't want to see me again.

[Felicity]

interesting... I don't have anything that good but I do have some good ones. I'll have to think about posting 'em.

[claire]

Ok, I think I'm hooked. I really enjoy your writing.