Smooth Operator
When I first met Andrew, I thought he was good-looking in an expensive kind of a way. His hair and suit were slick, and he grabbed his money clip with a sense of purpose. Hell, he had a money clip! We exchanged cards and the following week he sent an email asking for a Friday night date. He wanted to meet at a fancy-pants lounge specializing in overpriced cocktails by “mixologists.”
On the appointed evening, I was enjoying a pre-date cigarette outside the bar when I noticed a figure wobbling up the street. Curious, I squinted to see the approaching situation. Good God, I thought, whoever that is really needs to be stuffed in a cab.
As the figure neared, I realized the drunk was none other than my date, Andrew. Narrowly missing me, he barked hello and stumbled into the doorway. I trailed him like a seeing-eye dog. He proceeded to attempt to order drinks for us. Noticing his drool and inability to string a sentence together, the upper crust bartender cut him off and said he ought to get home.
So I guided Andrew outside, hailed a cab and coaxed him in. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Andrew didn’t have his money clip that night. I dug into my wallet and gave him a $20.
A few days later, he emailed an apology and asked to reschedule. There were mentions of “work function,” “stress” and “douche-bag bartender” in his missive.
I replied with a link to Alcoholics Anonymous.
