This particular man was one I had overlooked a few times before, purely on account of his profile picture. To me, he was a dead ringer for Bernie—the character from Weekend at Bernie’s, the dark comedy movie from the 1980s in which the title character got bumped off by the mob at the beginning of the picture. He was in about every scene in the movie, though, so that his two bumbling employees could pretend he was still alive in order to enjoy a weekend vacation at Bernie’s beach mansion.
In real life, this Bernie was very much alive. After getting over his likeness to a dead guy, I studied what he’d written. His profile was awesome! He loved to travel to Florida. Any place with a beach was fabulous. As a matter of fact, he was definitely a traveler who loved the outdoors. Nothing like sailing a boat and having the breeze blowing through his hair, he wrote. He sent me a nice little email the first time and said he thought we would make a good match, and he seemed very nice. I had to admit, he really did sound like a fun guy to be around.
Best of all, his profile had a second picture showing him leaning up against . . . wait for it . . . a Corvette Stingray convertible! When I was sixteen, I worshipped Corvettes. I coveted Corvettes. I lusted after those beautiful, sporty, sexy little Corvettes.
I had to have a date with this guy. Maybe we could go to a drive-in. I bought a can of heavy-duty hairspray in anticipation of a breezy, beautiful ride.
I should have bought a can of mace.
The date started out okay. Bernie wanted to meet at a sports bar about twenty minutes from me. Then we could go for a walk somewhere if we wanted to. I was a bit disappointed to hear that, because I’d dreamed about riding in that Corvette, but maybe he’d at least let me sit inside his car for a minute so that I could take a selfie!
I only had a minute’s lead on him as I sat inside the restaurant. On hearing the rev of a motor, I looked out the window in the reception area and noticed his little sports car as he drove up. I stepped outside to meet him.
He left his sunglasses on as we entered the restaurant (very Bernie-like), and asked me if I’d mind sitting outside because it was sunny and breezy, and he loved fresh air. (Straight from his profile—he must say that a lot, I thought.)
I agreed to sit outside, even though I would have described the weather as boiling hot and gusty. I found out very quickly that Bernie was much windier than anything Mother Nature had to throw at me!
He first started out comparing our childhood families for similarities. We had both grown up Catholic. We were both from large families. I got in a sentence or two about living on a farm when I was ten, and having my own Shetland pony.
That was the first and last sentence I spoke for about fifteen minutes, if you don’t count all the “mmmms” and “uh-huhs” I was able to mutter now and then. I don’t quite know how Bernie managed to get from siblings fighting to the fact that he’d lost a beloved relative years ago, but at that point I was allowed to murmur, “I’m so sorry.”
He was the first date I had of the ones who had been divorced who seemed quite bitter about it. According to him, he had been married (for many years) to the most heinous female in creation. If I ever wanted to meet the devil, Bernie ranted at me, he’d introduce me to his ex!
I found myself wondering if it was a sin to side with Satan this once.
He finally started pontificating on how judgmental people are (especially his ex), but that they shouldn’t be. I started to say that perhaps he had misjudged his former wife, but of course, I never got the chance to blurt it out. He repeatedly mentioned that “people can’t judge others; they can’t even really know others.” I don’t know if he was trying to drill that into me so I would give him a chance at dating, but it was a lost cause for him. After only forty-five minutes of listening to him go on and on about judging, or not judging, people, I had not only judged him, but tried and convicted him, and would have loved to hang him high just to get him to shut up for a single minute!
His next oration was on his career as a hospital practitioner, from which he was recently retired. I was treated to graphic descriptions of people dying, and of how, since he was a people person, he’d also had to help the survivors by telling them it was okay to cry. I was starting to tear up myself, but it had nothing to do with sympathy for the departed or their survivors. I wondered if he had talked those poor souls to death.
Bernie moved on to the topic of what can happen to naive single women like me. He didn’t notice my indignant stare at his sunglasses at that crack, because he was proudly warning me, again in graphic detail, about murders, near-death beatings, and rapes that he’d seen the results of during the time he worked in the hospital. He was certain these things occurred because women would break up after a date or two, and that electronic dating could sometimes be a horrible thing. “Yes! Most definitely,” was all I was able to say, as I nodded my head vehemently in agreement.
“Or,” I piped up, as he took a breath, “I’m sure there are men who get beaten up by their dates, probably because they don’t—”
I was going to finish saying, let the woman have a turn talking, but Bernie came alive again and interrupted me to expound on that topic. I signaled a waiter and ordered a diet Mountain Dew, mainly so I would have something else to look at other than my bored reflection in Bernie’s sunglasses. Still he chattered, about what, I could no longer comprehend.
It’s amazing, I thought to myself as Bernie’s voice droned on and on, how ingrained politeness is in me. Why can’t I muster up the gumption to just interrupt him forcefully and say this date is as dead as he looks, and I’m leaving? I wondered if this would qualify somewhat as Stockholm syndrome, where the hostages related to their captors. Whatever was wrong with me, I was going to have to suffer awhile longer, it appeared!
When I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, I decided to let him read my body language. I stared down at my drink and counted the ice cubes in it. I smiled at a baby at the next table and started waving and cooing at it. I crossed my arms in front of me, and I seriously considered faking narcolepsy and catching some shut-eye.
Bernie eventually did ask me a few questions, but whenever I answered, he would again interrupt and go off on a tangent, triggered by something that I had partially said. I was a little bit fascinated that he could talk so long without having to take a drink, or even run out of things to say. It seemed he felt he was an expert on everything. I empathized with his ex-wife, and wished I knew how she’d gotten away from this “talk-aholic.”
I tried to do what Bernie had done, by interrupting, but it didn’t work. There would just be two babbling voices, and people at the surrounding tables looked at us quizzically. I ran out of things to say first, and he always won—although he seemed oblivious to the fact that I’d even tried to speak.
He kept talking about how important it was to act young and take care of oneself. He hardly took a breath before he segued into telling me many people had guessed his age to be forty-nine (he was sixty-five), at which point I tried to stifle a laugh because I thought he was kidding. He looked like he was at least ten years older than I was! If my dad had let her, my mom could have pretended to be a real cougar and dated him! He evidently mistook my laughter for delight that he looked so young.
Bernie asked me if I thought he looked like the picture on his profile. I totally missed seizing the opportunity to truthfully tell him he looked a little more “mature” than his profile picture. I gathered that he was hoping I’d say yes, and then he would tell me it was a picture that was ten or twenty years old—taken when he was much younger!
I instead told him that he reminded me of a coworker who had the same mustache, goatee, and hair color. I didn’t tell him the coworker was long retired, and had dyed his hair more years than I had been alive. Drat! Another missed opportunity.
This went on for four hours, with no food in sight, even though when Bernie stopped to take a breath, I said I needed to get home to feed the dog his supper. I tried to think of a nice way to leave. There wasn’t one.
Finally I just stood up, which made him pause for a second. I said drily, “Well, this has certainly been a great way to kill an afternoon. Sorry, but I really must go!”
Bernie attempted to be gentlemanly by saying he would walk me to my car. Then he stayed seated and proceeded to talk awhile longer. I just stood there, fuming. I don’t know why I didn’t just turn and leave. I couldn’t really believe this type of date had actually happened. I had to learn to be hard-nosed, it appeared, and I really do hate conflict. But I was beginning to hate this guy more—Corvette Stingray Convertible or not!
I started to leave by edging my way toward the patio gate. I said goodbye, and Bernie said he’d like to see me again.
No way! was what I almost said. Sixty years of being a polite good girl took over, though. I told him truthfully that I didn’t feel we had a dating connection, and that I was going to take to heart his advice not to do electronic dating anymore, because I believed him when he said it could be dangerous.
At that, Bernie took his sunglasses off at last. He made a pouty face, which made his crepey and droopy old-man eyelids all the more prominent, and said, “Oh, that’s only with the wrong guy. Not me!”
I just shrugged.
Then he said, “I’m really disappointed—I feel connected to you.” Yeah, I felt connected, too . . . like electrodes in a state death chamber.
“Hug?” he asked. I hesitated because I couldn’t believe he’d even ask that.
He took that as a yes, grabbed me, and held on, while I tried politely and gently to extract myself. Oh, what the hell! I was never going to see this guy again, so I got my feet to go backward, slipped down, and pushed my way out of his grasp.
“Bye!” I yelled.
I couldn’t get to my car fast enough, and I locked the doors. I didn’t even glance at him as I drove away, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw him posing next to his ’Vette—that car that I would never covet again! I could smell his cologne on my cheek. Yuck!
Once I was home, I took a shower, ravenously ate some leftovers from the fridge, and threw my DVD of Weekend at Bernie’s in the trash. Then I posted the following on Facebook:
It’s official, I have met my MATCH! Not, however, in a love connection, nor even as friends. I met a man this afternoon who out-talked me. I mean, he so out-talked me that I am humbled, and still in shock. How can someone not stop for breath for four hours?