IT’S HARD TO imagine a date getting off to a worse start. And believe me, I know about dates and bad ways to start them. You could almost say I’ve become an expert on the subject. On my most recent bad date … well, who am I kidding? Looking back on my life, I can’t think of many good dates. Barring calendar dates, of course. April 25th is nice. And Medjool dates are pretty tasty.
To be honest, I can’t recall a single date in the last five years where there wasn’t crying, arguing, or someone spilling something on themselves. Maybe I was ghosted by a catfish. Maybe my date was cheating on their significant other. Or maybe I got smacked in the face—it’s happened more than once.
But this date? Things went downhill from the beginning. I was late. She was just about to leave, and I had to explain that I was being held by the police. They had rounded up the usual suspects, and I hurried over as fast as I could after the questions were finished.
And no, the police don’t let you call someone just to tell them you’re going to miss a date. They sometimes don’t even let you call a lawyer.
A mutual friend set us up. No, it wasn’t Lacroix. We were both local, so we decided to check out a nearby place. And, what the hell, let’s go all in and get something swanky. So we agreed on the Westover, a really nice place in Uptown. It’s been around for 30 years now, and they do a brisk business with the expense account crowd and the K-W elite—the dull people who have more than enough money to spend on the signature Lobster Thermidor. K-W’s not anywhere near the coast, but lobster’s their big dish. Of course, it’s expensive.
She ordered the lobster. It’s fine. I wanted to go Dutch, since we were just getting to know each other, but it looked like I was going to pay.
It’s okay. I’d prepared for this.
And we were getting along great until the conversation derailed. She said she hated detective stories, and that’s a big turnoff for me. Not that I get off on detective stories … you know.
It’s all fine.
But it was the gunman who really ruined the date.
We were just about to get dessert when this guy came through the main entrance, a double plate glass door. The guy came in through the door, calmly and with purpose. I noticed his gait right away. This individual wasn’t looking for a Maître d’ or a reservation; he wanted to find and kill someone. I saw the gun, and I knew right away what to do.
Of course, my date didn’t understand why I was on the floor, but I grabbed her arm and dragged her under the table before the shooting started.
The story was, he’s a chef who updated the menu and invested a lot of time and money to make the restaurant more modern. After all the renovations, all the work he’d put into it, they fired him and locked him out of any ownership agreement. He was here to set it right. On a busy Friday, no less. Wanted to get as much exposure as he could by making a scene.
I guess that by the time he showed up with the gun, there was little chance of him backing out gracefully, so he committed to seeing it through to its end.
The shooting caused chaos in the restaurant, with people falling, tables overturning, and dishes breaking. I never really liked when a food fight started in a transatlantic flight during turbulence, but imagine something like that happening, and with guns.
I got my date, Katelyn, and a half dozen others, to the kitchen area. People—that is, normal people—don’t really understand how to deal with an active shooter situation. I get it, I really do. Someone starts shooting, and suddenly you forget how to do anything. Anything except scream and become a victim.
I’m not like other people. I’ve been in gunfights before. Lots of them. I’ve been in war zones—I have the scars to prove it. Now that I think about it, this might be one reason why I have bad dates.
So, when a gun comes out, I’m prepared. That’s my wheelhouse. I know well enough to get out of the path of a gun. And this is the dilemma. Since I can act so effectively in an active shooter situation, part of me wants to be a hero. To get out there and neutralize the threat.
I had about a minute or even less to figure out what to do, and what did I do? I gathered up everyone in the kitchen and ushered them out the back to safety. It was the right choice, but I still wanted to get back in there.
When the police arrived, I tried to go back inside, but was tackled by responders and taken away with the others to a safe location away from the restaurant.
The thing is, I could have helped. I could have tried to stop the shooter before anyone got killed. Before anyone even noticed the gun. But what was my first instinct? To drop to the floor.
Now, the mayor’s talking about some kind of award. I’m in the news again. I’m the guy who saved 15 people from a maniac gunman.
But I’m also the guy who didn’t stop a threat before it became a threat. Six people were dead before I got to the kitchen. And I could have helped those people.
As far as bad dates go, this one was definitely in the top five. It didn’t rank higher, mostly because Katelyn said she had a great time. That it was the most exciting thing she’d ever done. She still calls.
But yeah, you could say I’m an expert on bad dates.