It’s laughable now, to me, what I thought this date was gonna be. I thought this date was gonna be like, you know, a simple kind of Saturday social. Maybe a museum and a stroll through the park. Maybe an ice-cream soda we shared with a straw. At a soda fountain. In the 1950s.
Wrongo.
This misinterpretation might have something to do with the fact that I’ve never really been on a date. Officially. I mean, that guy on the Amtrak who was trying to get lucky was sort of the closest thing. Also, I went on a few playdates with a kid named Wyatt, when I was three. Apparently, he had a tree house and a pirate hut. That is all.
But there are no tree houses, pirate huts, or Amtrak creeps here. No, no. This is the kind of thing you don’t know is happening until it happens, and then you think . . . um, what the fuck is happening right now?
Here’s how it starts.
Milo shows up at my door dressed in what can best be described as a cool turn-of-the-century bartender outfit, minus the bar. There is a vest involved. I mean, he looks cool. But he definitely looks dressed. Like, really dressed.
I, on the other hand, was going for a much more casual thing. Like, I am not dressed for an afternoon of timeless romance. More like a picnic of delicious sandwiches, which can sometimes be the same thing. Don’t judge me.
Seeing him at my front door, I immediately feel like an idiot and want to cancel the date entirely.
“Um. I’m not wearing the right thing for whatever it is we are doing, am I?”
“No, it’s totally fine. Really.”
“Okay . . . well, what if you give me like five minutes to come up with something, a little less like I’m going to a football game and you’re going to the opera.”
“If you want to. You don’t have to—”
“I think I have to. Just. Hold on a second.”
And with that I slam the door in his face, which I really didn’t mean to do but kind of happened anyway. I then swoop into my closet and try to find something, anything, please, lord, to look cool.
Somehow I manage to put together something sort of vintage. It’s not that easy to dress when you have only one bag of clothes and two uniforms, and you have no idea where you’re going. But I give it the old college try, and I think I get a B for effort. Possibly a gold star.
When I come back to the door, Milo is on the phone, whispering. Clearly he is up to no good. He waves at me, a mischievous smile, and I realize he is really putting an effort into this outing.
He tries to reassure me when we get into the Uber.
“Don’t worry. The drive to the coast will only take about a half hour. I know the secret route.”
Coast? Route? Secret? What is going on? I thought we were supposed to be, I don’t know, five minutes into previews by now. Or maybe catching an open mike at the coffee bar in town.
What. Is. Going. On?
Milo gives me a wink and looks out the window. He’s smiling to himself.
“Do you plan on selling me into slavery by dusk? Or sacrificing me to our lizard overlords? I need to know.”
“It’s our first date, right? I wanted to impress you. I’m kind of nervous, honestly.”
What? He’s nervous? If he’s nervous, then I am certifiable.
“Oh, here. I stole this champagne from my stepdad. He’s kind of a dick, so hopefully it costs a million dollars and he’s going to be superannoyed.”
Milo serves up the champagne in two crystal champagne flutes. It’s obvious these are stolen from said stepdad’s collection, too.
PS: This is illegal.
PPS: Milo doesn’t seem to care.
“I didn’t know you had a stepdad. Or even that your parents were divorced. Or that your life wasn’t completely perfect in every way.”
There’s a pause here.
“Yeah. Um. My mom’s pretty cool, actually. She does all sorts of art stuff, always caring about making art ‘available to the disenfranchised.’ And she’s always raising money for, like, street kids and orphans or whatever.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, she’s a real bleeding heart. But she’s great. She kind of dotes. Or tends to dote. She calls me her little prince. Still. Like, even now.”
“But your stepdad . . . ?”
“Ugh. He’s such a fuckwad. He’s, like, one of these money guys. Like, you know, the guys who tanked everything. He probably fucks his secretary.”
“What about your dad? What’s he like?”
“He’s like . . . dead.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s been, like, a couple of years or whatever.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’m surprised Remy didn’t tell you. It was kind of a thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, he kind of killed himself.”
Jesus.
My plan—the one involving the clock tower—flashes through my brain. And now I feel stupid and melodramatic and incredibly, overwhelmingly, like a total and complete jerk.
Seeing this. What it’s like to be left behind.
To be the one left behind.
“Oh, Milo. I had no idea. I’m so sorry . . .”
“It’s okay. Maybe that’s why I like you. Because you didn’t know.”
Or maybe he is just attracted to people who have fantasies about killing themselves. I don’t say it. Thank God.
The sun is blazing down now, and we’re going up and above all the row houses upon row houses. Some brick with old-timey ads painted on it. Old businesses, gone for decades, the hope gone with them, too. You can’t help but wonder, looking at the zillion little lives, flying past, some with laundry hanging, some with broken toys on the balconies, faded out by the sun, you can’t help but wonder, Why them? Why do they get this shitty never-go-anywhere life? Who makes up these rules? You go there. And you, you go there. Oh, you . . . you’re down there, sorry. It makes no sense if you think about it. And then there are people like Milo. People with everything. Little princes without a worry in the world.
Except a dad who killed himself.
He downs the rest of his champagne.
“You have no idea how lucky you are to be from Iowa.”