The chauffeur held open the door to the shiny stretch-limo. Music from my favorite blues artist, Stevie Ray Vaughan, poured out from the back seat. “Ticker’s running,” said a voice from inside. As I leaned down to take a look, Peter handed me a bouquet of fragrant, yellow roses.
It was 7:30 in the evening, and the red lights on the bus video cameras were all out. Alan and Chester were in the hotel’s grand ballroom, going head-to-head in a ridiculous cooking segment for the show. The live event wouldn’t be over till 11:00, leaving me ample time to sneak out for a little fun with Peter.
I thought it best to keep my meetings with him a secret. Alan might misinterpret my feelings for Peter as an act of treason. I was fully aware that Alan was contractually responsible for my actions, but young love needs time to flourish, and I didn’t want to miss my chance for a meaningful relationship.
As I thanked the limo driver for holding the door, I tried getting a look at his face, but it was hidden under his driver’s cap. He grabbed the brim and tipped it as I climbed into the luxury vehicle.
“Your driver’s kind of shy, isn’t he?” I said to Peter.
“They’re paid for drivin’, not for high-fivin’,” he replied.
I stretched out my legs. “Lots of room in here. This must be costing you a bundle.”
“It’s my dad’s corporate limo. He told me I could use it in case of emergencies.”
“You call taking me on a date an emergency?”
“I had to rush you off to some fun before you collapsed from boredom.”
“So, what kind of fun do you have planned?”
“The old-fashioned kind. You like old movies and retro ‘50s stuff, right?”
“Yeah, so? You taking me to a malt shop or something?”
“Close. Miniature golf! An old-fashioned date for an old-fashioned girl.”
I leaned forward and looked through the glass that isolated us from the front seat. “Did you hear that, Mr. Driver? He thinks it’s 1955.” I couldn’t see the chauffeur’s reaction, the tinted glass being too dark.
7:45
Mini Golf Palace read the sign to the indoor golf course. I had always pictured these places as hangouts for nerds, but to my surprise, this one was hipper than I imagined it. Dazzling, disco lights whirled, while a deejay spun tunes from his perch in the center of the amusement complex.
Peter paid up while I signed in. We grabbed a pair of putters, and headed for the front nine.
The first hole was a par-4: get your ball in the cup in four strokes, or face ridicule from your opponent. The obstacle was a 6-foot-tall windmill. All you had to do was knock your ball past the slowly spinning blades to the cup inside.
I gripped the handle of my putter firmly and swung. Being an excellent pool player, I banked the ball off a side wall. The ball traveled at just the right velocity, coming to rest, dead center to the cup.
Peter was a little dumbstruck at my accuracy. “We can still do the malt shop thing if you want,” he said.
“Nothing doing,” I said. “Your turn.”
Peter didn’t do quite as well as I did, but made it to the cup in four strokes. I made it in two! He thought he knew all about me, but no one told him that I had a competitive streak a mile long.
Next hole.
The challenge this time was to roll your ball up a long, red tongue, and into the mouth of a giant Devil face. Again, I dominated the sport. Not only did I knock my ball down the Devil’s throat in one stroke, I putted out on my next swing.
“Looks like luck is on your side, tonight,” said Peter, as he scored my two strokes to his five.
I rested my putter on my shoulder, and strutted passed him, like an arrogant baseball hero stepping up to the plate. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” I said.
It was only the second hole with sixteen more to go, but I could already see Peter’s poor showing starting to wear on him. I could easily have let him win to boost his male ego, but defeat wasn’t written into my DNA. Then it occurred to me that maybe he was letting me win to coax a little sympathy out of me. We would soon see.
8:20
The medieval castle featured a motorized drawbridge that went up and down—rising and falling over a water-filled moat.
Peter studied the path to the castle like a highway surveyor, bobbing and weaving, as if the slightest miscalculation would mean certain disaster. The fun of the evening was dwindling fast, so I decided to put a little playfulness back into it.
I raised my putter up into the air like a magic sword. “I charge thee, Sir Peter, to beat me in thy quest for yon castle.”
Peter caught the spirit. “Thou hath asked for it, Maid Amy,” he replied with a British accent.
Peter mashed his teeth in deep concentration as he took his first swing. His shot was masterful. The ball careened off the knight’s shield, ran along the edge of the moat, and landed squarely in front of the drawbridge.
Peter placed his fists on his hips, like Errol Flynn in that old Robin Hood movie. “Come hither to mine castle, milady,” commanded Peter, “and bathe in yon moat.”
“Nay,” I said, “for I have naught to wear, my lord.”
“Weareth thy birthday suit, fair maiden. I promiseth not to gander at thy lilly-white flesh.”
“Oh, my lord, thou hath turned my cheeks to blushing.”
My first swing was deliberately off the mark. In spite of my hunger to win, I thought Peter should at least win one hole. But when he made it to the cup in his second stroke, I suspected that maybe he had been hustling me all along.
Four strokes later, I finally made it to the cup. “I hath putted out in five strokes, my lord,” I said.
I peered over Peter’s shoulder as he happily noted my dreadful score. “Verily, thy Tiger Woods hath no better done,” he said.
Then he leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, but I was not in the mood. “Call off thy dragons, ye impetuous knave,” I said.
Peter was clearly put off by this.
I stood under the archway to the next hole. “Make haste, for I am still ahead of thee.”
“Only for the moment, thou blue-haired wench.”
8:50
The game was half over. We sat across from each other in the Mini Golf Palace food court, and ate our burgers in complete silence. A shared basket of fries sat on the coffee-ring-stained table between us. This would have been a great opportunity for us to get better acquainted, but the game was tied, and all I wanted was to get back out to finish the match.
I started a lame conversation to break the tension. “So, how about this weather?”
“Oh, fine,” said Peter, his mind miles away. He didn’t think I noticed, but his gaze was trained on a golf training video, playing on a TV monitor behind my back.
“How about that full moon last night?” he said.
“Huh?” I replied, my attention focused on the putting technique of a player out on the course.
I came back to Peter, to find him swinging his burger as if practicing his golf swing. While Peter’s attention was diverted, I slowly reached for the score card under his elbow.
Peter’s eyes immediately shifted to my hand, then he looked at me suspiciously. “What’s the matter, Amy?” said Peter. “Don’t trust my addition?”
“Just wondering what the score is,” I said.
Peter covered the score card with his hand. “You know exactly what the score is. Maybe you’d like to change it to put yourself in the lead.”
“What do you take me for? Okay. I may not be a very good loser, but I’m not a cheater.”
“Oh no? How about moving your opponent’s ball when he’s not looking?”
“That was an accident. How about when someone knocks the other guy’s ball out of the cup?”
“I didn’t do that!”
“I saw you!”
We went back to giving each other the silent treatment, as we chomped on our burgers.
Several minutes passed, and the long silence had calmed our anger. I was breathing easier now, and the disdain was gone from Peter’s face.
One last fry sat at the bottom of our basket. “You gonna eat that,” asked Peter, softly.
“You can have it,” I replied in a kind voice.
Peter slowly reached for the final fry. It looked like a reconciliation between us was at hand. But as his fingers closed in on the greasy morsel, my distrust for Peter resurfaced. Maybe he really didn’t want that fry. Maybe this was yet another attempt to demonstrate his dominance over me.
With his hand well inside the basket, I quickly grabbed for the fry, squishing it into a micro-mashed potato.
“I know what you’re up to!” I said. “You’ll trying to tear down my defenses so you can cream me on the back nine.”
Peter abruptly stood up. “Why don’t we get back out there and see who’s really the best!”
“Fine!”
We grabbed our putters and marched over to the ninth hole, leaving behind one, mangled french fry.
10:30
The limo ride home was a quiet one. Our eighteen holes of miniature golf had ended in a tie.
Peter was the first to speak. “You still mad at me?” he asked. “It’s only a silly game at a cheap tourist trap.”
I crossed my arms and looked out the window next to me. “You didn’t have to get so nasty with me.”
“Alright,” said Peter, raising his voice. “Let’s cut the crap. Why don’t we get to the real reason why you’re so pissed at me? You’re still mad over what happened seven years ago, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you think I have a right to be?”
“Didn’t I explain my situation to you well enough?”
“You explained yourself perfectly, but I never heard you say you were sorry.”
“Yeah, right. Like you don’t have anything to apologize for.”
I looked over at him, astonished. Now Peter was the one staring out the window, fuming.
10:45
The limo pulled up to Alan’s bus in the hotel parking lot. I leaped out before the driver had a chance to open the door for me.
Peter leaned out through the open door and started to say something, but I turned my back to him. After a moment, I heard the door slam shut, then the sound of the limo driving away.
A haunting stillness hovered over the parking lot. Inside the hotel, guests were wrapping up their parties, saying farewells with handshakes and kisses. But there I was on the cold asphalt, alone, replaying my date over and over in my head.
My chin started to quiver, a sure signal that tears were soon to follow. The evening had started out with such promise. I was so looking forward to a fun—possibly romantic—evening with Peter. But I blew it! What must he think of me now, I thought?
Then I felt something under my foot. A flattened, yellow rose lay on the ground, with tire tracks imbedded on its petals. I gently picked it up and lovingly held it to by chest, and thought:
Thou hath made a fool of thyself.