My First and Last Blind Date

And a simple twist of fate.

July 9, 1981, fresh out of a soak in a tub full of rose-scented bubbles, I stride over my parents’ lawn toward my place — a renovated boathouse — to greet my blind date. My long dark hair blows in the wind as if I’m in a shampoo commercial, a young woman full of confidence and hope. That is until Maria runs up and says, “There’s been a change of plans.”

“What?” I stop.

“This isn’t the guy,” she says.

“Then who’s he?” I point to the man by her car, beside Stu, her fiancé.

“Stu’s brother. The one I’ve been telling you about. The one I want you to meet. The one who’s — ”

“The one who’s so perfect for me. Because we’re so much alike.” What she means is we’re both different and difficult. I’m not sure I want to meet someone just like me.

I stand across from Stu’s brother, waiting for Maria to introduce us. “Barbara, this is Mike, the one I’ve been telling you about. Mike,” she swings out her arm, presenting me, “this is Barbara.”

We say, “Hi,” and I turn to Maria, and ask, “So how’d this happen?”

“You won’t believe it,” she says, “the guy you were to meet bailed last minute.”

Weird. This guy now lost in the universe. A mystery, someone I’ll probably never know.

“Yeah,” she continues, “something about his ex-girlfriend attempting suicide.” Typical, as if I could compete with a life and death situation. Somehow, some other girl always trumps me.

“Well…” I motion toward Mike, wondering how she ended up bringing him. “How’d?”

“You won’t believe it. We were in the car ready to leave and Mike arrived in a taxi.”

“What?” How strange the timing. She’d been trying to set us up for months, and now for it to happen so unplanned.

“I grabbed Mike, told him to get in the car.”

“What? Did you tell him why?”

“No.” She laughs. “I just said you’re coming with us. Filled him in on the drive here.”

I glance over at Mike. “You okay with all this?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “Not like I’d somethin’ better to do.”

Great. I’m better than nothing. Nice to meet you too.

At least I’m saved from another night of being the third wheel. Alone and out of place. A failure at finding love and happiness on my own.

The guys carry the two-four of beer inside. Maria and I trail behind. I study Mike’s every move, not finding him as attractive as I’d hoped. He’s not someone I’d go after in a bar. Maybe he’s too ordinary, or maybe Maria’s built my expectations of him up way too high. Whatever it is, there isn’t any instant attraction.

Could it be his wavy, shoulder-length, light-brown hair — just too plain? Could it be his moustache? Or his steel-rimmed glasses? His physical build is okay. He’s not too skinny. Not overweight — a plus! He wears an earth-toned checkered long-sleeved shirt with pearl-button snaps, blue jeans, and brown leather Frye boots. I take it all in, wondering what the hell Maria was thinking.

Inside my place, we open beers and gather in the living room on the well-worn sofas that I’ve covered with blankets to hide their ugly floral prints. Mindy, my Irish setter, greets Mike with a wagging tail, and I’m amazed at how much she likes him. He scratches her behind the ears, turns to me, says, “I’ve been here before.”

“In your dreams,” I snip.

“No,” he states. “I’ve been here.”

“Impossible. I’d remember.”

“I’ve been here,” he says again, with such certainty it pisses me off. “I recognized this place soon as we drove up.”

“You couldn’t have. I’d remember.”

“I was.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I’m sure of it.” He stands and peers out one of the large living room windows.

“You’re mistaken.” I take a drink of beer, preparing for a long night.

“I’m sure of it.”

Great! What a match. Arguing already!

“I remember now,” he says. “I was here with Danny Grimm.”

His words hit me like a fist in the gut. Shock waves of memory. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He’s right. I now remember the scraggly looking guy in the passenger seat of Danny’s truck that day, years ago. The reason I declined Danny’s invite to a nearby island. The guy was Mike! What are the odds? I can’t believe my rotten luck. Danny’s dead and this guy ends up here again.

“Yes,” he says, “and I remember seeing you.”

I huff. Does he remember how fast I ran and jumped into Maria’s car instead of Danny’s truck that day? Is he aware I fled because I didn’t like the looks of him?

“Yeah, I remember now,” I say, not elaborating, not admitting he’s right, but not mean enough to reveal my impression of him then and now — the fact it hasn’t changed.

I motion for Maria to join me in the kitchen. I pull her into the small closed-off space that when finished will be the bathroom. “What the fuck?”

“Jesus,” she says. “At least give him a chance.”

“I can’t fuckin’ stand him.”

“So?” she says. “Christ! It doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life with him.”

“How could you? How could you even think for a minute he was right for me?”

“Oh my God! You gonna ruin tonight?”

“Fuck you.” I stiffen and fume, not wanting to spoil the plans of going to the tavern in Western Shore, not wanting to be a party pooper. “Okay. I’ll give it a try, but what are the chances he’d be that creepy guy?”

She shrugs. “Just make the best of it.”

Back in the living room, Mike peers out of one of the large windows facing the water, says, “It’s almost like being on a boat.” He moves to the other window.

Maria suggests, “Why don’t we take a walk on the beach before we go out?”

“Why not?” I say, hoping it will provide time enough to determine if this night might improve. I grab Mindy’s leash and Mike offers to take her, which is a blessing because dealing with her is nothing but a struggle.

While walking along the shore, Stu steps on a rock and it rolls out from under him and he loses his balance and almost falls. I bust out laughing. Mike, dead serious, spins and says, “Not funny. He’s my baby brother. He could’ve hurt himself.”

“Oh boo-fuck-itty-who,” I say, wanting to tell him to go fuck himself, but I hold myself in check.

“You should take things a bit more seriously,” he says.

I glare at him and pick up the pace, catching up to Maria.

Back at my place, I again pull Maria into the bathroom. “Still not impressed,” I say. “He jumps on every little thing I say. What the fuck were you thinking? I can’t believe you thought the two of us would be right for each other.”

“Okay, calm down.” She holds up her hand. “Listen, Stu and I will go to town, get some takeout. Give you two a chance to be alone.”

“Alone? Oh my God!” I slap my hand to my head. “How’s that better?”

“Listen.” She grips me by both arms, keeps me from striking out. “Just listen. I promise when we return if you don’t want him around, we’ll take him away.”

I nod, while inside I scream, No! No! No! Get rid of him now!

Back in the living room, Mike lights up a hash joint and we pass it around before Maria announces going to the Red Buoy for takeout before we head to the tavern. She grabs a pen and paper, says, “Tell me what you want.”

“I’ll have fish and chips,” I say.

“Same for me,” Mike says.

I look at him. Oh my God! Do we actually agree on something?

“What’d you want?” she asks Stu, ready to write it down.

“Whatever you’re getting,” he says.

“Great. We’re all getting fish and chips.” She tosses the pen and paper on the coffee table, an antique wooden trunk. “Guess I can remember that.” She grabs her purse off the sofa, sways. “Come on.” She motions to Stu. “You’re driving.”

“Hey, just a minute,” Mike says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a couple of twenties. “Here.” He holds them out to Maria. “I’ll pay.”

“Thanks,” I say. Wow! A point in his favour.

Maria and Stu head off to Mahone Bay, and I calculate the time it’ll take to drive there, order food, wait for the food to cook, then drive back to my place. At the most, ten minutes each way, five minutes to order, twenty to cook the food — approximately forty-five minutes, possibly an hour if the place is busy. Oh, my fucking God! How will I survive that long?

Mike flips through my record albums, pulls one out, says, “I see you like Dylan.”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering what else we can find to talk about. “I love his music. His lyrics.”

“Well, we’ve that in common. Wonder if we’ve anything else?” He goes to the fridge, brings back two beers, and sits down beside me. “You got a boyfriend?”

“No. And I’m not looking for one.”

“Well, I’m not lookin’ for a girlfriend either.”

We compare notes on our failed love life and how we don’t want to get involved with anyone again. We agree we’re only interested in one-night stands.

Wow! Guess Maria was right about us being alike. Still, I can’t fathom how she thought we’d make a good couple.

As we talk, my heart softens. Or maybe I’ve downed one too many beers. Or possibly it’s our connection to shared pain. Before I realize it, we’re kissing and Mindy is resting happily at our feet.

Holding Mike’s hand, I lead him upstairs to my earthy reddish-brown bedroom where inside the doorway hangs an oval-framed sepia-toned print of Cupid, who I hope will one day shoot an arrow into some man’s heart. My bed is a double mattress on the floor, mirrored tiles — floor to ceiling — next to it. A poster of Hylas and the Nymphs is thumb-tacked to the wall as my headboard. On the floor beside my bed are several empty stubby-necked beer bottles, a full ashtray, a black-dial telephone, and a lamp without a shade, along with my latest reading interest, Norse and Greek mythology. The rest of the large room is empty except for an antique wooden dresser and a small black-and-white TV.

Mindy follows and rests on the carpet at the foot of the bed. Mike and I make love, and I experience my first orgasm during intercourse.

We’re stretched out naked under the covers when the downstairs door flies open and Maria calls out, “Barbara! Barbara!”

I grin at Mike and yell, “Up here!”

Her footsteps stomp up the stairs. Mike and I smirk at each other, pull the sheet over our heads, and wait for her to enter the bedroom.

She stops by the side of the bed. “What the hell?”

Mike and I pop out from under the sheet, grinning.

She stands with her hands on her hips. “So. Guess you want him to stay?”

“Oh… is it obvious?” I bust out laughing.

Mike eyes me. “Was there a question of my staying?”

“Well,” I bite my lower lip before answering, “I wasn’t sure I liked you or not. They went to town for me to decide.” I pause and meet his eyes. “Can ya guess what I decided?”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “I think so.”

Back downstairs, we devour the greasy fish and chips, drink more beer, and smoke more dope. We decide not to go out to the tavern as planned.

Maria and Stu settle in the upstairs spare bedroom. Mike and I are in my room.

In the early morning hours, I’m awakened by loud thunder and pounding rain. I jump out of bed, naked as usual, not bothering to put on anything whether or not I’m alone. I rush from room to room, closing the windows to keep out the rain but not the lightning from entering and striking one of us dead as my superstitious mother always feared.

Downstairs, I jump onto the kitchen counter to close the small windows on either side of the picture window above where the sink will someday be. As I close the last one, lightning flashes and fills the room with a pinkish glow. The thunder rumbles and roars as if the gods are speaking, giving me a sign — not only did I orgasm, but the two of us came together in perfect harmony, and I felt like my life was about to change in ways I never imagined possible.

BARBARA CARTER is a visual artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.

She likes to take walks, read, watch TV dramas, practice Qi-gong, and work on her memoir series BARBARA By the BAY. https://www.barbaracarterartist.com