The Tinder Chronicles: The Guy with the Baby Voice
Fiction Friday
Blaze — which was, according to him, his actual legal name given to him by his parents — was a kindergarten teacher, of all things. If pressed, after seeing his profile of leather jacket-clad photos with his motorcycle in the background, I would have guessed he was a musician, or a professional wrestler, or a bodyguard. Something like that.
Definitely not a kindergarten teacher.
When we met at an ice cream parlor in Midtown, I was taken aback by the disconnect between his appearance and his career once again, even though I was prepared for it. He was tall, at least 6'5", and wearing rough-looking jeans, steel-toed boots, a black t-shirt, and a heavy black motorcycle jacket. A pack of cigarettes jutted from his jacket pocket.
I walked up and extended my hand, a bit too nervous to go in for the hug. He held my hand with the most unexpectedly gentle touch, his skin baby-smooth. In comparison, my hands felt covered in lizard skin.
“Hi,” I said tentatively. “I’m Viggy.”
“And my name is Blaze, but you can call me Mr. B-Dog.” I must have looked confused, because he laughed a little too uproariously. Several people licking ice cream cones turned to look at us. “I’m just kidding. That’s what my kiddos call me.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, walking over to the line leading up to the counter. “So, how did you get into teaching?”
“Well, I just absolutely love kids. All four of my ex-wives gave me such beautiful, precious, adorable children. Each one is even cuter than the last.” He winked at me and leaned in close. “And there’s always room for one more in this family!”
My face tightened into a pained grin. “Oh, that’s nice.”
We had reached the front of the line, and I ordered one scoop of mint chocolate chip in a cup. Blaze stepped up and looked up and down the glassed-in counter, perusing his choices. “Oooh, cotton candy!” he said, his voice going up several octaves. “Could I have a widdle taste?”
The girl behind the counter looked as shocked and perturbed as I felt. I give her a lot of credit, though, because she barely missed a beat after Blaze’s strange, off-putting baby voice before she stuck a tiny plastic spoon into the vat of cotton candy ice cream and handed it over to him.
Blaze didn’t seem to notice our reactions, and after he licked the spoon clean — a bit too vigorously — he said, “Yummy in my tummy!” I cringed at his voice, which was just so completely at odds with his tough-guy appearance.
He ordered four scoops of cotton candy ice cream in a rainbow sprinkle cone (luckily, in his normal voice), and we wandered over to a table with our treats.
I sat on the edge of my seat during our entire conversation, mentally preparing myself for the reappearance of that horrible, high-pitched, obnoxious baby voice. I’d heard plenty of parents who spoke kid-speak to their own children, but nothing like what Blaze was doing. I hoped he didn’t subject his poor kindergarteners to that voice.
He took a huge lick of his ice cream, and a glob of it fell onto the already sticky tabletop. “Oopsie!” he cried, and I flinched. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll just wipe up that widdle spill-spill, no biggie!” I fought hard against the urge to gag.
I honestly cannot remember the conversation we had — we must have talked about something, but my ears felt numb after what he’d subjected them to. Just as I was finishing my ice cream, he stood up abruptly. “Sorry, I have to go pee-pee. I’ll be right back!”
I could see how some women would find his intense love for children endearing — that would explain the wives — but at the same time, I would think listening to that voice for even a couple hours would be enough to make someone want to tear their hair out — that would explain the exes.
When Blaze got back from the bathroom, he motioned for me to follow him out the door so we could walk a bit. As soon as we got outside, he pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit up. His voice went from baby-soft to a low growl so quickly it made my head spin. “So, baby, what do you think? Want to take a ride on this motorcycle? I’ve got a place we could go to have some fun.”
Yet again, I saw a new side of Blaze that I was utterly unprepared for. The smell of his cigarette smoke made me cough and turn away. When I looked back at him, I mustered my cutest, squeakiest, most annoying child voice and said, “My mommy would put me in time-out if I got on a motorcycle, and it’s way past my bedtime. Time for baby Viggy to go home!”
I smiled and turned as quickly as possible to leave. Over my shoulder, I heard Blaze yelling in his own baby voice, “Wait, wait! Baby Blaze can take you home! It’s not nappy time yet, it’s not nappy time yet!”