Authors: Debra Doxer
“I’ve got the tickets,” he
announces, holding them up. “Should we go in?”
“Let’s go.” I smile. The theater is
busy but not too crowded. It’s a small intimate place that never plays the top
box office offerings. Small foreign films run on compact screens here.
As we pass the concession stand, he
asks me if I want anything. I shake my head and we pass by, continuing into the
dimly lit theater. He allows me to choose our seats, and I pick two that are
situated on an aisle in the middle. Sitting close together in the dark we
exchange stories about our weeks. David had more than a dozen closings, and he
apparently took the T to nearly all of them. I think I’m even starting to get
used to the sound of his voice as I relate some stories from my own hectic
week.
When I ask him about the restaurant
we are going to later, he gets this strange expression. “I wanted to find a
place that was good, but not too daring with its menu,” he explains. “So I told
my friend, who knows Boston far better than I do, that I’m taking out a woman
who has plain taste in food even though she’s far from plain herself.” His eyes
meet mine and hold them.
I blink, and suddenly I feel like
laughing. Was that a compliment? It sounded so stilted and practiced that it
took me a moment to realize what he actually said. I hardly know how to react,
and I feel myself smiling involuntarily at him. His answering grin is shy as he
turns to look at the screen which is flashing movie trivia at us until the
movie starts.
Feeling awkward, I too turn toward
the screen as the lights begin to dim. The film, entitled Ramone and Juianne,
turns out to be a modern remake of
Romeo and Juliet,
all in French. It
tries to be gritty, using a drug underworld subplot, and borrowing the theme of
rival gangs from
West Side Story
. Most of the movie takes place at
night, and the majority of characters look like they could use a good shower,
but it’s entertaining enough.
Throughout the film I feel as
though David is aware of me, noticing my reactions, which in turn makes it hard
for me to relax and causes me to be hyper aware of him sitting beside me, his
arms occupying both of his arm rests.
When the credits finally roll and
lights come up, he turns to me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
This surprises me. “It wasn’t that
bad.”
“It was trite, at best.”
Trite? “The acting was good,” I
offer.
He shakes his head. “If you spoke
French you wouldn’t think so.”
I had completely forgotten he
speaks French. Now his movie choice makes more sense. “I’m sure your take on it
was much different than mine,” I agree.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
David motions for me to precede
him, and he follows me with a light touch to my lower back.
The restaurant is a pleasant three
block stroll. I’ve been in the city far more than normal in the past few weeks,
and I feel at home as we blend into the urban scene. David is making a joke
when he guides me toward the doors of a McDonald’s. I gape at him, watching him
laugh and shake his head as he points to a steak house on the corner. “That’s
where we’re really going. I know you like steak.”
A woodsy aroma of food grilling
greets us as we enter the lounge-like atmosphere. Like the theater, the
restaurant is busy but not overly noisy or crowded. It’s actually a very cozy
place. I give David an approving smile as we’re led to our table. We slide into
a red leather corner booth and sit beside each other at the square table.
“Good choice?” he asks, taking his
napkin and spreading it over his lap.
“So far. So good.” I am, in fact,
enjoying the evening.
“Do you like red wine?”
“What’s not to like?”
“I could suggest a good Cabernet.”
“Okay.”
When the wine arrives, it’s
delicious. For dinner, we both order steak. He wants his rare, and I see him
attempt to camouflage a cringe when I ask for mine to be burnt to a crisp. I
don’t ordinarily eat this much red meat, but we are at a steak house after all.
“What are you doing next Friday?”
he asks me when we’re halfway through our dinners.
This surprises me. Is he asking me
on another date before we’ve even come close to finishing this one? “I’m not
sure.”
“Because a friend of mine has some
extra tickets to the Red Sox game if you’d like to go with us.”
I haven’t had time to process this
date yet. I’m still not sure if I’m attracted to David. I’m hoping a kiss at
the end of the evening will help me to decide. “That sounds fun,” I answer
noncommittally. “You’re big on Friday nights, huh?” I joke, recalling the
message he left me.
“Well, all my Saturday nights are
busy through Thanksgiving.”
“Oh,” I say surprised, a forkful of
steak pausing on its way to my mouth.
“It’s this side business I’m
involved in,” he explains somewhat hesitantly.
I nod, not sure why he would need a
side business or why he seems reluctant to tell me about it.
He continues eating and I’m about
to question him when he asks, “Have you heard of LARP?”
I shake my head.
“It’s an acronym for Live Action
Role Playing. Does that ring a bell?” He’s watching me as he speaks, seeming to
gauge my reaction.
I shake my head again. “Nope. No
bells.”
“Basically, it’s an organized game.
We call it “The Game” actually, my buddies and I.” He puts down his silverware
so he can use his hands as he speaks. “We have a theme and a bunch of stories
we use. People come every weekend to this campground we rent out, dress in
costume, and act the stories out.”
I just look at him as I’m
processing this. “So, “you put on plays?”
“No. Not exactly. There’s no audience.
We act the stories out. Similar to history buffs dressing in period costumes
and reenacting wars.”
“Oh,” I say, although I still don’t
get it.
He obviously realizes this and
continues patiently. “We have a specific theme for our game, although different
people running other games use all kinds of themes. But ours is a medieval
fantasy theme. So, people interested in that come to play our game.”
“In costume? Pretending?”
He nods.
“These are grownups running
around outside in medieval costumes acting out stories?”
The sides of his mouth curve up
marginally. I think he’s somewhat embarrassed, but it isn’t preventing him from
telling me about it.
“And people pay you to come every
weekend to do this?”
“They pay very well, actually.”
“Hunh,” I reply. If he’s raking in
the money, I guess I can’t really blame him. “Do you play, too?”
“Well,” he runs a hand over his
cheek. “I do. I’ve kind of been into this since college, and there weren’t
really any games being hosted around here. So, I met these guys in an online
LARP group and we decided to start our own game. It’s taken off far better than
we ever imagined, and we have enough people signed up to run it every weekend.
At least, until it gets too cold to continue.”
“Wow.” I’m picturing David running
around in the woods wearing tights and a tunic with a sword at his side, and I
try really hard not to laugh. But I don’t succeed well enough.
“You think it’s strange, don’t you?
That’s awfully judgmental, Andrea,” he chastises, his expression serious now.
“No, I don’t.” I answer quickly,
surprised by his reaction. Surely, other people have thought this is an odd
activity.
He looks as though he doesn’t
believe me.
“Well, maybe I do. I’m sorry for
laughing.”
“You should play one weekend.” He
relaxes again, picking up his fork, resuming eating his steak. “You wouldn’t
even have to pay. You’ve got a connection now.”
“It’s all about who you know.” I
smile weakly, not directly replying to the invitation.
“We don’t have that many women who
play.”
“There’s a surprise,” I mutter.
He eyes me while he chews. “It’s
not really a female thing, huh?”
I pick my words carefully. “I don’t
know. I don’t know enough about it.” But I’m really thinking that it’s not a
normal thing. Between the little boy voice, his reluctance to drive, and now
this weird costume live action activity, it’s just too much. I don’t want to be
judgmental, but clearly, this is not someone I’m going to click with.
I make it through the rest of the
evening as David insists we split a dessert and order coffee. I feel badly,
letting him pay what has to be a substantial dinner bill, because I’m nearly
positive that I don’t want to see him again. But etiquette dictates that I do
not insist on paying my share after he refuses my wallet reach gesture.
After dinner, when we step outside
into the cool evening, David turns to me. “Would you like to take a walk to the
commons?”
I check my watch. It’s nearly
midnight and the last train stops running around 12:30. I tell him this and he
shrugs as though it doesn’t matter.
“You did take the T in right?” I
ask.
He nods. “Did you?”
I shake my head just as a sinking
feeling begins in my stomach. Does he expect me to drive him home or, gulp,
take him home with me? “I think we’d better head back so you won’t miss the
last train,” I tell him.
He stares at me for a beat, seeming
to try to read me, before nodding his agreement and turning back the way we
came.
I’m exhausted from my week and I’m
looking forward to getting home, but I keep pace with his slow,
not-a-care-in-the-world, ambling stride, hiding my impatience.
“Where are you parked?” he asks
after a block.
I point to the garage on the corner
near the theater. Clearly, he intends to walk me to my car. I can’t help but
feel disappointed that David is doing everything right this evening, but he
himself just isn’t right for me.
We finally reach my car parked on
the ground floor and I turn to him, keys in hand. “Thank you,” I say. “I had a
really nice evening.”
He’s standing close to me. His eyes
are level with mine as they lock on me. His hand finds my waist as he leans in
and touches his lips to mine. I don’t feel anything other than the desire to
pull away. But I respond. It would be way too awkward to refuse the kiss. I’m
going to take the coward’s way out and tell him later on the telephone that I
don’t think there’s any chemistry between us. Actually, that isn’t the real
coward’s way out. When I’ve been on the receiving end of rejection, it
generally came in the form of an email or text, or it was made apparent by the
black hole the guy in question suddenly disappeared into. But I don’t operate
that way. I prefer the honest and direct approach. Not so much in person
though.
When David tries to deepen the
kiss, I do lean back, noticing an older couple walking in our direction. I take
the opportunity to cut my eyes to them, hoping David will assume I’m just
embarrassed to be seen smooching in public. Whether he does or not, I’m not
sure, but he gives me a good-natured hug goodbye and tells me he’ll call me
tomorrow. Now I feel badly. He is a genuinely nice guy. Perhaps I am counting
him out too quickly?
I cringe at my wishy-washy
attitude, realizing that if I’d had met David a few years ago, I would have
easily discounted him. I decide
not
to decide anything about David yet
as I turn on the radio and point my car toward home.
Katie comes over on Sunday. Morning
sickness has taken hold--only it lasts all day, she tells me. We’re camped out
on the living room floor with the Sunday paper spread around us, looking at ads
from local department stores, browsing for children’s furniture and supplies,
trying to see what types of styles there are for cribs and changing tables.
It’s too early to start purchasing anything, and Katie is being superstitious
about stocking up on major baby items so soon, but it’s fun to look.
While we peruse the paper, I
describe David and my date with him to Katie. As I knew she would, she urges me
not to hold LARP against him. Although she does agree that it sounds pretty
ridiculous. But Katie, similar to my family, is not to be trusted when it comes
to this sort of thing. My family, especially, cannot be counted on to judge my
dates impartially. Their agenda to have me married off, or at least in a
relationship, taints all their opinions. I suspect that if someone I was dating
turned out to be a murderer, they would say “well, there’s no death penalty in
Massachusetts; you could make it work.”
As for Katie’s situation, since I’d
spoken to her last, she somehow decided that Mike will eventually come back to
her. This opinion is not formed by anything Mike has said, but by Katie herself
rationalizing and over-thinking the situation.
“He’s just scared. I have to give
him time,” she tells me, apparently more than willing to forgive all his
transgressions if he appears on her doorstep.
I nod and keep my thoughts to
myself.
When my cell phone rings later that
afternoon, I check the caller ID and see that it’s David. Since I’m still
undecided on him, I let it go to voicemail. Laura calls, too, while Katie is
over. I am pretty sure she wants to do a postmortem on my date so I let that
call go to voicemail, as well. I’ll deal with it all later.
That night I’m working up the nerve
to call David back, when I decide to procrastinate by checking my email. There
it is, finally. A message from Karthik sent late Friday night is sitting
unopened in my Inbox. I take a breath and open it.
A ripple of excitement runs through
me when I realize the gist of it. He does not mention BTS or Napa once. Rather,
he writes that a marketing position is opening in his group at Cronus, and he
thinks that I should apply for it. As far as he’s concerned, if I’m interested,
he’ll highly recommend me and do his best to make sure the position is mine. It
would be working in the Cronus Maps group and Cronus, according Karthik’s
email, is far more generous and more fun to work for than BTS. I don’t have to
think hard at all to know I’m interested.