Would You Care for Some Childhood Trauma to Go With Those Eggs?
Many people consider brunch a welcome first date. Brunch is safe. When you're scheduled to meet someone on a weekend when the sun is still up and no one has had the chance to go through all of Sunday's New York Times, there are no expectations for anything other than the meal. Brunch translates into "Sure, I'll meet you but it's not likely to go far beyond that. If you're a serial killer, it's not really a problem, because as soon as the last morsel is off my plate, I'm probably headed to the afternoon beer bust and will most likely never see you again."
The only type of date with less pressure than brunch is the "Let's meet for coffee" date. Brunch, while usually being easy enough to get out of, still leaves the door open in case you like each other. In gayspeak, "Let's have coffee" usually translates into "I'm still closeted and terrified of you." or "I have a hot hook-up in that neighborhood anyway, so an extra twenty minutes at Starbucks before I hit the sheets works for me."
Now, it's a winter Sunday, early afternoon and I'm on a first date at the East of Eighth restaurant on West 23rd Street. Q, a man of about fifty or so, is sitting across the table. We've just ordered, the mimosa I asked for has yet to arrive. At first the conversation is pleasant. There are the typical first date topics: work/ interests/hobbies and, like most conversations with someone you don't know, it's taking some effort on both our parts. There are gaps here and there. The topic then turns to family. I tell him about my family back in New England and a little about growing up in a small town before asking about his family. Little do I know that all gaps in our conversation are about to completely disappear. Luckily, just as he's about to open his mouth, my mimosa appears on the table.
The first drops of the champagne and orange juice touch my tongue just as the first sentence about family slips out of his mouth. He says, quite matter of factly, "I hated my father." When I hear that, I take a much larger sip than usual. What follows are things that really should only be said to someone who has the ability to charge your health insurance company. Q 's troubles with his Dad started at about the age of six and Q is now recounting every indignity he suffered chronologically. We go through early childhood, cry our way through puberty and head into the struggle that was the teenage years.
The food arrives and, as he eats, Q continues to recount his past. When he reaches the age of about fourteen, I pick up my champagne glass and never put it back down. Instead, I just keep taking sips, somewhat like a shipwreck survivor clinging onto a floating piece of wood. The one-sided conversation is proceeding like this: "...he used to look me straight in the eye and say things like..." Sip. " ...just didn't like playing sports but he didn't want..." Sip. "...the pressure to find some girl who..." Sip. "...I could hear the names he would call me through..." Sip. The baggage was piling up around our table faster than it ever had at the lost and found at JFK.
I'd like to say this date ended well. That I was understanding and polite and managed to go on my way without hurting anyone's feelings. But, that just wasn't the case. After we paid the check and exited the restaurant, Q said "This was nice, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee?" and, thoughtlessly, I blurted out "I don't think so." I clearly remember the look that crossed his face as I rather rudely said goodbye and walked away from him.
What I learned, is that scheduling a brunch date may not be so safe after all. A whole lot of hurt feelings can come along with that early afternoon meal. And if this should happen again, I hope I have a better and kinder reaction. As for Q, when he suggested having coffee, I hope it meant he had one of those previously scheduled hook-ups in the neighborhood and was trying to kill some time until it happened. I'd like to picture him standing on the sidewalk, giving me the finger as I walked off and then heading for a romp with someone who managed to offer him a much more pleasant memory.
The only type of date with less pressure than brunch is the "Let's meet for coffee" date. Brunch, while usually being easy enough to get out of, still leaves the door open in case you like each other. In gayspeak, "Let's have coffee" usually translates into "I'm still closeted and terrified of you." or "I have a hot hook-up in that neighborhood anyway, so an extra twenty minutes at Starbucks before I hit the sheets works for me."
Now, it's a winter Sunday, early afternoon and I'm on a first date at the East of Eighth restaurant on West 23rd Street. Q, a man of about fifty or so, is sitting across the table. We've just ordered, the mimosa I asked for has yet to arrive. At first the conversation is pleasant. There are the typical first date topics: work/ interests/hobbies and, like most conversations with someone you don't know, it's taking some effort on both our parts. There are gaps here and there. The topic then turns to family. I tell him about my family back in New England and a little about growing up in a small town before asking about his family. Little do I know that all gaps in our conversation are about to completely disappear. Luckily, just as he's about to open his mouth, my mimosa appears on the table.
The first drops of the champagne and orange juice touch my tongue just as the first sentence about family slips out of his mouth. He says, quite matter of factly, "I hated my father." When I hear that, I take a much larger sip than usual. What follows are things that really should only be said to someone who has the ability to charge your health insurance company. Q 's troubles with his Dad started at about the age of six and Q is now recounting every indignity he suffered chronologically. We go through early childhood, cry our way through puberty and head into the struggle that was the teenage years.
The food arrives and, as he eats, Q continues to recount his past. When he reaches the age of about fourteen, I pick up my champagne glass and never put it back down. Instead, I just keep taking sips, somewhat like a shipwreck survivor clinging onto a floating piece of wood. The one-sided conversation is proceeding like this: "...he used to look me straight in the eye and say things like..." Sip. " ...just didn't like playing sports but he didn't want..." Sip. "...the pressure to find some girl who..." Sip. "...I could hear the names he would call me through..." Sip. The baggage was piling up around our table faster than it ever had at the lost and found at JFK.
I'd like to say this date ended well. That I was understanding and polite and managed to go on my way without hurting anyone's feelings. But, that just wasn't the case. After we paid the check and exited the restaurant, Q said "This was nice, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee?" and, thoughtlessly, I blurted out "I don't think so." I clearly remember the look that crossed his face as I rather rudely said goodbye and walked away from him.
What I learned, is that scheduling a brunch date may not be so safe after all. A whole lot of hurt feelings can come along with that early afternoon meal. And if this should happen again, I hope I have a better and kinder reaction. As for Q, when he suggested having coffee, I hope it meant he had one of those previously scheduled hook-ups in the neighborhood and was trying to kill some time until it happened. I'd like to picture him standing on the sidewalk, giving me the finger as I walked off and then heading for a romp with someone who managed to offer him a much more pleasant memory.
3 comments:
who paid for brunch?
You sound too nice. I would have walked out.
maybe its you
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