“Maybe we should take a break after this,” he sighs on the third ball of Medieval Madness. It’s about eleven on Friday night. The crowd has thinned slightly and this first date is bordering on bad. Thanks to an excess of 1st dates, I’ve developed intuition for match potential that outclasses any existing algorithm. Especially when it comes to the internet. Communication is difficult even under ideal circumstances and my superpower is filtering bullshit. Meeting amidst the romantic morass of OK Cupid, Allen began with a brick-through-the-window statement, “I want to meet you.”
Naturally, with no context, I respond, “Why?”
His reply is a defensive muddle about not intending to offend me while simultaneously lamenting no good way to approach women on the internet. Lucky him, I pride myself on taking stupid risks when it comes to damaged men. The core of his response expresses a desire to connect so I decide to reach out. I compassionately assure him I’m sincere and, a smattering of general chit-chat later, ask where he wants to meet. His glib attitude and vague implication the universe owes him something form a bouquet of red flags. Stubbornly ignoring the signs, I soldier on.
That’s how I got here. I personally choose locations based on whether I’ll mind being there alone. Scheduling nearly 150 dates my first year in Seattle, I was stood up at least 65% of the time. After a while, it just made sense to get abandoned in a place I would hang out anyway. In Allen’s case, our somewhat stilted repartee via OKC didn’t bode well so I chose my favorite spot to be left alone, Shorty’s. Knowing it is an old stomping ground of his might have changed my decision. I also chose a work night so I didn’t waste an actual day off on this project.
Snagging a quick bus across town after my shift, I make the 10:30 meeting early enough to get in a round of Safecracker. That’s where he finds me, dancing to my most recent ball-related success. Heavier than his pictures by at least thirty pounds and older by a decade, I note the Bauhaus T-shirt and offer a firm handshake. I don’t judge people based on their appearance unless they want me to. Besides, I didn’t make any effort to look pretty either. With 2 credits left, I offer to let him play. He declines and says he’ll just watch. Fine, no argument from me.
Chatting over the course of the game, I direct the majority of my attention toward him. I’m content to ask questions and listen to his answers while moving in time with the game. A fifty-something white guy, the first thing he emphasizes is that he’s lived here his whole life. Given the trite delivery, I teasingly ask for clarification. How native to Seattle are you? Hackles raised, he avers to being in Seattle since the nineties. His tech-based career path makes for a plausible timeline but money does not heritage make. Being there only counts if you’re Peter Sellers.
Despite being way too proud of his proclaimed Seattle roots, I seem to have a bit in common with my blind date. Remaining determinedly open-minded, I approach our conversation with candor. We discuss everything from previous marriages to the nineties. Talking about my journey out here is harder than I anticipated. Trying very hard not to tear up while exploring complex emotions, I focus on the positive aspects of being in Seattle. Unfortunately almost everything I say is echoed with his memory of how it used to be better. To compensate, every time he talks down about the city I take a drink.
The number one reason I moved away from Memphis is to get away from the complainers. People who lament their surroundings and yet do nothing to improve it. Either fight for what you want or move to another fucking place. The whiniest bitches are always the ones with money too. They seem to think wealth entitles them to land rights in the same mutable culture that fostered their unprecedented growth. Truth is, you can’t actually own the land. Cities will change, demographics will shift. Everything you want can be found if you are willing to chase, rape and pillage it. Even then, that usually involves moving to the suburbs.
I chose Seattle for a myriad of reasons. High school romanticism. Cheapest big city. The weather. I could have aimed higher but my goal isn’t to be big. I want to exist in a place that tolerates me being myself and fortunately part of Seattle does. The other part of Seattle seems not to tolerate much of anything, especially each other. Every 5-10 years the people moving here find themselves thinking they are the new natives. Arguing for ownership of a city that sifts away beneath them with every economic tide.
Chatting outside, he lobbies more banter among a group of ex-friends and long-lost acquaintances. Band names and venues are swapped in bro-like remembrance with the same ominous undertone, “Member the good ole days!” I smile and glean the point without absorbing the information. These isolated memories aren’t details worth remembering. I already know all of the ex and current band members I’ll ever need to and the stories are relatively the same. The plight of struggling artists isn’t different unless they get discovered.
Bored and trying to change the subject I jump in with, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
At this, he grins and puffs up his chest to declare, “Going to the Women’s March, of course.”
“Oh really? They’re doing another one?” I ask facetiously.
“Of course,” he huffs.
“Have fun, I’ll probably be asleep,” I quip.
“It goes on all day,” he offers.
Realizing I work tomorrow, “Oh yeah, what time does it start?”
“Ten. I’m getting up at eight so I can meet my friends at the very beginning,” he brags. “Starts in Cal Anderson park this year.”
“Oh good,” I sigh. “I’m not scheduled till five. It’ll be over long before that.”
“So you’ll be able to go,” he presumes perkily.
I laugh out loud. “No,” still giggling, “The bus schedule should be normal by the time I need to get to work. Last year all the buses were rerouted and I had to pay $16 for an Uber to work. It was so annoying.” I finish with sincere agitation.
“That’s terrible,” he gasps incredulously, “You should automatically get the day off work! How can you call yourself a feminist and be there?”
Taking a hit off my pipe, I shrug, “A bunch of people walking down the street doesn’t feel like an effective protest method in today’s world.” I don’t bother listing any of the annoying details I witnessed last year like people stopping for gelato or going shopping during the march. It seems obvious to me that thousands of suburbanite people casually strolling through downtown on a Saturday afternoon can’t be compared to real activism. Just putting the word March after a gathering doesn’t make it more significant. I add optimistically, “It’s a nice effort, just not really that big a deal.
He grins authoritatively, “If it’s not a big deal then why is it all over the news?”
I’m not sure what my face said at that point but I verbally chortled, “Whatever you say. I don’t really pay attention to the news.”
His disbelief emotes as smug condescension. “That’s crazy. You have to watch the news. It’s important.”
Iterating flatly, “I avoid watching the news.” That’s usually blunt enough to get the point across. The more complete answer is that I don’t actively seek information about the world at large. Most broadcasting services create more questions than they answer. Generally, the most exciting part of daily news is inconsequential flotsam and useful information is folded in with promotional jetsam. Fear is their currency and the internet makes it viral. Anything that doesn’t warm your heart will chill your bones.
“You see,” he mansplains slowly, “The March last year was to protest the inauguration. This year it’s to show we still don’t approve.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod, “And if there was any real chance of getting him kicked out of office it would have happened by now.”
“That’s not the point,” he sputters indignantly. “It’s an even more important demonstration now than it was last year.”
With genuine curiosity, “How do you figure?”
“Well, I’m attending this year,” he posits, “so that’s one more person than last year.
Still soggy with sarcasm, I muse, “Sure, because the second time something happens is what goes down in history.”
I don’t treat my ignorance about what’s trending on Twitter as a personal flaw. I have solid, well thought out ideas about the issues that affect me. If my disregard for headlines annoys someone, it generally says more about their personality than mine. I don’t find individuals more interesting just because they can recite facts. That was only mildly impressive even before internet was available on our phones. In my experience, people relying on current events to sound intelligent are mostly regurgitating sound bytes and lack critical thinking skills. The real issues with society don’t change much, just names associated with them.
Learning to ignore the hype and stay true to your own well-being takes patience. My immunity to the issues is long bred into me. Raised to be invisible, I went through all the proper training. Cotillion, debutante ball, fancy college. I even got married and took a stab at the kept-woman schtick. There’s only one problem. The whole time, keeping my head down and following each prescribed step, I assumed there was a finish line. At some point, I would earn the stamp of approval from my family and could start living my own life. Not sure where that programming started but I’m positive network TV plays a part.
Of course, it’s impossible to go into this aspect of my personality without broaching at least one of the big 3 touchy subjects – politics, religion or money. I’m not one to balk at friendly banter but I’ve had people telling me I’m wrong for most of my life. Agreeing to disagree only works with siblings and coworkers. Recognizing a declining situation, I try one more time to start a friendly conversation. “When’s the last time you were here at Shortys?”
“I’ve hung out here since it opened,” he retorts.
“Uh huh,” I nod along. “But you haven’t been here since they put tables in the back room?”
“Well, I haven’t been here as much since it started to suck,” he clarifies nonchalantly, “but I know the owners.”
“Okay,” I nod with finality. “I’m gonna go play some more pinball. See you inside?”
“Yeah, sure,” he responds.
If that’s his opinion of my favorite place, I’m done wasting time. On a hunch, I slip into a booth by the front window when I get inside. I watch Allen bro-hug the person he was talking to and then walk down the street. I consider sending a text right at that moment. Something snarky like, “Are you coming back?” Instead, I let it set in. This is exactly what I wanted, no more obligation. I’m indignant because he left without saying anything. Certainly rude and immature, it’s truly a blessing in disguise. After about an hour, I text something innocuous like, “Did you disappear?”
His verbatim response, “I waited to find a chance to leave so I can join my sisters and brothers this morning. Go watch the fucking news.”
Wow ladies. With allies like that, who needs enemies?