Date Night

A few weeks ago a fun question arose during a casual conversation with girlfriends, “What was your worst date?”  Digging deep into my memory cache I could only retrieve a few feeble anecdotes; either I haven’t been on many dates or good fortune has always been on my dating side.

Until now.

Though Miguel the weight lifter is not what I would call my “type,” I decide to go ahead with the date.  Of all his curious attributes, persistence is his strongest, so after the 5th call, with a mix of admiration, pity, and regret I agree to meet him at the movie theater in my capital city.  As I’ve already described the hike down to the bus stop in previous posts I will only comment that I should have taken the harbinger of pouring rain more seriously.  Two falls and 45 minutes later, I finally manage to flag down a passing truck.  A pleasant senior citizen named Guillermo talks my ear off in dencher-accentuated costal Spanish and doesn’t charge me for the 30 minute ride.  I wouldn’t have charged me either after hearing that I was going to the city to tutor orphaned Ecuadorian children in self-esteem and English…

Jog the 10 blocks to the movie theater more out of circumstance than choice – apparently on Sunday everything shuts down, public transportation included.

Everything that is, except THE MALL.

On my way in, a scantily clad woman with years of bad choices etched into her facial wrinkles, was on her way out – shrieking at the four police officers who held her by the arms and ankles.  “Let me go you dirty PIGS!!!!  Oh my.  Another presage?

Puke. The mall is so crowded I have to hold my breath in the elevator to squeeze between two shopping carts and three screaming children dressed more in ice cream than clothing.

Wind my way through thousands of milling families wielding more ice cream cones and plastic toys as weapons.  Scoot into the ticket line at 3:30 pm deciding to buy just one ticket in case of a weight lifter no-show. Make it to the second twist in the 300 meter line and see that the movie is SOLD OUT.  Until 10:10 pm. I weigh my options, then decide to not buy tickets.  I do not want to be stuck with Mr. Body Builder until midnight, plus the buses back to my site stop running at 7pm.  I wander around the mall for half an hour trying to people watch but feeling generally overwhelmed and on edge. Play bumper people and realize that I smell like camp fire. 4 minutes before I have set my alarm for surrender and retreat, Miguel finally shows up.  Because he’s not wearing his gray sweat pants I have trouble recognizing him.  Then again he is the only Ecuadorian in the entire commercial center with biceps the size of small sheep. And he’s wearing sunglasses, inside.  I stifle a groan and mold my facial features into a half smile.

I inform sweat pants of our movie misfortune and of my return bus schedule.  He mentions another movie theater down the street and I skeptically drag my feet behind him. An abandoned office building glares back at me as we climb the uneven concrete steps. “Are you sure this is a movie theater?”  And sure enough, for $2.00 per person or $3.00 for two people, you can oblige a tired looking, tuxedo vest wearing woman to put on any in-stock DVD.  At the time of writing, the theater had 6 DVDs on file; 4 of which I had already seen from the comfort of my own bed and laptop, through the magic of Ecuadorian piracy.  The other two had names like “Whore’s Retreat” and “Devil’s Plaything.”  Sweat pants chose the first.

Tuxedo vest graciously took the DVD to the Sony player with a wink, “Good choice,” she smiled conspiratorially.  I felt the recently consumed popcorn rising back through my alimentary canal.

***********************************

I hear the teenage couple making out before I see them; the grotesque slurping comparable to a flu-ridden elephant at a mucky water hole. Bless their hormonal hearts, the adolescents don’t break stride even after we fully entered the theater. Ecuador is just brimming with persistence.

My eyes adjust to the impenetrable darkness only after my shins are properly introduced to a couple of wooden sofas.  The great thing about darkness though, is that it forces even the shadiest of characters to remove his sunglasses.  Finally.

The theater’s screen is roughly the size of one bedroom wall in a modest suburban residence – more Englewood sized than Cherry Hills. And the movie’s title is a mis-translation (thank God).  “Restraint” is a British film about two criminals who invade the mansion of a wealthy and attractive man suffering from agoraphobia.  Though all this is guesswork as sweat pants will not SHUT UP during the movie.  He asks me questions like, “How much do you bench?” and “Do you eat egg yolks?” to which I angry whisper responses through gritted teeth, hoping and praying that the DVD is irreparably scratched somewhere.  When I ask him what his favorite movie is, he replies “Anything with The Rock in it.”

We share a bag of popcorn which my ex-personal trainer balances annoyingly on my left knee.  I fight the urge to kick out and scream “I have restless leg syndrome!” while kernels of popcorn shower the love birds in the corner who have still not come up for air.  At minute 33 he asks me if I have guinea pigs.  This is a question that I get all the time in my community, but it’s definitely the first time on a date.  But it turns out he is asking if I crack my knuckles (maybe the most bizarre translation I’ve come across) – which I do not.  Mr. Body Builder insists on cracking them for me and is reaching for my hands when it dawns on me this might just be his trademark ‘move’ for initiating a hand hold.  I shove mine as deeply as they will go into my pockets and tell him I’m morally against knuckle cracking.  His disappointment is tangible.

An hour into the film the professional kissers stand up to leave and I take this as my cue.  “I have to catch my bus.”

I’ve interrupted his speech (still talking) with my statement and he looks confused.

At my bus stop there are many indigenous families grouped together with their food purchases and a few choice delinquents with excess hair gel roaming among them. As a safety guard I usually await the bus from inside the bakery; the glass windows allow an ample view of approaching vehicles and I always treat myself to a cheese empanada.  But something cold and mechanical inside me will not allow me to share this tradition with Miguel.  If I buy food, I have to buy something for him, and that would be viewed as positive encouragement.  So we wait outside, me staring so diligently as to suggest visual control over the bus schedule and Miguel keeping vigil by my side, chatting with the chill night breeze.  One comment catches my attention, “I’m going to tell the police.”  Excuse me?

“About what?” I ask, feeling jittery. “About those three guys over there.  They’re going to try to rob us.”  Can you snitch pre-emptively?  Doesn’t that contradict innocent until proven guilty?  “They haven’t done anything yet.” I persuade him not to involve the police and to send me home in a taxi, as my bus is definitely not coming.  As he walks me to the four-wheeled yellow beacon of escape he says, “Next time we’ll go to an earlier showing.”

 

Thanks for reading!

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