Whenever I hear or read people’s horror stories about the
bad dates they’ve had (a.k.a. “dates from hell”), I think, “Ha! I’ve had so
many, I could write an entire series about them!”
Last month marked two years since Sandi, one of my best
friends throughout high school and beyond, passed away, so my thoughts recently
have been about her…and how, in 1969, she was instrumental in helping me add
yet another chapter to my dates-from-hell archives.
Which I still chuckle about even after all these years.
Back then, Sandi was dating a guy named Steve who was in
the navy and was about to be deployed overseas for several months. On his last night at
home, before he had to head to Norfolk, Virginia, from where his ship would be
sailing, he and Sandi had a disagreement and parted on not-so-great terms. This,
of course, really disturbed her.
I didn’t know just how deeply it actually did disturb her,
however, until she called me a few days later and said, “I just bought our
tickets. You and I are flying down to Norfolk for the day on Saturday so I can
see Steve before he leaves. I want to be there waving at him as his ship leaves the port, so he’ll know how much I care about him. And I want you to come with me
because I’m too scared to go alone.”
So early that Saturday morning, there I was, sitting on a
rickety old prop-plane with Sandi as we flew from Manchester to Boston to catch
a connecting flight (a jet, thank goodness) to Norfolk. According to our itinerary, we were going to
land in Norfolk at 8:45 AM and head back home at 5:00. It was going to be a
long, tiring day.
But hey, what are friends for, right?
The plane shook so much during the short flight to Boston,
when we finally got off at Logan Airport, my legs were so wobbly, I was walking
as if I had just chugged the entire drink-cart. Let’s just say I wasn’t looking
forward to the return trip later that afternoon.
We landed in Norfolk right on schedule. But by the time
we figured out where we were, where the port was and how to get there, we were informed
Steve’s ship already had sailed. Sandi, on the verge of tears, said she
wasn’t about to stay in Norfolk all day without Steve because there was no point in
it, so we headed back to the airport and asked the agent when the next flight
back to Boston would be leaving.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” she answered sweetly.
Sandi and I glanced at each other, then back at her.
“But we already have tickets for the 5:00 PM flight to
Boston today,” Sandi pointed out, showing her ticket to her. “That’s still
okay, right?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but that flight’s
been canceled due to what I believe is a mechanical issue. As I said, tomorrow morning
is the soonest.”
Panic immediately struck me. I had only about $5 in my
purse and I had no idea how much Sandi had, but I doubted it was enough for us to get
a hotel room for the night.
And at that moment, I really, really resented Steve.
As it turned out, Sandi had only $20 with her, along with
a maxed-out credit card, thanks to previously charging our plane tickets. The
agent at the counter overheard us discussing our lack of funds and how upset and uncomfortable we
were about being stuck overnight in a strange place. She interrupted our conversation and said she knew of a
nearby motel where the rooms were only $19.95 per night. She added that the place was
nothing fancy, but had hot water, clean beds and a TV, and would fit into our
budget. She even offered to call ahead and reserve a room for us, if we’d like.
We decided it would be better than hanging around in the
airport for countless hours, so we agreed. She asked for our names, then called the motel
and reserved our room. She also gave us her business card and said to call her
if we had any problems. We didn’t have enough money for a cab, so we hopped on a
local bus to the motel.
It wasn’t until we were settled in our room that Sandi
and I realized just how hungry we were. We pooled our remaining money, which
was only a couple of dollars, then went out walking in search of a grocery store or a convenience
store. We bought a loaf of bread for 35 cents, a jar of peanut butter for 45
cents, and a box of Pop Tarts for 49 cents. The motel had free coffee and tea
in the lobby, so we we figured we'd drink tea.
Later, as I sat eating a peanut-butter sandwich with my
very depressed friend in some cheap motel in Norfolk, Virginia at 6 o’clock on
a Saturday night, I couldn’t help but think about the thousands of other things
I would rather be doing at that moment...like eating steak, mashed potatoes and
a big slab of chocolate cake.
Just as I was about to remove my makeup and get
comfortable for the night, there was a knock at our door. Sandi and I just
stared wide-eyed at each other.
I got up and looked through the peephole and saw two men
standing outside. “Yes? Can I help you?” I asked them through the closed
door.
“Are you Sally and Sandi?” one of them asked.
Sandi and I were really puzzled. But suddenly Sandi’s eyebrows rose. “They must be friends of Steve!”
Before I could even open my mouth to tell her she wasn’t
making any sense, that it would be impossible for Steve to know where we were
(heck, even WE didn’t know where we were), especially since he was out at sea somewhere, Sandi flung open the door.
“Hi!” one of the men, a tall blonde, said cheerfully.
“We’re your dates for tonight! Dale, a friend of ours who works at the airport, sent us. She felt sorry for the two of you,
being stuck here alone in a strange place all night, and thought you might like to
see a little of Norfolk.”
Sandi slammed the door in their faces.
“Sandi!” I gasped. “Why did you do that?”
“Who does that woman at the airport think she is?” she
huffed. “What does she do, run a dating service on the side? She must really think we’re hard up! Besides that, I came here to see Steve, not
to date some stranger!”
“Well, at least we can be civil to them,” I said.
“They’re only trying to be nice.”
But Sandi wasn’t listening to me because by then, she had
grabbed the phone and was dialing the number on the card Dale had given to us. I
thought for sure she was going to give the woman a piece of her mind, but instead
she interrogated her about the two men – who they were, what they did for a
living, and basically if they were perverts. Dale assured her they were
gentlemen with good careers, and if nothing else, they would treat us to a nice
meal.
I think the word “meal” was what convinced Sandi not to
be quite so hasty about sending the two guys away. Just the thought of having
to eat another peanut-butter sandwich made from generic peanut butter when we
could be enjoying something that didn’t stick to our tonsils, probably would
have been enough to convince us to accept dates with Dracula and the Werewolf
right about then.
Sandi hung up the phone as I dashed back to open the door.
Fortunately, the two guys still were standing there. “Sorry about that,” I said,
smiling sheepishly. “It’s just that you caught us totally off guard. Why don’t
you give us a few minutes to freshen up and we’ll meet you out in the lobby,
okay?”
If I do say so myself, Sandi and I looked pretty stunning
when we finally were ready. I, my hair
long and shaggy and teased high on top, with bangs down to my nose, was wearing
my navy-blue bell-bottomed pantsuit, which actually was styled to look more like a dress with pants, while Sandi was resplendent in her knit mini-skirt and vest with a white ruffled blouse.
The guys, we learned, were Henry and Jim. They were old…
like in their thirties old. And they were dressed old, too. Jim, a
photographer, had long black hair and a goatee, and was wearing a tweed jacket
with (are you ready for this?) a white silk ascot around his neck. He also
smoked a pipe. Henry, the blonde, was a high-school teacher, clad in a
turtleneck sweater and a tweed jacket. Sandi and I, barely 20, felt as if we
were going out with our fathers.
They seemed nice enough, though, so I figured I would try
to make the best of the evening, but Sandi had other ideas. As we rode toward
what we thought was going to be a restaurant, Sandi, in the back seat with Jim,
sat facing the door, her arms folded and her eyes staring out of the window. She
didn’t say a word. Poor Jim tried everything short of ventriloquism to get her
to talk, but had he been sitting in the back of a hearse with its occupant, he would have received a warmer response.
After what seemed like 20 years, we finally arrived at
our destination…a coffee house. No food, just coffee.
“They have great poetry readings and folk singers here,”
Henry said enthusiastically as he held open the door for us.
I actually heard Sandi groan.
We sat on high stools at a tiny table where there soon were
mugs of steaming black espresso in front of each of us. The problem was, I
didn’t like coffee unless it had about a half-cup of sugar and a pint of cream
in it. I took a sip of the espresso to be polite, and felt the enamel being
stripped from my teeth. Meanwhile, my stomach was rumbling so loudly as it
begged me for some decent food, I was pretty sure it would drown out the poetry
reading.
Henry was sociable, and soon we were engaged in a pretty
interesting conversation. Despite our age difference, I was surprised to
discover we really did have a lot in common, probably because his job as a
high-school teacher kept him up to date on what was cool with the younger
generation. I honestly was beginning to enjoy myself, despite the hunger pains.
Meanwhile, Jim still was struggling (unsuccessfully) to
get Sandi to talk to him.
A folksinger came out onto a small platform and began to
sing. After only about ten notes into his song, Sandi suddenly stood up and
announced to Jim, “I want to go back to the motel, NOW!”
Many of the other patrons chuckled, totally
misinterpreting her statement as having a more...seductive...meaning.
Jim just stared at her for a moment, then calmly said,
“Well, at least now I know she can talk.”
The four of us rode back to the motel in complete
silence. Even Henry and I were afraid to speak at that point. The car barely had pulled into the motel parking lot when Sandi jumped out and bolted for the door.
I muttered an embarrassed apology and thanked the guys, then followed her
inside.
A few seconds later, Henry came to our room and told me
how much he’d enjoyed our too-short date and how, if I were from the Norfolk
area, he definitely would ask me out again…alone. For some unknown reason,
Sandi snapped a photo of us. Maybe she wanted it as evidence in case I mysteriously vanished during the night.
“How could we EVER have been dumb enough to go out with
those two losers?” Sandi complained after Henry left. “And gee, what big
spenders! Coffee! Big deal!
The worst part is that now I feel as if I’ve betrayed Steve!”
“Somehow I don’t think that ignoring a guy all night and
treating him like dirt qualifies as a betrayal,” I said.
The next morning, Sandi and I eagerly headed to the
airport to board our plane back to New Hampshire. To my relief, Dale wasn’t
working. I figured that if Henry and Jim had given her a full report about
their date with us, she’d probably have assigned us seats in the baggage
compartment.
Sorry to say, Sandi and Steve’s relationship turned out
to be doomed to failure.
But not even a year later, Sandi once again convinced me to accompany
her on a visit to see her new boyfriend…in Washington, DC.
And that trip was even worse.
On the bright side, at least as long as Sandi kept
finding boyfriends in other states, I was able to see the country free of
charge.
Just don’t ever talk to me about peanut butter...
# # #
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
