Gold Coast Douchebag

“I’ve traveled the world and the seven seas

Everybody’s looking for something

Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you.”

Three things you do not do on a first date:

1.  Do not get drunk. 

2.  Do not get sad and talk about your ex.

3.  Do not go home with that person.

After a hysterical performance by the Improvised Shakespeare Company at the iO Theater (“Wrigleyville Douchebags!” in the style of William Shakespeare), my date and I sat in Mullen’s on Clark and talked back and forth about what we did for a living.

Actually, he did most of the talking.  Which is fine.  The Thrilling Exploits of Megan, the Former Junior College Spin Doctor-turned-Waitress are few.  He, on the other hand, writes national TV ads for a big-time agency downtown and lives in the Gold Coast.  Or so he says.

“Every time I see one of my Kmart ads, I think, ‘Ugh.  I could do so much better than this,’” he muttered between swallows of his fourth beer.

“You write TV spots for Kmart?” I asked, impressed but not 100% buying it.

“Yeah.  Also DiGiorno.  Sears.”  He rattled off a few more big names in a blasé voice.  “I went to grad school with the guy who wrote that Apple ad,” he said, pointing at a TV over the bar.  “That Old Spice campaign?  Brilliant.  I met a guy who worked on that.  He’s the same one who writes those bizzare Skittles commercials.”

At a lull in the conversation, I excused myself to the bathroom.  I patted myself on the back for catching the attention of someone attractive, gainfully employed, creative and ambitious. I then reminded myself that it was entirely possible that this guy was full of shit.

 

Up until two hours ago, I had no idea who he was beyond a name and a phone number he’d left on his credit card receipt back in early December.  (I’d texted him during a moment of “Eh, what the hell” after New Years.)  He could drop french fries at Mickey Ds and live in his mother’s basement and I’d have no way of knowing.

 

But he was cute.  We had some similar interests.  He was decently-dressed and obviously educated.  The conversation wasn’t exactly electric, but it wasn’t bad either.  I exited the bathroom resolved to continue giving him a fair chance while keeping my guard up and pacing myself on the drinks.

(One of Dad’s Life Lessons Learned in Business: Always make sure you are more sober than the guy on the other end of the business deal.)

He was putting his coat on and closing our tab when I returned to the bar.

“Where to next?” I asked.  “I picked the show.  I think it’s only fair that you determine the course of the rest of the evening.  Within reason, of course,” I added.

“How do you feel about going home?”

“Um.  You’re ready to call it a night?”

“I’m saying we could go back to my place.”

A WTF-look must’ve come over my face, because he instantly backtracked.  But only slightly.

“Out of the box?  Not within reason?” he laughed.

“Going back to your place down in the Gold Coast?  Now?”

“Yeah.”

“No, sorry,” I said, heading toward the door with a nervous grin.  “Not tonight.”

Once outside, I changed the subject and waited while he smoked a cigarette.  Then we checked out another bar, this one offering a special on Fireball shots on a sidewalk chalkboard.  We settled into a table and ordered a round, mostly out of curiosity on my part.  I’d never tried Fireball before. When the drinks arrived, I clinked the edge of my shot glass with his.

“What should we toast to?” I asked him.

He thought for a minute, then bumped my glass with his again.

“Here’s to you reconsidering my offer after you’ve finished your shot.”

Warning bells went off in my head.

“Hmm.  We’ll see about that,” I said, and quickly swallowed.  So.  He thought the alcohol would help ply me.  He had some nerve.  Couldn’t he tell I was wary of him?  Wouldn’t a decent guy back off if he cared anything about seeing me again?  Maybe that was it – maybe he didn’t care about seeing me again, maybe this was a one-night deal for him.  In that case, neither one of us was going to get what we wanted out of the evening, so I didn’t see the point in continuing to be tactful and demure.  He certainly wasn’t trying to be. 

“You’re pretty aggressive.”

“’Aggressive’ is a strong word,” he replied.  “I’d prefer ‘persistent.’”

“Ok,” I agreed, “But you have to see this from my perspective.  I mean, try not to take this the wrong way, but you could be anybody.  You’re moving a little fast for me.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the table.  “Yeah, that’s pretty hard not to take the wrong way.”

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.  But you see where I’m coming from, right?  Single, new to a city of 3 million and who knows how many creeps.  I’ve got to watch my back.”

“I’m not saying I want to take you back to my place and, like, bang you,” he stammered.  “I just want to get to know you a little better.  We’ll get a pay-per-view movie, something good like ‘The Dark Knight Rises,’ open a bottle of wine and see where it goes.”

See where it goes, I thought. Ha, ha.  He’s ready to use a whole bottle of wine on me?  To ‘watch a movie’?  We’re not in high school.

(Upon retelling of this story, a male bartender friend made the very astute observation that no adult member of the opposite sex ever asks you over “to watch a movie” with the idea that you’re only going to watch a movie.)

“So after the wine is finished and a three-hour movie is over, you expect me to believe that you’re just gonna let me trot on back to the train?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you want.”

I raised my eyebrows and sipped my water.  He wasn’t getting it.  “You understand that someone who wanted to take advantage of me would tell me the same thing.”

“Wow,” he said, looking down at the table again.  “What is it about me that comes across as rape-y?” he asked dejectedly, plucking at his blonde facial hair self-consciously.  “Is it the beard?  I just want to talk and get to know you a little better somewhere that’s quiet, so I offered up my place because I don’t know what else would be open this late.  I’m new in town, too.”

A part of me felt bad; I assured him he was very well-groomed and that the beard suited him.  Another part of me (the part that set off the warning bells) was taking notes:  Step 1, The Guilt Trip.

“I mean, I was with the same girl for five years, so that’s most of college and grad school.   It was awful at the end, she was so manipulative and hateful.  All I ever did was buy her things and tell her she was pretty.  And love her,” he said, looking past me to the wall. 

Step 2, I noted.  The Sob Story.

“I’m ready to get out there again, I want to live my life and meet people and have a healthy, adult relationship.  And when I happen across something that has the potential to be a special moment, I want to seize it, you know?”  He was looked at me with his pretty blue eyes. 

Oof.  Step 3, the Killer Line.

 I was starting to believe his story about being a big-time ad writer.  This sounded like something straight out of a Zales spot.  I was also struggling not to laugh.  If in fact he was a decent guy, then I realize that was a colossally bitchy thing to do after he’d aired that stuff out. 

But if my instinct was right and he was conning me, then I was seeing right through it.  Contrary to what he’d thought, I was not easy and/or dumb enough to fall for this act.  I was in control of this business transaction, and I was pleased with myself.

No deal, kid.

He saw I was fending off laughter.  “What?”

“That’s one hell of a line,” I chuckled.  The waitress passed and I asked for our check.

“Okay, if not tonight, then how about tomorrow?”  He was caving.

“Sorry, I have to work the rest of the weekend.”

“Tuesday?”

Step 4, Don’t Take No for an Answer.

Even with a few more bells going off, I was determined to extract myself from the situation without coming across as too jumpy or mean.

“Maybe,” I said.  Coyness couldn’t hurt.  “I’ll see what I have going on.”

This seemed to placate him.  He paid the bill and I took care of the tip, and we headed back into the cold.

“Well, I’m gonna get a cab and head back south,” he said.

“Cool.  I’m getting on the train,” I said, motioning toward the Addison station and confirming we were indeed going our separate ways.

“Cool!  I’ll see you on Tuesday, then,” he grinned and gave me a big bear hug and a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll give you a call.  This was fun.”

I felt like a cat being squeezed by a toddler who just got out of the bathtub.  I made a mental check of where his hands where in relationship to my purse.  But I giggled obligingly, relieved to be getting away from the situation and knowing I could ignore his calls or texts once Tuesday came around.

When he finally let go of me (he seemed pretty tipsy), I squeezed his hand, and said good night.  I turned on my heel and marched down the street without so much as a flirty glance over the shoulder.

Tuesday came and went without a word from him.  I was relieved, but it somewhat confirmed my suspicions about him taking me for a one-shot girl, which isn’t exactly a confidence-booster.

There is, of course, the possibility that everything he said was true, in which case I probably came off as a cynical, paranoid hag.  But if after all that, our potential “special moment” still held any promise for him, then I’d like to think he would’ve called.  And maybe, if he acted like more of a gentleman and didn’t push his luck, I’d give him a second chance.

Maybe. 

Link: I was reminded of this clip. Bad pun intended.