The Decade of Blind Dates

The Decade Of Blind Dates

I was about to ring the doorbell of my very first blind date. I was sweating, not because I was worried about the man who would answer, but because I wondered what this guy would think of me. Okay, so I’d say I’m tall, lean, a serious swimmer, and have hazel eyes, if I were placing an ad describing myself. But forty-five? I took a deep breath and heard my teenage daughter, Julie, whose idea it had been to embark upon this tomfoolery, laugh and say, “Go for it, Dad!” As I stood there shoring myself up, I reviewed that this was Bath, Maine, the backwater twin to my own Buck Hill, New Hampshire. We must have loads in common as isolated gay men. Of course, I fretted, this is lunacy after just one phone call, and greater folly considering we’ve only had one exchange of greetings,his on notepaper decorated with soft, pastel, watercolor pansies. This was a decade before the Internet; options were limited. So this man Henry has a lilting, musical voice, I considered, still composing myself on his doorstep. He didn’t seem nelly so much as downright happy. This was enormously appealing after the litany of sanctimonious ads. True, cooking for his mother next door almost killed it, but who was I to judge? I was saddled with son, daughter, ex-wife, her likely next husband and his kids, plus how many others to cushion my base fear of foraging in the wild. When Henry opened the door, he was wearing an apron with frills. “I cook nonstop,” said Henry, flouncing into his tiny apartment, where each surface was covered with doilies like in my grandmother Bauman’s parlor. “I make these for our parish bake sales; everybody does cookies and cakes.” He wrinkled up his nose. “My lace ovals are really popular. Sit down, Peter. Oh my. Love that shirt.” “My shirt?” It was my favorite Hawaiian, light olive with washed-out pineapples—my go-anywhere security blanket. “It looks so soft.” Henry grinned, which compressed his third and fourth chins. “Obviously,” he flicked a pudgy wrist, “I’m into fabrics. I’ve got to show you the covers for toilet paper I crochet. They’re antebellum dolls, and their crinolines conceal two whole rolls.” He winked. “What a great creative outlet, toilet paper …” “Cozies.” I was stricken with sadness for this eunuch trapped in the bleak, cramped apartment with his ailing mother next door in the same building. Henry’s ad in the personals had been a cry for help—screaming to the lifeboat, flailing his overweight arms. I attempted to leave after three cups of overly floral herbal tea that had been brewed in a pot covered by a cozy crocheted with a bumblebee motif. “I made my special chicken potpie,” said Henry. “There’ll be plenty left for Mother.” An hour later: “Henry, this was a nice introduction. It’s a long drive …” Though I hated myself for it, I held firm as I watched the myriad moguls of soft flesh on Henry’s face melt abruptly into a swamp of utter despair. Copyright © 2008, 2009 by Richard Alther. All rights reserved.