100 Bad Dates: #18

Date #18 was a sassy paraplegic. He was Backstreet Boys handsome (think Brian Littrell before Jesus and the Swine Flu or Nick Carter before he became vomitrocious) and screamingly funny.

November 2, 2009; 12:00 PM • by The Checkout Girl

Date #18 was a sassy paraplegic. I was on duty as the hostess at a family restaurant when he came wheeling in with some friends and charmed my socks off. I seated them, then proceeded to hang around as my friend was their waitress, and it was a slow night.

He was Backstreet Boys handsome (think Brian Littrell before Jesus and the Swine Flu or Nick Carter before he became vomitrocious) and screamingly funny. He constantly cracked jokes, turning to wink at me from time to time. He asked me if I would ever consider dating a “cripple.” I was both taken aback and aroused by his use of the word. I have always been of the mind that we master words, and not the other way around.

I must have turned 20 shades of red because he leaned over and quietly said, “Sorry. Do you wanna go out, sometime?” I nodded. We made plans for all of us to meet later that night at a nearby club.

After work, my friend and I headed to her house to change and pregame. I wasn’t nervous until she started asking questions about how I thought sex would be with Date #18. She pondered out loud, mostly to herself, the state of his penis and settled on the best option being him not able to get down the “normal” way because that would make him more creative in pleasuring a woman. I was more concerned about the fact that I was about to go out to a dance club with someone who couldn’t walk. Well, color a young girl enlightened because this boy could dance. He was all over the floor getting down like crazy and flirting with everything in sight. He was also drinking. A lot.

Date #18 was downing shots like Kirstie Alley pounds White Castles and, after each one, grinned a little more menacingly. Forget Lady Gaga’s Poker Face; this guy was developing a major Joker Face. Backstreet Boy to evil clown, right before my eyes, and it was scary. He rolled up next to girls and ran his hands all over their legs and up under their skirts. People were moving away from him like he was Michael Richard’s career. I was uncomfortable, but my friend was dancing with one of his friends and seemed to be into him, so I settled on a bar stool.

Date #18 would shout over at me between shots to come and dance. I claimed exhaustion and smiled politely. Finally, he came over and yelled at me that if I had a problem with him being handicapped, I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with him; he didn’t need my “charity date.” I tried to explain that it was his behavior (not his wheelchair) that was the problem, but the music was loud and there were a few hundred people around.

So instead, I burst into tears.

I tried to leave, fighting my way out of the crowd and heard a scuffle behind me. I heard Date #18 say, “You got a problem? Let’s take it outside, asshole!”

Suddenly, he and a guy that was six foot two, if he was an inch, came barreling past me and out the door. I ran out after them, still crying.

When I got outside, Date #18 was yelling.

“COME ON! COME ON!”

“I don’t want to hit you, man.”

Date #18 wouldn’t let up.

“WHY? BECAUSE YOU DON’T WANT YOUR ASS BEAT BY A FUCKING CRIPPLE?”

Just as the police pulled up (much to my relief), I spotted my friend who was part of the mob that ran outside to see the fight going on. I grabbed and dragged her to the car.

“What did you do?” she slurred, obviously tipsy. I took her purse and keys, dumped her into the car, and hightailed it out of there.

For a while, I was afraid that Date #18 would come into the restaurant and confront me on my immature behavior. Part of me was also hopeful that he’d come in and apologize so we could try again. Neither happened and it was probably for the best. I obviously wasn’t grown up enough to handle the situation, and he came equipped with a metric shton of baggage. I guess you could say he was Larger Than Life, and I wasn’t ready to show him the Shape Of My Heart. You could say that, but you are probably a better person than I am and won’t. It’s ok, I Want It That Way.

The Checkout Girl is a recent transplant to Richmond, from San Diego. She is obsessed with celebrity gossip, good yarn, garish lipstick, and memoirs. She’d like to learn to play the ukulele, cook more than microwave meals, and master the French language. She writes her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, as well as the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she’s found a pretty good guy.

November 2, 2009 12:00 PM 5