Rejection Served With a Side of Fries
Most, if not all, of my stories about floundering in the dating pool are from after my divorce. Now, I don’t want any reader to think my problems with dating happened after my marriage. That is the furthest thing from the truth.
This story starts where most bad stories start.
Late night, after the bars have closed.
In Old Bridge, in the seventies, once the bars closed, it was commonplace for everyone to gather at the Glenwood Diner on Route Nine (how Springsteen of us). No matter what bar in whatever town you closed that evening, you would most likely reunite with friends at the Glenwood Diner.
There were two reasons for this. One being it was close to home, and two the breakfast special was insane (three eggs, bacon, fries, toast, and coffee for $1.99).
However, this story does not take place at the Glenwood Diner, which makes it all the more interesting.
Also in the seventies, there was a fast-food diner-like chain across America (think Denny’s, but not Denny’s): a breakfast all-day, type of place.
One Friday night, a couple of my friends and I found ourselves in Matawan, just a hop away from Old Bridge (that’s not a clue, it wasn’t IHop) after the bars closed.
This was not our ordinary stop, and it most likely would not have happened again, if it wasn’t for my gobsmacked, thunderstruck, love-at-first-sight of our waitress.
Her name was Mary, and would forever be known to me as ‘Matawan Mary’.
Maybe it was the uniform, combined with that cute-as-a-button face, that stole my heart. Or, maybe it was because when I asked for food, she brought it to me.
It was that love-at-first sight that brought me back each weekend. However, as usual, my modus operandi, I was too shy to actually act on my emotions, or stumbled over my words when I ordered food.
After a few weeks of this, my friends got tired of my non-commitment. After a short talk with Mary, my friend’s girlfriend asked for her phone number, for me.
Which she gave (willingly, I hoped).
Even today there are several fears in life that I have.
Fear of death.
Fear of public speaking.
Fear of height.
And that ever growing fear of giving a cold call to a woman I really like.
In my mind, however, Matawan Mary, was worth it.
Why would I be nervous? She knew who I was, she gave out her number (not sure the enormous tips had any influence), so I was good to go.
A few days later, I made the call. Remember, this was well before the days of cell phones. I had to call her house, where anyone could answer. Her mother, a brother, or worse, her father (I will get back to him in a bit).
After I built enough courage, I dialed (yes, dialed) the phone. The dating gods (for once, but not for long) were on my side, and Mary picked up the phone.
I fumbled at first, double explained who I was, but eventually the conversation settled into its own rhythm.
Before I used up my allotted amount of courage, I asked Mary if she’d like to get together, take a ride to the shore, hang on the beach and get something to eat.
You know, a date.
To my surprise, she said yes, and we landed on a day and time.
So, when Saturday arrived, at 9 am, I headed toward her house. Dressed in my best muscle shirt (back when I had muscles), and my cut-off jeans/bathing suit/and-all-around-fashion-statement, I was excited for the day.
With butterflies in my stomach, I walked the inordinately long path up to her house, and knocked on the door. I paced the short porch and waited for the door to open.
And when it did, Mary’s father filled the door frame.
“May I help you?”
I introduced myself, and asked if Mary was ready to go.
He looked at me, a bit confused, he replied, “Was Mary expecting you?”, he asked.
Before I could answer, he followed it up with this dagger, “Because she left a little while ago, and went down the shore with her friends.”
Not sure how, but my face never betrayed my emotions. I thanked him, and just ask him to tell Mary that Al stopped by.
Back down that ridiculously long path to my car, I headed off to the liquor store.
Now, you might think ‘For the love of God, Al, you don’t even know this girl, why are you acting like just an idiot!’
Well, you’d have to know how my mind works (hell, I’d like to know how my mind works).
My problem is, I romanticize everything when it comes to love. Even when there is no love there, I create a world around that nothingness.
It always has been that way. Still is, in fact.
I could have avoided a lot of heartache in my life if I didn’t, but here we are.
After a few days of drowning my sorrows in beer and vanilla finger cookies, I moved on with my life (how brave of me).
By moved on I mean, never went back to that particular restaurant, and never saw Mary again.
Well, that last part is not exactly true.
You see, the universe had other plans (again).
A few years after the non-date with Mary, a group of friends rented a shore house for a week in Manasquan, New Jersey. It was the summer where a drinking contest would send me to the hospital (but you don’t want to hear about that).
Before that, however, while I walked to the store (probably liquor), a sadly familiar face moved toward me on the sidewalk.
Matawan Mary.
I can’t say a saw a smile crossed her lips, more of a deer-in-the-headlights stamped her face.
She probably wished I didn’t remember, but unfortunately for her, I did.
We stopped, and spoke for a few minutes, even walked together for a while.
Of course, I did asked her about our non-date, but truthfully, I don’t remember what her answer was.
What I do remember, however, about our walk beyond the beach, and boardwalk, and how this whole fiasco could have been avoided.
I don’t want to be cruel, but my impression during our conversation, that she was incredibly vapid and dull.
In our past, if we ever had a conversation beyond the point of me ordering eggs with a side of fries, all my angst would have been avoided.
There was always friendly banter between us, but I’m sure a waitress is good at doing just that.
Now, in the sober light of day, and having to string together more than a dozen sentences, it was almost painful to keep it going.
After a few more minutes, we parted company, never to see each other again (the universe finally done with us).
It was nice to have closure, and besides, in another day or two I’d end up in the hospital for drinking ninety-eight bottles of beer in five days.
At least I’m not dull.
