The Rest of the Story

If you’ve read my stack ‘I’m all shook up’ you know that a few weeks ago I started dating someone I met when I was his Uber driver. It was fun to write, but it’s just chapter one.

J called me the day after we met for coffee. “So about this freezing up when you have to make small talk. I heard once that lunch or dinner is hell for people like you.”

“And coffee,” I reminded him.

“It’s because that’s all there is to do at Starbucks. It might be easier if you’re doing something besides sitting down and drinking coffee. A participation outing instead of a spectator outing. Like bowling. Want to go to Stars and Strikes tomorrow? Would you mind picking me up?”

“Bowling?” An excuse was on its way out but I swallowed it. “Okay, but you should know that I suck.”

“I hope so.” He hung up. Oof. Was this flirtatious double entendre, or expressing a desire to kick my ass at the bowling alley? He texted me asking what time I’d finish driving tomorrow. Most of my ubering is done in Huntsville, a half hour from my house. J lived in Huntsville so it made sense to go bowling when I quit for the day.

He talked good-natured smack about my frequent gutter balls. In between frames J said, “Bowling isn’t your thing. So what do you do for fun?”

“Not too much around here. When I lived in Birmingham I played bingo with my Lesbian Wife every month, and we used to go to the Moth a lot.”

“Wife?”

“Yes, but we’re both queer so no hanky panky. She does all her pankying with my lesbian wife-in-law.” I told him all about Layla and her wife Emily, and Layla’s mom who humors me by calling me her gay son-in-law.

“You left Birmingham a while ago, didn’t you?”

“Little over two years.”

“And you still call her your wife?”

“Lesbian Wife,” I reiterated. “And yes, I do. No more bingo, but we had dinner last week and she’s my plus one when I compete at the Moth in a couple weeks.”

“Okay but you’ve got a boyfriend now. You don’t need a wife anymore.” I have a boyfriend? Before the first real date is even over? That’s why they call me Casanova Bob.

“Oh, I never needed a wife, even when I had one for real. Layla’s one of my best friends. I never once sweated over small talk with her. We just clicked. She’s the first person I could one hundred percent be myself with. Even if myself was feeling bawdy or silly.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he was really jealous. No one has ever been jealous of me before and I have to confess it made me feel desirable, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Bowling was fun. After bowling was fun too, if fairly chaste.

The next day I picked him up in Huntsville and drove us to the Ave Maria Grotto. This meant a car ride of over an hour. There was no small talk to stress over, we just talked, the way folks do. J is as big a Broadway fanatic as I am. We spent a pleasant half hour arguing about who played Mama Rose best. We agreed that Ethel Merman should have won the Tony when she originated the character, but we parted ways at Angela Lansbury vs. Patty Lupone or Bette Midler vs. Tyne Daly. Neither of us had been impressed with Bernadette Peters.

J rubbed his temple. “I’m getting a bit of a headache. Do you have any Tylenol?”

I didn’t, but The Google told me there was a drug store at the next exit. He grabed a bottle of Tylenol and we joined a long line at the only open register. I said, “Believe it or not, this reminds me of a story.” He raised his eyebrows, which I’d learned was his way of saying, “do tell.”

When I still lived in Birmingham [I told J] I was once in an equally long line at CVS. The cashier seemed to be taking five minutes to ring up each customer. After twenty minutes I said to the woman in front of me, “You’d think they’d open another register with all these people in line.”

The woman turned around and glared at me. “Do you see a sign on my back that says, ‘Talk to me’?”

I was taken aback. “No,” I admitted.

“Then don’t.”

“To be fair, there’s no sign on your back that says you’re an obnoxious cow, yet here we are.”

J laughed. “You didn’t!” I assured him that I did. Eventually we paid for the headache pills and a bottled water. J washed down a couple of pills while the receipt was printing.

Since we used my gas to get here, J paid our admission to the Grotto. This was a first visit for both of us and we weren’t sure what to expect. The artwork and architectural recreations were remarkable. The sculptures are built on just two blocks of trail on the Benedictine monastery. It took us nearly an hour to walk those two blocks. We lingered at every piece, pointing out different things to each other. The artist’s use of recycled materials (sea shells, cold cream jars) demanded more than a cursory glance

.

Naturally the trail ended at the gift shop. We browsed the shelves of religious books, icons (including a million different statues of St. Benedict), breads and cookies baked by the monks, and shirts and ball caps. We took my book and cookies to the teenage girl working the cash register.

“Did you enjoy the grotto?” she asked as she rung up my purchases.

“Very much,” I said.

“You should come back at Christmas time. We stay open until after dark. It’s so pretty with all the Christmas lights.” I promised her we would come back in December. She scanned the last book. “It comes to $23.44.”

I gave her thirty dollars but she accidentally hit the zero key four times instead of three. She tendered $300 but didn’t notice until rhe register told her my change was $276.56. She started to count out a bunch of twenties and then paused, looking confused. I said, “The change should be six fifty-six.”

“But this says two seventy-six fifty-six.”

I took out my phone and opened the calculator app. “The total was 23.44. Minus the thirty dollars I gave you, leaves 6.56. Or, since you rang up 270 dollars more than you meant to, you can substract 270 from 276.56.” I tapped buttons. “The answer is still 6.56.” I hoped I sounded helpful and not condescending. She was still confused.

J blurted out, “Oh, my GAWD! It’s simple arithmetic! Just how stupid are you? Did you drop out of school in the first grade?”

The cashier looked mad, scared, and humiliated, all at the same time. J stormed out of the gift shop, I assumed to cool off. I’ve had cluster headaches before. After a while the headache made me so irritable that innocuous things made me explode in anger. His headache must have been worse than he’d let on.

Maybe he was remembering the story I told him about when the lady in front of me at CVS annoyed me. Like then, we were in line waiting to be checked out. But there’s a difference between responding in kind to a jackass and bullying a high school kid. Was J trying to emulate me, or show me that he could be sarcastic, too? If I’m being honest, I found that idea flattering, if a little strange. If that is what he tried to do, he didn’t do it very well. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to try so hard.

The cashier had calmed down some after J left. I suggested she do the math on her own phone. When she did she beamed at me and apologized. I brushed it aside and she gave me the correct change.

J and I went to dinner at Slim Chickens in Cullman, another first for me. The Tylenol must have kicked in because J was back to his old self.

We made plans to see a movie Saturday night. Saturday morning UPS delivered a pair of Skechers I’d ordered online. When I tried them on, they were too small. The website said I could print a mailing label and drop them off at UPS, or I could return them to a Skechers store for an immediate refund. I’d never seen a Skechers store so assumed there were none near by. The shoe version of Ikea, not Walmart. I put my zip code in the store locator field anyhow. I’ll be durned. There’s a Skechers store in Huntsville. I called J and told him I had to return some shoes and asked if he wanted to come along. We could go to the theater from the shoe store.

The Skechers clerk asked if I wanted a refund or a store credit. “If you’ve got this shoe in my size I’d prefer to just swap them out.” He led me to the the right aisle. They had the right size but in a different color. I didn’t like that as much as the one I’d ordered, but I could live with it. I tried on the shoes and took a stroll around the store. Much better.

We went back to the checkout area and I told the clerk the shoes were perfect.

He tapped buttons to process the return and then apply it to the new sale. J and I chatted while the clerk did his thing.

“Come back here!” a woman yelled. All three of us looked toward the aisle where the shout came from. Just then a little girl, wearing a pair of heels, came clomping around the aisle, laughing. She was looking behind her instead of where she was going and bumped into J. She was already struggling to keep her balance. When she ran into J she fell. She wasn’t hurt. She got up and ran back to her mother, leaving the heels behind.

I thought it was charming. As far as I know Skechers doesn’t sell heels. She must have swiped her mother’s shoes while Mom was trying on some slip-ins. Sure enough, a woman came from the aisle. Her daughter, suddenly shy, hid behind her. The woman apologized and picked up her shoes. She took the child by the hand and said, “I swear, I’m going to glue a tail on you and send you to Monkey Island.”

A laugh escaped. I turned to J to share the moment. He wasn’t charmed; he was angry. He looked like he was stifling the urge to yell but was choking it down.

I admit that the scene at the Grotto gift shop had unnerved me. My brother was in an abusive relationship for more than thirty years before he finally left his husband. Sister and I spent those three decades praying he would leave. More than once neighbors called the police, something Joe never did himself. He limited his calls to calling in sick to work after “bumping into a door.” Because of my brother I am sometimes hyper-vigilant, seeing warning signs where there are none.

I was relieved that I had added two and two at the Grotto and gotten five. Here in the Skechers store I didn’t see someone losing his temper, but controlling his temper which I found reassuring. I took his hand and said we should head to the theater. He took a deep breath, smiled, and gave my hand a squeeze.

This was our fifth date. When I pulled up to his apartment after the movie he said, “Do you have to go home?”

“I can stay a couple hours.”

“Or you could spend the night.”

Egad. It’s been a minute since I was in this situation. I hoped it would come back to me like riding a bike, and that I’d qualify for the Tour de France and not need Training Wheels. At the risk of TMI, I didn’t do tricks or pop wheelies, but I also didn’t wipe out.

When I woke up the next morning J wasn’t in bed. I heard him puttering in the kitchen. Coffee aromas coaxed me out of the covers. I went to the bathroom and then joined J in the kitchen.

“I was about to wake you,” he said. “Breakfast is ready.” I sat at the kitchen table and J put a plate in front of me. He spooned Hollandaise sauce onto the poached egg sitting on the Canadian bacon and English muffin was already on the plate and added a large serving of hash browns. “Ta da!” he smiled.

Last week after much internal debate I’d invited J to my place to enjoy the hot tub. When I brought it up to him, I’d warned him about my pleats. “I had weight loss surgery a couple of years ago. I’ve lost 190 pounds which is great, but I’m really self conscious about the excess skin on my belly.” I was nervous about taking my shirt off in front of him. I also told him about the changes I’ve had to make since the surgery left me with a stomach half the size of a tennis ball. I used to have eggs every morning for breakfast but since the surgery one bite of egg makes me nauseous. Rice, potatoes, and bread swelled in my belly leaving no room for anything else, often triggering something called Dumping Syndrome. When I took my shirt off J didn’t gape in my in horror, but told me I looked great and gave me a kiss, scandalizing the people across the street.

When I ate eggs before the gastric bypass I ate fully cooked eggs. On my best days poached or sunny-side up eggs were off the menu. “This looks great, but I’m good with just coffee for now.”

“But I made it for you.”

“I know. And I appreciate it. No one has ever cooked me breakfast before. Well, Dad did on Saturday mornings, but I was in grade school. This may be the nicest thing anyone had done for me, but if I eat this it will make me sick.”

“You’re saying my cooking makes you puke?”

“Eggs, English muffins and hash browns make me puke. It doesn’t matter who cooks them.”

“But I made it for you,” he repeated, louder. “Do you know how hard it was to make eggs Benedict?”

I didn’t, and never would. “I love that you did all of this for me. It looks delicious,” That last bit was a lie.

“THEN EAT IT!”

“Dude. Inside voice.”

He nodded and smiled. “Sorry.” His voice was much softer. We were still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship and I was glad we avoided our first argument. J sat down next to me and picked up the English muffin, taking care not to let the Canadian bacon and poached egg slide off. Hollandaise sauce dripped onto the plate. When he spoke, it was so low I had to strain to hear him.

“This is my inside voice,” he said just above a whisper. “Eat your fucking breakfast.” He shoved the hot food into my face. Just like the cashier at the Ave Maria Grotto, fear, anger and humiliation threatened to overwhelm me.

What I should have said: You may think you’re Jimmy Cagney but I am not Mae Clarke.

What I actually said:

I stood up and wiped as much food off my face as I could. It would take a shower to get it all out of my beard. I wanted to appear strong and defiant but it wasn’t possible. The surge of Adrenalin had me shaking and breathing too hard and too fast. I’m ashamed to admit this but I was scared. I felt every rapid heart beat. I heard every breath I took which made it hard to hear anything else. I know it’s silly to feel ashamed at reacting normally but there it is.

Something in my face seemed to calm J down. “I’m sorry!” he said.

What I should have said: I don’t care.

What I actually said:

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean it.”

What I should have said: I don’t care.

What I actually said:

“I promise it will never happen again.”

What I should have said: You’re goddam right it won’t.

What I actually said, though it was more breath than sound: You’re right.

The only thing to do after delivering such a forceful exit line is to, you know, exit. It’s hard to storm out with dignity when you’re wearing only a pair of boxers. Maybe I should have gotten dressed first but the kitchen table was a lot closer to the front door than the bedroom was. Dammit, I was afraid. It really, REALLY pisses me off that I could so easily be cowed.

Last night I’d emptied my pockets onto the kitchen island before going to the bedroom to get undressed. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and keys and left. He wasn’t as willing to go outside in his briefs. He yelled at me to wait, to not go, to let’s work it out, but he didn’t follow me outside.

I had to force myself not to peel out of the parking lot. The last thing I wanted was to be pulled over while I was practically naked. It wasn’t until I closed the front door behind me that I stopped hearing each breath. My smart watch finally stopped flashing alerts about my rapid pulse.

My phone rang several times on the thirty minute drive home. I had eleven text messages. I deleted the voicemails without listening to them and then did the same with the texts.

My brain kept reminding me of the things I should have said and done. I kept thinking of all the signs I’d ignored or justified. I felt guilty for all the times I wondered why my brother didn’t tell his abuser to go to hell, or fight back.

I don’t believe in ghosting someone, even assholes. I sent J a two-word text: We’re done. I saw the bubble that meant he was typing a reply. I blocked him before he sent it and deleted him from my contacts.

I put on some pants and went outside in my bare feet. I stood on the grass and grounded myself, really feeling the connection to Layla, to my friends who love me, to my brother, and to Neighbor whom I missed more than ever.

And now you know the rest of the story.