Mr. 1956

I have stooped to a new dating low. I now pay a service to introduce me to even worse men than I was choosing for myself. Witness Mr. 1956.

His profile said he was 43, in the computer field, and showed a picture of a tall, dark haired young man. The pic was black and white though, and my friends and I weren't able to figure out why. Is it from a newspaper article or business journal perhaps? Year book? We didn't know, but dubbed him Mr. 1956 because of his Ward Cleaver hair do.

I knew I was in trouble when he showed up 20 minutes early and I was still drying my hair. My sister ran into the bathroom shaking like an epileptic, "Trisa.....he's ooooooooooolllllllllldddddd."

I went to the living room to find a balding, grey haired, stooped, hairy eared and hairy handed facsimile of Ward Cleaver. Mr. 1956 appeared to not be 43 but at least 53. Hell, maybe even 63.
Turns out the picture quite possibly was taken in 1956.

What was I to do? The man was in my living room, the site of the weekly family reunion/home improvement project. My cousin was chopping up a tree, my uncle was babecuing, and my sister and a group of her friends were painting the living room. There stood Mr. 1956 amid the chaos, wearing his black slacks, long sleeved, wide blue striped shirt, and his tweed sports coat. "He's Dad old," my sister had said. And she was right. He was even dressed like my dad.

I gave him a quick hug, apologized for not being ready, and ran to the bathroom to finish the preparations, some of which were abandoned once I'd seen Mr. 1956. I didn't feel it necessary to do mascara and lipstick when he hadn't bothered to shave the tufts of hair sticking out of his ears. In less than 10 minutes, I was ready and we were on our way to a play and eventually dinner.

Conversation on the way to the show was bizarre. Lots of bad jokes such as, "I dreamed of mufflers last night. I woke up exhaust-ed." "Did you hear OJ's getting married again? He wants to take another stab at it." "You know the difference between the government and the mafia? One of them's orgaized." We discussed his forays into cults; he's belonged to 2. And at some point he even said, "I don't like what you're wearing. The next time we go on a date, I think you should wear a dress." Oh, yeah baby, it's gonna be a long night.

We arrived at the community theater an hour earlier than the play started. But instead of suggesting we grab a quick bite to eat, or going out for a drink or two, we sat in the car in the parking lot until the theater staff showed up and finally let us in. Of course, we had to stand around the lobby for 20 minutes, but at least we were in the air conditioning.

After a while the "crowd" arrived....a busload of elderly inhabitants of a retirement village. They pushed and crowded until I was up against the wall and nearly hyperventilating (I don't like crowds) . Mr. 1956 had staked out his place right near the door and got us seats front row center. Of course, there were only 5 rows, and about 36 people all together.

The play was good, but went on for 2 1/2 hours. I'm not quite sure why a play with one set needed 2 intermissions, but this one did. The whole time I sat stick straight in my chair, on the edge of my seat because Mr. 1956 had put his arm around me and I was creeped out by his rubbing my back. ( Remember he looked 53-63. Imagine being groped by your dad...or even your grandpa....icky poo!)

Once the play wrapped up, and we made small talk with his friend who was in the production, it was nearly 11 and I was starving. My stomach had, in fact, been growling since about 10. But where can you catch dinner so late? We opted for a diner on 1960.

As we were seated, Ward Cleaver himself announced to our waiter that we'd been to the theater. Our waiter looked confused. "To see a play," I clarified.

"I've never seen a play," he replied. Never fear, Mr. 1956 was prepared. He gave the waiter the program to the play and wrote down the url for the theater's website, urging him to go check it out.

All throughout the evening, Mr. 1956 had been overly agreeable to anything I said about myself. I said, "I used to drive a civic." He said, "I used to have a Honda." I said, "You'll probably marry the next girl you meet after me. I've trained 5 of my exes." He said, "That's happened to me too". Etc. "What are you going to order?" I asked.

"The enchiladas," he answered with no hesitation.

The waiter came and I told him, "I'll have the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes."

"The same," chimed in Mr. 1956. Be a man, dammit. Make up your own damned mind! If you'd wanted me to order for you, you could have just asked me to pick something. Geez!

At the conclusion of our lovely diner meal (too salty, too greasy and much too prolonged), Ward whipped out his credit card to pay. "Wanna buy a computer?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"We've talked about computers, right?"

Puzzled, I nonetheless agreed that he had in fact discussed computers ad nauseum, with me, my family, people at the play and even the poor waiter didn't escape the business cards that were dispensed like beads at the Mardi Gras parade.

He handed the credit card to our waiter as he said, "Put this on my business card." It's a whole new kind of tacky I have found when a night out with me is a freaking business expense.

Finally he took me home. I jumped out of the car quickly, hoping he wouldn't follow, but no such luck. As we neared the door, we could see through the glass. "There's somebody in there," he observed.

I looked closer, thinking God had sent someone to save me from this hellacious experience, "That's my mom." I opened the door and walked in, expecting him not to follow, since someone was sleeping on the couch. But he followed me uninvited into my home, played on my computer, and got comfortable in my rocking chair.

Mom tired quickly of his inane conversation, she had after all divorced my father, whose behavior was eerily similar, and went to bed. Mr. 1956 took this as him cue to make a move. He stood up and I did too, thinking I would walk him to the door. But no.

He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close. Instinctively I turned my head, and the kiss landed on my neck. I jerked out of his arms and went to the front door.

"Thank you. The play was really good." I said as he went outside.

He stopped, turned around and tried again.

Prepared and quicker to respond the second time I leapt back screaming, "Back off!"

He smirked and said a lame ass "sorry" and left.

Next morning I got an email from him. "I had a really good time. Looking forward to our next date."

Shudder. Wretch. Gag. Ummmm....I don't think so. Thanks but no thanks. As I told him on the drive to the theater, "I'd rather be alone than in a bad relationship."