".....man has come so far, building grand cities, creating beautiful works of art, traveling to the moon, but still,
this is only thing on his mind.."
Dating Man’s Blues
PUBLISHED: july 2005 Gunsels, GunMolls, & Private Dicks Collection
PUBLISHER: Omenspirits.com
WEBSITE: THIS ONE
I stood at the very center, if a desert actually has a center, trudging up white sand hills that pulled at my feet like the under tow of the beach, making the climbing effort all the more tedious. Lucky for me I was stripped down to my T-shirt and boxers. A pair of ‘Sears’ loafers, along with a thin pair of suit socks, weren’t exactly designed for this. How the hell did I get into the middle of the desert you ask? Well, for all you know what it's like. If you own a pair, you’ll understand. Along with owning a pair, the leader of the group sits 2-centimeters when soft, 3 inches when extended, and it does most of the thinking. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. To really answer that question, I would have to go back two Fridays.
Norman D. Melzer. Age: 34. Height: 5’8’. Hair: brown. Build: skinny, but slightly toned. Hm? You want me to describe myself as scrawny? No! I have an athletic build and I’m stickin’ to that! Anyhow. Race: American, mutt, white, whatever. Just more simple that way. Wasp would fit even better. That’s why I stay outta direct sunlight. I burn like a piece of meat on a grill. Now, to continue this. I’m just an average guy see. Work a simple nine-to-five job at a money lending firm Hewett Loans, planted firmly ten miles outside of Nevada. Perfect place for a money lending office wouldn’t you say. It was one of those Wednesdays, you know the kind I mean. I'm sittin’ at my desk, doing the numbers of the idiots dumb enough to take a loan out on their house when the damn thing wasn' tworth the amount they want to get. Why we give them the money isn't my concern. They pay me, so I don’t ask. All I was busy doing was thinking about balancing my own check book, and what was left in the frig after last night’s splurge on Fiesta Del Taco & Burrito special I got from World O’ Mexico on my way home. I sat at my prison gray desk with its light gray blotter/in and out box/ and a phone that had multiple lines for inter-office communication. My little cubby, gave me all the luxuries of a coffin, and most of the advantages.
I sat there, pondering whether or not it would be dangerous to reheat the Mexi-food and eat the rest tonight. I had some deep and serious contemplating going on I tell ya. What do you expect? I’m stuck here, in a starched white dress shirt that was in a pack of five-for- $3.99 at the Five & Dime near the apt. building I so lovingly call home, plus a pair of flat brown colored pants, starched also, and a pair of ‘Sears’ loafers that were buried in the back of my closet until I came to work here four months ago. Do I sound happy? If so, ya need to get a clue guy. This job is for the birds! But, we do what we must for the change in our pocket now don’t we. It was quarter to 5, and the rest of the fools who work here were making their normal preparations to go home to their houses and kids and picket fences and big garages and spouses and dogs and, and………..do I sound like a guy who’s single and lovin’ it? I do? Hah! Fooled you didn’t I. Yeah, I’m single. After the last few dates I’ve been on, would you blame me.
Rule #1: on the book of dating: Never, ever, let a co-worker set you up on a date! Ever! You barely know your co-worker as it is, you don’t know what they consider “a perfect match for you” cause they barely know you out side of an occasional office party and the moments of ‘hi’ when they happen to cross the path of your desk on the way to the ‘John’ .
But, there are times when one’s loneliness and one’s judgment can become impaired by the lack of female company and all the fringe benefits that come with that. And the blood rushes straight to your waist and gives your bloodless brain, a chance to rest. A good thing that is, right? Sure it is. Your brain always needs a rest right? Before I get to the main part, since I got you here, I’m going to vent about this one date. Jeez, you wouldn’t believe the ‘perfect match’ my co-worker, and they will forever be known as that, set me up with last Friday. We’re standin’ by the water cooler, runnin’ our mouths about the Dodgers/Yankees game on the television the other day (me being originally from the East Coast and of course I had to have an opinion) when he starts in on my love life, “Normy, Normy, Normund!” the jerks name was Steve. He had the habit of taking your name and making annoying pet name variations on it.
I just wanted to slug him right in his thick, Italian mug. But, when in working environment, one must act accordingly. And since I wanted to keep my job, beltin’ the bastard was going to have to wait. He went on.
“My wife has got this girlfriend, see, who she thinks will be perfect for you my friend. My wife says she’s smart,” ten-to-one, you could walk her on a leash and not get thrown in jail for cruelty & inhuman treatment to animals. He went on. “funny,” bet she laughs like bats caught in a blender, many pictures of this girl came flooding threw my mind, he kept going, “and, as far as I heard, get a couple of drinks in her, and she’ll polish ya knob and remove the chrome! If ya know what I mean.” For the life of me, I did know what he meant. Hey, look, you gotta understand something. Steve’s wife, is what we from NY would call, an I-talian princess. I’ll translate- house wife, big hair, plenty if hairspray, enough eye make-up to coat your house three times over, hot pink spandex pants, a Newport dangling from her hand, nasal speaking voice, which was all the better in here constant yakking, and that cigarette, hanging there (as she is just daring the long piece of ash gathering on the end of the filter to fall off), while she runs her mouth to the next door neighbors about the new couple that just moved in and criticized the guy’s wife for her lack of fashion sense that she obviously had over her. That, is Steve’s wife Debbie, in a nut shell. This was the guy, big as a sumo wrestler, dark skinned complexion, damn near close to having a Uni-brow, this was the guy, and his wife, who wanted to set me up on a blind date with one of her girlfriends. What do you think I said to that!
You know exactly what I said. I had way too many run-ins with this sort of woman, so you know what I said…I said…..yes. See, this is a prime example of the blood-leaving-the-head-straight-to-the-waist-incident. I hadn’t been with a woman for so long I probably shot out dust at that most intense of moments. He continued,
“I’m tellin’ you, Normund. Just go out with her. Take her to the Pot O’ Gold Palace on the ‘Strip’, watch the show, buy her a couple of drinks, then to the nearest Five buck motel, and do the deed! You need to my friend. Cause I hate o tell you,” but he will tell me, even if I don’t want him to, he will. He went on. “but, youse look like you got a slow leak, and over hearin’ the women in this place talk about ya, livin’ like a priest ain’t the most interesting thing for a man to impress a woman with, ya know what I mean.”
And as usual, I knew what he meant. God, thinking back on that day, how hard up was I for a date? Must have been really, really, hard up. So, as I was saying, as the blood traveled straight to my waist, I told him I would and he slapped me on the back, and gave me a big cheesy smile (one shot, just one shot, right to his big, fat lips. That’s all I ask,) and gave me her name and address and told me to pick her up ‘round 8 o’clock. Damn! Am I that transparent? The jerk had the time all picked out and everything. How did he know I would say yes? God, I need a life. At least the work day ended quickly. Small miracles.
So I left work in my rust-spot infested Ford two door and trucked on home to my apartment. At least there was a cool breeze blowin’ through the stairwell as I made my climb to the sixth floor. And no one was around. I don’t socialize much with the people in the building. I prefer to keep to myself and deal with the only real friend I have in this very hot and muggy town. My key hit the lock and I entered into my semi-clean domicile.
Just because I’m a single man, does not mean I live like I’m still in a college dorm with clothes all over the place and food on the table gathering green mold, and dishes in the sink unclean. Hey, hey, those clothes in that corner, by the bathroom door, that’s stuff I have to take to the laundry. Besides, don’t you know the rule?
Single man Rule #5: If a piece of clothing has only been worn once, then it’s still good to wear for at least two to three more days………or until you spill something on it and then, the spill has to be something that can be seen. If it can’t be, still good. If it can be, no good. Then you have to break down and clean it.
This flat brown suit with matching tie I had just stripped out of and threw on the dark red checkered couch, has at least two more days of freshness to it for wearing to work. Can’t ask for more than that. I had a few hours, so I did the things one does before getting ready for a blind date. Jumped in the shower for ‘bout 45 minutes, and after that, to 20 or so minutes to shave. Took the foam cream out and was about to slap it on my face when: You ever take a long look at yourself and wonder- how the heck did you ever get to the point where dating for you would become so much of a hassle, than something you wanted to do?
Hell, a friend of mine, Darrell, he just got married a few months back. Now, what you have to understand about Darrell, and I’m not speaking ill of him, he is my closest friend living here, but, he’s a playboy, womanizer, the type that takes a woman out, charms the hell out of her, has her pay the check, goes back to her place, does his thing, and is out the door. If you, as a woman ever heard from him again, it would probably be for him to hit you up for whatever. And most likely, you’d give it to him. He was charming, and smart. Just not the one woman type. Picture if you will, 6 ‘1’ 200 lbs., red-haired Real-estate salesman with green eyes and a slight Irish lilt in his voice, and freckles. His car was just as clean and slick as his clothes……and women threw themselves at him. And the same women more than once. But he got married. Go figure. Darrell knows Steve cause he sold Steve his house. I will lay you odds, by the clock on my bathroom wall, Darrell will be calling me right after I get done shaving and dressing. Belmont odds I tell ya. Just wait. I’m still looking at myself, and counting the wrinkles, damn! Don’t you just love time. At least I still have my hair. Good ol’ dad. Let me get back to shaving. Get back to ya in a bit.
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