Election Day & Taking A Hint
I never went on another blind date after that one.
It was November of 2004. John Kerry was running against George W. Bush in the first presidential election that, at 21, I was finally old enough to vote in, and as a burgeoning liberal, I was anxious to see Bush out of office and a hopeful end to what I was first beginning to think of as American authoritarianism and fascism as I understood it from my art school friends. I was eager, too, to hopefully see same-sex marriage federally recognized under a Kerry presidency and proudly wore a pin in support of the cause on the lapel of my woolen winter coat. I put it on as I was about to leave work at the photo lab where I worked in a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis, as my ride — and blind date — had just come in to pick me up and take me out for dinner and a movie.
I had just started working there, at that location. I’d been with the camera store and photo developing chain throughout various buy-outs and re-namings and store transfers since the day after my 16th birthday when I was finally legally allowed to work with the chemicals in the nearby mall’s photo lab, my dream high school job at the time, as I took more photos than I could afford to develop without the massive employee discount.
I had just been effectively kicked out of art school, having gotten into a car accident the past winter in a vehicle that I was still paying for, having it repossessed due to all of my spare and very-budgeted money going to the definitely-unplanned insurance deductible, and temporarily destroying mine and my mother’s (and necessary cosigner’s) credit, leaving me ineligible for the private loans I needed to pay what was left of tuition after what my financial aid and government loans covered.
In addition to being so suddenly removed from an environment I’d grown to love and flourish in, I’d also recently broken up with my boyfriend, who was a couple years ahead of me at the same school. It was a breakup I took harder than most, crying often, hiding alone in my room with nothing but loud music, cheap wine, and cigarettes in front of a glowing computer screen where I’d pour my heart out on my LiveJournal for months straight.
We really hardly took much of a break from one another after the first week or so after breaking up and my moving back home after finding out I couldn't go back to (that) college, and so we still talked often over the phone and hung out at least once a week, spending the night (or most of it) together, sometimes attending concerts and other events together. While we were both occasionally seeing and openly interested in other people, even discussing them with each other and offering advice, it was definitely a great way to keep complicated feelings alive for much longer than necessary. Seeing (and probably growing tired of) my obvious, self-inflicted pain, my friends and even mom started noticing, insisting on taking me out to a club or, in this case, setting me up on a (nearly) blind date.
Justin was the driver of an armored truck that regularly stopped by to collect money from the ATM at the gas station my mom managed. He was friendly, and he routinely stopped to chat with my mom for a long time, inevitably learning about me, just slightly younger than him and, of course, freshly single. I stopped by to say hi one day while he was there and my mom introduced me to him briefly, but he was wearing sunglasses and in a hurry.
Later that night, home from work, my mom told me that he thought I was beautiful and that he wanted to take me out. I thought it was strange that he was so interested after such a short and curt introduction, but at that point, I figured, why not? I let her give him my phone number and we arranged for the date. We were going to go to dinner, and he’d pick me up from work that Tuesday night. Election night.
Just as my shift was ending and I was putting on my jacket, he walked in the door with the cold and snow flurries following him. Shorter than I recalled, and fairly handsome with a stylish haircut and sensible but trendy clothing. He walked up and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. His eyes moved immediately to the pin on my lapel.
“Nice pin,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. I glanced over at my boss, an obvious and out lesbian, like much of the photo lab management world was, somehow. I raised my eyebrows. I told him we’d better get going. As we walked out to the lot, he pointed at his truck, its rear to us in the parking lot. Next to a more traditional bumper sticker reading “huntsmen for Bush” was a large, handmade cardboard sign with a crude drawing of a toilet taped securely to the back window. “Flush Kerry down the John!” it declared.
“Nice sign,” I retorted, not too late for him to laugh. I got in the passenger seat through the door he opened for me, and he started the truck and started telling me about his gun collection. I remarked with a tone of disgust in my voice that I had never shot one and didn’t particularly like them1 since, at that time, I didn’t know anyone who owned them except my father who I saw only rarely. Instead of noticing an incompatibility, he seemed to think it was merely adorable that I didn’t think much of his firearm collection or his handmade political signage, and he moved onto discussing his other favorite activity: clubbing. When I told him I was an awful dancer and didn’t enjoy the club scene at all, he chuckled again, apparently thinking he could convert me.
We had dinner at a nearby Olive Garden. I don’t even remember it. It was so profoundly dull and unmemorable and we had so little in common, so few things to actually talk about. Everything we did talk about, we disagreed on. We had some time to kill before the movie we planned to see (The Grudge) and decided to get a drink somewhere to kill time.
We pulled up at a nice bar in town, got out of Bushtruck, and headed up the string lit path when suddenly, right by a tree as if he’d plotted the steps in advance, Justin stopped, took hold of my wrist, and pulled me to him. I was not prepared for this moment and stumbled awkwardly, falling half into his arms as though I was trying to hug him. He swung his face toward mine for a kiss and I stumbled back and out of his way, mumbling something about not kissing on the first date. It was a bald-faced lie, but no matter; he just said, with a mischievous smile, “I can respect that!” Unfortunately, this remark apparently led him to believe that there would be a second date.
There would not be.
This was Maple Grove, another of the wealthier suburbs of Minneapolis, and the bar was playing election coverage on all the televisions. As Justin continued explaining the great fun I’d have clubbing with him, I watched as Bush won state after state, my gaze drifting sadly at my diminishing Amstel Light while the rest of the suited men sitting around us cheered and toasted with each state called. I had nothing in common with Justin, and even less in common with the patrons of this bar.
We decided it was time to head to the movie. I do not remember it. In fact, over the next nearly 20 years until I read a journal entry rehashing this date a few days ago, I couldn't even remember when or with whom I'd even seen The Grudge. Apparently Justin's presence there with me was rapidly eliminated from my memory.
I was happy when he dropped me off at my car in the photo lab’s parking lot and I could just go home, light a cigarette, log into my LiveJournal where I’d write the post about the worst date of my life that I’d already half-composed in my head throughout the night, and drown my sorrows in a bottle of pinot grigio.
“He seemed so excited too.. I don't know why. We had nothing in common whatsoever. At all. He asked what I want in a guy. I said someone that I have a lot in common with, who I can talk to, who I feel a connection with, etc. He said he wants a girl who's cute, funny, and makes him laugh. Ugh.”
— excerpt from my journal entry that night, feeling utterly baffled
I got onto I-394, a freeway that was so high off the ground and in ways you could see way too clearly for my comfort, and I hated driving it to and from work every day. It was about 10pm and the road was thankfully pretty empty, so my worries eased as I headed home, until out of nowhere, a car came barreling toward me. I was confused at first: why was I seeing headlights on a freeway? Then it hit me that he was driving the wrong way. I veered out of the way just in time, as it appeared he was not planning to move out of my lane at all. I didn’t stop shaking until after I made it home in one piece.
Justin called a day or two later to ask me on a second date. I was young and afraid to piss anyone off and so I didn’t know how to be direct and just tell him that I wasn’t at all interested in him, so I made some excuse for why I couldn’t go out with him at the time he asked and got off the phone. He continued to call after that, every few days or so, for a month. I refused to answer the phone, and when my mom did, I made her lie and say I wasn’t home. She told me I would be better off just being honest with him. I refused, wondering instead how in the hell someone could be dense enough to not have taken the hint weeks ago. My own fragile ego wouldn’t have let me call more than once after an initial rejection that sounded so clearly full of “I'm just trying not to hurt your feelings” lies, but Justin was persistent, or oblivious (and, before you ask, almost certainly not autistic).
There’s a lot of discourse about how people in the Western world (especially, they say, “neurotypicals”) communicate too passively and metaphorically, hinting too much and not being direct enough. I don’t really disagree that we (especially we Midwestern natives) need to be more direct with one another — in a way that is kind and thoughtful rather than as simply an excuse to be mean — but I do think that it’s pretty reasonable to expect that if a girl (or anyone) refuses to take your calls for an entire month, she probably isn’t interested.
But what do I know.
I just hope Justin eventually found the club girl of his dreams.
I eventually got over it. I'm a pretty great shot, actually.
That was an awesome read.
Im the same age as you I think... dating in NZ was very different as we arent political really....
We have to find other reasons to flee :)
I think you might light my story - Operation Finnish Princess.