A Rose by Any Other Name

My world was shattered, I was torn apart/Like someone took a knife and drove it deep in my heart.

“The eighties put out some great music, but this is not that.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, not at all.” The evening has worn on me; my patience is done. I snap off the radio. “I think we should just play a game.”

“Do-you-want-to-play-a-game?” Her voice is computerized. “Okay, name that movie.”

Sigh. “War Games. How about—

“Ding ding ding. Winner winner chicken dinner. I had such a crush on Matthew Broderick. Who was the girl?”

Don’t answer. It’ll just give her—

“EHHHHHHH.” This is her buzzer sound. “Ally Sheedy. Now she was a little hottie. Betcha had a crush on her, huh?”

Her phone, now disconnected from my car’s Bluetooth, continues Cher’s caterwauling.

My world was shattered, I was torn apart/Like someone took a knife and drove it deep in my heart.

She does a sing-a-long, her thumb the microphone, her streaked-blond head swinging around like on a Slinky. If I could turn back time/If I could find a way…

…to throw you the fuck out of this moving vehicle, right now, without slowing down, then maybe, maybe, maybe…

I knew this would be a bad idea.

“So, what game?” She’s still at it. Never have I ever met anyone so hopped up on oxygen. My hands are now tingling; I loosen my grip on the steering wheel to find I’d cut off some circulation, and this brings attention to my back teeth, which I’d been clenching. I relax my jaws, move my mandible from side to side. There’s a cracking somewhere back there.

“He-LO-oh.” She is snapping her fingers. “Earth to YOU-oo.”

Breathe. “Yes?”

“You said we should play a game.”

“Ever play ‘library’?”

***

Stop judging and just meet her, already. She's a riot.

“And what’s her name again?”

What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell… I raised my eyebrows and my brow furrowed, indicating wait time. Her name’s Uvula.

“That’s what I thought I’d remembered, to which I say again: no fucking way I’m going out with a Uvula.”

So how long are you going to stay lonely then, huh? Look around you, man.

I looked around me. “Your point?”

You are forty-eight.

“Forty-seven.”

Forty-seven. Fine. What do you think the average age is here?

I understood where he was going with this, but this was a gym. “Dude, we’re at the gym. You never try to pick up a woman at the gym.”

Point is, dude, you’re forty-seven, and you no longer have game. You need to lower your expectations. I mean, really. Her name? That’s what’s stopping you?

“‘Mom, I’d like you to meet Uvula. Uvula, Mom.’ Doesn’t quite have the…ring, you know? Kinda like, ‘Maw, this is my new guy. Coccyx, meet my maw.’”

His eyes followed a scantily clad Instagirl who was taking fish-lipped selfies as she sashayed towards the free weights.

“You’re gonna be dubbed a creeper, Mr. Obvious.”

He shook his head from his reverie.

She likes Rush.

“She likes Rush.”

Yes.

“So, Uvula has a penis. Women do not like Rush.”

Well, this one does. And, wanna know something else?

“She pees standing up.”

No. Funny, but no. She’s a contortionist.

I laughed. You can’t make this shit up. “So, you honestly want me to give up a night binging crime-series television for Uvula the Rush-loving contortionist because you think I’m lonely and…and, what else?’

You’ve lost your game.

“Right, thanks. And if I may ask, is Uvula now privy to these sparkling selling points? If so, I definitely don’t want to meet her, given her standards for men.”

I told her you too are a Rush fanatic, and that you too are amazingly limber. I showed her your picture. Oh, and I said you’re a phlebotomist.

“A phle—a what? I don’t even know what that is.”

He laughed. It was a hearty laugh. I know, but look man: that right there will help break the ice. I did it on purpose. Pretty clever, eh?

***

“So you must be the one I’ve heard so much about,” which was a really odd introduction because I was the only one in her driveway, and I was the only one in my car, so who the fuck else would I be? I was going to be a gentleman, meet her at her door with the flowers, but as soon as I pulled in she was out that front door, yelling something to someone inside first.

“Heh heh, that’s me.” She was heavily fragranced and she sounded a bit like Fran Drescher, but at least she wasn’t smacking gum. That would have been really annoying.

And, she looked nothing like the picture I’d been shown. At least at this angle, and in this light. I was thinking that maybe I oughta turn on the interior, hey, lemme get a better look atcha, but she might get the wrong idea, like, who the fuck else would I be?

“Are those for me?” The three-for-twelve purchase of wildflowers, still rubber-banded and in the cellophane wrapper —probably had that packet of magic-grow dust as well— was lying awkwardly in my lap like a consolation prize.

“Um, yeah. I was going to—”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Prince Charming.” She leaned over and tongued my ear. She really got it up in there, too, like she’d been practicing and wanted to demonstrate. I’d never thought to Q-Tip my ears before this date. Such an oversight.

Hey, Dad, this is Uvula. She can do terrific things with her tongue.

Son, I am now eighty-two. Quit acting like “meeting the parents” is still a big deal, you pansy.

Lots of voices here.

Uvula sat back in her seat; her eyes spoke bedroom as she wiped her lips of her tongue slobber. “So, what’s on the agenda, Mr. Romantic?”

“Who were you saying goodbye to?”

Her eyes went kaleidoscope as she did a rewind. “Who was I…oh, you mean when you picked me up?”       

I’m still ‘picking you up.’

“Yes.”

“Well, Mr. Romantic Detective, I was saying goodbye to Rodney.” I know she was waiting for me to ask. I was not going to ask. This woman had practically tickled my cochlea with her dramatic lingual intrusion and there seemed a good possibility her bacteria would cause auditory impairment, but that for another time. I made to put the car in reverse, sighing as I looked over my shoulder.

This was a really bad idea. Instincts are important.

“Okay, okay. Geesh, Mr. Grumpy Gills.” I’d seen Finding Nemo with my nephew and I knew the reference —she did sound a bit like Ellen, not gonna lie— but again, I didn’t bite. “Rodney’s my parakeet.” Of course he is. “Betcha thought he was a guy, huh? Sorta had you there.” I really wish I was the type to just say, no, no way, this won’t work, but no. I had inherited the gift of beneficence from my mother.

“So, what’s on the agenda?”

***

It had been so long since I’d been on a date, and “old-school me” figured a movie was a bad idea, for how do you get to know someone in a movie? So I made reservations at Aurora because, well, that’s my jam, always has been: fine food, because I am somewhat of a foodie.

But her name is Uvula.

I know, I know, but a rose by any other name would smell…

Suffice it to say, dinner was a horrible idea, and in hindsight, the only appropriate venue for a first (and only) date with Uvula would have been, maybe, a tour of a meat-packing plant.

We got out of the car, and beneath the parking lot lights I saw that she was, in fact, the girl in the picture I’d been shown, only far-less Photoshopped; and, this is baffling, because you’re going to meet your date…and then what?

As soon as he saw me, he screamed, turned, and fled.

I couldn’t do any of that because I still had my seatbelt on when she entered my car, and then her tongue was lodged in an orifice, and now it was definitely too late; but a warning might have been nice, like that which is on the sideview mirror: Objects are closer than they appear. I mean, that’s some serious courtesy right there.

It’s true: I’m forty-seven. Tough age to barter, so who am I to turn an available woman away just because she may look a bit more crack-addicted than I’d like, and her name is that of a fleshy extension which does, by the way, serve an essential purpose, especially for a self-proclaimed “foodie.”

So, there’s that. Get over it.

“Aw-roar-a. Bet this place doesn’t have ketchup.”

Kill me now.

***

Everything was going swimmingly until Uvula forced us to meet our waiter. Aurora, of the white-linen variety, does not subscribe to the hello, my name is, and I’ll be taking care of you today bubblegum sing-a-long.

“…encrusted with parmesan Panko and topped with a classic demi-glace.”

“And what’s your name, shug?”

“Um, yes. My name is Roberto. Please take your—”

“Ro-bear-toe.” She trilled the first r. “My name is Vulva.” She held out her hand, paw down, as if he were to kiss it.

“Your name is…?” Where he was astonished, I was already acclimated to her...eccentricities.

“Uvula, darling. It’s Uvula.”

“Oh my.” Blushing, Roberto turned to me. “I thought m’lady said something else.”

“Yeah, she’s funny like that,” I said to the menu. “Listen, Roberto, I’m going to need something very strong. Like, immediately.” I tried to whisper this as Uvula definitely did not need an intoxicant, but she now of the vaginal lips was all ears.

“Oh, Ro-bear-toe, me too. Let’s get liquored up,” and she ching-chinged my water glass. She then leaned over the table, and whispered, “Bet I confused you, just then?”

“How so?” I couldn’t even look at her. Just please keep your voice down.

“Because you’re probably wondering now what my real name is, right?”

“You mean, it’s not Uvula?” I might have sounded too hopeful here.

“No, silly. It’s not Vulva.” She made a kuh sound from the back of her throat, probably vibrating her own uvula, and rolled her eyes. “I only say that because then Uvula doesn’t sound so, so unique. Didn’t you see? Ro-bear-toe didn’t even bat an eyelash at Uvula, but at La—”

“I got it. Clever.” Bring the tone down a notch, there, buddy. Breathe. “So listen, I’m told you like Rush? Ever seen them live?” Good strategy: move to more common ground, perhaps start a conversation.

“Yeah, they’re okay. Only chicks with dicks like Rush, I think. I do like that one song, though. Time Stand Still?” And here, she shut her eyes, summoning her inner Geddy Lee. Freeze this moment a little bit longer/Make each sensation a little bit stronger—” She was using her thumb as a microphone and was beginning to stand, thinking she had an audience in the now-distracted and unamused diners.

“Let’s—” and as I reached for her hand, gently trying to get her to sit, she took mine, thinking it was an offer,

“—dance? Why, of course!” and she attempted a twirl which caused our little square table in the corner to teeter, which caused our wine glasses to fall and crack and our candle to nearly set the white linen on fire.

I held up my finger to Roberto, check please, even though there was no check, but I needed to give him something, and I took out my wallet and tossed a twenty on the table, and I made for the door leaving my “date” behind.

“Oh, so you’re just going to leave me, you, you phlebotomist?”

I stopped, and looked around. Everyone was staring at me. Not at her, at Uvula, but at me, because I was the man who was responsible for bringing the crazy lady who was interrupting their evening, so I should be the one responsible for taking her out.

Taking her out.

And if I did leave her, and something happened to her, like, someone “took her out” (which, it seemed, was probable), everyone at Aurora was witness to my leaving after her simple (odd, yes, but simple) attempt at affection.

And, while my mother gave me beneficence, my had father told me, Son, men don’t leave.

This is what too much crime-series television will do to a person.

So I turned on my heels, headed back to Uvula, and accepted fault, for this was my fault: I should have known, as my inner voice was screaming no, no, all wrong.

Cher had sung this God-awful song in the ‘80s, something about turning back time.

Such a cliché. I never want to have to think on it again.