It's the Orange Fur Coat

I needed this date to be good. After dozens of failed online dates, I finally built enough courage to ask a real woman out. We worked on different floors, Betty on the twentieth and I on the twenty-seventh, but we shared an elevator from time to time. We couldn't talk much, but I felt a connection. She thought I was funny, and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I've ever met.

I popped the question on the elevator. Regrettably, my nerves got the better of me, and I blurted out, "Will you be eating dinner this Friday? I know I will."

My heart raced. I couldn't believe what I just said. I looked at her, expecting disgust, but she stifled a laugh.

"You know, I usually do eat dinner on Fridays. Perhaps we could eat together. We could even call it a date?"

I wanted this date to be perfect. I studied my failed dates and devised a strategy to make this one fail-proof. According to my online dates, my biggest flaw is eating slowly. So, I decided to eat before Betty showed up. It might be weird, but it should solve the problem. Since I won't be hungry, I can order a small meal and finish when she does.

Unfortunately, the best plans of mice and men often go awry. 

I was minding my business and eating my spaghetti when a waiter, carrying a massive tray with six plates, failed to see a chair slightly pushed out. He tripped, miraculously maintaining control of the tray, but ran into my table, which caused my plate to spill, covering my shirt and pants with marinara and noodles.

The maitre d' quickly escorted me to the restroom, ordering his staff to find some clothes in the lost-and-found bin. He apologized profusely. I assured him it was alright. An accident is an accident. I'm just happy he didn't dump the entire tray on me.

The staff member returned carrying bright yellow pants and an orange fur coat. "These are all I could find," the staff member said apologetically. 

"They will have to do, come, let's let Mr. Drummen change."

I don't know which is worse. My spaghetti-stained outfit? Or this outrageous arrangement that only a famous person could get away with? The uncomfortable, wet feel of the spaghetti sauce forced me into the shameful clothing. The pants hugged my butt and legs, making it difficult to walk. The coat only went to my navel.

I wanted to run home, but I couldn't stand the thought of Betty thinking I stood her up.

I waited at the bar as we agreed. While waiting, I overheard a couple disagreeing. A lady's voice said I was a famous movie star, and a guy's voice insisted I was a rapper.

Brenda walked in and looked around the bar. She didn't recognize me. She scanned the room again, shrugged, and took a seat.

I sat beside her and ordered another beer. She quickly glanced at me and was unable to hide her shock. She turned her head towards the door, contemplating her escape route. 

"Brenda, it's me, Spencer."

"Spencer?" She stared at me in disbelief, "From work?"

"Yeah, I know. There's a good reason for this." I pointed to my outlandish outfit.

She looked me up and down and turned red with embarrassment. "Honestly, I just came to say I had something come up."

I grabbed my beer and took a swig, "I understand."

"It's a family matter, and I must take care of it."

Another failed date. It's all my fault. I'm the only common denominator. What am I saying? Look at me - tight yellow pants, mid-drift fur coat. Of course, it's my fault. 

"I'll see you at work." She turned to leave.

A stranger approached me, "Excuse me." A lady in her forties handed me a small notepad and pen. "Could I have your autograph? I've seen all your movies."

Brenda stopped and eyed me suspiciously.

I shook my head and tried to explain to the confused lady that I was not who she thought I was.

"I understand. It must be hard to go anywhere without people hounding you for an autograph. That's why I'm whispering. So the others won't hear."

If that was whispering, then I'm good at dating. The entire restaurant heard the lady. I didn't want to make a scene, so I scribbled something unintelligibly and returned the notepad.

The lady thanked me as she giggled, waving her notepad like she scored a bingo.

"What was that about?" Brenda asked.

Before answering, another lady handed me a napkin requesting my autograph. I signed, and then several more patrons lined up. I felt like a real movie star, and without realizing it, I started playing the part: making jokes, laughing, and winking.

My jaw dropped when I spotted the next person in line. A drop-dead gorgeous woman in a little black dress handed me a white silk scarf.

"Could you sign this?"

I nodded and clumsily searched for a way to write on the flimsy thing.

"Here," she turned, "Use my back." She flung her hair to the side, revealing her sexy neck and slightly exposed back.

I signed and returned her scarf, trying not to make eye contact. Pretty women scared me, and I didn't want her to see my fear.

"Do you like to dance?"

I stuttered and muttered, "I've got moves, more than Stars on Dancing with." I knew I said something wrong but couldn't figure out what.

She laughed, "You're funny." She grabbed my hand, "Why don't you come with me? There's this great club."

She pulled me, giving me the hottest bedroom eyes any woman has ever given me. I almost gave in when Brenda grabbed my other hand.

"Excuse me, Sister, but he belongs with me."

The Little Black Dress returned Brenda's stare. "Aren't you his assistant or agent or something?"

"I'm his date, and if you don't want me to call his bodyguard, I suggest you let him go." Brenda nodded towards this giant man standing with his back towards us.

The Little Black Dress sneered and let go of my hand. "If you change your mind and want a real woman, call me." She wrote her number down on a cocktail napkin and then stormed out.

I stood in disbelief. Two women were fighting over me. This night will go down as the greatest night in my life.

We continued to hold hands without moving. Bolts of electricity shot through me. I knew right then that she held more than just my hand; she also held my heart.

"So, you never told me you're famous," Brenda said with a coy smile.

I returned her smile, "I thought you had a family emergency?"

An awkward feeling overcame us. Something was in the air, and we both felt it.

"So, are we still on for dinner?" Brenda asked.

"Dinner? Yes. Let's go. For dinner, that is."

"Are you always this articulate on dates?"

"Worse, sometimes."

She laughed.

We walked to our table with every eye on us. My outfit never fooled Brenda. However, years later, she told me she had never been on a date with a more famous man in her life, and I'm still the most famous man in her life.

Oh, and by the way, we kept the outfit.