The Dating Game

I gaze at the door for the thirteenth time, since, well, four minutes ago.

The location isn’t bad. A large restaurant, the Jade Princess boasts a lot of white-cloth tables, with fancy chopsticks and red, ornate chairs. Cloth tapestries of Chinese warriors decorate the walls, and an aquarium filled with giant crabs fills the center of the room. I eyeball the waiters and waitresses, who sport traditional Chinese attire, which is the most international diversity the rural North Carolina town of Fatback has seen in its lifetime. I think I spot one waitress who is Chinese-American. The rest are rednecks in Hanfu.

Not that I’m not one of them. A redneck, I mean. Born and bred in Fatback, that’s me.

A fourteenth gaze.

I click on my cell phone app again, nervously.

“Paolo Riviera” pops up, with a stellar picture that looks like a cross between a young Sylvester Stallone, long luscious locks flowing, and Johnny Depp, sexy brown eyes sparkling.

Marci, you can tell your age by your comparisons.

I sigh. I hate that little voice in my head.

Will my first date be incredible? Maybe I should ask for my fortune cookie now.

I look down at myself. A few pounds heavier than I was in my twenties. A few grooves on my face that I wish were ‘laugh lines’—but instead look like I scowl all the time.

Why is Paolo Riviera, or rather, Sylvester-Johnny Extraordinaire, still available on EpicLove.com? And what does he want with 43-year-old recent divorcée Marci Wilkins, a little plain, a little lost?

Suddenly, the luscious, black locks make an appearance through the front entrance, stopping by the hostess desk, ignoring the blonde chick in her Hanfu dress. The man glances around with those Johnny Depp eyes. They light up, spotting little ol’ me, and I feel a thrill of fear.

Don’t mess this up, Marci.

Paolo Riviera, carrying a mysterious black bag, makes his way through the lunch crowd at the Jade Princess, and he plops in the seat across from me. He lays his bag down on the floor.

“So, Marnie,” a surprisingly nasal voice emerges from that elegant throat, “you look exactly like your profile pic.”

“Um, thanks?” I rack my brain for something original to say. “So do you.”

And score one for the home team. Way to go, Marci. Or is it Marnie?

“It’s Marci, actually,” I clarify to Paolo, ignoring my inner voice, as quickly as possible, before it gets awkward.

“Of course, Marnie,” he looks distractedly at the menu. “Oh, Garçon,” pronouncing it ‘Garkon’ and waving over the Chinese-American waitress with the nametag ‘Sunny.’ He disdainfully speaks, not deigning to look at her. “I want an egg roll and sweet-and-sour chicken. And an iced tea with four lemons. She’ll have the same.”

Wha-?

“Uh, I was thinking, Paolo, maybe we could start with Crab Rangoon?” I humbly suggest.

His tan face turns pasty white. “C-crab Rangoon? Are you insane?” He finally looks the waitress in the eyes, and says firmly, “No Crab Rangoon. That will be all.”

Weird.

The waitress’s eyes slide to me, then she gives a little bob, muttering something that sounds Chinese (not that I’d know). Plastering a fake smile on her face, she glides away.

I’m not impressed by Sylvester-Johnny. But I eye-fondle his slender, yet muscular, physique, and I pause. Why not give him a second chance?

And Marci, of course you aren’t shallow. Right.

He chuckles. “Paolo Riviera? Oh yeah,” he speaks nasally, almost sounding like a goose. “That was my little joke. I’m Paul Rivers from Piney Village, the town next door. Thought the fancy name would score some dates. And it worked!” He winks.

Okay, well, we all present ourselves nicely for a profile. I guess.

“So,” I clear my throat, “I was amazed to see on your profile that your talent is being a wolf whisperer. I’m fascinated, um, Paul. Where did you come across the wolves? And how do you pacify them?” I dreamily imagine Paolo-Paul, raised by wolves, sweet-talking a gorgeous, grey wolf named Stormy, into lying at his feet. “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” plays in the background, and my Paolo-Paul throws back his long curls and howls with the creature.

No, he actually just threw back his long curls and loudly, piercingly, whistled in the crowded room.

Dead silence. You can hear a pin drop.

He throws back said curls and guffaws. “Wolf-whistler, sugar, not wolf-whisperer. Must’ve been a typo.”

The crowd picks up its conversations again, ignoring my date.

And the thinking balloon hanging over my head, complete with picture of Stormy, pops, and I sink back to reality.

A reality looking bleaker by the minute.

Sunny approaches with the laden tray of doubles of everything and places it before us.

“Thank you, Sunny,” I try to mime thanks, and I catch a glimpse of humor in her eyes. She fake-smiles and says something in Chinese.

Paul rolls his eyes and says, “Wong Chong, okay? Whatever. Skedaddle, babe.”

I gasp and turn bright red. Is there a way out of this? I hate racists.

But ever the Southern girl, I try to make the rest of this stinking date, at least, polite.

“You said you like to salsa, Paul?” I distantly smile, as I eat the sweet-and-sour concoction. Not my favorite. I miss my usual Chinese takeout order of Moo Goo Gai Pan.

Sigh. Just gotta get through this meal, Marci.

“No, Marnie, I don’t like TO salsa,” Paul grins.

And whips out three jars of “Volcano Heat,” chunky, tomato dip jars from the mysterious black bag.

“I put it on everything,” he honks, like the goose I’m starting to picture across from me.

And he proceeds to dollop generous amounts of “Volcano Heat” over his egg roll and chicken. Over sweet-and-sour chicken, no less. I hold my breath, waiting for the tomatoes to land in his tea, too, but he stops at the chicken.

My stomach roils. I push my plate to one side, and Sunny silently scoops it away. Paul chows down, salsa dribbling grossly down his perfectly-chiseled chin.

I feel like I’m in the car commercial where the chick is on a terrible date and programs her car to meet her at the door.

Where do I get one of those?

I desperately cast about for a topic that will fill the remaining time at the table. Hopefully he eats fast. Well, he hasn’t asked a single question about me. So, I guess I should stick to the only topic he cares about—himself.

“You like romantic times at the beach?” I mentally review his misleading profile.

Paul’s amazing brown eyes go all glazed over, as he daydreams. “I love the beach. Let me show you something, Marnie.”

I sigh again. I feel like I’m becoming this ‘Marnie.’ And I don’t like how she’s sitting here listening to this racist weirdo. I open my mouth, searching for a polite way to leave, when he stands up and grabs my hand. Pulling hard, he drags me to the aquarium in the middle of the room, filled with giant crabs.

Then drops the bomb.

“I love crabs. They are such amazingly sexy creatures.”

Sexy? I must have misheard.

“I love to visit different beaches and stroke the crabs I find,” Paul continues. “Sunset Beach with Blue Crabs. Noble creatures. Florida beaches with Stone Crabs. Mmm … delightful.”

I drop his hand like a hot potato. No wonder this guy doesn’t like Crab Rangoon.

Paul turns his shining eyes to me. “I look forward to taking you there. We can stroke crabs together as we kiss,” he dementedly honks.

I shrink backwards, stuffing my hand in my pants pocket, so Mr. Crab-Seducer won’t grab it again, when I feel a crinkle of paper.

Meanwhile, Paul leaps forward and places his palm on the aquarium glass. “In fact, I’ll free you! I’ll free you all!” His brown eyes look less magical and more maniacal.

My hand feels the crinkly paper again, and I pause a moment in the madness, to pull it out.

It’s a note.

Meet me in the Ladies’ Bathroom. Now.

Paul climbs a chair and as the crowd turns to stare, he starts scooping out claw-bound crabs and laying the what-I-call-sea-spiders on the floor, carefully. The people shriek as they jump on chairs of their own.

I feel like the note-writer and I have similar objectives—get the hell outta here. But I’m afraid to walk out on Paul. He’s beyond weird, he’s insane! Will he snap if I bail?

“Uh, Paul, I need to tinkle,” I yell over the shrieks.

Paul just grins madly at me. “Of course, Marnie,” he honks loudly. “Then we can plan out our trip to Ocracoke Island. Ghost crabs!”

I flee to the bathroom. It’s empty. I lean against the double sinks and stare at myself in the mirror. My scowling groove looks deeper tonight.

The door opens.

Sunny sidles inside, shutting the door behind her. The screaming sounds lessen.

“Listen, hon,” she drawls.

I inhale sharply.

“Ya gotta ditch this loser,” Sunny dictates. “Don’t think you aren’t worth ten of Mr. Let’s-find-a-crab-and-be-a-racist-son-of-a-bitch. Girl, you deserve so much better.”

I tear up. “Really?” I straighten, more sure of myself. “Really.”

“Sunny, I’m sorry,” I continue. “I assumed you didn’t speak much English.”

She laughs, her Hanfu shaking with each chortle. “I make sure everyone thinks so. That way I don’t have to deal with much stupid conversation. No, born and bred in Fatback, NC. I’m going to Duke in the fall, lady.” She winks.

“Now to get you outta here,” Sunny turns business-like. “There’s an employee entrance out the back.”

“I’m so there,” I gratefully troop out of the Ladies’ Room, following Sunny down the hall, into a swinging door with chefs running around, frantically filling plates. In the back, I see a door marked ‘Exit’ in red letters. Sunny and I make a beeline for it. Right before freedom, I stop with a gasp.

A giant Alaskan Crab, having shred his restraints somehow, lifts his claws between me and the rectangle of freedom. Sunny and I grind to a halt.

The two eyeballs—sticking up—stare at me.

I stare at the two eyeballs.

I can almost hear the Western Showdown Music.

Is that a tumbleweed rolling by?

Okay, get a grip, Marci.

Sunny grabs a nearby broom from beside the door and swats the creature till he scuttles off sulkily.

“Goodbye, lady!” She shouts, pushing me out the door.

She doesn’t have to push me twice.

A piercing wolf whistle wafts outside, where I’m standing, poised to run.

“MARNIE!” I hear a massive honk from inside the restaurant.

My blood boils. I see red.

“IT’S MARCI, YA BIG GOOSE!” I yell back inside.

I turn to strut to the car, feeling a lot better, and Sunny tosses me something small through the air.

“Gotta have luck next time!” She laughs and the door slams shut, leaving me alone in the alleyway. I catch the little object and pick my way through the sunlit side street to my Ford Fusion, climbing breathlessly inside.

Vroom.

I roar the engine, ready to speed outta there, when I glance at my hand.

It’s a fortune cookie.

Why not?

I rip the plastic off and tear it open, unfurling the paper.

And what does it say?

Crabbiness is not attractive.

Amen to that.