Worst First Date Ever

By Rebecca Kaplan

Nothing spoils romance so much as a sense of humor in the woman.

~Oscar Wilde

On February twelfth, Jake was getting ready to go on a weeklong trip to visit his old fraternity in upstate New York. When he said goodbye to me, he put his hands in his pockets, looking bashful.

"I probably shouldn't give you this," he said, "but you've been really sweet to me these past few days, so I wanted to say thank you." He pulled out a box of chocolates and handed them to me.

"Thanks, Jake." I was totally taken aback by the gesture, the romantic thoughtlessness of it. It was sweet. I was vegan, which he well knew, and I wasn't going to eat the milk chocolates, but it was kind. And it wasn't like Jake to be gratuitously kind.

"Well, Gary's been pressuring me to give these to random girls, so I figured I'd give one to you." He paused for a moment. "Please don't tell Gary. Actually, don't tell anyone." Another pause, then, "It cost a dollar."

Then he kissed me goodbye and rode off in his car, a 1990s pickup truck he used to cart his band's instruments.

The words echoed after he left: "Random girls." "This cost a dollar." "Please don't tell anyone."

I hadn't been expecting a Valentine's present, hadn't wanted one, but this seemed worse than nothing at all. Did he expect me to bowl over in gratitude? "Thank you Jake, thank you! This dollar candy has made my dreams come true. When can we plan the wedding?"

Yeah, it was time to find somebody new.

***

Valentine's Day found me alone and drinking in the campus Starbucks, drowning my loneliness in a mocha with a double shot of espresso. If you can't get happy, get caffeinated.

Gary, Jake's friend, spotted me in line, and walked over. "How are things going with you and Jake?"

"Meh." I sipped the mocha and avoided eye contact.

He nodded. "You need to find someone better. Jake doesn't care about you." Then, a smile lit across his face as he recognized someone he knew sitting at a table. "My friend Paul is over there. The comedy guy I was telling you about. You guys have to meet."

"I dunno," I said. "Isn't it a little weirdly pressured to meet someone on Valentine's Day?"

"No! It's totally adorable, man. If you guys get married, how cute would that be? You could say that you met on Valentine's."

Gary had been talking Paul up for weeks. Paul was so funny, and Jewish, and perfect for me. So Gary said. I think he was trying to wean me off of Jake, but Paul still sounded tempting.

Whatever doubts lingered faded as Gary guided me to Paul's table. He was a small guy, sitting alone at a table with his laptop. He looked like a miniature Woody Allen, complete with horn-rimmed glasses and a black gothic coat that was two sizes too big.

"This is Rebecca," Gary said. "She's interested in doing stand up comedy too."

"Oh yeah?" Paul said.

"How's everything going?" Gary asked.

Paul shrugged. "Not great. I can't decide whether to ask this girl I like out for coffee or not."

"If you like someone, I say you should go for it," I said.

"Maybe." Paul picked at the half-eaten muffin on his table.

"The baked goods here suck," I said.

"Tell me about it. But there's nowhere to get a good muffin at school."

Then I said, "I can whip together a batch of pumpkin muffins in about twenty minutes. Do you guys want to come back to my apartment?"

Paul looked at his computer. He was watching YouTube videos. Gary nudged him. "She's a good cook."

"Okay," Paul said. I grinned.

Like I always say, the way to a man's stomach is through food. Or something like that.

Back in my apartment, an hour later, Paul was scarfing down muffins with a healthy appetite. He looked at a Sandman poster I had up in the living room. "Do you like Neil Gaiman?" he asked.

"He's my favorite author," I said.

"Me too." Paul polished off the muffin in his hand and tossed the wrapper into the trash. My heartbeat quickened. I updated my mental checklist: Jewish. Into books. Funny. Likes my muffins.

"What are you doing Friday night?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Not much."

"Do you want to get dinner?"

"Sure. Are crepes okay?"

Gary grinned, as if to say, "I told you so."

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment that everything went completely and utterly downhill. It started when he picked me up. Or rather, when his mom did.

I was mortified when a blue Chevy rolled up outside to find Paul in the back seat. I got in the back with him.

"Hi Rebecca," the woman driving said. "I'm Paul's mom. It's nice to meet you."

"Oh," I said. "Nice to meet you."

"Paul doesn't have his license yet," his mom explained.

I stared out the window. Paul was twenty-three, I was twenty-one, and we were being driven to a date by someone's parent. I hadn't expected that to happen ever again once I left high school.

Later, when we got to the creperie, the very first thing that Paul said after we sat down was, "So, I took your advice and asked out that girl."

I was speechless.

"She hasn't responded yet," he said. "I sent her a Facebook message."

"I'm sure she'll say yes," I mustered.

"Hopefully," Paul said. He perused the menu, totally oblivious. "The Western crepes here are my favorite."

After I got over the initial mortification, we bantered a little. He asked me if I liked my apartment.

"It would be nice if the walls weren't all white," I said. "The place is so bare, it feels a little prison-y."

Paul got quiet. "I've been in a mental hospital. That is a prison. There were bars on the window and I couldn't leave."

"Oh my God," I said. There weren't many things left to say after that. "Why were you institutionalized?"

"I have schizophrenia," he said. "I heard voices."

"Oh." I picked at my crepe.

"Are you done?" he asked. I nodded vigorously. Yeah, I was done here. With the crepe, too.

"My mom gave me money to pay for you."

I blushed. "No, that's okay. We can split it."

After that, we had to get back into the car with his mom for the long, silent drive back to college.

Back in my apartment, I called Gary.

"Why didn't you tell me he had schizophrenia?" I yelled into the phone.

"Hmm? Is that a problem for you?"

"No. But he told me in the worst way possible. Also, it was definitely not a date." I quickly summarized our evening. Gary chuckled on the other end.

"Oh, Paul," was all he said.

It's been a while, and I can laugh about it now, but that was the first worst date that I've ever had. If it counts as a date at all.

I guess it goes to show: when you date a funny guy, they always get the last laugh.

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