Pup & Ben, Part 3: Prelude to a Date

The problem was meeting her again. So I decided to stake the place out--yes, the Starbucks where I actually worked. I knew she'd be back, but didn't know what night, and didn't feel like waiting. (Waiting is what I do worst.)

It was pretty easy. I went to a gym in that same town, and I had a built-in excuse to spend a few hours a day at a coffee shop: I'm a graduate student, and I always have reading to do! Besides, the coffee was free. So I'd show up around six, hang around until quarter to eight, and then leave. So that was Monday and Tuesday, and then I was busy Wednesday, and worked Thursday and Friday...but Saturday came along, and there she was again.

It was a slow night, fortunately, so once she was situated (with her drink, this time), I could move in. No ruses this time, no spying, no need for clever delay. I walked up, knelt down next to her (she was sitting, and I wanted her to feel in control by looking down at me), and asked her if she'd like to have dinner sometime.

Pretty simple, of course, but then, a simple approach usually works well. My thirty-eight years of experience living has told me, among other things, that being direct and forthright can be effective. (On the other hand, being intelligent and showing some self-possession is also pretty important. Add those together with a healthy measure of conviction, and you've got the raw ingredients for charisma. But I digress.)

She seemed impressed, and said yes.

Of course I hadn't brought anything to write with or on, but I managed to get her name--Kate, and even though I'm bad with names, I knew I wouldn't forget it--and number. Told her I'd call her sometime.

I kept working, but it became clear that she was just kind of hanging around, waiting for me to go. Hmm, well, why wait? I figured. So as I got ready to head out, I stopped by her table and asked if she might want to do something tonight, maybe grab a drink or an ice cream or something. I forget her excuse, probably something to do with being tired, but she blew me off. A bit too pushy and forward, I figured she was thinking of me.

Still, she smiled, so I moved on, and she followed me out. I walked to my little green Z and saw her getting into a--damn!--silver Jag. "I would've offered you a ride home, but plainly you don't need one!" I shouted across the parking lot. She said something indistinct back, and I drove off, just a bit frustrated.

Next day I called her, slightly after noon. She sounded glad to hear me, and we started chatting. Before too long, maybe after I'd dropped a TV or music reference, or talked about when I was in college, she asked: "How old are you?"

Um.

I knew I was older than she was, by about ten years, I figured. She seemed very self-possessed, and very mature, simply by the fact that we could hold a conversation. (As opposed to my coworkers at Starbucks, the 18-to-22 crowd. I couldn't get past "How's it going?" with them. We were just in different worlds.) But suddenly, I was worried...what if she was even younger, or what if I seemed so much younger and more immature than my age? I figured that, after I answered, her response would tell me everything.

"I'm 38."

"Wow...." and a pause. I waited.

"How old are you?"

"21." Oh. I see...

"If I'm too old for you, you don't need to see me if you don't want."

"Well, my sisters each married men 16 years older than they are, so I guess it runs in the family."

Well, then. Guess I'm in the clear, for now at least?...

I don't remember what we said after that, except that we were on the phone for over an hour, and we did actually set a date and time for the date: Tuesday, September 23rd. "That's my birthday," she informed me.

Ah. Another challenge. I'd have to rise to the occasion, plainly.

Kate's mother and sister Cori were visiting, so we wrapped up and I went on my way, puzzling now over how to impress a woman I'd just met, by celebrating her birthday on our first date, but not overdoing it so as to freak her out.

I mean, we're talking about a serious balancing act here, you know what I mean? I think both males and females can appreciate that Kate had presented me with a nice, finely sharpened edge and told me to walk it.

That's what I intended to do.

My first thought was to go to Wickford, the cutesy little village down the street, and browse the boutiques for some cheap cute odds & ends. And that I did. Got a votive candle, a chintzy little candle holder, and some other stuff. I wasn't happy with it, but couldn't think of anything better that wouldn't be going too far (the conundrum). So, if nothing else, at least I had my back-up plan, the fallback option if I couldn't find a better gift.

As for the restaurant...not like I've ever been a womanizer with all kinds of methods. I'm not, and never have been. But one simple method I do have for a first date is, give the woman a choice. Pick a few restaurants, either by cuisine or level of fanciness, and let her decide.

Starbucks figures again here. I'd had to take this four-hour training class (involving sampling several different kinds of coffee--not bad at all) before starting as a barista, on the eastern side of Providence, overlooking the Blackstone River. The area was an office complex using several abandoned mill buildings. (I'd actually worked there, at a small TV network, for a temp job a few months earlier.) During one of our breaks I wandered around outside and saw this small, well-appointed brick house right on the river's edge, with the discreet painted sign "Waterman Grille". I peeked inside--shining wooden floors, elegant furniture, a long bank of windows overlooking the river. The menu looked inviting. I noted the restaurant as worth a visit.

Fast-forward to September 21--Waterman Grille was now my first choice. Second...well, as oppposed to something so isolated and elegant, I figured, the alternative would be different cuisine, something less formal, with lots of people around. There's a great Indian restaurant on Thayer Street, in the Brown University side of Providence, and not to mention, all of Thayer Street (a bit like South Street in Philly...maybe 1/10 or 1/20 of that). So I was halfway there...a good dinner choice, but a really ratty gift.

Monday came, and I called Kate again, to confirm plans (wanted to make sure she wasn't getting second thoughts), and run the restaurants by her. I told her about the two different places, one quiet, formal and elegant, the other a little raucous, casual and full of people. A pause from her, then: "Well...it is my birthday."

Okay then. Formal and elegant it would be.

So that was settled, and other than the small detail of my never having actually been to the Waterman Grille, so that I couldn't vouch for the food or the service, at least we had a plan. But the nicer restaurant definitely meant I needed to spruce up my gift.


I didn't lose any sleep over it that night--I was probably more worried about finding an actual job--but Tuesday was another matter. After the day's surveying (on the Bay, with Bryan and Chris, gathering data for our dissertations. They called me James Bond on account of the BMW), I headed home. I had now roughly an hour to get ready for my date. And still no gift.

Out of other ideas, I stopped at my favorite florist, Wickford Flowers. They've done me well on a number of occasions (and I'm not plugging these people. I just think I should mention the folks who've done a good job). I walked in and looked around, somewhat desperately. I needed two things: a gift and a flower. Or maybe flowers...a small bouquet, or just a single bud? A bouquet might be too much, but a single flower might be lonely...I was wrestling with this, and searching for something I could put in a bag and call a gift, when one of the women walked up to me and asked if I needed help.

Boy, did I ever.

I explained the situation to her: first date, just met, really wanted to impress her, the birthday. "Yeah, that's a toughie," she agreed.

She also agreed that a bouquet would be too much. It would have to be a single rose, but the next problem was color. Red was too cliche'. White wasn't romantic. Yellow means too many different things, depending on whom you ask. And pink...yuck. I'd have trouble bringing a pink rose to anybody. It's a step away from putting a pink carnation in the lapel of your gray polyester suitcoat for the high school dance. Better was called for.

"Hold on, let me see what we have out back," she said, and disappeared.

I kept looking around. A 4" tall teddy bear on the table, how fascinating. I turned back to the flowers and the woman walked out from the back, proudly carrying a long-stemmed rose, yellow at the base, brightening to orange at the tips.

"That's it," I said. Only one piece of the puzzle left.


She turned to the table and said, "You could give her this teddy bear, and put some of those shells in a gift bag with it," she suggested.

Hmm....kind of hokey, I guess, but definitely better than the crap I'd bought on Sunday. I figured I was on a roll having found the flower, so I went with it. Got a card, signed it right there as I paid, and asked one last bit of advice.

"So, how do I time all this? Do I give her the flower when I pick her up, or at the restaurant? And when do I give her the gift?"

"Hm...if I were you, I'd definitely give her the flower right away, when you're at her house. That way she doesn't need to carry it with her all night. And then wait to give her the gift until the end of the date, when you drop her off. That way she can open it up after you leave and think about you some more."

Now that's quality advice. I knew they'd come through for me.

Now, all I had to do was shower and change. Cleaned up, tossed on my outfit (decided to go with the black blazer, khaki slacks, green shirt and a sweet tie that had some orange in it, which actually kind of picked up the flower), and headed out the door.

Only...20 minutes late. Oops. Called her to apologize and say I'd be there soon, and...hoped no cops pulled me over en route. 20 minutes and counting...