Memories of You

I was reading this thing about how our memories aren’t what they seem, how they change over time till they might as well belong to someone else, and I thought I’d try an experiment. I’m going to tell a story, one I’ve told before, then compare it to my first account* and see how I do.

So, okay. It was the summer of 2002—

Nope. It was February 29, 2004. A leap year. You’d think I’d remember that.

—and I’d just moved back from Sweden. I met some guy on…I want to say eHarmony? Somewhere online. He seemed okay on paper, a lawyer or a diplomat, white-collar dull. We chatted, we clicked, and we set up a date, and that’s when things went all to shit.

This part is correct, except that we were introduced by a mutual friend. We didn’t speak before the date.

He showed up early, which sucked, as I was still wet from the shower.

Not only was I still wet, I was still in the shower. I had to jump out and dress as I buzzed him in, which was a whole drama unto itself: he was new to the buzzer experience. It took him three tries to get in. I was prepared to ignore the awkwardness, but he brought up my appearance, and not in a flattering way. I also missed out the following unpleasant details:

  • He came in with his shoes on (I had white carpets. That’s nasty.);
  • He went around touching things;
  • I had this giant Gambian pouched rat, a huge, territorial beast. He tried to pet it, with predictable results;
  • He asked for booze, and was offended when I had none;
  • He went through my e-mails while I finished getting ready.

Anyway, he looked like Adam Sandler, which wasn’t good. He talked like him too, which was worse. He asked to use the loo and he dropped a massive deuce, and he used that to hit on me, like “phoah, I stunk up your place—guess you’ll be staying at mine!”

This is absolutely correct, but for one minor detail: not only was there a smell, there was…oh, it’s too horrible. There was a streak. In the bowl. Jesus Christ.

I should’ve thrown him out then and there. I couldn’t fuck him after that, and his vulgarity struck him off as a friend. Really, I had no use for him, but…oh, you know how it is. You’ve already said yes. It’s rude to back out, so you sit and you eat; you make polite conversation. You slink on back home to your Rabbit. That was the plan, I suppose, but what actually happened, ah..we went to Samurai, I think. Some Japanese place.

We did, indeed, go to Samurai. But I wanted to go to Le Crocodile. They have crocodile-shaped chocolates. He didn’t know what he wanted, so we drove around for an hour, trying to decide.

We had sushi. I had kappa maki. I hate fish, but I love cucumber, so I always get that. We talked about Star Trek. He liked Kirk. I liked Picard. He didn’t remember the Rayna 16 episode, which was the only one I could recall on the spot, and conversation ground to a halt. It was an awkward meal, and quiet.

And he talked with his mouth full.

When the bill came, he’d forgotten his wallet.

Nope. His credit card was declined.

I paid, and he took that amiss. He caused quite a scene—


—demanding the waitress return my money. I fled, mortified.

There was a bit more to it than that. I tried to spare him any embarrassment by following the waitress to the kitchen and paying her there, but he barged in and kept the humiliation going.

He caught me outside and offered to drive me home, but that wasn’t where he took me. He drove past my place and out to Coal Harbour. He said we were going to Metrotown, but he was headed the wrong way. I jumped out at the first intersection, grabbed a cab, and went home. My bathroom still stunk. I slept in the solarium.

This part is correct, except I remember him driving a creepy paedo van. My initial account mentioned a car.

Y’know, I still dine out on that story—mostly the shit part. The literal shit, not the general shittiness. I wonder what happened to that guy? He’s probably still single, but then, so am I.

Picard forever.


* I told this story on my old blog. I still have the .txt file.