I get asked a lot about what was the worst date I ever went on. Or what are your dating horror stories. And like everyone, I’ve had my share of bad dates, and even my share of really bad dates. I usually go with telling about this date, but then there was the blind date I’m about to tell you about. It was bad, but then again it was more just a date with a bad person.
A friend of mine was in the city filming a movie. She and I aren’t as close as we used to be, and don’t talk all that often, but we had done dinner one night, and talked about being single (she had just broke up with her boyfriend and I was as always single).
Two days later she called me. She had met this guy who worked in locations on her set. She thought he seemed nice, and he was single, and she was setting us up on a blind date.
Now I’ve never had the best luck on blind dates, they usually make me question my friendships…basically I would sit there looking at some guy wondering how what I thought was a good friend would think anything about this person was “right” for me.
But against my better judgment I agreed to meet this guy for a drink. He and I exchanged a few phone calls, and had our after work drinks planed with the option of seeing how it goes and maybe grabbing dinner. He actually said that which I thought was a huge turn off, but I let it go.
He picked this very posh cocktail lounge in Lower Manhattan, which frankly was alittle to stylish for my liking on a first date. He sent me a text saying he would be about 10 minutes late, I was surprising on time, so I texted back saying no worries I’d wait at the bar. I settled into the bar and ordered my very delicious but completely over priced drink.
Upon his arrival he seemed normal. Tall and in a business suit, dark featured, but nothing really to write home about, just seemingly normal. He smiled, I smiled, and we started into the usual blind date get to know you banter.
And then about 10 or 15 minutes into our seemingly ok date (there was nothing really there but the company was nice and the drinks were delicious) He says the following to me, “ I’m glad you sat at the bar and not at a table” “ Why is that” I asked him. And then he said the following as if it was second nature to him,
“ Cause at least at the bar we only have to deal with the one black bartender.”
I gave him a questionable look, in which he then proceeded to rant about how people of pretty much every race but ‘white’ were terrible servers in restaurant, and how he had no idea this place started hiring so many ‘black’ people since he had last been.
I sat there with what was most likely the blankest of blank stares on my face. My jaw may have actually hit the bar. I see from the corner of my eye, the two bartenders frozen where they were staring at us. I feel embarrassed to be with this guy, and sad for him at the same time.
Are these words really leaving his mouth? Is he really in the middle of this bar going on a rant about how he hates black people? And why am I not wearing my Obama T-shirt when I need it?
As he proceeded to continue on some racist banter about something I interrupted him in the only way I could think of at the moment.
“I think I should just let you know that my Dad is black”.
He looked at me as if a bus had just hit him.
“ But you’re white.”
“ I know. I look white, my brother looks black, that is how it works.”
Silence fell. It felt like every eye within a 4-foot vicinity of us had stopped what they were doing and watching the tale I was telling him unravel.
“So you could have a baby that looks black?” He asked me still looking at my ivory white skin in total shock.
“ Oh yeah of course, I could pop out babies black as night.”
This look of terror came over his face, as what I can only described as this fear that he could have gambled with having sex with me and never would have know what he was sticking his penis in unless I had said something.
“ I’m going to go use the ladies room, and when I’m get back I assume you aren’t going to be here” I said as I got up off my chair and walked to the restrooms.
When I returned he was no longer sitting at the bar, and I assume he used what little braincells he had to tell himself leaving was the best option for him.
I on the other hand was greeted by a round of applause from the bartenders and the two people sitting next to us when I returned to the bar area. He apparently had said the following to the one male (‘white’) bartender before leaving: “she’s half black” with a confused look on his face.
I sat down and had another drink on the house, and the bartenders also picked up the tab that my date had so gentlemanly left me with, which included his $40 glass of whisky.
FACT: I might just be the whitest kid you know.
SIDEBAR: This was the last blind date I ever went on, or will ever go one for that matter.