The Racqui Debacle
I don't ask women out. Period. This is not because of any lack of desire, or an intense fear of rejection, or any other of the normal reasons one might shirk the time-honored tradition of timid males stuttering over the right words that might convince a fair maiden to share coffee or a movie or a drink...and hopefully some meaningful glances and found commonality that might lead to romance. I don't because I am me, and there are rules.
Like so many in life, these are not written rules. But they are understood. Sure, they're denied by some, because they fly in the face of fairness, but they are there. When you have Muscular Dystrophy, and when you roll around in a wheelchair, there are things you don't get to do besides pole vault. While you're allowed to be attracted to women that catch your fancy, you're not allowed to make that known. You're not allowed to pursue your feelings. By this token, you're certainly not allowed to roll up on some woman (drive-by style) and ask her out. Unfair? Sure. But if I sat around all day long vexing about life's inequity, I'd have ended up on medication a long time ago. It's the world I live in, the life I've been given. If you think that all people should be allowed to voice their feelings and go after their desires, hey, I'm with you. I'd be the first one buying a ticket to that perfect world of yours. But it's not the one I live in. It is what it is, and it's what I deal with.
In no relationship I've been in, or any dating encounter, have I ever been the one to make the first move or spring the question (with the exception of junior high and high school social events, which were met with varying degrees of success...lukewarm at best, humiliating at worst). Again, that's the rule. If there's a girl I'm fond of, she's not going to find out about it from me, because 1) I'm sure not going to say anything, because (as we've learned) that's against the rules, and 2) because of reason number one, I generally try not to think about such things too much. Chances of such feelings ending well are really slim, so the logical thing is just to avoid them altogether. I will find certain women attractive, yes (though I have really annoying standards for that, needing shared interests, good personality, compatibility, and other factors that trim my chances down even more). But I generally don't get too wrapped up in getting all Valentinian about it. I turn that switch off as best I can (I'm pretty good at it), and accept women as people, and end up with a lot of women friends. Which is fine. Can't have too many of those in your life to balance your beer-farting buddies and endless discussions on football and which was the best Terminator movie.
So if something's going to happen between any woman and me, it's got to be her that pulls the trigger. Which, of course, I wish more women were apt to do, since it would save me a lot of frustration and widen my chances getting a date once in a while. Unfortunately, we still live in a society where it's generally the dude's job to do this. More of the unwritten rules that screw with my social life. But, thankfully, and against all odds, it does happen every once in a while. And that's been the story of every date I've been on. The woman has made the move.
Such was the case with Racqui.
It was Halloween, and I was in my early twenties. It was a big night out with the boys, mainly because my friend Kevin was back in town, on leave from the Marines, and it made it more of an event. In his first few days back, thanks to an encounter my friend Jon and I had had at a Lyon's in the wee hours of the morning, where Jon was walking around the restaurant with my video camera meeting people (great piece of footage, by the way), including a table full of people that included some exotic dancers, Kevin had ended up hooked up with a stripper. We all met at A.T. and Scott's apartment that night. Kevin and has pole-dancing hookup were dressed up in a mobster and Marilyn Monroe motif. Jon had painted his face all silver. A.T. and Scott were wearing lingerie (very daring considering the Sacramento weather in late October). Chris, fashion risk-taker he was, didn't bother with a costume. To tell you the truth, I can't recall what I was wearing. Wasn't anything too severe, I'm sure. I tend to forget about Halloween until about the day before, and then scrounge for anything that can be considered a costume (like a Hawaiian shirt and a camera around my neck...hey, look, I'm a tourist).
We hit the El Dorado Saloon first, a local club, and it was, of course, packed that night. We had a few drinks there. At one point A.T., a chronic cleavage fetishist (we're talking clinical here) met a girl with enormous breasts wearing a dress that she was literally falling out of, and, drunk as he was, he couldn't handle it, freaked out and walked home. We didn't notice this until we got to the second club of the night and realized he was no longer with us.
The second club was Club Gnaw, I believe (clubs changed names a lot in Sacramento back then, so I can't be sure what it was called at the time). More drinks were had, the dance-loving of us were on the floor, and this place was wall to wall people, too. Me, I was pretty snookered by then, and I was sitting on a small table up against a wall near the dance floor, watching with some amusement as Kevin and his stripper got freaky.
My table was next to one a group of girls was standing around. I hadn't really been paying too much attention to them. They had a couple of pitchers at the table and were filling their glasses from it. At one point, the girl closest to me leaned over and asked me something. With the music pounding like it was, I had to ask her to repeat herself. She asked me if I wanted a beer. Though I'd certainly had enough by that point, one never turns down free beer, especially not one offered by a pretty girl. So I took it and thanked her. We couldn't really talk much more with all the noise in there, so I mainly just drank my beer in silence.
Soon my friends were back and gathering around, and it was time to move on to somewhere else. As people were discussing where to go, the girl leaned over to me again and loudly tried to ask another question. Again, I had to ask her to repeat. Her question was "If I gave you my phone number, would you call me?"
While I hadn't graduated to full-time wheelchair use at this point and was still walking with a cane, it still took me by surprise. As it always does. I smiled and told her that yes, I would, but that was sort of a half-truth. The real truth was that, being who I am and having the self-esteem I do, even if a girl handed me her number and clearly wanted me to call, I'd still feel like I'd somehow misunderstood her intentions, and would be annoying her if I did in fact phone. So just to be on the safe side, I gave her my number, too. Turns out her name was Racqui (pronounced "Rocky"), as it said so right on the napkin where she'd written her name right above her number. And with that, my group left, and headed to Lyon's to get some food and finish out the rest of the early-morning hours. And, for the first time in a while, I had digits.
Since it was such a late night, I slept late the next day. I was living with my folks at the time in a small house in Folsom (about a half-hour out of Sacramento), and had no transportation of my own (this was a couple of years before I finally got the van), so I was home when the phone rang. I'd just been awake long enough to think about the night before, and the girl, and what I might do about the situation, and she called me. That was a huge relief, because I was already starting to tense up about the idea of calling her myself. We talked for a while and got to know each other a little. Great phone voice she had. We discussed the idea of getting together and doing something, maybe getting some dinner and/or seeing a movie. She was wrapped up the rest of the week, but was clear for the weekend, so it looked like we'd be planning something then. We hung up, and I was feeling pretty good about it. I felt even better when the phone rang again a little later, and it was her again, and she'd come up with an excuse to call back (asking if I knew anything about dogs, as she was dog-sitting for some friends, and it turns out there was really no specific question forthcoming), and we talked even more. It was nice. And I got more relaxed about things. My usual doubts were having trouble haunting me, because she was, thankfully, making it very clear that she was interested. Took all the guesswork out. All that was left was just to go with the date and see what happened.
But that brought a whole new set of anxieties. Dating is complicated enough when you have Muscular Dystrophy. It's even more complicated when you live with your parents and you don't even have a car. There's no better time to assess what a loser you are than when you have to put your life on display during the whole learning-about-you part of the dating ritual. And I was even more nervous about it because I hadn't actually had a date in over a year, and that was during a brief relationship that ended pretty badly (perhaps an essay for another time). And dates, I had not exactly had a lot of. At this point, I was out of practice at being out of practice. Not exactly brimming with self-confidence like I am today (insert laugh track here), I was pretty wound up about it as the days passed.
As the weekend approached, we talked again, and it turned out she had to help a friend move to San Francisco over the weekend. But she still wanted to get together. She wouldn't be getting back into town until Sunday afternoon, but felt we still had time to hook up. But she wouldn't really feel like going out somewhere at that point. She suggested maybe she could just come over and we could watch a movie or something. Despite the fact that I had actually gone out and bought some new clothes (I was really overdue for that at the time) for the occasion, I was okay with that. Frankly, one of the serious problems I'd had with the early dates of my last relationship was being out in public with her and feeling like everyone was staring at her, wondering what was wrong with her for being with the Dystrophy guy (me? Issues? Noooo...). This sounded pretty safe and easy, and a good start. The deal was done. It would be Sunday.
The good news was that my mother and stepfather were going to be gone for the day on Sunday, too, so I wouldn't have to deal with them around as a visible reminder that I wasn't cool enough to have my own place. So they took off, and I waited for Racqui to call. Eventually she did, as it took a little extra time for her to get back to Sacramento. But, tired and sore from moving, she still wanted to come. So I gave her the directions, took a deep breath, and stressed out while I waited for her to arrive.
So let me explain what living at home for me was like, as this comes into play very soon in our story. I'd never moved out at this point, and had been home all through college (which I was still in). Once I got out of high school, my mother treated the situation as though I was sort of a boarder. No, I didn't pay rent, but her opinion was that I was over 18 now, and could come and go and do what I wanted without being treated like I was living in Mom's house and was still a kid. Which was very progressive of her, I thought. Frankly, I think Mom hadn't really thought of the idea of me moving out for a long time, if ever, because of the Dystrophy and all. I think she was planning around the long haul. So the house was pretty much all of ours (mine, my mother's, my stepfather's), but my room was really my domain. In the house before Folsom, the one on Stollwood Drive in Carmichael that all my friends remember so well, my room was a regular hangout for all of us, so we wouldn't be in the folks' way. It wasn't the biggest room, but we got used to squeezing a lot of people in there. It was where we hung out, listened to music, watched movies. It was normal for someone to bring over someone new, like a girl, and they got introduced to the room as well. It was, for all intents, my apartment.
So Racqui finally knocked, and I tried to steel myself, but I was really nervous. As I said, it had been a while, and opportunities like this didn't come along for me too often. I was thinking too far ahead, as I always tend to do. What if she was the one? What if this date turned into her being my girlfriend? Was I ready for a relationship? What if I did something wrong to screw it up right at the start and blew my chance? I tried to convince myself I was otherwise, but I was a wreck. But I made it to the door and let her in with what I hoped was a casual and confident smile.
Now let's go back a couple of paragraphs, and remember what I said about my home life, and my room, how it was just accepted, among everyone I knew, as my domain in my house. It was natural for people to just head right to my room because they knew that was my space. Of course, these people all knew me. Racqui really did not.
Here comes screw-up number one.
So she was barely in the door, next to the living room, and we were saying hello. I'm sure she was looking at the couch, expecting we'd be sitting down and talking for a while, getting to know each other better, and at some point I'd pop in the movie (Lethal Weapon, as we'd discussed that she'd never seen that one).
So what do I do to this poor girl? I almost immediately lead her right to my bedroom.
I swear to you, this was a completely innocent move on my part. I was so nervous about the evening, and about saying the right thing, that the thought of what I was doing or how she'd interpret it never even crossed my mind. I was totally clueless (not a wholly uncommon thing for me). To me, I was just thinking that that's what happens when you come to visit me at my house. And that's where my VCR, my TV, and my movies are, so of course that's where we'd be going.
So she rather reluctantly followed, with me oblivious to anything being wrong. Unlike my bedroom in the Stollwood house, there was very little space in this one. It fit my bed, and my computer desk (which doubled as the entertainment center), with barely enough space between the two to walk in. The only chair in the room was my desk chair, which was pushed in under the desk in front of the computer. So the only place to sit, naturally, is the bed. And my assumption was, of course, that everyone understood that. Can you tell I didn't get out much?
So we headed in, and I sat down on one end of the bed, leaving the other for her. She rather nervously (with me having no idea why) sat on the edge, perched there rigidly. Trying to come off casual and not nervous, I slid back and put my back against the wall...as of course people do when they're in my room. I think we talked a little. I think I even said something about her feeling free to make herself comfortable. She stayed, however, right there on the edge of the mattress, statuesque.
Assuming, of course, that this guy who'd seemed to nice when she'd met him, and so harmless on the phone, was trying to get her in the sack the minute she got in the door of his house.
We started the movie pretty soon after that (as for some reason the conversation wasn't flowing too freely...), and I don't think she moved a muscle as it rolled along. I was still very nervous, getting the sense that I was doing something wrong, but unable to figure out what. And then, soon enough, the phone rang. I paused the movie and grabbed it. Know what a great thing is to happen when you've got a date over and you're trying to watch a movie? Having an old friend call from out of state that you haven't talked to in forever who just wants to catch up.
Screw-up number two is on deck.
It was my friend Bryan, calling from Omaha. I'd been back there and been in his wedding a while back, and he wanted to catch me up on what was happening with him and his bride, and find out what I was doing. Well, since I couldn't find a way to just come out and say "Sorry, man, I've got a girl in my room right now, can I call you back later?", I talked for a while. There was a greeting card from him that he'd sent me sitting on my desk, and I picked it up and showed it to her, pointing to his address on the envelope and smiling apologetically. She nodded, but not very warmly. For some reason, she just didn't look too relaxed. Hmm.
So he started asking me what was up, and I said I was still in school, and for some reason I started right into a discourse on the state of the educational system in California at the time, how the government was screwing us, how our tax dollars were being used everywhere but for education spending. To this day, I don't know why I went on this rant, as I certainly wasn't a political person at the time, and didn't really have that much of a problem with the educational system or the government. Maybe I'd read an article on it or something. I don't know. But I just went off on it.
Soon I managed to get him off the phone and apologize to her for the interruption. I made a little conversation there by telling her about Bryan and his wife. Then, when an awkward pause came, I asked if she was ready to start the movie again. Actually, she said, she was hoping to have a cigarette. I was a smoker, too, but because of my mother's allergies kept my smoking outdoors. So I asked if she wanted to step out onto the back porch and smoke. She said yes, seeming relieved.
So we lit up out there, and I tried again to come off casual and start some small-talk without sweating too much. I had found out on the phone with her that she worked for a lobbyist in town. So I decided to jump into what looked like a good avenue for more conversation, and I asked her about her work, what exactly it was that they did.
Turns out she worked for a lobbyist that lobbied against education spending.
God, I'm good.
It turns out my inexplicable political rant was the exact opposite of her political beliefs, and she set out explaining to me why everything I'd said had been wrong. Oh, I was a smooth one. Is there any greater way to screw up on a first date than to bring up politics? Well, there's always coaxing the date into your bedroom before she can even take her coat off, but still, politics is pretty bad. And what are the chances of randomly hitting on the exact political grenade that your date feels mostly strongly about--so much so that it became her career--and spouting off how against it you are? There's a certain point where screwing yourself passes simple happenstance and becomes a skill. I think I reached that level that night.
Our conversation kind of went that way after that. We'd manage to find things we didn't have in common. I was floundering, looking for way to turn things around, but every time I did, I seemed to steer us down another road that just ended badly. I kept waiting for my trainer to throw in the towel from the corner and just call this thing off before I got any bloodier. I was going down in flames.
And then, naturally, my mother came home.
She and my stepfather had gotten home earlier than expected, and came out in the back yard to say hello, a smiling, friendly reminder that I was a grown man living with Mommy and Daddy. To their credit, they did nothing to add to the downward spiral of my chances with this girl. They were cordial, they were brief, and they retired to their room and left us alone. But regardless, it was the final straw (at least, at this point, I was hoping so).
Their arrival managed to provide the perfect segue for her to decide that the evening was over. She said that it was getting late, and that she had to get going, with work and all the next day (since she had an actual job, while I only had classes, further making me feel like a schmuck). I waked her to the door, and had no illusions that there'd be any good-by kiss or discussion on how great it had been to get together. It was polite, and she said that she'd give me a call sometime. I was polite back, but even though I didn't yet realize the extent of how badly it had gone (the whole bedroom thing, amazingly, wouldn't sink in until later), I knew it had been a disaster. So away she went, leaving my with my newly-bought clothes and a self-esteem even further deflated than normal. And that was saying a lot.
I did hear from her again, a couple of weeks later, getting a message from her on my machine at home when I called in to check voice mail from school, saying she just wanted to say hello, and mentioning that she was going to be pretty busy for a while. Not completely sure that all was lost, I went ahead and called her back at her office. It was a brief conversation. More out of politeness than actual hope, I told her if she ever felt like getting together again sometime, she had my number. She responded to this, with a kind and almost apologetic tone in her voice, that as she'd said before, she was going to be pretty busy for a while. At least that made things very clear, which kept me from having to agonize over whether I was reading things right or not. I never called her again, she never called me.
But I did learn some valuable dating lessons from the whole experience. I learned that it's always a good thing to at least begin with the living room if a girl comes to your home. I learned that just having innocent intentions doesn't always mean the other person is going to understand this. I learned to avoid politics, at least until the second or third date. And I learned that if you live with your mom and don't have your own car, you probably shouldn't be dating in the first place.
And besides...dating a girl whose name always made me think of Sylvester Stallone probably wasn't going to end well anyway. At least I got knocked out in the first round.