Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you

It was like connecting positive and negative energy, but Luce and I were finally able to reconnect and set up a reconciliatory date. She had scheduling conflicts for most of my available times (school, a babysitting commitment and a best friend's birthday party were all pesky obstacles) so I ended up taking a couple hours off work so we could meet for a leisurely lunch and then walk around a local park.

If you're new to this tragic but all too real tale of failed attempts at love, you can check out the sordid and choppy history of Luce and my relationship here. Or, if you're the kind of person who flips to the back of the book to read the annotated version, it suffices to say that Luce and I have never clicked. I've either been too late, too dumb, too condemning or too verbose. Luce, on the other hand, has been everything; she's a charming date and beautiful companion. I've been borderline comatose.

Before heading out for date number four (or three, depending on whether your definition of a date includes an actual meeting), I sat down with a number of guy friends to put together a strategy. In retrospect, I probably should have had a girl on the consulting team, but I preferred the brand of advice my male friends provided.

Before asking for their input, I laid out my situation clearly, saying that my sensitive ego would not take another throw-it-down rejection. I needed to go into this meeting with a crash the board's mentality and approach Luce with a full court press. I wasn't going to be on the sidelines anymore.

OK, enough with the basketball idioms. Maybe I should add a girl to my team of advisers...

The guys and I reviewed my past experience and weighed reader comments for input. We were pretty sure that Luce's sister was in the military, which ruled out jdb and Adrialien's theory of a familial stand-in (the Luce of Part the Sixth had hair that was beyond regulation length). We also rejected matchmaker's input because it involved going to see a chick flick. In the end we settled on a variant of Frederic's idea and decided to strap on some metaphorical peacock feathers.

Throughout the date, I would be a bold, courageous beast in human form. By the end of our conversation, Luce would know every exploit, achievement and success I had ever caused or been a part of. I would pin her ears back with wordy tales of mighty victories, some embellished for grandeur and all told with wide eyes and guttural voice. I would spare no exaggeration and pull no punches. I would be Leonidas against the Persians, Achilles against the Trojans and William Wallace against the English. By the time I got through detailing my credentials of valor, Luce's crush would be that much more resolved and her affection secured.

"Spartans? Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

The end of our meeting involved some manly shouting, chest thumping and an arm wrestling match and one of my friends twisted his ankle while demonstrating a Bruce Lee wall-chop, but I was in the right frame of mind for a date as I hopped into my car and drove to the sandwich shop were Luce and I were meeting.

Luce was there when I arrived and, after we exchanged brief pleasantries, she felt a need to explain and justify her previous outburst. I put her at ease with the following reply:

"You know, Luce, a weaker man might have taken offense at your comments. A wuss or the guys who trim their eyebrows might have a hard time coping with such a letdown. I'll bet you Ewan McGregor would still be reeling. But not me. I once faced a whole room full of angry, condemning women. They were mad and I still don't know what I did. To this day, it doesn't bother me a bit. Not a bit. Your words were a drop in bucket compared to the kind of estrogen-filled hate I've been on the business end of. A drop in the bucket."

I think it worked, because she grinned while I was talking and shook her head slightly during the more fantastic portions. She even laughed when I mentioned Ewan McGregor and I made a mental note to thank Reginald for the line.

I didn't get a chance to be macho again until Luce had almost finished her sandwich. She looked down at her plate and said something about how "Mr. Pickles," makes large portions. Deep down inside, I think she was fishing for a compliment about her figure, but for me it was an opportunity to brag:

"Hah! This is nothing. How many calories do you think this sandwich has? 1,200? 1,500?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, I once ate almost 3,000 calories in ten minutes. I wasn't even hungry. I was like Takeru Kobayashi at the Thanksgiving table. Just boom; down the hatch. It was all gone before you could say "anorexia." They called me the Alimentary Vacuum and I considered a few sponsorship offers before staying an amateur. In fact, I'm going to have another sandwich. You want one?"

I don't think Luce knew who Takeru Kobayashi was and she looked more disgusted than anything at my comments.

Despite the fact that I was stuffed to the esophagus with a Mr. Pickles sandwich that was, admittedly, quite large, I walked over to the counter and ordered another. Food was never so painful.

Our walk in the park started off very well. It was a beautiful day and we made small talk for the first few minutes of our promenade. Then Luce brought up Reginald.

Luce wanted to make sure I didn't feel competition from my no-good house mate. She felt the time they were spending together might be perceived as more than friendship and she assured me the only reason she went out with him was because she felt sorry for his plight. I wanted to ask what Reginald's plight was, but my desire to appear strong lead me to feign confidence:

"You know, a lesser man might be concerned, but seriously, I've got this situation covered. Did I ever tell you the story about the guy at the place who tried to steal the girl from me? No? Well, he, you know, ended up...looking...less manly after I, uh, you know, finished with him. The girl's serving some time for an unrelated incident right now so you don't have to worry about her, you know, interfering with us. In fact, you could go out with the guy if you felt sorry for him and I wouldn't take that as a slight. I might even beat him up again although his reconstructive surgeon might not appreciate that..."

The more I spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded and I knew my face reflected my personal feelings of incredulity, so eventually I just shut up. My voice trailed off some and that's when I heard Luce's response.

"Why can't you just be the same person all the time?" She asked with a very feminine fire in here eyes. "One date you're Mr. Nice Guy and now you're trying on Macho Man...just give me the straight story. Don't be an arrogant tool. Be yourself. You don't have to try to impress me. You impress me; when you try you just look impotent and weak. And Ewan McGregor? That sounds like something from Reginald's playbook. Look, I know you're trying, but this isn't working. Call me when you are ready to be yourself."

With that, Luce marched to her car and, after a couple tries at the starter, chug-chugged her Bronco out of the parking lot.

I walked over to the playground set and began banging my head against a protruding monkey bar. How could I have been so idiotic? What could have been a great afternoon was ruined by my own meddling. What was that she'd called me? An arrogant tool? Ouch. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd been called that. And my stomach hurt like something fierce. Why did I have to eat that second sandwich? Why had I taken time off work for this torture?

Maybe Luce was right. Maybe I should try a date without any particular "strategy" and just wing it. I could try being spontaneously attractive. Or, maybe I could try coloring my hair or growing a mustache or something subtle but radical and very "me," whatever that is. How do you try to be yourself, when you've been working so hard to be something else?

I don't know. I definitely want to think about it before I call her again.

Part Four: “You Will Never Learn”

For a few minutes after Carrie agreed to accompany me to one of our town’s better steakhouses for dinner, I felt strong feelings of elation and relief: Elation because Carrie had said “yes” and relief because she hadn’t said “no.” But I didn’t get much time to enjoy these emotions because my overactive mind began thinking about the ramifications of the commitment I'd made.

Yes, I’d made a date for dinner, but maybe Carrie would think of it as more than that. To me, dinner is a meal. Fifty bites, 70 swallows (if you count the beverage) and a little conversation. Sounds like a song, no? To Carrie, a nice meal with some charming company might be suggestive of something more; something more permanent and lasting. Maybe she would cling to me thereafter like cheap aftershave and never let me live my own life. Maybe I was signing a stalker request and ruining my love life ever after. I know, not really losing anything, but maybe it would tip my hand too much and give Carrie the ammunition to really hurt me.

But who was I kidding? How could I possibly be engaging enough to entertain someone through an entire meal, especially someone as engaging as Carrie? Maybe she would get more enjoyment out of looking in a mirror the whole time. Maybe she would never want to talk to me again. Or maybe she would sick her 120 pound male companion after me.

That's a lot of maybes for two paragraphs. Dang Bentham's utiles.

To help assuage my concerns, I checked the FCN comments page from Part 3 of this series and, to be perfectly honest, studied the reader comments like class notes before a mid term. Some of the advice was perfectly absurd. Go roller blading, don't schmooze her and don't do anything stupid are great rules of thumb unless you happen to be me. Rollerblading is out of the question, stupidity is inevitable and Schmooze is my middle name (it's German).

Other bits of advice were just reasonable enough to drive me to action. So much so that by the time yesterday evening rolled around, I had seen Hitch, practiced pouring coke without spilling, opened the door a million times for my mother, built a cake and, yes, checked rFCN.

I was so ready for the date, all the wild steeds in Wyoming couldn't keep me from making the evening a success. But Carrie could.

As I've mentioned before, my prior interaction with Carrie was very brief. All I really knew her by was my own hormone driven infatuation and our conversations had never lasted more than a few minutes. For all of you out there who have never been in a one-on-one dating situation, conversations need to last longer than a few minutes or things get really awkward. At least I think.

But with Carrie, things got awkward even before our conversation expired.

"Hey Carrie! So good to see you!" Our table was three paces from the door, so I rushed over to open it when I saw her coming. Apparently she neither saw me coming, nor the door opening, since it swung into her with a rapidity unbecoming hardwood and some part of her face emitted an abrupt squishy sound as flesh came in contact with machine. Not good.

"I can open the door myself, silly. Goodness. Clumsy oaf." Carrie had a way with words.

There was no blood, but her forehead had a nasty bruise that looked like it was itching to swell. The kitchen brought out some ice and I kept apologizing until the waiter came to take our order.

Only then, after I had selected my favorite item from the menu, did Carrie actually engage in serious, non accusatory conversation.

Carrie and 120 pound nerd just broke up. I would recount the long and painful circumstances that precipitated this separation, but that's neither here nor there. Suffice to say that the story is long and emotional. And that Carrie is pretty torn up about it.

Picture me, across the table from an exceedingly attractive young woman for whom I hold a skin deep interest that may very well flourish into something more genuine, listening to an episode of Days. This wasn't a chick flick, this was chick torture.

The more Carrie talked, the more she seemed to cling.

Carrie told me about her love life, her needs, her idiotic ex, her school, more about the jerk of an idiotic ex, the problems with boys in general, the problems with boys in specific, especially with regard to the jerk of an idiotic ex, etc. In return, she found out I like my steak medium rare.

I was Jimmy Stewart at a meeting of the Red Hat Society.

But other than Carrie's incessant verbal diarrhea, the evening wasn't so bad. In fact, I could see a very one sided relationship developing. On dates, one of us would talk, the other eat. Carrie could dump her emotional problems on my lap and I would do relationship dog duty.

My imaginative reverie was broken by the soft buzzing of my shell phone in my right hip pocket. At first, I thought the call was from one of my guy friends wanting to set up a run or maybe from my brother asking how the date went. Hey, man! Date is still in progress! I help up my finger to pause Carrie and glanced at the name on the screen: Luce.

Luce!

She'd said she didn't want to talk with me anymore. She'd shunned me after our disastrous encounter, and rightly so. Why in the world was she calling? Did a renewed crush for me drive her to the phone? And why call now of all times?

With an apologetic "I've gotta take this" look, I answered the phone. That was the mistake that made me lose Carrie.

Luce was sorry she had acted like a sophomoric twit (my words) and wanted to go out again. She still had a crush on me and wanted to know about the new Brad Pitt western in theaters. Was I interested?

Was I interested? Present company included, I had pretty much struck out on every date I'd tried. Luce was giving me another chance at feminine redemption.

That's when I realized that Carrie had gone from lost in her recantation of woe to completely focused on our conversation. When I hung up the phone after five minutes of talking, Carrie asked me sharply: "Who was that?"

"Well, uh, well, let's see..." The fact I had euphorically shouted Luce's name when I picked up the phone and given my verbal consent for a date next week eliminated most of the nondamaging lies. So I told the truth.

Ballistic is too contained a word to describe Carrie's reaction. Apparently going out on a date with some girl while scheduling one with another one doesn't fly in her book. So she left.

The cold outside air that was swept in by the closing hardwood door served as a rationalizing force and I didn't follow her outside. Those at the adjacent tables had already witnessed enough of a scene.

So that was Carrie. I'll see her in class on Tuesday and maybe we can patch things up. Maybe. But I doubt it. A girl like her can have her pick and there are plenty of other welterweight dweebs who will lineup for some attention.

For now, I've got a date with Luce to look forward to and a severely battered ego to patch up. Oh yeah, my fortune cookie read "YOU WILL NEVER LEARN." Depressing, but true.

Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you

If you haven’t read FCN’s account of the traumatizing experience I had with a young woman at the campus canteen a couple quarters of a moon ago, please take the time to read it because it is an important backdrop for today’s post.

No, I am serious about this. You can always push your browser’s back button or, if you are using Opera, Mozilla Firefox or Internet Explorer 7, create a new tab and view the page concurrently with this one. Simply push your mouse’s middle button or click normally while holding the ctrl button (Option on a Mac). Or you can right click the above link and press “Open in New Window.” Whatever your style is, get it done now because I won’t keep typing until you are caught up on my love life.

OK. Now that you are up to speed, I can tell you what happened yesterday morning. I had just finished a heady discussion of the properties of water in my science class (why do these things always follow science?) and was enjoying the light breeze in my face as I walked across the street to do a little lunch hour purchasing (note the difference between shopping and purchasing).

As I walked, minding my innocence, on a concrete sidewalk, I passed a couple of Hispanic girls, who looked completely self absorbed. As is my custom when I pass anyone, but especially young women, I smiled and nodded my head.

Instead of walking on, engrossed in their Ipod or cellular phone conversation, as most people do, these young women stopped. One of the girls, who I later found out was named Samantha, asked “you’re the guy who had his picture taken on the cell phone, right?”

So now the whole world knew about Lindsey’s pink mobile? Maybe the FCN readership is bigger than I imagined.

Did this mean my photo was circulating around? Was it the desktop image of every perverted female in town? Did the picture turn out ok? Did the crumbs on my teeth show through?

“Yes, a young woman took my picture a week or so ago. I believe her name was Lindsey,” I smiled, but couldn’t hold the curiosity out of my features.

The girls giggled and looked at one another with an expression I will never understand. “Well, our friend wants your phone number.”

Here we go again. First my picture, then my number. Those are both online, you know. Why doesn't this girl come out of the woodwork and meet me personally? Does the girl really exist or is this a vast conspiracy perpetuated by the campus females to trip me up?

Why would a collection of girls exert any effort to trip me up?

Alas, beauty is stronger then the intellect and I succumbed, entering my digits into Samantha’s mobile for, I was told, later transmission to the mystery crush.

In order to unravel as much of the mystery as possible, I decided to keep asking questions. “So,” I asked, “what’s the name of this girl, the one who has the crush on me?” Tact was never my strong point.

“Luce,” came the answer. At least I think it’s spelled that way. It could have been “Loose.”

“Okay,” I continued my inquiry, “where do you guys hang out? Maybe I could swing a visit and say hi sometime.” Maybe.

“Oh, Luce doesn’t go to school here anymore. She’s working…” Samantha’s voice trailed off, leaving an awkward silence.

To this point, I’d forgotten to stop smiling and my face was beginning to feel tight; I relaxed my features.

And so the conversation with Samantha and her unnamed friend concluded. We exchanged inconsequential pleasantries and parted ways leaving me with only a little more data about the girl with the mystery crush. I’d given out my phone number – a bargaining chip, my brother had informed me, in the relationship scene – and was still perplexed about the entire situation.

Questions, old and new, plagued the rest of my purchase-driven excursion. Was this some kind of conspiracy to get Luce and me to go out? Did Luce really exist or is there a band of young women desperate for my attention? How could a girl who doesn’t go to school know me well enough to establish a crush? Why was the text on Samantha’s cellular set to Spanish? And, perhaps most haunting, when will the crazy collegiate women attack me again?