Some people wanted to know what happened to everyone involved in the Worst Date Ever stories.
(In case you haven’t read them yet, here are the various parts of the story… <a
Enjoy!)
What happened to The Waitress
A week after the Third and Final Date, I was once again at Tequila Bookworm, sitting in one of the tattered but comfortable second-hand easy chairs in the cafe’s back section. I was lazily typing at my laptop, not actually accomplishing anything.
Beside me, in the equally-tattered second-hand couch, sat Hector. He had a coffee in one hand and was lazily picking at some loose couch-stuffing with his other hand.
(Years later, Hector would introduce me to Emily, better known in this blog as the New Girl — while sitting in the very same couch. Needless to say, I have a strong guideline – even now I’m not ready to make it a hard-and-fast rule — to never date anyone I meet there.)
“Um, hello there,” said a sweet but nervous English-accented voice. I nearly dropped my laptop in response.
Hector must’ve noticed the discomfort in the air, but had no idea why.
I hadn’t told anyone what had happened. It wasn’t embarrassment that kept me quiet, but shock. I still couldn’t believe that my dream date had gone so awfully, disastrously, stool-softeningly wrong.
I suggested that we take the conversation away from prying ears. She asked one of her coworkers to take over for her for about fifteen minutes, and we stepped outside. It was one of the first days that could truly be called spring. It was a bright, cloudless day, and the smell of budding plants was in the air. It seemed wrong to be having an “it’s not working out” conversation on a day like that.
“Look…” she said.
I interrupted her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
Especially if it’s in verse, I thought.
The rest of the conversation was simply an admission on both our parts that we weren’t going to pursue a relationship, but remain friends. Under normal circumstances, I would have been devasted by such a turn of events, but that last date’s circumstances were anything but normal. Yes, i was a little disappointment, but what I was feeling most was relief.
A couple of weeks later, I was sitting at the bar with Chris.
She took our orders, and after bringing them to us, announced that she was leaving waitressing for greener pastures.
“I’ll tell you more later, because I’ve got to run right now. Hot date.”
She and the film girl who was always drawing in her sketchbook were an item. Before that, Film Girl and The Artiste — The Waitress’ former boyfriend — had a little fling.
“What are you thinking of doing?” I asked.
“Adult film. I know a director, and he says I’d be a natural. Tell you more later, I’m running late. Bye, Joey!” she said, and ran out the door.
I sat in stunned silence.
“You, my friend, have achieved the dream,” said Chris. “Someday, you’ll be able to point and say ‘See that porn star? I dated her.’ Those are serious bragging rights.”
“I feel soiled, yet proud,” I said, still stunned.
The Waitress never ended up in the adult film industry. Instead, she ended up waitressing at increasingly posh restaurants and dated one of the cooks at one her workplaces. We met from time to time for coffee and conversation, but I saw less and less of her as the months wore on.
A year later, in the summer of 2000, my coworkers from OpenCola and I went to Kickass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club. When we entered the back room where the stage was located, I was surprised to see The Waitress there. She never goes to the Bovine. She waved to me from her seat.
I went over to greet her, and we exchanged a hug and a peck on the cheek. She introduced me to her date, a dark-haired woman with angular features. I’ll refer to her as The Designer. I then introduced The Waitress and The Designer to my coworkers, among whom were Deenster and Chris.
After we found a place of our own to sit, Chris whsipered to me “Did you get a look at The Designer’s hands! They’re…man hands!”
After taking a another look at The Designer, I said “You know, I think you’re right.” She was referred to as “Man Hands” for the rest of the night.
Later that evening, Carson, Kickass Karaoke’s host, called The Designer and The Waitress to the stage to perform their number. I laughed when I recognized the number they were singing — Sweet Transvestite from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Weeks later, Film Girl (the one who’d been with both The Waitress and The Artiste) and I were having coffee together.
“You won’t believe this, Joey,” said Film Girl, “but my cousin was with The Designer for a while, and it turns out that she’s not fully post-op.”
“You mean…?”
“She’s a woman only from the waist up.”
“And, uh, what about, you know, ‘below the equator’?”
“Dude.”
“Wow, those really were man hands. But you know what? She looks waaay better in a dress than I ever could.”
Earlier this year, I was at Tequila Bookworm with a friend of mine I’ll refer to as Rock and Roll Girl. I told her the story of my worst date ever, and mentioned that the last person I saw The Waitress dating was The Designer.
“Oh, I was with The Designer once,” she said.
“I thought you were only into guys.”
“I am,” she replied, “but I was curious about the boobs. Straight girls never get to play with boobs.”
“You know, I actually understand where you’re coming from. They’re pretty neat things, they are.”
“You know, [The Designer’s] still pining for [The Waitress].”
“That’s because she never made him speak in verse.”
I haven’t seen The Waitress since September 2001.
What happened to The Artiste
AKMA wanted to know what happened to The Artiste. Unfortunately, there’s not much, but here it is anyway.
The Artiste found out about my involvement with The Waitress weeks after the Third and Final Date. He immediately became all chummy with me because we “now had a common bond”.
No thank you, sir. The only common bond that he and I have is that we’re both carbon-based life forms. That’s about it.
One afternoon, The Artiste felt like annoying Film Girl (this was after their fling) while at Tequila Bookworm. I wasn’t there, so I have no idea what he did or said, but whatever it was, it was bad enough that Film Girl — a whole foot shorter than The Artiste — knocked him off his barstool with a solid right cross, leaving him stunned, embarrassed and bloody-nosed on the cafe’s floor. For this act, Film Girl was banned from Tequila Bookworm.
“If I were manager of Tequila Bookworm, I’d have given you free coffee for life,” I told her.
I haven’t seen The Artiste in about three years.
Next: What happened to Crabs, or why I no longer dance at Buddies in Bad Times.
