“So…I hate to pry, but…” (don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it) “do you have a boyfriend?”

He asked this as his rickety low-rider crept up the hill to the empty church parking lot so he could “turn his car around.” I panicked. If worse came to worse — and by “worse” I mean his gummy, toothless mouth making its way in my general direction — did I have a corresponding fight-or-flight response?

[Whoa..whoa...whoa.. Whoa. What now?]

Let’s start from the beginning.

For starters, I’m laying off the substance abuse for a bit. Whatever I drank/inhaled on the Fourth (okay, mostly what I inhaled) has rendered me anxious, depressed, and disoriented. I thought that by today I’d be back up to 100%, but I was only at around 85%. (And that’s only a B.)

But this afternoon I had an appointment with twenty dollars, in exchange for my body fluids — a.k.a. plasma donation. This gave me a full hour an’ a half to attempt flirtation with the adorable phlebotemist, who still has no clue that I haven’t silently pined this much for a guy since Chas Jensen¹ in the fifth grade. I use the phrase “attempt flirtation” because our impending interaction is so hyped up in my mind that I am nearly paralyzed everytime I open my mouth to speak². This leads to mundane and platonic conversations on my part, like, “Hey, how’s [insert summer class here] going?” And, knowing I work at a radio station, he’ll be like, “Hey, have you heard [insert new single by adult alternative band here] yet??” The things that are on the tip of my tongue are always the inappropriate things — the double entendres about him “sticking me” (with a needle), etc.³. If I don’t do something drastic soon, this standstill could carry on for months. Please advise, people.

Shortly after 4:00 pm, I stop by Best Buy to pick up some paychecks, only to be informed that I am scheduled to work at 5:00? Shit. (Damn you, planner! You let me down!) I had no idea. Rushing home to change, I am actually running ahead of schedule.

HA! Said Fate, as my car suddenly runs out of gas, sputtering to a halt approximately halfway between my place of employment and a gas station (about a tenth of a mile to each). Shit. I run over to the closest establishments — surely Jiffy Lube or Midas have gas! (Cars! Oil changes! Gasoline, right?! WRONG!) “Can I drive her over to the gas station?” said one of the mechanics.

Now, at a time like this, a twenty-something girl should be thinking: “Maybe getting into a car with a shady stranger is NOT a good idea?”

But I was in a desperate, desperate bind. I climbed into Shady McShades-a-lot’s car, which apparently he bought out of someone’s back yard. “I drag race this thing on weekends,” he points out, letting out a smoker’s laugh. He proceeds to tell me that he got kicked out of every school in Bloomington, and he works on his nine cars, now that his wife and kids left him. This is where this entry’s first line comes into play. He asks me if I have a boyfriend.

“Yeah, I do,” I lied, trying to go to a happy place where I’m dating a cute phlebotomist who’d rescue me from situations like this.

[FOOTNOTES]
¹I went to grade school with this kid named Charlie Jensen in Kindergarten. He left after a year, going to “public school” - gasp! - until returning in fifth grade as “Chas.” He was loud, hyper-active, and a percussionist. I loved him. I lusted after him silently for months, relishing in any returned flirtation. After my infatuation had fizzled, he confessed, “Jenny…I used to like you.” Well, thanks for that. I realize now, a decade later, that Chas could have never handled dating me — even in the stupid middle school sense of the word. I wasn’t the obvious choice. I wasn’t pretty or popular. I was just the clarinet-toting girl with the glasses.)

²You guys missed it, but after I typed this, I broke out into that lyric from The Trolley Song, where Judy Garland goes: “He tipped his hat and took a seat. He said he hoped he hadn’t stepped upon my feet. He asked my name, I held my breath, I couldn’t speak because he scared me half to death.” That’s what it was like. In fact, The Trolley Song is what life is like.

³Imagine my delight when he asked me, “Do you need something to squeeze?” today. That was like serving up the innuendo on a silver plate. But I held my tongue, knowing all too well that he was referring to a squeegy sponge for my hand, nothing more.