During my year in New Jersey, I made another lame attempt at dating. How ignominious, having your much older brother as a chauffeur! This time I made certain we actually picked up the girl at her home. A disaster ensued nonetheless. The downward spiral began with my comment on her clothes. She came to the door in a sweater and a plaid wool skirt, with a wide belt. The belt had a large square buckle, repeated in miniature on her black flats. Having recently finished a unit on colonial America in history class, I innocently but thoughtlessly observed,
“Hey, that reminds me of the Pilgrims.”
“Are you saying my clothes are old-fashioned!” she hissed, with eyes blazing in fury beneath furrowed brows.
“NO, no!” I stammered. Digging the hole deeper, “I just meant the buckles looked like what the Pilgrims wore—you know, like what we saw in class last week.”
“These are not at all like the Pilgrims wore. These are gold buckles; they wore plain and simple stuff.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“OK, let’s get going.”
The tension subsided but the mood never lightened. Bill dropped us at a nearby strip mall, promising to return in 2 hours. Sitting stonily side-by-side in the theater, we watched a now forgotten movie. Midway through the show, she rebuffed an abortive attempt at an arm around her shoulder. Oh well. Bill was there at the curb as we exited the theater.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Oh sure, fine,” I said.
“It was a good movie,” she added.
We dropped her back home. Before she could reach the door, a light came on and the face of her father appeared. He waved a quick goodbye to us on her behalf as he closed the door.
“Didn’t go too well, huh?” Bill asked, as we pulled away.
