Let Me Drive
By Chris Martinez

For the third time, I noticed Brandon, my latest date, admiring his reflection in the polished glass interior of the elevator. When he realized I was watching, he'd straighten and recite something straight out of a "How to Have a Successful First Date" book. I was 28 years old then, and hadn't heard such bumbling from a guy since my senior prom.

"So, this restaurant we're going to is 50 stories above the city. That should be quite a view!" he said, again repeating the obvious. I had already looked away, deliberately eyeing an older, distinguished-looking man with white hair around his temples, standing patiently beside us on the elevator, staring at the doors. This made my date fidget with his tie and suit lapels, which was sort of endearing at first, but just plain pathetic the more I thought about it.

Brandon, Brandon. I had met him at an obligatory work party - a paid "peer social." I'd never seen Brandon at the office, but he said he was our secretary Georgette's brother. Knowing Georgette, she probably didn't have a real date to bring to the social, so she dragged her good-looking brother along. Brandon did this cute little twiddle of the cocktail straw between his teeth, and he was the only one there not droning on about faxes and deadlines. Oh, and I was tanked on cosmopolitans. But now, with the buzz gone, his boyish charm had revealed itself as annoying, insecure vanity.

The elevator came to a halt and its doors opened like luxurious stage curtains, revealing the swanky 50th floor restaurant beyond them. Deep maroon carpeting spanned from wall to wall of the spacious interior, and the tall windows revealed breathtaking views of the New York cityscape. Tables dotted the tiered floor, with plain-faced waiters zipping from one to the next in big strides, dressed in pressed tuxedoes. For a moment, Brandon seemed transfixed, as if watching an action movie explosion in slow motion. When I coughed, something finally clicked on behind his eyes, and he jerkily gave the host his name and time of reservation.

At the table, I studied the curve of his lips and the perfect arch of his eyebrows while he blathered about how nice the plates, table arrangement, and silverware were, and wasn't I glad he picked this place? I watched with detached amusement as he fixated again on his reflection, this time in the curve of a spoon, rambling on about how it was genuine silver, perfectly polished, what a beautiful evening it is, and why am I not saying much? I wanted to reply, "Because I'm not drunk this time, and you're about as engaging as a documentary about Appalachian moss."

Suddenly, the waiter appeared from out of nowhere, like a tuxedoed robot rising out from a panel in the floor. "Good evening. Would you like to peruse our wine list?" he asked Brandon. My date's big blue eyes filled with sudden, boyish panic. He looked to me, as if for advice, looked back at the waiter, then rapidly blurted, "Perhaps for her -I mean, the lady -but not me. I mean, not tonight." He turned his blushing, anguished face toward me again, asking, "Angela? Wine?"

"No thank you, not if you aren't," I said coolly, crossing my arms and legs in one fluid motion. The waiter gave Brandon a knowing smirk and quietly left the table. This was all confirming the suspicions I'd had from the moment I saw him through sober eyes.

I studied him carefully. He withered visibly, as if I had X-Ray eyes and could see through his suit, tie, and fresh haircut. "You're not even 21, are you, Brandon?”

"N-no, I'm afraid not," he bumbled and flashed a sharp-yet-fearful smile at me.

"You lied to me, Brandon," I said, icily. He froze, valiantly maintaining the grin.

"No, no, you said you were 24. How old are you then? 18?"

"But does age really matt - "

"Yes. And I also don't suppose you're in law school like you said you were," I said, inspecting a chip in one of my nails. I knew the answer, but I wanted to watch him squirm a bit more.

"Well, not exactly. I mean - "

No more games. "Good night," I said as I got up and left the table. He remained sitting there, still smiling beautifully, probably wetting his Spider-Man underwear.

The only thing I hate more than wasting my time is being lied to, even if I should have known better. And why didn't I know better? I should have called him out the second I smelled his CK-1. I suppose I wanted to believe I could carry it through with dignity, somehow, but it finally just felt flat-out wrong. Yet another failed date, this one more embarrassing than most. I mean, this kid actually got me to the dinner table! Did I seem that desperate to him? Did I strike him as willing to play in the shallow end of the pool?

Crossing the vast, carpeted restaurant floor as fast as I could in high-heels, I tried to maintain a protective sheen of anger to keep down my mounting despair, no doubt doomed to be single for the rest of my life, inexorably hexed to meet only enterprising teenagers and self-centered prima donnas.

Like that rock-star-wannabe who couldn't stop talking about his stupid new guitar, or Mr. Harvard, who managed somehow to direct every conversation back to his sociology doctoral dissertation, or Chad Charming with his one-liners and bad incense - nearly every past date had been a total disaster. None could get past themselves enough to notice that I was there, too. In the single case when I actually had a long-term relationship with a guy - a med student with deep-set, brown eyes - he ended up dumping me so carefully and with such agonizing politeness that I felt like a diseased, old mutt being put to sleep. And the reason he dumped me? He "needed some time for himself."

I quickly made for the restaurant elevator, hoping nobody could read my face. This was just going to be yet another one of those end-it-before-it-starts first dates - sort of like neutering a male cat before it has a chance to screw anything up - until I had descended via the elevator and walked out onto the plaza. There, I realized that, in my hasty retreat, I had left my purse at the table with Brandon. All my money, my subway pass, my ATM card - everything - was up there with that boy. I banished the thought of crawling back upstairs and facing baby Brandon to get my purse - I wasn't about to ruin such a four-star walkout. But how was I to get home? It was too far to walk, and besides, the September wind had taken a frigid turn. "You little bastard!" I growled up the side of the building, and those were the words that first drew Jack's attention to me.

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