Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
D ate night. I showered and sprayed my three hotspots with a deodorant which now seemed to be marketed towards much younger men than myself.
I ironed my outfit, (the top half anyway), brushed my teeth, and swilled some minty mouthwash. I even attempted flossing for the first time, until I got the dental brush caught between two of my back teeth, giving myself a mild panic attack.
On my way out, I couldn’t resist treating myself to a couple of slices of Finn’s expensive thick-cut deli ham and a handful of mixed olives, which rendered my meticulous dental routine pointless. Still, I was ready to rock.
Just as I was about to leave the house, Finn peered out from his room.
“Don’t forget your escape apps.”
He slammed his bedroom door shut, the sound echoing ominously in my ears.
I froze, shut the front door, headed speedily towards Finn’s room and burst in with a complete disregard for the three-inch rule.
“My what?”
“Escape apps,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from his Grand Theft Auto mission.
“I literally have no idea what you’re banging on about. Spill. Quickly,” I said, conscious of the time, but not conscious enough of it to dismiss what seemed like a serious warning.
“For the sake of Jesus, man.”
It didn’t escape me that he pronounced the religious idol’s name with a subtle Spanish twist. That made the left side of my lip twist up into a half-smile.
He finally paused the game and span his phone around in his palm. Sweet move. For a nerdy-looking speccy man, he can do a hell of a lot of annoyingly cool things.
“Now there’s a chance… a big chance that things are gonna go Southern Rail on you. If and when that time comes, you’re going to need this…”
He pushed his phone in front of my face so it was just about in focus.
“Alcatraz.”
As the screen before me morphed into focus, I noticed it seemed to be dominated by a very busy Facebook chat.
“Um…” I made the universal gesture for ‘you’ve shown me the wrong thing, you absolute bell pepper.’
“Shit,”
He fumbled with the phone, rectifying his mistake.
“Here. It’ll get you out of any date that’s going pear-shaped. You program it to ring at a certain time and it actually looks like a friend… or indeed, a brother is calling you. It then fakes an emergency. All you have to do is repeat exactly what it says. ”
“Whoa. People think of everything,” I whispered under my breath, staggered.
“You have to in these brutal times. Now listen. The problem is that it’s an American app, so be careful that you don’t end up saying things like ‘What? You’ve fallen on the sidewalk ?
I’ll just jump on the subway and come home.
’ Just have your wits about you. It takes a bit of getting used to.
In fact, you might wanna listen to all the pre-recorded emergencies on the subway on the way to your date. ”
“Don’t you mean tube?” I said.
“Yes. That was a test. You passed. Well done, my son,” replied Finn.
“Brother,” I corrected.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
A notification popped up on Finn’s phone.
“Hang on. I’ve seen this app before. Isn’t that…?”
“Guydar, yes,” finished Finn.
I sat with Finn for a wee while as he showed me the ins and outs of the app. Browsing through the profiles—which were all coming up based on distance—I had to admit that the talent was pretty impressive on this thing. I didn’t see Gavin from the phone shop, though—probably for the best.
“Sweet lord above. Isn’t that Old Man Samuels from two doors down? He’s married, isn’t he?” I said, astonished.
“That’s a double yes, mate.”
“Wow. I wonder if him and Dad ever…?”
“No chance. Dad could have done way better than that. Anyway, good luck,” chirped Finn, giving me a light, playful slap on the cheek and cupping it like a Mafioso. He’d clearly been playing way too much Grand Theft Auto today.
I stood, dusted myself off for no reason, then with a slam of the door, I released myself into the wild. First blood was about to be drawn. Not literally, of course. Hopefully not anyway.
I met Rob in the most ludicrously named pub that I could find––The Leg of Mutton and Cauliflower, in Croydon.
The real reason that I chose that pub was because it was far enough away from everyone I knew, but not too far away to be too inconvenient for me to get to.
It had nothing to do with the fact that the pub was in Rob’s neighbourhood, so if things got frisky, I could be invited back to his. Nothing to do with that whatsoever.
Despite me officially being early, in my eyes I was still late.
Although I hadn’t had one for a while, I remembered that dates were stressful.
I’ve always liked to settle in before a date arrives so that I can get my head together.
Unfortunately, I had been in such a rush to get here that my heat-absorbing cotton shirt had started clinging to my now sweating upper body like a cheap shower curtain.
I paced up and down the car park of the Leg of Mutton, fanning my shirt in a futile attempt to cool myself down.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to buy a travel-size deodorant can, which helped a tiny bit.
I scratched around in my pocket for a last-minute chewing gum to combat any last-minute bad breath that may have been caused by my exceptionally dry mouth and the handful of garlic and herb olives I scoffed down just before I came out, but could only find a stray pellet that had been kicking around in there for God knows how long. Oh well, when in Croydon.
After a couple of chews, predictably the taste of the gum faded and I strolled into the pub as if casually meeting a friend, being careful not to look around appearing as if I was looking for someone that I’d have difficulty recognising.
This was so I didn't arouse suspicion amongst the clientele that I was here on a first date.
My main reason for arriving early was so that I could buy the drinks without having to make that tricky decision of whether to get a bit of painfully formulaic small talk going at the bar, or divert my attention to the bar staff whilst gawking awkwardly at my potential love interest. Also, the barman wouldn’t get to listen in on that excruciating but juicy first bit of initial awkward contact.
I was still stressed out, though. Combined with the shower-curtain shirt, the ‘not knowing what he was really going to look like’, and the ‘not knowing whether he was going to be socially compatible’ thoughts, I was almost in meltdown mode.
The level of stress this all caused was sucking every ounce of joy out of this experience.
To add to my anxiety, everybody in the pub suddenly seemed to look like a potential ‘Rob’, like some kind of duff version of Being John Malkovich.
I ordered a ludicrously named craft pale ale for myself. As wary as I was of hipsters, I did have an open admiration for their native drinks. Plus, as much as I was loathed to acknowledge it, I did sort of like their look.
Like clockwork, the barman expectantly asked me if I wanted anything else in that, ‘Oh, by the way, I know you're waiting for a date’, kind of way.
“Appletiser,” I said.
The barman sniffed the air around me theatrically, then chuckled to himself and turned around with his tongue wedged against his cheek like some kind of reality TV star with an outdated man-bun. He knew what was going on here.
I went to find the most discreet table possible, away from prying ears and eyes. I didn't want anyone to listen to my overly rehearsed and possibly cheesy opening lines. I needed to be as relaxed as I could be on this date .
I found what seemed to be the tiniest round table in South London.
It could barely hold a pint glass, but I had made the choice to sacrifice size for discretion.
I sat there quietly, intermittently mopping up the mini spillages I kept making due to circling my glass around the table in anticipation.
I took out my phone so I could pretend that I’d just popped out to play a popular confectionary-based game and have a pint just in case Rob didn't turn up and left me hanging.
It turned out there was no need. The door behind the bar opened and a Rob-esque guy walked in checking his phone, looking around gormlessly, squinting in that way people do when they’re looking for someone they’ve never met in person before.
Clearly this had to be him. I wasn't disappointed either. I mean, the winkle pickers were a bit much for my tastes, but he was, shall we say… quirky. He had a kind of hipster vibe about him.
However, as he got closer, I couldn’t detect the usual ‘I’m wearing this ironically’ vibe that regular hipsters exude. His beard was slightly too unkempt to be a legit hipster, and the ankle swingers were two inches too short to be a fashion statement.
He spotted me, and as he made his way over, he waved and caught his foot on a loose bit of carpet. Absolutely the winkle picker’s fault. This incident attracted the attention of everyone in the pub, the collective head-turning almost making a cinematic ‘whoosh’ sound.
Stumbling in my direction, arms almost in full flail, he followed it up with a very loud and clear, ‘Are you Danny?
Nice to meet you at last!' that made it impossible for the rest of the clientele in the pub to ignore this nice juicy first-date meeting.
Smirks crept across the faces around us like cracks splitting in thin ice on a frozen pond.
Honestly, these people were about as subtle as a skeleton wanking in a biscuit tin.
I tried to cancel out the last thirty seconds and immediately pulled him in for an, 'Oh hi, you, it’s been ages!' double kiss, to fake a bit of familiarity to the surrounding parties.
However, I just received the one kiss back, instead of the standard two-kiss greeting that one is accustomed to in modern times. I crashed the attempted second kiss into a bit of thin air, just to the right of his left cheek as he turned away.