6. The Blind Business Date
The Blind Business Date
I stomp through the parking garage in my most capable outfit: tailored black trousers, a crisp white shirt, my best pair of ass-kicking pumps.
My hair is slicked back in a tight bun (just like Paulina’s), my eyes shielded in sunglasses, a briefcase tucked beneath my arm.
I look like a cross between a bad corporate bitch and a Secret Service agent.
Not to brag, I also look like I’m dressed up as Trinity from The Matrix, which must be confusing to passersby as it’s a long way from Halloween.
I’m a terrifying sight, power-walking to the cafeteria with my resting bitch face, propelled by a singular purpose and a healthy dose of female rage.
I’m the last person you’d ask to give you a hand job, enthusiastic or otherwise, unless you want to lose your dick.
Beyond the confident facade, I’m shivering in my pointy-toe pumps (I can’t feel my pinky toe).
This is crazy. One for the record books.
A historic low, even for me. In my long history of padding and embellishing my résumé, I’ve never lied myself into a corner as tight as this.
I’m like the hare in the famous race, stealing naps and confident in my ability to beat the tortoise to the finish line.
Despite doing everything possible to avoid hard work (let’s be honest, any work), I do actually know how to analyze data.
All it takes is the necessary ‘oh shit’ moment and a giant cram session to catapult me into action.
There’s been some close calls, but I’m adaptable enough to actually learn what I’ve claimed to know.
I’ve never faced a situation I couldn’t think my way out of.
But this bloody ASSET is a whole other monster.
It’s made me feel incompetent.
I’m already desperate.
Now I feel dumb.
I scan the dining area as if I have a clue who I’m looking for. The cafeteria is bustling with office workers on their lunch breaks. Outside of his terse Yelp link, the mysterious Rhys Stiltskine has left no further instructions or questions. Okay. I suppose we’re winging this meeting.
Without a photo to identify him, I scan the customers queuing up at the cashiers and the diners at the tables, hoping to catch someone’s eye or spot someone trying to catch my eye. No takers.
I send a quick text.
I’m here. Getting food.
And queue up to order my lunch.
True to form: no reply from Rhys.
My anxiety spikes. I’m taking a big risk and wasting valuable time coming here. He’ll show up. He has to show up. Please show up.
A portly man in grey slacks and a blue dress shirt moseys up behind me.
He’s in his mid-thirties, short of stature, frog-like with bulging bug eyes.
Okay. I can definitely see this guy holed up in a dark bedroom, pounding away on his Cheeto-stained keyboard and spreading vitriol all over the internet.
Incel? Evil elf man? He’s certainly short and has a face only his mother could love.
Could this be my Rumpelstiltskin? I try to catch his eye, but he’s squinting at the digital menu, his bug eyes bulging.
At long last, he notices me staring down at him and gives me a weird look.
“Rhys?” I ask warily.
Hearing ‘grease,’ the man glances down at his shirt. “Where?”
“Tom!” A group of beautiful girls in business casual flutter our way. They engulf him in a huge group hug, the tall blonde one hanging intimately onto his shoulder. She plants a kiss straight on his mouth. “Know what you want, baby?”
Okay. Ugly frog man is not an incel and I’m a judgmental bitch. I’ll have to work on that. With a sigh of disappointment, I whirl around and order a chicken quinoa salad (I didn’t want to get my hands messy) and a medium lavender lemonade. My stomach grumbles.
“On second thought,” I tell the cashier, “I’ll also have the chimichurri steak, medium rare, and a slice of carrot cake.”
I take my sweet time finding a seat, snaking in and around tables on the pretext of looking for my friend. Every man in a suit, dress shirt, or anything resembling workwear is on my radar.
Whoever this Rhys Stiltskine is, his reputation precedes him.
With only Michelle’s ‘incel vibes’ lines to work off of, I’ve deduced that I should be looking for an ugly man, possibly unhygienic.
The guy in line behind me fits the bill (sorry), but now he has two girls on each arm and more on the way.
This just goes to show: looks may get you through the door, but personality keeps you in the club.
For some strange reason, I’ve also got my eyes peeled for a mean little elf man in pointy shoes.
Between Nisha’s typo and Angie’s teasing, I can’t seem to clear the tale of Rumpelstiltskin from my mind, and now I’m profiling well-dressed men under 5’5” or men with pointy ears and hoping that they’re ugly.
No one fits the description. One would think, in a restaurant full of people, I’d at least find one lone ugly elf man, but no.
There are plenty of short guys, but they’re either cute and alone, cute and social, ugly and social, or just not ugly enough.
There are tall guys, guys of average height and average looks, all folded into a group.
Where is my ugly elf? My kingdom for an ugly elf!
Checking my watch, I roam around for a few minutes, holding out hope that I’ll meet my guy. It’s already twenty past our appointed lunch time. Rhys is not here. No one is calling me over to his table. My phone hasn’t dinged with a text, a call, or any update that Rhys is running late.
Disappointed and dispirited, I find a table by the window and sip my lemonade.
I keep my eyes fixed on the entrance, craning my head as people pass before my field of vision.
I feel a little like Chief Brody, straining to see the water over passing beachgoers, waiting for Jaws to strike.
In the space of a minute, I’ve upgraded Rhys Stiltskine from an ugly little elf into a great white shark.
Is it safe to assume I’ve been stood up?
I’m still holding out hope, but it’s not looking good.
And why am I not surprised? This whole meet-up was ill-planned and inefficient. What possible incentive can a complete stranger have to meet me?
I get a text.
Angie
Well?
He’s not here.
Angie
He stood you up?
Seems like it…
Angie
Should have offered him money.
To my text chain with Rhys (a text chain that consists solely of texts from me), I type:
Find me by the window. Corner seat—
Before I could finish my thought, a man in a grey hoodie grabs the chair opposite me.
“Um… excuse me.” I point to the chair. “I’m saving that.”
“For me,” he says, his voice is deep and a bit gravelly.
He sits down, nervously cupping his hands on the table.
His hood shadows his eyes and most of his face.
This guy is neither short nor ugly (the jury is still out on the looks department, as I’ve yet to see his face).
He’s not dressed for work as befits a fellow ASSET expert.
I eye his manky grey sweatshirt. It’s two sizes too big for him and a little on the distressed side (and not in ‘distressed for fashion’s sake’ way; more of a ‘distressed because I missed laundry day’ way).
Finally, he yanks off his hoodie, and we have a verdict.
Light hazel eyes rimmed with enviable black lashes.
Warm olive skin underneath a five-day growth of beard.
A mop of unruly chestnut hair that could do with a wash.
A sturdy nose that’s just a tad too hooked at the end, and an enviable jawline.
He’s not ugly at all. In fact, he’s attractive (after a haircut, a shower, and a change of clothes).
God, he’s just screaming for a makeover.
He’s a diamond in the rough; nowhere as repellent as Michelle made him out to be.
I’m not getting incel vibes, exactly. I’m getting homeless man crossed with Unabomber vibes.
Of course, in L.A., we have a fair share of homeless and dudes who dress like they’re homeless but happen to be celebrities in disguise.
If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that first impressions can be deceiving.
“Rhys?” I ask.
“Carina.” He nods. His tone is curt, like an unfriendly business email. “You wanted to talk about the ASSET?”
“Yes! Oh my god! Thank you for meeting me—” I get up and try to enfold him in my customary hug (I’m a hugger). He doesn’t move from his seat. Just side eyes me with a confounded expression and I recall Michelle’s words: Won’t look me in the eye.
Left out to dry, I offer him my hand instead. He stares at it and it becomes clear that he’s going to leave me hanging again. Awkwardness is contagious. I’m not an awkward person, but two minutes in Rhys’ presence and I suddenly feel socially inept.
Okay. I’m beginning to see Michelle’s point.
Trying to salvage the last of my dignity, I wipe my hand on my trousers and retreat back to my seat. “Um… so did you get caught in traffic?”
“No. I was here the whole time.”
“You were?” I glance around the crowded cafeteria. “Where were you?”
“Over there,” he says, jerking his head out the window to the patio. His fingers drum on the table surface impatiently. “I saw you coming in.”
I frown, confused. “You knew what I looked like?”
“I found your LinkedIn profile photo.”
“You did!” I sit up straighter, flattered that he researched me. “Why didn’t you text me?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like texting,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Makes sense…” If he doesn’t care for texting, we can pretty much rule out calling. “Why did it take you so long to approach me?”
“I wasn’t sure it was you,” he says, his gaze roving over my face, his expression blank. “You don’t resemble your profile picture.”
My lips curl into a nervous smile. “That old photo. I didn’t like my hair.”
“It wasn’t the hair,” he says, training his gaze on my steak. “You’re prettier in your photo than you are in real life.” He points to my plate. “You gonna eat that?”
I blink several times.
What just happened here?
Did I hear him right?
He said it so quickly, so casually, the insult rolling off his tongue like butter that I had to replay his words back.
I watch, stunned, as he snatches my plate right out from under my nose and proceeds to slice into my steak, blissfully unaware that he just said the most messed up thing you can say to a woman. And completely unprovoked…
Okay.
Nisha was right. This guy is a jerk.
Michelle was right. This guy’s an irredeemable incel. I fully understand why she tossed her drink in his face and ended the date before it began. I don’t know how she could stand five minutes in his presence.
No wonder he keeps his identity a mystery online. I’m probably not the only one he insulted. There’s probably a long line of people before me who would love to enact violence on this miserable troll.
In fact.
Maybe I’ll get started.