Exposed Brick

I am what you would call a One Date Wonder. I’ve been on hundreds of dates over the last year, 80 percent of which were the first and last with some less than remarkable man. The other 20 percent actually resulted in some type of a brief and twisted relationship, considering that out of that 20 percent, roughly 3 of those men received a restraining order from yours truly. I recently decided to take matters into my own hands and signed up for an online dating service. I mean, why not? For most women, it’s an efficient and relatively safe way to meet men. And so I set out in the cyber world of love, to find Mr. Right. Even Mr. Right Now would have sufficed. But no, my first attempt landed me Mr. Exposed Brick.

He was the flesh and blood equivalent of a Forever 21 dress: you know its sweatshop fabric is going to unravel at the seams after its first night on the town, but it’s so cute you purchase it anyway. We scheduled our first dinner date at the Signature Room in Chicago, after several weeks of witty e-mails (well, from my end anyway), online chats and late night phone conversations. Clad in Armani, towering at 6’6’’, with high cheekbones, perfectly manicured facial hair and dark brown eyes, Travis was gorgeous. Unfortunately, this candle did not burn brightly; in fact, the only time he so much as flickered was when we were overcome by that awkward silence and his redeeming good looks took over. Travis was your typical son of an extremely wealthy real estate development mogul; he was as dull as a K-Mart “fun in the sun” hot pink plastic knife but absolutely beautiful and as generous as my grandmother on her deathbed, who after eighty years of gluttonous frugality, tried to buy her way into heaven by donating an ridiculous amount to charity.

What Travis lacked in brains he made up for in gifts. He had no qualms about charging my plane ticket and two of my friends’ plane tickets to the Windy City, dinner at the Signature Room, a horse and buggy ride and two rooms at the Palmer Hilton to his father’s corporate credit card. I happily complied with the plans since I had two girl friends, Jayde and Zoe, as a safety net. Who am I to say no to a free weekend vacation? We arrived in Chicago at roughly 7:00 PM, checked into our hotel at the Palmer Hilton and ordered drinks via room service. When 8 o’clock rolled around and I still had not heard from Travis, I broke down and dialed his cell phone.

“I’m on my way out the door,” he promised.

“Excuse me? What happened to dinner at 8:30? This is ridiculous. You should have called.” My maternal chastising did not dampen his spirits.

“I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll drive fast! Meet me at the Signature Room at 9:15.” Humm… that is not an hour… Annoyed with his childish antics I hung up but proceeded to get dressed for dinner.

...................

I tapped my nails on the glass in front of me and scanned the room. 9:30. “More water, Miss?” Concern laced the waiter’s polite smile.

“No thank you. I will wait until my friend arrives.” I frowned into my lap and he sauntered away. Ten minutes later the crash of dinner plates broke my thoughtless stare and I looked up to the first of many calamities involving Travis. Crouched on the floor, picking up pieces of broken plate there he was: enormous, well-dressed but covered in tossed salad and house dressing. The waiter shooed him away and he clumsily stomped his way over. I stood up and waited for him to say something, anything. We stared at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time, until I broke down, extending my hand. His eyes flickered with excitement, like a child’s on Christmas morning as he bypassed my hand and embraced me in a huge bear hug. “Hi, Travis?” This was our first time meeting in person.

“Yup,” he smiled and pulled a long stem red rose out from the back of his pants. I thanked him and we both sat down. An awkward silence cemented us together.

“Sooo… where did you say you went to school?” What a mess this is going to be.

“Liberty High.”

“I meant college.” After another long silence he smiled but before he could answer me the waiter chimed in.

“Can I get either of you anything to drink?”

“Oh ho ho… better not… um… no definitely can’t,” Travis shook his head vigorously and waved his hands in refusal. I simply shook my head.

“So, now... where did you attend college? You mentioned you have a BBA, correct? You do have a BBA, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah. I went to University of Illinois, Champagne. I was in the entrepreneurial program,” he smiled. I swear his eyes twinkled.

“Really?” My jaw dropped and jealousy swept over me. “Wow, I am impressed. U of I is one of the best business schools in the nation. I think its entrepreneurial program was ranked before U of M’s last year, actually.” I only knew because I had rejected. “So what exactly do you do now?”

“I work for my dad.” He didn’t offer a detailed explanation; rather, he was content to shoot me sexy looks from across the table. After several failed attempts to provoke conversation, I gave up, hoping he was extremely nervous or extremely shy. I mean, the silence wasn’t so bad. At least he was easy on the eyes and educated. I have extremely quixotic tendencies when it comes to love or potential suitors.
After I grew bored of looking at him I took the opportunity for some verbal self-reflection and spent the next hour talking to myself about myself. This continued throughout the remainder of the night. Since he was a U of I graduate I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he was just dumbfounded by my utter beauty and brilliance. We ended the night with a kiss and promise to get together again.

Three weeks later, on July 3rd, I climbed into my friend Zoe’s beater air-conditioningless Toyota and set off on a mini road trip to Champagne, Illinois, the hometown of Travis Clark. Convinced that any University of Illinois graduate who sent a dozen roses to my house for seven straight days (that would be Travis who did this, for those of you who didn’t quite catch that and a total of 84 roses for those of you who are mathematically disinclined) must be charming in a ‘once-you-get-to-know-him’ way, I accepted his invitation to spend Independence weekend on his houseboat.

“Heeellllo…. Vanessa?” I looked at the caller ID on my cell phone: it said Travis but didn’t sound like him. Then again, I really hadn’t heard much from him at this point.

“Travis, what’s up? We’re almost there…” I shot a worried glance to Zoe, the virtual map.

“About 10 minutes,” she whispered.

“Awesssome!” Travis proclaimed, followed by a burp that reverberated in my ear.

“Are you drunk?” I couldn’t help but inquire.

“Mayyybe…” Click. He hung up.

“I think he’s drunk,” I announced in a tone of defeat. “No, he’s definitely faded. And he’s alone. He got drunk all alone.” I rested my head against the car window.

“I knew he was whack. He’s an IB boy,” Jayde exclaimed. Zoe conceded.

“IB?” I was lost.

“Internet Boy,” both explained in unison.

We tentatively pulled up to his parents’ home, a four story architectural masterpiece and out stumbled Travis with a handle of Grey Goose in tow. “Howdy!” he yelled, his arms flailing, spilling vodka on the drive.

“Are you drunk?” I asked in disbelief. “And did you just say ‘Howdy’?”

“It’s 8:30 man. I tried waiting! Want some?” He threw his head back and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“Classy,” I sneered. “This is just super.”

“Where should we put our stuff?” Zoe politely asked.

“In the pool house! Let’s go swimming,” he said running off toward the Olympic size pool.

We unloaded our bags and changed into swimsuits. “I am going to kill you,” Jayde clenched her teeth and shook her head at me in disgust.

“WHOO HOO! Cannonball!” The twelve foot zoo-esque fence lining the parameter of the property suddenly made sense.

We left the pool house to find Travis splashing around in the pool playing with the empty bottle of vodka like a child in the bathtub with a rubber ducky and his shorts gently resting on a poolside table. “He’s about as smart as exposed brick,” Jayde observed.

Travis began climbing the ladder. “NO!!!” Jayde covered her eyes. Zoe and I stood frozen, our mouths wide-open in shock: there was Travis, hanging out. Pun intended.

“Travis, you are naked. NAKED. Oh my god…. You need to put your shorts on. NOW!” He ignored me. I decided to take a different approach and changed my tone. “Travis, I would appreciate it if you would get dressed. It’s time to go to bed. I really just want to go. I’ll drive your car to your house. You can tell me how to get there. I’ll be inside waiting for you. Ok?” Jayde, Zoe and I walked into this parents’ home and waited. And waited. “Shit, I think he needs some help.” I peered out the window. Travis was hopping around, one foot in his shorts, the other tangled in the waist strings.

“AHHHH!” His howl pierced through the glass window and we all cringed. Travis bounced off the ladder’s steel rail and into the pool. We jumped up and ran to save the water buffalo. Blood flowed like the Thames from a gash on his head.

“Jesus. Get out of the pool. Travis. I. Mean. It.” I stood above him, my hands on my hips.

“Ok.” He wiped blood from his face. “I need a Band-Aid.”

“You’re going to need more than a Band-Aid if you don’t get your ass out of that pool. One… Two… You have until the count of 10! Three…” He climbed out of the pool, still naked. I scooped up his swim trunks and threw them at him. “Let’s go. NOW. You can put those on in the car.” I grabbed his keys off the table, my friends and our bags and climbed into his 2003 Trailblazer. The three of us girls helped catapult him into the passenger’s seat. “Ok, you need to tell me how to get there.”

No response.

“Travis!” I punched his arm. He sat up, his eyes half closed and tongue slightly hanging out of his mouth. And so our trip to his house commenced. I turned off the radio and concentrated on the road.

“Mother &*^%ers!!” He suddenly came alive, picking up random items and throwing them around the car. “I’llll ssssssssshow em astards!” He grabbed a loose CD and whipped it at me, hitting me in the cheek.

“You asshole! What the hell are you doing?” I grabbed the CD out of my lap, rolled down the window and tossed it out. “Throw something else at me,” I challenged. He smiled and grabbed his cell phone. Before I could react he wound up and threw it, missing my head and leaving a crack in the half open window. I picked it up and tossed it out. “You want to play? We’ll play!” I started to frantically grab and toss anything I could find out the window: his Oakley’s, his DKNY watch, some keys, a few more CDs and the charger to his cell, among other things. He simply laid his head back and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, we reached his house - with absolutely no help from him - before I had the chance to completely empty his car. He was lucky in that respect; at least he got to keep the face to his CD player.

“We’re here.” I didn’t bother helping him out. Jayde, Zoe and I grabbed our bags and went inside. It took Travis a while longer, since his reaction time was so impaired. We sat by the bay window, watching him navigate himself around the yard, into a tree, and finally smack back into the side of the Trailblazer where he passed out naked. “Ok, bedtime everyone,” I said, locking the door.

Beep. Beep. Beep. His alarm clock sounded. 7:00 AM, July 4th. Independence Day. How appropriate, I thought. Who really needs a guy anyway? I stretched out, wrapped in 1000 thread count satin sheets. “Ready girls?” I yawned. They groaned but rolled out of bed.

We left that morning, without brushing our hair or teeth, or even saying goodbye. I actually had to step over Travis to get to Zoe’s car. The thought of spitting on him, leaving a note or even covering him up occurred to me; however, I decided public decency should be the priority. I called the police and informed them that a naked man way laying in the grass in front of 109 Conway Lane and drove off.

Later that day Travis called, from the local Champagne jail, asking me to come pick him up. “Honey, I’m back in Michigan. No can do!” I chirped.

“What?” I could see his lips to curl in a snarl. “Patriotic bitch!”

“Travis, you mean patronizing bitch. Where did you say you went to school again?”

“Liberty? Why?”

“Ok. Listen. Just tell me the truth. Be honest and I will help you out. You didn’t go to college, did you?” I tried to remain straight-faced and calm.

Silence.

“Well?” I urged.

“No. Why should I when I can just work for my dad?”

I hung up the phone. Two minutes later it rang again. I ignore it. Then several hours later it rang again. Travis’s number appeared on my caller ID. Someone had bailed him out. I ignore it. However, it was no use. Not a minute later it rang again. And again. And again. What about “You’re an alcoholic loser” did he not understand? Finally, after three days of ignoring Travis’s incessant calls, I answered the phone.

“Travis, I don’t like you. You’re an alcoholic. You’re a liar. And you’re…” Before I could finish he interrupted me.

“I know. I’m sorry! I just switched anxiety medications and I think that had something to do with that. Plus, I’m not supposed to drink while on them.”

Wow, he can construct coherent sentences, I thought. Amused but unimpressed, I reiterated my point. “Travis, it’s not gonna happen. I find you utterly repulsive.”

“Is it the size?” Exposed Brick responded.

The size of what? Having forgotten the male gender’s preoccupation with their genitalia, I was utterly dumbfounded. He proceeded to educate me on the phenomenon known as “shrinkage.” I started to think about it, and honestly, if left solely up to physical defects, it was not his size, but rather, the odd curvature of his extremity. I tactfully pointed this out and he rebutted: “That’s the gansta lean, baby!” To this I simply hung up the phone, embarrassed that this idiot knew my name.

We ran quite a large tab that weekend. We spent $40 in gas, $67.83 on a nice breakfast, $25 on disposable cameras and $134 on a random stop at Meijer on the way home, all of which we charged to Travis’s father’s corporate credit card. Hey, it happened to fall out of his swim trunks. At least I was considerate enough to scoop it out of the pool. What else was I supposed to do? I simply forgot to give it to him and figured he owed us that much. Travis ended up with 4 stitches, a scolding from his parents, a shrink bill large enough to finance the war on terrorists and the blows to his ego? Priceless. I suppose there really are some things in life money can’t buy, like class, intelligence and a personality, but for everything else there’s Travis’s father’s corporate credit card.