MORE & LESS

It's still a few hours until the coffee date. Another one. Not with Brad. This is a first. There have been loads of firsts. Enough for baristas to start mocking me.

"Grande Nonfat Latte's back. The other guy keeps checking his phone. I give them eighteen minutes."

"Should've just ordered a tall."

I ought to have the conversational routine down by now. Funny anecdotes. An obscure literary reference to feign intelligence. Neck stretch warm ups to prepare for generous head nodding. But I'm always unprepared. I'm determined to be authentic. Let each conversation unfold--and unravel--on its own demerits.

There is more at stake as years pass and I continue to have coffee experiences with an indistinct aftertaste. Hints of lemon and oak and casual rejection. Time ticks. I’m 51. The wrinkles will become more prominent. The belly won’t stay tucked in forever. I’m past prime and still searching. Am I stuck in the discount bin with a pile of irregulars? The “As Is” sign sends passersby into a quick jog.

A year back in Vancouver and I’ve already worn out my welcome. Plenty of Fish has a “Meet Me” page where a stream of profiles pop up and you click Yes, No or Maybe. When I checked today, the message said, “Sorry—our Meet Me list shows you users we’ve specifically chosen for you! Sometimes, this list runs out.” This was a hunch I didn’t want confirmed.

It’s all up to this one coffee with Brad. Guy with a new pup. I’m hoping he’ll bring him. Dogs always like me. At least that’ll be something.

There’s less at stake, too. With rejection comes restraint and resignation. Any newness to dating has worn away. The nerves aren’t there either. If I get that it’s-been-nice-meeting-you vibe, I can shrug it off on the way home. I got to pat a dog. Hurrah.

There’s still time to work myself up into a positive, hopeful state. That will come on the half-hour walk to his local Starbucks. Haven’t had a first coffee at that location in ages. With all the hope I stir up, some of it will be channeled into hoping the baristas don’t recognize me. Presumably, I could confuse them and order a Grande Decaf Iced Americano instead.

A fresh start.

Maybe a different outcome.  

MONOLOGUE FOR TWO

I had a date last night and I’m barely awake this morning. Are the two related? Read on.

Who am I kidding? How could they be? (And, really, I wouldn’t want them to be.)


Date first: Rennie and I agreed to meet at a Starbucks in the West End. 7 a.m. I squeezed in a jog along the seawall beforehand and, after showering and walking the dog, arrived two minutes late. There was nobody resembling Rennie’s online photos in the café. I got in line to order. The line moved slowly and a couple in front of me seemed to think they could entertain the queue by speaking loudly and making ha-ha annoying comments about others in line. I must have clearly conveyed my patented standoffish stance because I got a free pass.

At 7:10, while awaiting my drink, I spotted a guy who might possibly be Rennie outside Starbucks. He checked his iPhone, then walked away. Once my drink was up, I scurried out and tried to spot him in the crowd walking up Davie. White t-shirt. Yes, I see him. Crowd obstruction. No, he’s gone. Vanished after a block.

Was it him? Maybe. Maybe not. Why wouldn’t he have walked inside? I tired to visualize the original message. There are many Starbucks in the West End and I have been known to show up at the wrong location, but I was sure I recalled the right street intersection. 80% sure.

Perhaps he’d said 7:30. Lucky I’d ordered a venti. I perched on a stool, skimmed the barebones news coverage in the free dailies and continued to cool off from the jog.

At 7:40, I headed back to the condo. Perhaps he decided at the last minute to catch the latest “exclusive” insider information about that Kim Kardashian wedding on “Entertainment Tonight”. Perhaps he was raised in a military household where being two minutes tardy meant you were shunned for the next seven months. Perhaps he saw my sty from three blocks away and frantically made his getaway.

I walked up Davie, thinking about dinner for one. A cauliflower and a tub of hummus. For some reason, I glanced in a hair salon a block and a half away and there was the guy with the white t-shirt, sitting inside, not looking like he needed a trim. Very attractive! I stopped, hesitated. He looked at me. “Rennie?” I mouthed. He didn’t have time to think otherwise so he nodded.

“Your hair looks much better in person,” he said as we introduced ourselves inside. Thanks. “In your photos, it’s too yellow. Uh,...thanks?

“Do you still want to grab a coffee and go for a walk?” I asked. Another out, but he didn’t take it. We walked to a Thai restaurant. Cauliflower and hummus could wait another night. Hadn’t been a craving; just a convenience.

The monologues flowed. His time in Montreal after moving from Beirut. The unfinished renovations at the condo of his ex. The new, hostile boyfriend of the ex. His homophobic Greek boss at the first salon where he worked in Vancouver. The discovery that he was a diabetic.

All interesting. I made comments and asked questions to show interest. The Rennie Show continued with only two breaks: “Do you speak French?” and “Your profile says you’re a writer. Are you published?” Perfunctory answers. And now back to how he quit his job at that first salon.

No chemistry. How could there be?

Déjà vu. What has happened to the art of conversation? Is there a glut of self-absorbed middle-aged single gay men or am I at fault for failing to jump in and perform my own monologues? How I learned to conjugate être.

Is there a cultural difference? Other Arabic acquaintances I’ve known have seemed assertive, but I recall us talking a great deal about politics and they were genuinely interested in hearing my perspective.

For whatever reason, Rennie and I failed to connect at any point.

The lack of sleep? No, I did not toss and turn in despair over a lackluster date. I’ve built up an immunity after having plenty of them. It was my first night back in my ex’s vacant condo (after he’d had a meltdown in June and told me to get out). All summer I’d stayed in my rural home, sleeping in a silence only occasionally punctured by howling coyotes and screeching Stellar’s Jays. With the summer heat, I had to leave the condo windows open and the racket of revving motorcycles (I’m at the beginning point of the Burrard Street Bridge) and screaming sirens (I’m also a few blocks from St. Paul’s Hospital) and noisy buses (the condo is along a major bus route, with a stop directly across the street) kept me wide awake until 3:30 in the morning. My venti Starbucks had nothing to do with it. I’d ordered a decaf.

Second day back to work after five weeks off and I feel just as tired and woefully single as before the break. I’ll pick up a fan to drown out the din. If I suffer another sleepless night, perhaps I can work on a decent monologue.

TAKING ISSUE

I first learned of the area where I live after reading a newspaper article many years ago. As prices for a home rose, the writer explored places outside of Vancouver to see if she could find other “livable” communities in British Columbia. She had a checklist to ensure she wouldn’t give up some of the simple pleasures she found in the city. Things like finding Thai food and being able to pick up the latest issue of a particular magazine—The Atlantic or The New Yorker, I don’t exactly remember.

I should have paid more attention. I should have made my own checklist.

Facing (another) Saturday night with nothing to do—alas, the hockey playoffs are down to two teams I don’t care about—I drove into town to rent a flick. Almost buried in New Releases amongst the multiple copies of Saw VI and Transformers was a single copy of The September Issue. (Tangent: Ever notice how the New Releases section stretches the meaning of “new”?) I wiped off the thin film of dust on the top edge of the clear plastic cover and checked out the documentary on Prada “devil” Anna Wintour and the process of making Vogue’s most anticipated issue of the year.

Earlier in the day, I’d envied a friend in Toronto who was off to see the new Sex in the City movie on its opening weekend. Alas, that blasted green ogre continues to take up the only two movie screens that I can drive to. But now I had my own fashion film. Thirty minutes in, I could hardly contain myself. I pressed pause and headed back into town. This would be Fashion Night! Despite living where it doesn’t matter, I had the urge to peruse the latest summer and fall collections for men. I scanned the shelves of London Drugs. Alas. Men’s magazines have taken a downward turn. Three publications were shrouded in black plastic wrapping. Esquire had a voluptuous woman yanking down the top of her black dress dangerously close to the nipple zone and the other men’s magazines dealt with cars and stocks and hockey. Nothing even hinted at fashion. (This time of year, hockey is more fashion challenged than ever as scraggly beards complement those damn mullets.)

Where was my GQ? I searched the display racks three times and surveyed the tabloid section by the checkout. Wait…Dennis Hopper did drugs?!

Gee, no GQ. What’s with this town’s aversion to the letter Q? No GQ, no DQ. (Tangent: I struggle with an addiction to Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzards. And the Oreo Mint ones. And…)

I felt another tirade coming whereby I rant against this deceptively pretty Hell Hole and John Mellencamp, he of that taunting “Small Town” song, the only line I ever remember being, “I’ll probably die in the same small town.” Fortunately, a Starbucks decaf—God knows I didn’t need caffeine in my state!—calmed me. I must have looked particularly pathetic as the barista said it was on the house.

I found the apparently elusive magazine at the gas station. I’ll admit I was embarrassed to take it to the counter. More scandalous than Esquire! Some Aussie “supermodel” stared seductively on the cover, anxious to peel off her teeny white bra. What would the clerk think?

No, I am NOT a perverted old man who hasn’t figured out where to find internet porn! I’m just a gay man, desperate to see if suspenders are coming back. And those silky disco shirts!

Turned out to be complete waste of money. GQ was that magazine I subscribed to in high school with a new impossibly chiseled model’s face gracing the cover each month and tips about the correct way to apply cologne and fold a pocket square. Sadly, the current issue has busy, garish ads with race car drivers, a floozy pushing Curve Fragrances and a Gillette one-pager without the customary male model posing shirtless at the sink. There was a shot of an overweight shirtless man barfing in a garbage can, photos of lions and moose having sex and some Playboy-inspired comics of politicians like Alexander Hamilton having sex.

It was yet another near bust of a Saturday night. Thank God I had another hour of The September Issue to browse. And, yes, Madonna—on cassette!—to pay tribute to a fashion magazine with the wisdom to stick to the runway.