Blind Date

My friend Sherry thought it’d be just peachy keen if I blind-dated this second removed cousin of hers while he was in town. I didn’t say okay right from the top because I’m not much of a social butterfly.

But, she harped and cajoled and said Jeffrey was such a “super swell” guy and I was such a super swell person, it was just like fate that we should both be unattached and available at the same time.

It takes about five minutes for me to see why Jeffrey is unattached. That’s how long I’m able to stay awake on our first date. I snooze through an Italian dinner, a movie, and coffee at the bistro around the corner from my place. I mean, this is a guy that I just look at and nod off.

“Well?” Sherry’s gleeful about her matchmaking and has to know my reaction to Jeffrey.

“He’s okay, I guess,” I say.

“Okay? Just okay?” she howls. “The guy thinks you’re the greatest, and you think he’s just okay?”

“How could he know?” I ask. “I slept through our date.”

“That’s not what he told me,” she says.

“Oh? What did he tell you?” I ask.

“Uh-uh, my lips are sealed!” she says.

I grab her by the throat. “Try unsealing them!” I demand.

She coughs and sputters when I pull my hands away. “He said you were the warmest, most sincere woman he’d ever met.”

“Ummmmm. Are you sure he wasn’t talking about someone else? Maybe he had a late date after he left my place.”

“No, you kidder! I’m telling you, Jeffrey is blathers over you,” she says.

So I go out that night on a second date and, sure enough, he’s blathers over me. Despite the fact that I spend the majority of the evening in a deep sleep. I think we have sex but I can’t be certain.

“What are you doing to that poor man?” Sherry asks.

“Me?” I ask.

“Come on, I’ve never seen him so in love,” she says.

“You’re putting me on.”

“Have it your way,” she says and then the pout forms. “But it would be really nice if you’d share your feelings with me. I mean, since I got you two together.”

“I am sharing my feelings, what there are of them,” I say.

Our third date I make a strong effort to stay awake. Next thing I know, it’s the morning. I roll over and bump into Jeffrey.

“Hi, sleep angel,” he says and his morning breath rushes across my face.

I look under the covers. I’m naked. “Was it good for you?” I ask.

A month goes by and I have slept in more places than a two dollar hooker in heat. Restaurants, theaters, taxicabs, museums, department stores, the zoo. The crazy thing is, it doesn’t bother Jeffrey.

I go see my doctor. He runs a battery of tests. “All negative,” he says. “You’re in fine shape.”

“How can I be when I sleep all the time?” I ask. “That’s not normal.”

“So when did you get your medical degree?” he asks. “Normalcy fluctuates from person to person, situation to situation.”

“Then give me something to make me stay awake,” I say.

“If I give you something you’ll think there’s something wrong with you. There’s not,” he says.

“Look,” I say and my voice starts rising in anger. “I’m sleeping sixteen to twenty hours a day! Give me something!”

“I’m somewhat reluctant to suggest this, but try drinking coffee,” he says.

“Swell, five hundred dollars worth of tests and you tell me to drink coffee.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he says.

I buy an espresso machine. If coffee’s good, espresso’s better. Jeffrey comes over and we have espresso. When I wake up, it’s morning. “We can’t see each other any more,” I say.

He’s too shocked to speak. Tears puddle at the corners of his eyes. He’s gone, but the pillow next to me is soaking wet when I wake up several hours later.

He sends big bouquets of red roses to my apartment every day for a week. I refuse to answer the phone or the door. I catch up on my favorite television shows — the ones I’ve been sleeping through. I write letters to all my relatives. I create a whole ad campaign for JoJo Jumpers, a new kids’ toy. I’m back in my old groove of four hours sleep a night, and it’s wonderful.

“Hi.”

The clock stops. I get cocky and go for a stroll through Central Park. I know Jeffrey’s out of my life because the roses have stopped and so have the phone calls. Plus, Sherry tells me he’s gone back home to Newark.

“Hi,” he says again as he steps in front of me, blocking my way. I feel the yawn start way deep inside.

Now there’s a new wrinkle to the time we spend together. I still sleep, but now I dream. At least I assume that I’m dreaming.

© Pat Gaudette