How many times do you have to get stood up in a month before you get a punchcard?

Last I left you, I had high hopes for Shawshank and was really looking forward to our first date. That was about a month ago, and we never made it to that date. (Or rather, one of us never made it, but more on that later.) We’ve had numerous email and phone conversations, all of them intelligent and easy and fun. We’ve tried to go out several times, but the universe hasn’t exactly been subtle with us.


Attempt #1:

Several weeks ago, we scheduled our first date. Our schedules are difficult to coordinate, since he works extremely odd hours at the State Pen. His weekends are in the middle of the week, and his shifts are late in the day, whereas I work a typical 8-to-5 job. With the added complication of his living an hour away from me, there were only one or two times during the week (Tuesdays and Wednesdays) when we could possibly have crossed paths, so we picked one and decided to go for it. We didn’t have firm plans, but we had a date and time in mind, and I was looking forward to hearing what type of outing Shawshank came up with. A couple of days before we were to go out, he promised to email or call with specifics. I was looking forward to it.

When I didn’t hear from him by Tuesday, the day of our supposed first date, I scratched him out of my Day-Timer.


Attempt #2:

The next day I got an apologetic email from him (later followed by a phone call) telling me that he had been in Oregon the last few days, because his great-grandmother had suddenly died—as suddenly as can be expected for a 99-yr old woman. This, I decided, was an absolutely reasonable excuse, and he did sound genuinely sorry. Had I thought about it a little harder, or had I liked him a little less, I might have questioned why he couldn’t have dropped me a quick email to tell me where he was before Tuesday, but I didn’t. It was a death in the family, after all. How do you argue with that?

We tentatively rescheduled for the next week. Tuesday, we both said, sounded fine.

I got a call from him that Sunday. Tuesday was going to be difficult, he told me, because it was his son’s first birthday. (Did I mention he’s divorced with two small children? Sorry, I was too busy willfully beating away the red flags to mention it earlier.) Of course I understood, I told him, that’s quite a milestone! And Wednesday he would have his kids, he told me, so maybe we could try for next week? Next week was a plan, I told him. “Though I have to wonder if your son’s birthday has changed since last week, when we made these plans,” I did not tell him.


Attempt #3:

I was, believe it or not, still looking forward to our date this time. We continued to talk on the phone and generally enjoy each other’s (somewhat detached) company. I did feel that Shawshank was still as invested in this as I was, and that our issues up until now had been nothing more than a scheduling conflict. Tuesday was going to be great.

Monday, he called.

He sounded a bit wrecked. He was going to be required to work Tuesday night, and there was no way he could get out of it. There was a thing, with a guy, at that place. You know? But, he pleaded, couldn’t we try for the next night, Wednesday? If you have to work, you have to work, said I. Wednesday it is.


Attempt #4:

He called on Tuesday.

“So where are we going for dinner tomorrow?” I asked him, my voice smiling.

“Well…” He sounded like he was bracing for something. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk about.”

“No. Come on. [Shawshank]…”

“I’m sorry.” I think he really was, too.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I have to work.”

“Again? What are you, their only employee?”

There launched something of a sob story involving Shawshank’s lieutenant (his superior that asked him to work), who I guess is also a friend. The lieutenant had recently lost his son to suicide, and was not dealing with it well. Shawshank and his peers have been going out of their way to help this guy out, as any decent human being would probably do in that position. So, said Shawshank, while he didn’t exactly have to work, he really wants to be there for his friend.

I had no leg to stand on. I certainly did not like hearing that he had made the choice to skip out on me, but how do you argue with the family of a suicide victim without sounding like Anne Coulter? I was profoundly disappointed, but I had difficulty getting angry.

When I didn’t immediately tell him to go to hell, as I think he expected I would, Shawshank said that he didn’t want to wait any more than I did. Instead of waiting a whole week again, he decided that he would try to come to Omaha for a quick date before he had to go to work on Sunday. This would mean brunch, or an early lunch. Still disappointed, but not entirely willing to give up yet, I agreed.

“Of course, since I’ll be going straight to work afterward,” said Shawshank, “I’ll have to wear my uniform.”

“So everyone will assume that I am a dangerous convict you are escorting around? That’ll be swell.”

“No, not unless you’re in handcuffs, which I promise to leave in the car.”

“I should wear an orange jumpsuit. Or stripes.”

“…”

“I’m glad you don’t carry a gun.”


Attempt #5:

He called me Saturday night. I sort of expected it.

This time, he had a flat tire. It apparently happened before he had to go to work on Saturday, which means he didn’t have time to replace the donut he had installed before Sunday. He couldn’t drive to Omaha on the donut, he told me, and since I have no experience with cars that doesn’t involve exorcism, I have to suppose that’s true. His plan was to get it fixed in the morning. I tried to explain to him that he wasn’t likely to find a tire shop open early enough on a Sunday morning for him to get his tire changed, drive to Omaha, have lunch with me, and then drive back to Lincoln in time to get to work. He sounded optimistic though, and promised to call me in the morning and let me know how it went. I offered to drive to Lincoln to meet him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Which was good, because I didn’t want to drive to Lincoln and was just trying to be polite.

When he called Sunday morning, of course it was bad news.

At this point, I was sick and tired of these iron-clad excuses. It wasn’t fair. None of the ruinous events thus far had been things I could justifiably get angry about. This wasn’t like Triathlete. This wasn’t an easy “Oh, no you di’int!” issue for me. It was a completely different kind of frustration…because I really wanted to be angry and I wasn’t sure I was allowed.

This was the last time I would reschedule with him. We made very firm plans at a specific restaurant at 7:00 Tuesday night. I wrote it down immediately, so there would be no confusion. I told him this was it: “If it doesn’t happen on Tuesday, it doesn’t happen at all.” He agreed. “You will not be working that night.” He assured me he would not allow it.


Attempt #6, for crying out loud:

I was very ready Tuesday. I had not received any cancellation phone calls, which I took as a good sign. It was a beautiful, sunny day…until about T minus two hours, when the sky folded in on itself and everything went dark as it started to storm. I wondered if someone was trying to tell me something.

As I drove toward the restaurant, my windshield wipers were barely able to scrape the cats and dogs off my windshield. Visibility was low, and the lightning was menacing. But I was determined to do this thing, and I was sure that once the date got started, the rain would seem very far away.

On my way, I gave Shawshank a call on his cell phone. No answer. I left a message that said, “Hey, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t stuck in the nasty storms we’re having. See you soon.” It was 6:50 pm. Our date was scheduled for 7:00 sharp. (I double-super-checked.)

My umbrella and I walked into the restaurant at 7:01. The lobby was empty. I checked with the host to see if anyone was waiting for the rest of their party.

“Are you Karen?” I shook my head as he looked back at his list. “Rose? Chris? Kristen? Jen?”

“I am none of those people.”

“Well, feel free to look around the first floor for your party, or you can wait in the lobby.”

I didn’t know how to explain to the host that I probably wouldn’t recognize my party if I hit him with my car, so I took a seat in the lobby. I took the opportunity to smooth my hair and calm my nerves as I watched couples and groups file in through the big double doors.

At 7:15, I wondered if I had somehow gotten the time wrong. After all, I’d been here before. What if we said 7:30? I gave Shawshank’s cell phone a ring again, but again I got his voicemail. I did not leave a message.

I continued to watch people come and go, trying to determine if any of them belonged to me. It was pretty clear that they did not…the few single people that walked in showed no response when I caught their eye, and they soon disappeared as the host led them to the rest of their party. Meanwhile, the host kept one eye on me for 15…30…45 minutes as I sat alone, watching him clean menus.

Finally, at 7:50, I got up and told the host, “If a guy named [Shawshank] shows up, please tell him I’m at the bar.” I needed a drink.

As I ordered my vodka & tonic with a lime twist, I kept an eye on the door and thought about my predicament. I had really wanted this to work. I can’t explain why I gave him six chances when I only gave Triathlete one, except to say that I liked this boy, and I thought we were on the same page. I guess we were reading different books.

When there was nothing left of my drink but ice and a sad little lime, I grabbed my umbrella and went home in the rain. It was 8:15 when I left the restaurant, and I called Shawshank one more time. Again, I got his voicemail. I left him an even-tempered but sufficiently guilt-trippy message that told him where I was, what time it was, and that I was going home.

I have not heard back.

It would take quite a lot to engender a Shawshank Redemption at this point. I’m done; I have to be. Whatever excuse he has is not going to cut it (if he even bothers to contact me), unless it involves him lying unconscious at the scene of an accident with a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hands as “I Will Always Love You” plays over the barely-functioning, rain-soaked radio or something. And even if he does have an excuse that makes some sort of sense, I don’t think there’s any way I can convince myself that this isn’t terribly indicative of things to come.

Dammit.

I am reminded of my own words: “Who makes a date, sets the time and place, and then doesn’t go out of their way to keep said date?”

It’s not all that uncommon a practice, it turns out.