Blind Date (A work in progress)

Mundane as it may sound, the job of package destination regulator has to be filled by someone. I, Carol, inspector #5, spend my 9-5’s waving a wand over UPS destination codes and listening for the signature “BEEEP” noting a successful routing job. The pay is fair, though, and the atmosphere whirs and buzzes with an excitement that only an insider could appreciate. In fact, the hum of the packing machines and the cacophonic din of the gears sound like music by the end of my shift. Maybe I’ve been working here a little too long.

Besides life at UPS, and the perk of having to wear that brown uniform, I am currently stuck in the doldrums. On Saturday nights while the city clubs, drinks, carouses, and indulges in a gamut of weekend sins to the point where some wake up in jail or under a park bench, I bide my time by watching “Happy Days” reruns with my cat Malcolm and a bowl of Jiffy Pop. Don’t get me wrong, a quiet evening at home every once in a while is not necessarily a bad thing. When it gets to the point where your close friends have reported you missing to the police because they have not seen you in so long, then there is a problem.

On one sweltering summer afternoon last week, my best friend Judy came up with the fantastic idea that could possibly end my ongoing bout with boredom: a blind date. Apparently, it hit her while she was slipping a Slush Puppy outside of the Seven Eleven. She was on her afternoon break from her job as an assistant to the assistant associate legal secretary at the office of Sheister, Crookz, and Carlson. Anyway, it was one of those painfully hot days when everyone without air-conditioning parked it on the porch for the afternoon, looking as if they were waiting for a parade. Even the ice cream man went out of business that day because all his goodies were melted and the neighborhood kids formed a mini-militia to hijack the truck because they just wanted their ice cream. So while I sat in a heat induced stupor, Judy called me to share her brilliant plan. She knew I would be home anyway because my boss dismisses us during heat waves ever since Rob the label guy passed out due to lack of fresh and sticker glue fume inhalation.
When she called I was playing solitaire. Coincidence? I think not.

“Hello, Inspector #..I mean Carol Speaking.”

“Carol, It’s Judy!”

I had to pull the phone away from my ear because she was yelling. She just bought a cell phone and did not know how to use it.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing…”

“Well his name is Frank and he will pick you up at seven.”

She hung up the phone. Because the conversation had begun and ended so abruptly, it took a minute for me to realize that I been suckered into one of Judy’s matchmaking schemes, and her reputation for this sort of thing was not satisfactory at all. Two of her “dates” ended up on one of those unsolved crime TV shows, and one woman put a restraining order on her match before the date even ended. Due to my apparent state of delirium, I decided to go through with the evening anyway.
As I got ready for the date I realized I had nothing to wear. Now I am not one of those women who place a limp wrist to the forehead, feign a swoon, and cry over having nothing while being surrounded by mounds of clothes. Given that I had not been shopping in over a year, the wardrobe situation was definitely a problem. Besides the plethora of brown uniforms, and an old pirate wench Halloween costume, my selections were grim. I thought about borrowing something from Judy, than retracted the notion. She loves those stores where you walk in with forty dollars, and walk out with three bags of cheap, bright, skin tight, poorly made clothes. I imagined getting up to use the restroom during my date and having a sleeve fall off. That happened to Judy once.
So after a bit of searching and a lot of creativity, I came up with a presentable ensemble that did not contain any brown. Next on my list was shoes, hair, shower, and makeup. A knock on the door, however, thwarted my beautification plans and I ran to answer.

“Could it be him?” I mused out loud.

I checked my watch. Not even close to seven. When I opened the door, a tall bald man with a bad suit and breath to match, steamrolled into my apartment. Before I could say a word, he dumped a large bag of dirt onto my carpet. He was holding a vacuum cleaner in the other hand.

“Are you the lady of the house? I bet you are. Well see this mess here? It is no problem for the Hefty Vac. This little machine just eats up any kind of mess. Watch closely.”

He reached over, plugged it in, and flipped the switch. The vacuum let out an asthmatic wheeze, a loud cough, and then died.

“Sorry, ma’am. Heh, this has never happened before.”

“Likely story. How many times have I heard a man say that?”

“Well, gotta run.”

He ran out leaving me with a mound of dirt and a headache. Judy called soon after to inform me that Frank would rather meet at six. I looked at my watch and panicked: it was fifteen minutes until six. Immediately, nervousness took over and I began frantically cleaning the mess from the Hefty Vac man. The crotchety old lady downstairs banged on her ceiling, implying that I needed to “settle down.” She was always incessantly banging with that broom. I often wonder if she ever uses it to clean her house, instead of regulating her neighbors with it. With lightening speed, I finished getting ready, scooped up Malcolm and sat down on the couch.
As if on cue, the buzzer rang. It was show time. Part of me just wanted to ignore it, while the more rational side of me would never pass up a free meal.

“Just a minute.”

I answered the door, and was greeted by an all too familiar brown uniform.

“Oh, a package. Just a sec, let me get a pen..”

He laughed. His eyes were bright blue, and his glasses kept slipping to the tip of his nose.
“No, no Carol. It’s me Frank, I am your date.”