Double Dating with God

It seems only fitting to follow "An Ode" with another beast born of inspiration's seed. Written years ago, "Double Dating with God" is still one of my favorite pieces, and I remember when the muse struck me how torn I was over what form this piece could take. I was clear to me then, as it is now, that it fit well as a short story, and could be an exceedingly brilliant play. I was a much younger writer then, and I found that the number of silly ideas I had and wanted to incorporate into the story would have been difficult to bring to life on stage. I suppose I could adapt it to a short film, but I think, looking back; and looking forward; that I like it just as it is. This was one of those pieces that leaped from the tip of the pen to the paper, and I remember chuckling wildly as I wrote. I chuckle reading it still, come to think of it. So, without further ado, and hope fully a laugh or two;


Double Dating with God

Stan glanced in the mirror uneasily as he attempted once again to straighten his tie. It was one of those beautiful affairs, cross-hashed black on white, but one couldn't tell as the cross-hashing was so fine that the entire tie looked grey. Neither of these details explained why his tie looked crooked, however. It was crooked simply because Stan had inexpertly tied it that way. Yet; somehow it managed to compliment his shirt as the buttons were all one off. Stan simply hadn't realized it yet. It might have been because Stan was nervous. Bob "Teh 60d" Henderson was his programmer friend and he had set Stan up with his friend Alice for a double, half blind date.



The most remarkable thing that could be said about Stan was that he was entirely and utterly unremarkable. He had unremarkable hair over an unremarkable face on an unremarkable body. This marvelous characteristic had some minor influences upon his life. Anything he had ever done was just as unremarkable as he. One time, as a kid, Stan was told the word gullible could not be found in the dictionary. Stan, of course, believed them and went to check. He didn’t find it. When he came back, the others were so convinced by his earnest agreement to the fact that they all had to check themselves because, of course, they never had. As it turned out, Stan was an unremarkably bad speller.

Stan had very good people skills, which of course is only true if one considers computers as people. People, however; are not computers; they're people, which left Stan with a number of marketable skills that could only be counted on one hand. Most of the dates he had been on were first dates and all of them were blind dates because Stan just couldn't be trusted to get his own name straight when talking to any member of the opposite sex, excepting, perhaps, his mother,

Stan glanced at the clock and realized he was running late. It was as if the devil himself was trying to make it so. First he couldn't find his keys, then, when he had found them, he raced out the door, to discover that where he had parked his white Volkswagen Rabbit was no longer where it was parked. Not sure whether he was more angry that his car was missing, or that this might make him totally late for his date, Stan hurriedly dialed the police as he hailed a cab.

Well, he'd intended on hailing a cab, but he lived in suburbia where cabs only go when they've been called in. Stan closed his flip phone without realizing that he had been trying to report his car stolen, nor did it occur to him that his car was still stolen as he reopened his cell and 411-ed a cab company. "Do you have to sell your soul to get a cab these days?" he thought to his much frustrated self as he called a fifth company. The first four companies had told him it would be twenty, then thirty, then forty-five minutes before they would be able to pick him up. The fifth company said they could pick him up in ten, and Stan did not realize he had wasted ten minutes trying to get a cab to begin with and would have been just as late and $3.96 richer had he gone with the first company. He looked at his watch and sighed. He sat on his front stoop to wait, still forgetting that his car was missing.

He did not think it took him ten minutes (which it didn't) to get comfortable upon the rough brick steps of his stoop, yet it must have been so, he thought to himself, as a brilliantly bright, fire engine red cab screeched to a spectacular stop right where Stan's as yet still unnoticed missing car was supposed to have been. Stan got up, the bottom of his good slacks now covered with dust and grim, and raced down to the waiting cab. He only barely noticed the Hieronymus Bosch interior to the cab, and didn't really pay much attention to the soulless screams coming from the radio. Stan wasn't really instep with what ever this modern music mess was anyway. Admittedly he enjoyed such fringe bands as The Cure and he occasionally listened to The Ramons, but all and all he was a solid Beatles type of man.

The cab driver, who wore some, what must have been nifty sun glasses (they were strangely back lit in red), smiled a very thin and very toothy smile and asked where he could drive Stan. "Oh ... uh ... this restaurant called ... Veritus Mundus ... I'm meeting my friend Bob Henderson for dinner. I'm running a little late, though, and I don't know if you can get me there very fast, but... uh ... it would be appreciated..." If the driver had been a cock, his crest would have fallen, as it was, the backlight on his glasses seemed to have dimmed considerably.

"No problem boss." His toothy smile didn't look nearly so sincere this time. "I know a short cut." It had only just dawned on Stan that it was night, and the streetlights certainly didn't seem bright enough to justify sunglasses. He shrugged it off. As if reading his mind however, the driver said, "Don't worry about my Son-glasses, mister. I lost my regular glasses, and I couldn't hit an angel without them." Stan could have sworn the cabby's tongue was forked, but that was the way with these young people these days, tattoos and piercings and all.

It seemed as if they raced off nearly twice as fast as the cab had come in. Stan, who didn't often drive into the city and had seldom ridden in a cab, let himself believe that, though it only took about twenty minutes to get there, a hundred dollars wasn't such a bad deal. That was what the meter said, anyway. He really wondered how much the long route would have cost. Still, he was very glad to be on time, even if he did have to pay with his credit card. Stan earnestly prayed that Bob was paying for this double date. As Stan got out of the cab, the driver turned and smiled. "Hey boss, I know the manager here, goes by Luis, tell him Bezzy says hello."

"Ah ... sure thing Bezzy," he returned. It only occurred to Stan after Bezzy had floored the gas and zoomed off down the street that he had forgotten to tip. "To late now," he mumbled to himself.

Veritus Mundus was a very sheik and sophisticated place which Stan would never have come to if he hadn't been invited: so much so that Stan had never even heard of the place until Bob had told him where they were going. The outside was done up in a very traditional red brick while the double doors appeared to be mahogany. A small unlit sign (in some lettering that didn't want to stay put) read Veritus Mundus. The restaurant's facade was so sheik and sophisticated that most people like Stan felt uncomfortable standing anywhere near it.

The doorman was an unusually pale and thin fellow who seemed to have an inordinate interest in anyone and anything that passed by. Stan would have sworn the man had only shadows beneath his brow, had he not caught a glimpse of the man's barely visible grey eyes. The doorman's sharp suit, cut from very fine black silk, did not hide the bones tattooed on the back of his hands. Stan only just noticed his name-tag; thin and slightly crescent; bore the name Morty, as the doorman opened the door, and smiled a seemingly lipless smile just for him.

The lounge and bar at the front of the restaurant were done up nicely in white filigreed columns splendidly lit in white lighting, and though it all should have been very bright, it somehow managed instead to be slightly subdued. The people sitting in the bar seemed to be having a gay old time, cracking jokes and smiling; by far the happiest people Stan had ever seen. A quaint little sign by the arches leading to the bar had a list of specials like; Ambrosia, Ichor, Honey Mead, and Cristo Sauvignon (House Special Wine). Standing by a little podium near the archway leading into the main patio stood a maitre d' dressed in a rather loose white on a light-grey pin striped suit. He wore a sharp little silver tag that reminded Stan of pilot's wings with a key set over them, and which had the name Peter written in a language Stan had never seen before yet could nevertheless read.

"Name," requested the balding grey haired Peter as Stan reached the podium.

"Stan Jacobson. I'm supposed to be meeting Bob Henderson for dinner."

"Ah, yes. Of course. Step right this way Mr. Jacobson. Mr. Henderson has already been seated." Beyond the podium stretched hundreds of tables of all shapes and sizes around which sat a variety of people. They descended down a wide staircase with pearly white handrails, Peter leading the way. At one table a very round, short and jolly man appeared to be having an argument with a thin, slightly emaciated looking one. A bag sat next to the jolly man full of what looked to Stan like plants, as well as candies and other things. The waiters had just reached their table and the larger one received a plate over flowing with food while the thin one had gotten a plate with but a single grain of rice. In a corner booth, two people (one of whom was startlingly blue) sat wrapped in each others arms, ignoring the monkey who was flying over their heads. Further down the way sat a table with a very large hammer upon it. A chair was pulled out, and the napkin on the seat suggested whoever sat there must have been in the bathroom. A large stage was set on the right wall and dancing upon it was a most unusual figure with four arms and who was encircled by flames. No one really seemed to be paying much attention to the dancer, though, even as he trod repeatedly upon a squat, ugly looking dwarf. Where the back wall should have been lay a series of arches which overlooked the kitchen. Every once in a while the flames would throw up some very disturbing shadows that, had Stan been paying attention, would have reminded him of the decorations in his cab. "Here you are Mr. Jacobson," said Peter as he pulled out Stan's chair.

Bob was sitting at a nice round table toward the middle of the floor with a woman on either side of him. They were all laughing as Stan walked up. Bob rose, "Stan, so glad you could make it. No trouble finding the place I hope."

"Ah, no trouble Bob, the cabby knew the place just fine."

"Really?" asked Bob intrigued. "I would like to meet the cab driver who knows about this place. Forgive me. Stan let me introduce to you these two lovely ladies. This is my girlfriend Mary; and this is Alice. She's from England. Funny story. First time we met Alice she fell through a mirror and toppled into me. Don't look at me like that Alice; it's only the truth after all. Kind of embarrassing actually. I was in the dressing room at the time. It was really quite remarkable. Anyway, Alice, meet your date for this evening ... Stan Jacobson."

"... Oh ... hi. I'm ... uh ... Stan," he said, running his hand through his hair, ruining a perfectly good cut.

"Nice to meet you," Alice said, extending her hand, palm down. Gripped by some idea he never afterward was able to explain, Stan bowed and kissed Alice's hand. Immediately afterwards he flushed a brilliant shade of red.

"Stan, is it? Bob as been telling us many great things about you," said Mary.

"Come now, sit down. I'll have the waiters bring us some more water." Bob didn't so much as ask as command; yet not so much command, but more of requesting in such a manner that said he truly understood how rough the life, yet still leaving absolutely no doubt that he meant to be obeyed. At once. Sure enough, a waiter appeared not ten seconds later with four glasses, four menus and a carafe full of water. Stan hastened to avoid eye contact with the blond haired Alice and dove behind his menu. He listened to the soft deep drone of Bob's voice as he continued chatting with the ladies. Stan reached out for his cup and took a sip. His eyes blinked from his menu to his glass a few times as Bob said something like, "Oh, just something I learned from our son." In Stan's hand was quite a delicious wine he did not remember ordering. Over Bob's shoulder grim shadows played on the kitchen wall. Alice was looking at him. Again. Stan opened his mouth, and his tongue fell out. Only then did he notice how truly beautiful she was. Surely that angelic glow wasn't natural, though. Must be makeup, Stan thought to himself.

Alice was one of those people who are so remarkable that anything she did was made unremarkable by the sheer dint that everything she did was remarkable. If Alice was standing on a crowded street in the middle of the rain, the clouds would break and a slim beam of light would shine just on Alice as she walked; she was just that remarkable. Especially to the extent that she noticed Stan.

And then she spoke to him. He had been so engrossed by her remarkable beauty that it took him a few moments to register her equally remarkable, soft, warm and open voice. It took a few moments more to register what exactly she had said. Then, most remarkably of all, Stan answered. And Alice listened. Alice listened with the most remarkable attention to the most remarkable of rejoinders Stan had ever delivered, regardless of the fact that he had the most unremarkable voice and wit. And she laughed, delighted in the man before her.

Their waiter was a most stunning man with wavy brown hair dressed almost exactly like Peter except that this man's tag (still in that foreign yet understandable script) had a spear instead of a key. And his name was Michael not Peter. Bob ordered filet mignon much to the distress of the fellow on stage (he seemed intent upon not opening what looked like a third eye.) Mary ordered a ploughman's snack, which according to the menu was salad, bread, and an assortment of cheeses. Stan didn't quite hear what Alice ordered, but he heard her say to Mary, "It just screams 'Eat Me'". Stan ordered oysters and took another sip of wine from his full cup. He swore he'd taken a couple sips at the very least and he had no recollection of Bob refilling anyone's glasses. The decanter (hadn't it been a carafe before) still stood there full. The thought only lasted a moment as Alice had started talking to him again. Not even Stan's mother had endured this much conversation with him. He had to admit that he had never met anyone so remarkable before.

As much as Stan was drawn to his conversation with Alice, he could not help overhearing Bob and Mary's, most of which seemed to revolve around their son. Stan wasn't aware that Bob had a son, let alone with Mary, but then there were a lot of things that Stan wasn't aware of. Like toga parties. That popped into Stan's head only because a few tables over there seemed to be a large number of rather tall and striking looking people who kept glancing over at Bob, snickering; and all of them happened to be wearing togas. He mentioned it, but Bob just shrugged and muttered something about lightening flying out of someone's ass. Stan blinked, and suddenly one of the toga-ed people was standing next to Bob. It seemed rather odd to be wearing a helmet indoors. Stan wondered if the man rode a motorcycle and if the wings on the helmet helped his control.

"So Bob," spoke the man with an accent somewhat Athenian, somewhat Roman.

"Yes Merc?" returned Bob.

"We heard a good one the other day, and we wanted to share it with you."

Bob nodded with a slight frown. "Go on."

"So Jessy is said to be the Lamb of God..."

"Yes, but only because the sheep's bladder broke," finished Bob, a bit testily. "What's the joke?"

"Urn...," swallowed Merc. "That was the joke."

"Oh," said Bob smiling. "No joke, it's truth. It's not like old Zed never made any mistakes either, though."

Merc smiled at that. "Indeed, but Zed never made them go through such a show."

"Between Zed and June, there really wasn't much choice in being screwed over, now was there?"

"True dat. Well, sorry to interrupt Bob."

"Enjoy your dinner Merc," waved Bob.

"A little rude of them don't you think?" asked Mary after a moment. "Jessy's a good boy."

"Yeah, but what are you gonna do? Sorry about that Stan, Alice. They're just a few guys from this club I belong to. Where were we? Oh yes. So..." Bob began to rant again; spinning humorous tales of some of his favorite programming errs. Stan's attention drifted back toward Alice, who was staring again. Conversation had gotten into full swing once again by the time dinner came.

Bob's filet mignon was a prime example of minimalist French impressionism, with the whole meal covering less than a third of the plate, though the sauces and butters coated what wasn't food. According to the menu, when one had finished it, one was left with the impression of having eaten, without the unfortunate feeling of food in the stomach. Mary's ploughman's snack by comparison was an eden of greenery and cheese in a huge bowl that could feed small African nations for weeks. Alice had apparently ordered cheese-stuffed mushrooms that came sautéed atop a heap of angel hair and casually dressed in a dark and mysterious sauce. Bob muttered something like, "Not the food of visions," which Stan only barely heard and didn't register as his focus was entirely upon his own plate whose Seussical design bore a distinct lack of any of the oysters he had ordered.

"Uh...excuse me Michael," caught Stan before the waiter had turned away. "I ordered oysters."

"Oh, forgive me sir. I'll just have a word with the cooks." Michael took up the plate and stormed off toward the kitchen, flaming sword in hand.

Over on the stage, the four armed dancer had left and been replaced with a strangely costumed, bare-chested man who was playing a Pan-flute in the most delicious melodies to a drunken robed man circled by nearly a dozen laughing, crazy women (who looked as if they might turn vicious at any moment) all of whom moshed in front of the stage. Michael returned in a moment with Stan's plate, which to anyone with any imagination looked a little too much like the Birth of Venus in the hands of Salvador Dali. Oysters, carrots and asparagus stalks adorned his plate on a bed made up of mostly arugula. In the bathroom Aphrodite was blushing furiously.

Conversation resumed amid the clanking of silverware and between mouthfuls of food. Bob waited until everyone was well into their meals before he even started. He was the noisiest eater among them and had the least amount of grace.

Stan was intoxicated. Not by Bob's eating, nor what must have been his fifth glass of wine. (No matter that the decanter stood as full as ever). No; Stan was intoxicated instead by Alice. He was warmed to the core that such a remarkable woman could make such an unremarkable man feel so remarkable. Every time his eyes strayed to her they were already looking at him. So it was that Alice was intoxicated too. She had never before met so remarkable a man as to make her feel so unremarkable, in the most remarkable of ways. Either that or it was the wine.

Their talking was not so diverse as earlier as they became more engrossed by their food. As their hunger and their dinners tapered off, conversation blossomed once more. Stan and Bob were having an in-depth discussion of quantum physics, which Bob seemed to know a great deal about (and which Stan didn't) while Mary and Alice talked more about Mary's son Jessy and the great things he had done. And how poorly his followers followed. Mary seemed to think that most of them weren't interested in following as much as leading other men. Alice did a remarkable job pretending to be interested even as she tried with great subtlety and determination to change the subject. Her failure was remarkable. Mary was rather single minded about the things she wanted to talk about. Alice was saved after a suitable period of torture by fortune when a sharp dressed man approached the table silhouetted by a rather longer, brighter, clearer and grimmer series of flares from the kitchen.

"Hello, I'm Luis, the manager. How was everything tonight?" He was smashingly outfitted in a blacker than black suit and tie with a blood red dress shirt. A, what could only be described as horned, name-tag read Manager, and beneath that Luis L'Devon. A nicely trimmed and very thin goatee traced his angelic features.

"I couldn't help noticing your socks as you walked up," began Stan before anyone had a chance to speak. "May I see them?"

"Of course sir," returned Luis, though he seemed a little embarrassed. The manager turned his ankle a little and tugged up the leg of his slacks bearing to Stan his socks in their full glory. Even Bob seemed to lean over the table in interest. On Luis' black socks were graceful depictions of a Bettie Page type woman done up as naked devils actively doing all kinds of devious and more than faintly erotic poses.

"Where ever did you get them?" asked Stan.

"Oh," returned Luis. "I had them custom made many years ago." He smiled a very arm and sinister smile. "Now my dear boy, I am very sorry for the trouble with your meal. I will, of course, deduct that from your bill."

"Oh thank you, that's very kind."

"Don't mention it," smirked Luis. "Would you care for an after dinner bottle of wine?"

"It is said," returned Stan, "that man does not get drunk on wine alone."

"So true," smiled the unperturbed Luis. "But wine does tend to make one a little sleepy. Perhaps I could interest you in some after dinner coffee? I would hate for you to dash your foot upon a stone as you leave our humble restaurant."

"It is said, thy shall not put your drunk driving to the test, no matter how awake the coffee has made you. I'll be taking a cab and I'm not really that fond of coffee." answered Stan.

"Of course. If one has no need for coffee, than one has no need. But you cannot leave without dessert, can you?"

"It is said that there is only one true dessert to be had after a romantic dinner. I couldn't eat another bite. The oysters were delicious."

"Indeed my good man," interjected Bob. "We could do with the bill, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Of course sir," answered Luis. "By your will be done."

"Oh, Luis," caught Stan just as Luis turned to leave. "A cab driver named Bezzy told me to tell you hello."

"Really? Well, he always seemed to like going where people told him too," smirked Luis as he disappeared in a flourish of coattails.

Michael returned a few minutes later with the bill which Bob was quick to grab, much to Stan's pleasure, though he thought he heard Bob mumble something about "answering goddamn prayers." Alice had just been asking him if he'd ever smoked from a water pipe, so he didn't quite catch the comment. Conversation continued for a few minutes after Bob had gotten his receipt. Then Alice stood, apologizing, but saying she had better get a move on nonetheless.

"Which way are you heading?" asked Stan.

"Oh," answered Alice. "I live over on Looking Glass Lane."

"Really? Smashing. I live on Mulberry Street, we could share a cab."

"Oh that's brilliant," smiled Bob. "You guy's go ahead. Mary and I are going to stay around a little while. Jessy's going to be showing up soon. He got a return engagement here with his comedy routine. It's an after hour's party for that club that I mentioned earlier."

"Well, I hope his second coming goes well. Thank you so much for dinner Bob, it was great." thanked Stan, shaking Bob's hand. "It really was a pleasure."

"I'm glad you showed up. Really. Truly. Youse guys be safe, now," said Bob in great imitation of Brooklynese.

"It was so good meeting you," hugged Mary. "Too bad you can't stay and see our son. Club exclusive and all."

"Well," sighed Alice looking a little tired. "Maybe we’ll be able to join it some day. Goodnight."

"A pleasure, really," thanked Stan again. "Bob. Mary." Alice was already heading toward the front and Stan hopped up to follow. Peter wished them a good night. Stan said something like "see you later" to Morty the doorman, who just smiled liplessly and said "Certainly." As they stood there waiting for a cab Alice and Stan talked about how odd Mary and Bob were. Alice in particular seemed to be glad to leave them behind, though even Stan admitted that he felt less pressure talking to Alice now that they had left Bob with what appeared to be his close friends. "It's a little selfish if you ask me," said Stan. "Inviting people to some place when you know they can't stay for the after hours party." Alice didn't think it was that remarkable, though she was glad she had been invited along.

The cab they caught together was the standard yellow affair with grey interior and a silent cabby listening to light music. Strangely enough, Stan was far less drunk once they left the street, Olympus Avenue (he thought the sign said) and headed toward the suburbs. As they pulled into Looking Glass Lane, Alice leaned over and gave Stan the most remarkable kiss. "Want to come in for some dessert?" she asked a few minutes later when their lips had parted and breath had returned. "I would love some," answered Stan. They got out of the cab and entered 101 Looking Glass Lane and Mr. Jacobson showed Alice just how remarkable he was.