"What?" I asked.
“L’Elizabeth went out of business."
L’Elizabeth was a stylish bar we went to for dessert after dinner years ago on our first date.
“I can still smell their coffee,” she warmly reminisced.
She recalled many fond memories of our first date, all seasoned with youthful optimism for our future together. They were fond for me too. Well most of the them anyway. I do recall the smell of the fresh ground, brewed exotic coffees long before Starbucks. The interior was furnished with worn leather love seats and oversized chairs arranged to form small places to sit comfortably and chat. Dimly lit, the atmosphere was adorned in a Victorian flair with many interesting antiques. I had the white chocolate cheese cake for dessert while Christine opted for the tiramisu.
Earlier we had a fine dinner at a restaurant in a historic, repurposed stone building followed by our attendance of a small gathering to listen to the Rhode Island Poet Laureate read some of his works before he put down his quill and retired. I once read that Elvis Presley never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable experience. This is why they always announced,
“Elvis has left the building!”
That’s how I approached dating Christine back in the day. I always wanted our dates to be memorable. I took her to musicals, the circus, comedy clubs, state fairs, museums as well as artsy events like poetry readings. While the competition were bringing women to the movies and chain restaurants with extensive salad bars, I was a renaissance man offering an unforgettable experience like meeting Elvis. There was no sneeze shields on our dates nor were we going see sit through Smokey and the Bandit either.
“You remember how romantic it was sitting next to each other on a small sofa and talking the night away,” Christine fondly remembered. I recalled that magical night as well, everything was perfect. Well almost everything.
"So tell me, how did you get your breadth so fresh?" she asked.
When we shared our first kiss later in the night, my mouth was minty fresh. This always puzzled Christine. Years later when our relationship advanced to occasional moon vapor in front of each other, she would ask how I managed to clean my mouth on our first date. Now, I saw Titanic, a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets. A man's is a shallow pool of smut, but eventually, a good woman reigns us in, and we settle down to begin the lengthy process of making copies of ourselves.
"Did you use mints?" she asked.
A man keeps a woman by being buff and mysterious, but not too much of each. That's why women like Sudokus and escape rooms but respond negatively to road rage. I vowed never to reveal this one secret; after all, a man has to keep something for himself other than the remote control.
"My breadth is naturally fresh," I offered.
Back then I was a fitness fanatic. I pumped iron and downed supplements daily. For the protein I ate tunafish straight from the can for lunch. I was also a road cyclist who had competed in distance events. There wasn’t a supplement I wouldn’t ingest. I would read an article about creatine or DHEA, liquid amino acids or protein powder, anything that might give me an edge, then I would try it. I’m not sure if any of that stuff worked, but what it did do occasionally is cause my digestion to go awry.
On our first date, Christine and I ate a lot of rich food for dinner. Later we enjoyed wine and dessert at L’Elizabeth. The protein drink, creatine, and liquid amino acids were brewing in my stomach along with the many notes of the gourmet chow we had for dinner, chased by a slice of white chocolate cheese cake topped with raspberries. In the middle of gazing into Christine's eyes, my lower guts started to percolate as the chemistry in my intestines went critically endothermic, or in layman's terms, I had to take a wicked shit. I excused myself for the bathroom which I found to be a little bigger than the loo on an airplane, but much more nicely appointed. As the situation escalated, I became concerned that I would crap myself so I removed my pants and hung them up next to my suit jacket on the door, then I removed my shirt and tie. I sat in that tiny toilet in my underwear, flushing regularly so as to not overwhelm the ancient plumbing.
Now, no bride ever told an amusing story on her wedding day as to how the groom shit himself on their first date because a woman will not only ghost you if you crap your pants, she'll move to another city. I think it's one of their secrets. I knew if I didn’t evacuate quickly and get back in the game, Christine would suspect something was up (in this case down) which would lead to an awkward explanations as to why I was taking so long in the crapper. When dating you want to portray yourself as the picture of health, a virile alpha male. Often I avoided leather seats on first dates because sometimes sitting on them can simulate the sound of a gas leak. That was challenge enough. While passing monkey's breadth on a first date will buy you ten minutes in the penalty box, shitting your pants will get you ejected from the game.
When she finally made it to the alter after a painfully slow horse drawn carriage ride from her parent's house to the church, the first thing Christine said was,
"Gum?"
"Don't have any," I said.
"That's how you got your breadth so fresh," she declared.
I shook my head and grinned the grin of a mystery man. But before the future would unfold, I needed to extract myself from the wee bathroom and get back on stage before my absence caused concern. Things were off script as my fourth flush revealed a dwindling roll of toilet paper. Rifling through the cabinet under the sink, I wasn't able to find a back up roll. This caused me to proceed with greater conservation as I neared the end of the shit tickets.
Years later in the middle of excruciating contractions during the birth of our first child, Christine turned to me between waves of pain and said,
"Listerine strips?"
"They hadn't been invented yet," I reasoned.
But now I was contemplating wiping my ass with the cardboard tube if it came to that. Luckily the crap canon fodder held out as all five feet of my large and 23 feet of my small intestines purged their contents
Once I was on a screenwriters panel for placing in the finals of prestigious contest. When we wrapped up with a Q&A session, the moderator unknowingly called on Christine in the audience.
"This question is for Robert. I really enjoyed your screenplay. Very satisfying story arc. Did you use mouthwash in the middle of our first date?"
"Thank you, but no."
Back in the tiny bathroom, satisfied that everything in my gut had been successfully purged all the way back to the Milk Duds I ate in third grade, I quickly put on my pants and shirt then straightened my tie, then I pulled from my pants pocket a small travel sized toothpaste and a toothbrush in which I sawed off the handle then proceeded to brush my teeth. I threw both in the trash as I exited with my suit jacket.
There are many events adorned with fine details that lace a first date. The only uncertainty for me as I looked into Christine's eyes on that night was if I was good enough for her. For many years I believed that the kiss later that night sealed the deal. I owe the best things about my childhood to my sister, Jeannine. Everything else good in my life goes to Christine.
Editor's Note: Originally published on September 25, 2018.
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