"Back In The Game”

“Your first time?” In one swift move the blonde woman serves up a toothy smile, checks off my name and hands me a numbered scorecard and name tag.

“Yes, and I…”

“Well, you’re gonna love it…uh…” she quickly glances down at the registration list… “is it Harry? You can go in now, Harry.”

And then, turning her attention to the next registrant before I step away, she starts her next and most genuine “Hi and welcome to HurryDate” schpeil.

The main lounge area is dimly lit and I squint to get my bearings. How the hell will I know if I have chemistry with my dates if I can’t even see them? Shaking my head, I wander into the dark room filled with strange faces and clinking glasses as I clumsily peel the backing off my name tag. Flashing a bright smile from the far end of a long wooden bar I see my friend, Kevin, waving at me. Thank God. Now I have some place to go.

For months, Kevin had lobbied me to attend a speed-dating event with him but I declined all invitations. “It’s the microwave approach to dating,” I’d explain. “I’m more of a crock pot kinda guy,” He’d laugh at my creative rebuffs but always managed to squeeze me again. And, when he finally blurted out an “I’m scared to go alone” confession, I caved in and agreed to go “to one event only, just to see what it’s like.” Now, as I see him laughing, drinking and surrounded by a ten-woman harem, you know what? He doesn’t look all that scared to me.

As I walk toward him, I spot a line of small tables and seats behind the bar area. Each table contains a large numbered card and a single votive which provides much needed light. Slowly, I’m getting a feel for how the process works.

“You wanna enter a raffle?”

Something warm and pleasantly soft nuzzles against my left elbow and I turn to see a cute, brown haired and eyed young lady smiling up at me. A quick look down reveals the delightful nuzzle’s source: the raffler’s exposed upper bosom, nicely nestled in her scanty yellow halter top.
I buy a ticket.

When I reach Kevin, he immediately shoves a cocktail in my hand.

“I can’t believe you roped me into this thing,” I whisper as I guy-hug him, slapping his back.

“I don’t think it’s for me, either,” he confides, maintaining his happy-smile.

I pull back, take a swig of the watered-down drink and continue my reconnaissance.
Across from the bar, six or seven men lean against the wall, each looking uncomfortable and alone. One guy talks on his cell phone while reading The Daily News. He periodically glances up but then quickly lowers his eyes before anyone sees him checking out the goods. I feel queasy. I hated this kind of thing back in my twenties, but to be at such a place now? In my forties? An empty feeling washes over me as I think about my ex-wife, Robin. Is she dating again? Would she ever come to one of these things?

When I first met Robin, it was like two old friends had found their way back to one another. And when we exchanged vows at Montauk Point, I was absolutely sure I was home. Gone were the days of set-ups and blind dates; the search was over. For me, marriage was a great emancipator. And then, nine months ago a letter from New York State unceremoniously informed me of a truth I had been afraid to face much earlier: my marriage was over. A confusing and painful five-year union had finally reached its official end and, according to the government, I was a single man. But the thought of dating again? It didn’t feel quite right to me. And yet, over the past months it seemed like everywhere I looked, couples were holding hands, sharing jokes and laughing with one another. I missed having company at meals, movies and museums. At some point I knew my heart would make another run at it if only because the alternative was unacceptable. The question was – when would I be ready?

“Over here,” a man motions to me with his finger, his eyes closed as he mouths his words. He is short, muscular and sports a black velvet smoking jacket – right out of “Playboy After Dark.” “What a cool cat,” I think. The man continues to summon both Kevin and me from his dark corner station. Apparently this guy has somehow sized us up as two fellow cool cats and feels it’s his duty to teach us the ropes.

“OK, now, here’s the thing,” the man glances over each of his shoulders as though he’s supplying me and Kevin with precious nuclear secrets. “Now listen to me,” he looks over his shoulders again. “Try and get em’ to stand up at some point, you know what I’m sayin’? They’re always sittin’ – so you never ever get to check ‘em out. You understand?” he jabs me in the stomach. “By the way, the name’s Ronnie,” he smiles and extends his thick hand. “What’s your name again? Harold, is it? Now listen…” Ronnie leans in closer to me and lowers his voice. His scotch breath drifts into my nostrils and I back away slightly. “If you think there’s a spark there, fuck the system, you understandin’ me? Get her number, give her a card, do somethin,” he laughs as he swipes beads of forehead sweat with a napkin. “Out here, it’s every man for himself, Harold. Pow. Bing,” he play-punches me in the gut again.

“His name’s, Harry,” Kevin makes sure, of course, to clarify this, pointing to my tag.

“Hey there. Harry. Harold. Horatio…it’s all the same thing, you know what I’m sayin’?” Ronnie’s stomach jiggles as he laughs hard and raises his glass to toast his newest protégés. “Okay - now go get ‘em!”

Fifty numbered men and women and twenty-five tables for two. The women remain in their assigned seats as each guy moves from table to table when prompted by a whistle. Every three minutes, each stationary woman meets a new traveling man. Twenty five whistles. Twenty five dates. All of them hurried. That’s the plan.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

Whistle number one.

Marilyn, (#9), has brown hair, lives in Hoboken, is originally from Forest Hills and works as a financial advisor on Wall Street. Just as we’re about to enter our second minute together someone taps my shoulder. I glance up and see Kevin, his index finger moving across his throat from right to left, in a head-cutting motion.

“I’m outta here. Not for me,” he grins.

Following an awkward lull, I smile, pat Kevin’s arm and then return my attention to Marilyn from Hoboken. As agreed, Kevin and I will wait until the end of the night before we compare notes.

Whistle two. I stand up, shake Marilyn’s hand and start my move to the next table where Carol, (#20, red, West Village, Albany, doctor), sits and marks her scorecard. Unfortunately, it takes my male predecessor about forty seconds to say goodbye to Carol. You know, when you’re dealing with a three minute limit, less this lag-man deduction, it isn’t exactly enough time for dinner and dancing. Come to think of it, it’s hardly enough time for a decent conversation.

By the time I reach my tenth table, graced by #5 – Vickie (dirty blonde, Upper East Side, Boston, lawyer), I’m using a system where I make a quick read, scribble notes and start the speed visit as soon as possible. Curiously, however, I notice how each new date is greeting me with the same opening line: “Didn’t you come here with the guy who left?”

* * * * * * * * * *

As I walk to the exit, a woman smiles at me while she waits near the door. It was hard to keep names, numbers and faces straight after hearing the same “I like long walks on the beach” stories over and over again, twenty-five times. Still, I remember Kim, (#17, brown, Upper West Side, Hartford, teacher), as being fairly calm and collected; my 2½ minutes with her were the most serene of the night. We peeked at one another a few times during the evening, so her doorway smile prompts me to head toward her. Why not? The flicker of desire feels good.

“So, did you have a nice…”

Someone cuts in front of me.

“What the f…?”

Three feet to go and – a perfect interception – expertly executed. Only a professional could have orchestrated such a play. It’s like the guy was in my head and knew my precise route to Kim. I catch a glimpse of his profile, then – the velvet jacket.

Ronnie helps Kim with her coat, his back to me now, a text-book box-out. “What a guy,” I think. For a second I am actually pissed off, but then quickly snap out of it, understanding that the sum total of my interaction with this woman was what? A couple of minutes and a few intermittent glances? How can I be disappointed that Ronnie “beat” me to her? I mean, c’mon. I am, after all, only the young grasshopper. He is…Ronnie. Still, there should be some kind of house rule against HurryDate veterans scooping newcomers that way.

* * * * * * * * * *

“What the hell happened?” I ask Kevin as I squeeze the phone between my chin and shoulder while I pay for a Snapple. I need something to wash the sour taste of vodka from my mouth.

“You’re really mad, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Not really. I actually had a good time,” I admit. “It’s funny, I think you fueled my mojo tonight. I was known as ‘the guy who hung in there.”

Kevin laughs and quickly slips a little “I’m sorry” into the conversation. Something must have freaked him out, but he doesn’t say anything about it. If he wants to talk, he knows I’ll listen.

As I approach the subway entrance, I finish my Kevin call and notice the small donut shop on the corner of 23rd and 8th. Robin and I used to stop at this place for coffee all the time. My stomach tightens as cool raindrops splatter my face. It seems like everywhere I turn, I am faced with yet another spot, each with it’s own memory – good, bad, often both. I miss her… well… I miss the happier moments. I certainly don’t miss the rage and sadness. I shake my head and chuckle as I reminisce about my HurryDate debut and the fun I ended up having, despite the many distractions. And that’s when I see them scurrying into the donut shop, Ronnie’s arm wrapped around Kim’s waist as they share an umbrella.

Wow, a real HurryDate hookup. They can use that shot for a commercial.

So how do you think I’d look in a velvet smoking jacket?