I Plan to, Sweetheart
You can’t miss Dale if he’s in the room. Granted, you might be seated across the hall, but that doesn’t stop his voice from carrying all the way to your table as he calls out a greeting. When he goes through the food line at St. Ben’s, he is sure to speak to each serving person by name, after studying the stickers on their shirts. Smiling, joshing, laughing, he is as upbeat as The Ghost of Christmas Present. He’s built like that too- round and jolly.
There’s an open space across the table from Dale this night. I say, “Hey Dale. I haven’t had the chance to sit with you in a while.”
“Sit right down here,” he booms. “I’m in a great mood.”
Settling in, I ask, “What’s happening?”
He begins his story in the way a relative might start an epic tale at a family gathering, eyes twinkling. “The trouble is, my friend really pissed me off. She set me up on a blind date.”
Due to the wide grin on his face, I’m confused. “So, the blind date didn’t work out? This is a good thing?”
“Oh, let me tell you how it all got started. You see, this friend neglected to tell me that the date was in Chicago. Then I looked up the address, and I thought ‘Oh boy, I’m gonna need more money.’ So first, I had to go borrow fifty dollars from my buddy, and then I had to get a ride down to Chicago. But that’s no problem. I have this other buddy who works in Chicago, and he lets me sleep in his van. Okay, so it’s all good. So we get to Chicago, and my other friend –the one who set me up- is waiting in the restaurant with my blind date.”
The logistics boggle my mind. I take a sip of water from a red plastic tumbler. It tastes like soap. Dale can talk for a long time without stopping. I’m trying to imagine him not only in a relatively expensive restaurant in Chicago, but also dressed up for a date. His cherubic face is marred by broken and brown teeth, and the fact that he’s eating at St. Ben’s clues me in to the notion that he is not exactly your usual blind date material. I’m wondering if someone was playing a cruel trick on him, or on the woman he was to meet. He continues his story, volume up a little too high.
“She looked at me and I looked at her-”
I jump in for clarification. “You’re talking about your friend? Or the blind date?”
“My date. So I looked at her and she looked at me and I said, ‘So she pissed you off, too?’ She laughed and we kicked our friend out of the restaurant.” He flips his hand in rhythm with his next few words. “Scoot. Scoot. Scoot. We told her to scoot. We sat in that restaurant just talking – you know everything cost about twenty dollars- and we talked and talked and had such a good time. We talked about everything – we really hit it off. After a couple of hours, the waiter brought the bill like he wanted us to get out of there. I reached for the bill, but she said, ‘I got this.’” He leans back in his chair and raises his hands as if surrendering. “‘Okay, okay,’ I told her. I mean, never get in the way of a woman who wants to pay the bill.”
Now I’m wondering if this woman could enjoy an evening with a fellow like Dale, pick up on the fact that he might be struggling with money, and take care of the tab. What made her stay? Dale calls out to one of the people with a coffee pot. I take advantage of a lull in the monologue and turn to the dapper fellow beside me. He’s wearing a fedora and shades, his dark skin and demeanor says musician to me.
“You look like a Chicago blues man,” I tell him.
He pauses, doesn’t quite look at me. “Thank you.”
I smile at him. “You’ve got a lot of style. Are you a musician?”
“No ma’am. But I like the blues.”
“Me, too.” Dale is loudly chatting with someone across the next table, and it’s a relief to engage in a regular conversation, one that is quieter and less one-sided, so Mr. Chicago Blues and I start discussing good places to hear the music in Milwaukee. We realize that we both enjoy the bands at Mamie’s tavern on the south side. Then Dale is returning his focus to me, to his tale, and I tune back in.
I don’t know exactly what he’s been saying, since he started talking while I was listening to my other companion, so I venture, “It sounds like the blind date worked out for you.”
“Oh. You don’t even know the half of it,” he says, face bright as a lightbulb. “We ended up at her place, and I called my buddy and told him not to pick me up until morning.” Dale winks. “He knows better than to ask what’s going on. We stayed up all night, me and her, just talking.”
I’m wondering how many words the woman got in sideways, since I can’t seem to insert many into this conversation. Plus, I’m curious about her attraction to this man. Dale is radiating joy, but his story has gone on for about twenty minutes by now. Try as I might, I know I’ll never capture all the words that tumble out. The tale is a long and winding one, but riveting.
“You seem pretty happy, Dale. I’m glad for you.” By now, I’m eating the Christmas cookie I decided to accept in the food line, because clearly it was home-made, and someone donated about a hundred of them.
“You should have seen the look on my buddy’s face when he picked me up in the morning and she kissed my cheek on the front steps.”
Without thinking, I take another sip of soap flavored water and swallow it with chagrin. I have to admit, I’m stunned. The pieces just don’t fit. “So are you planning on seeing her again?”
“We’re taking it slow,” he tells me. “I’m not calling her my girlfriend yet, but you never know. And wait. It gets even better. It turns out that wasn’t even her house in Chicago. She was staying at her parents’ house while they were away. She lives in Milwaukee.” He suddenly turns around and yells, “Hey Roger. How you been, man? I’m gonna come see you.” And just like that, he’s back to his story.
At this point, it seems I can feel synapses in my brain working overtime.
Dale laughs. “Can you imagine that? The whole time we were in Chicago, she never said a word.”
I laugh, too. “So you had to go all the way to Chicago to meet a woman from Milwaukee.”
“Hey. Whatever it takes,” he says. “So we got together again, and-” he pauses for dramatic effect- “There was a kiss. But we haven’t done anything else yet. We both just want to see where it goes.”
“Does she have family here?”
“She works here. She’s a nurse at St. Luke’s.”
Now I don’t know if he’s pulling my leg, or she’s pulling his. Or if he’s been spinning a fantasy this whole time.
“Well, Dale, I have to say, you’re always so happy. Every time I see you, you’re so upbeat. It’s hard to imagine anything making you even happier, but it seems this is a good thing.”
He leans in as if to make a point, eyes lit. “Oh yes, I’m happy as long as I’m on my meds. But! If I don’t take my meds-” he shakes a finger in my direction, all smiles-“look out. You don’t want to be around me.”
“Well then, you need to stay on your meds. It will improve your chances.”
“Oh, I plan to, sweetheart. Believe me. I plan to.”
There’s an open space across the table from Dale this night. I say, “Hey Dale. I haven’t had the chance to sit with you in a while.”
“Sit right down here,” he booms. “I’m in a great mood.”
Settling in, I ask, “What’s happening?”
He begins his story in the way a relative might start an epic tale at a family gathering, eyes twinkling. “The trouble is, my friend really pissed me off. She set me up on a blind date.”
Due to the wide grin on his face, I’m confused. “So, the blind date didn’t work out? This is a good thing?”
“Oh, let me tell you how it all got started. You see, this friend neglected to tell me that the date was in Chicago. Then I looked up the address, and I thought ‘Oh boy, I’m gonna need more money.’ So first, I had to go borrow fifty dollars from my buddy, and then I had to get a ride down to Chicago. But that’s no problem. I have this other buddy who works in Chicago, and he lets me sleep in his van. Okay, so it’s all good. So we get to Chicago, and my other friend –the one who set me up- is waiting in the restaurant with my blind date.”
The logistics boggle my mind. I take a sip of water from a red plastic tumbler. It tastes like soap. Dale can talk for a long time without stopping. I’m trying to imagine him not only in a relatively expensive restaurant in Chicago, but also dressed up for a date. His cherubic face is marred by broken and brown teeth, and the fact that he’s eating at St. Ben’s clues me in to the notion that he is not exactly your usual blind date material. I’m wondering if someone was playing a cruel trick on him, or on the woman he was to meet. He continues his story, volume up a little too high.
“She looked at me and I looked at her-”
I jump in for clarification. “You’re talking about your friend? Or the blind date?”
“My date. So I looked at her and she looked at me and I said, ‘So she pissed you off, too?’ She laughed and we kicked our friend out of the restaurant.” He flips his hand in rhythm with his next few words. “Scoot. Scoot. Scoot. We told her to scoot. We sat in that restaurant just talking – you know everything cost about twenty dollars- and we talked and talked and had such a good time. We talked about everything – we really hit it off. After a couple of hours, the waiter brought the bill like he wanted us to get out of there. I reached for the bill, but she said, ‘I got this.’” He leans back in his chair and raises his hands as if surrendering. “‘Okay, okay,’ I told her. I mean, never get in the way of a woman who wants to pay the bill.”
Now I’m wondering if this woman could enjoy an evening with a fellow like Dale, pick up on the fact that he might be struggling with money, and take care of the tab. What made her stay? Dale calls out to one of the people with a coffee pot. I take advantage of a lull in the monologue and turn to the dapper fellow beside me. He’s wearing a fedora and shades, his dark skin and demeanor says musician to me.
“You look like a Chicago blues man,” I tell him.
He pauses, doesn’t quite look at me. “Thank you.”
I smile at him. “You’ve got a lot of style. Are you a musician?”
“No ma’am. But I like the blues.”
“Me, too.” Dale is loudly chatting with someone across the next table, and it’s a relief to engage in a regular conversation, one that is quieter and less one-sided, so Mr. Chicago Blues and I start discussing good places to hear the music in Milwaukee. We realize that we both enjoy the bands at Mamie’s tavern on the south side. Then Dale is returning his focus to me, to his tale, and I tune back in.
I don’t know exactly what he’s been saying, since he started talking while I was listening to my other companion, so I venture, “It sounds like the blind date worked out for you.”
“Oh. You don’t even know the half of it,” he says, face bright as a lightbulb. “We ended up at her place, and I called my buddy and told him not to pick me up until morning.” Dale winks. “He knows better than to ask what’s going on. We stayed up all night, me and her, just talking.”
I’m wondering how many words the woman got in sideways, since I can’t seem to insert many into this conversation. Plus, I’m curious about her attraction to this man. Dale is radiating joy, but his story has gone on for about twenty minutes by now. Try as I might, I know I’ll never capture all the words that tumble out. The tale is a long and winding one, but riveting.
“You seem pretty happy, Dale. I’m glad for you.” By now, I’m eating the Christmas cookie I decided to accept in the food line, because clearly it was home-made, and someone donated about a hundred of them.
“You should have seen the look on my buddy’s face when he picked me up in the morning and she kissed my cheek on the front steps.”
Without thinking, I take another sip of soap flavored water and swallow it with chagrin. I have to admit, I’m stunned. The pieces just don’t fit. “So are you planning on seeing her again?”
“We’re taking it slow,” he tells me. “I’m not calling her my girlfriend yet, but you never know. And wait. It gets even better. It turns out that wasn’t even her house in Chicago. She was staying at her parents’ house while they were away. She lives in Milwaukee.” He suddenly turns around and yells, “Hey Roger. How you been, man? I’m gonna come see you.” And just like that, he’s back to his story.
At this point, it seems I can feel synapses in my brain working overtime.
Dale laughs. “Can you imagine that? The whole time we were in Chicago, she never said a word.”
I laugh, too. “So you had to go all the way to Chicago to meet a woman from Milwaukee.”
“Hey. Whatever it takes,” he says. “So we got together again, and-” he pauses for dramatic effect- “There was a kiss. But we haven’t done anything else yet. We both just want to see where it goes.”
“Does she have family here?”
“She works here. She’s a nurse at St. Luke’s.”
Now I don’t know if he’s pulling my leg, or she’s pulling his. Or if he’s been spinning a fantasy this whole time.
“Well, Dale, I have to say, you’re always so happy. Every time I see you, you’re so upbeat. It’s hard to imagine anything making you even happier, but it seems this is a good thing.”
He leans in as if to make a point, eyes lit. “Oh yes, I’m happy as long as I’m on my meds. But! If I don’t take my meds-” he shakes a finger in my direction, all smiles-“look out. You don’t want to be around me.”
“Well then, you need to stay on your meds. It will improve your chances.”
“Oh, I plan to, sweetheart. Believe me. I plan to.”
