by Eric Frieden
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/stokkete

It was a hot night in the greater Beantown area and I was feeling restless and looking for some action and not the kind of action I could find in that Burn Notice marathon playing on the television set that evening. No, I was looking for the kind of action you need another person for, you know, grown up action. I took out the old iPhone and opened up the Tinder app to see what fishes were biting. The first dame that popped up had the face of a duck and twice the attitude so I acted like a cheetah that’s a southpaw ready to attack and swiped left quickly. The next girl seemed promising until I saw her photo collection and noticed an old flame paling around with her in a selfie shot. Barbara… our time together was like a midget on fire – short and hot – and she was the kind of woman who could hold onto a grudge like a freakishly strong baby holding onto an unsuspecting finger. Based on how close their faces were smooshed together cheek to cheek in that pic, I could tell this girl and old Babs were close and that if Babs and her talked all I’d end up with is a one way ticket on that train to splitsville, the one without the sleeping car. I swiped left again with a sigh and a puff of cigarette smoke and moved on. And that’s when her picture came up; Sarah W. The dame had a face like a cake made with the wrong amount of sugar and some laxatives thrown into the recipe: sweet, but not too sweet and with a dangerous side. Her hair was brown like it was Christmas and it was roasting on an open fire. Brown eyes, two hands, two feet, and gams all the way up to her pelvis; just the way I like my women. I checked her info and found she liked reading books by David Sedaris, yoga, and had a love of adventure. A love of adventure, I said to myself. Just like a fat kid accidentally locked in an ice cream shop overnight, I’d hit the jackpot. I swiped right and waited. Minutes ticked by and I wondered if Ms. W. wasn’t interested in what I had to offer or was at the movies and had her phone turned off. I had to respect a broad who followed the rules… sometimes. After a few minutes my phone went all bumblebee-like on me and I saw I had a message. Sarah W. also swiped right. I quickly hit her up with a text asking if she wanted to meet up and she replied sure and suggested coffee. I told her to finger the java hut and I’d shoefoot myself there all lightning like. She said she didn’t understand what I said and I told her to name the coffee establishment she would prefer and that I would meet her there soon. She suggested a Starbucks that was equidistance from the both of us and I told her sure. I downed my whiskey, put on my best fedora and overcoat and hit the road. I strolled into the Starbucks and took a gander but no sign of Sarah W. I settled in at a table and let the sounds of indie folkish rock for sale at the counter wash over me. And then she walked in. She was wearing a red coat, black pants and casual shoes that screamed I’m looking for adventure but I don’t want my feet to hurt. As I said, my kind of woman. I stood up and walked over to her. “The name’s Sam,” I told her. “Yes, I already knew that from your Tinder profile,” she said. “What are you drinking?” I asked. She told me her order and I went up to the counter to get it for her. The barista handed me the joes and I was back to the table. “So what’s a dame like you looking for on a night like this?” I said. She looked back at me saying, “Well, um, I was just sitting at home watching TV and got your notification, so I figured what the heck and decided to meet you.” I could see it in her eyes, it was that sense of adventure that drew me to her like a moth to a flame or a guy with candy in a van to a playground. “Also,” she asked, “could you please not refer to me as a dame. I find the term archaic and a little weird.” This dame clearly knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it. And then a look of worry crossed her face. I wondered what it meant. Did this sweet thing have some kind of dark past she was trying to get away from or did she suddenly have second thoughts about meeting up with a hard-boiled palooka like me? “I think they got my order wrong,” she said, “I wanted sugar free vanilla syrup in my iced latte and they gave me the regular kind.” “Stay here baby,” I said as I sprung into action. “Please don’t call me that either,” she said as I got up, “we just met,” but me? I was already on the way to the counter. The barista was a tall gangly drink of water with a face only a mother could love, or someone who is really into to facial piercings and ear gages I suppose. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked. I leaned over the counter and grabbed him by the apron strings. “Look punk, you just tried to slip a sugar-filled vanilla mickey to my best gal over there!” I told him. “I’m not his best gal we just met,” I heard Sarah say from behind me. I turned back to the coffee boy and said, “You got some nerve, I’ll give you that, but you and me gotta settle this, make things square.” The barista looked at me like a five year old boy looks at a urinal for the first time, confused and a little not sure about what to do in the situation, and said, “Sorry. Of course I will remake her latte with sugarfree vanilla syrup this time.” “You’d better,” I said and pushed him back. Sarah had come up to the counter with a look like storm clouds had gathered on her face and decided they liked the neighborhood and school district and wanted to settle there and raise families. “What the hell was that?” she asked. “Just getting my chickee what she wants is all,” I said. “That’s what I do babe, I take care of stuff.” “Ok look, stop it with the pet names” she said, “we don’t know each other.” “You knew what you were getting into when you swiped right,” I said. “No, I didn’t” she said. “I thought you were trying to be cute and clever with all the old movie stuff in your profile and pictures. I didn’t realize that this was actually your whole deal.” “Well it is my deal, darling,” I told her, “take it or leave it.” “I think I’ll leave it,” she said; “we have been here maybe seven minutes and I am more embarrassed than I have ever felt.” She began to walk away and out of my life but I took her hands in mine. “Look dollface,” I said. “Stop it with the god damn names!” she replied. “Fine,” I said, “Sarah. I know we just met but the moment you walked into this coffee joint I felt that there was a connection between us and I think you felt it too. Look I know we have barely said two words to each other. I know I’m just an old fashioned guy and you’re a girl way above my fighting weight. I know you’d rather we simply go our separate ways like two ships in the night or Steve Perry and whoever Steve Perry is singing too in that Journey song. And you know what Sarah? Maybe your right, maybe it’s better for everyone if we just call it quits. You, me, pincushion the coffee boy back there, everyone. And yet there is something here, isn’t there? A spark. And I want to see where that spark takes us Sarah. I want to follow that spark. And I know you do as well. Because that spark leads back to one of our apartments for some cheap liquor, awkward groping and maybe a hand job.” And then, BAM, out of nowhere, iced coffee is hurled into my face. “Don’t contact me again,” she says, and then storms out. I turned to pincushion, Dames, right?” I ask. “Please don’t talk to me anymore sir,” he said back as he grabbed a mop to clean up the puddle of coffee and humiliation pooling around my feet. I walk out onto the streets, those lonely streets and head home stopping at the pharmacy to grab some hand lotion. My meeting with Sarah W. may have gone south, but now I have an appointment with Madame Palm and her five lovely daughters that I think is going to go a whole lot better.