A Slice of Orange

By Jenny Hansen

My last first date was almost doomed before it ever got to the starting gate. “Almost” is such a stressful little word, isn’t it? I got engaged on May 4^th…we’re getting married on July 2^nd. And it ALMOST didn’t happen. It all began in this cheesy little bar in Newport Beach called Woody’s Wharf…

It was three years ago when I was 35 years old and fresh from a string of less-than-desirable boyfriends. I’d gotten rid of the latest one the previous June and, after a few months of post-breakup depression, thrown myself into speed dating with great zeal. I’d had first dates in every place imaginable – Starbuck’s, Duffy boats, a Barenaked Ladies concert – but none of these guys were getting anywhere near The Zone.

You know The Zone, right? It’s that really special place that surrounds your heart, without actually being inside it. The Zone is the place you giggled about with your girlfriends in junior high: ”I think he likes me! You’ve likely grown up a bit since then, and you probably don’t laugh like a hyena anymore when you start liking someone. Still, when a new man gets into The Zone, your heart still shimmies in your chest and the world around you shimmers with an extra layer of beauty.

On a great first date, Mr. Hubba zings his arrow (pardon the metaphor) somewhere into The Zone. It might be the way he smiles or the touch of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you through a crowded room. It might be the sound of his laugh, or his ability to tell a great story. I’ll bet you $1000 that every single one of the authors in this contest knows the exact moment when her future husband breached The Zone.

The night I met my husband-to-be was a like a maze of bricks, laid down by a higher power, where every pathway led to a single destination. My mother died in January 2004 and my life was submerged in a syrupy river of grief. By April, my vision was clearing and I was starting to actually see the world around me again.

I attended OCC’s April meeting and an author reception before running home to get gussied up to meet two couples I knew at a place in Newport Beach called The Quiet Woman. Their plan was to eat dinner and then bar-hop. It was my first time out since my mom had died and I changed my mind at least five times about whether or not I was going to go. I got to the restaurant at about 9:30 pm, right as the band was setting up. We danced through the first set before moving on to the next place.

If smoking were allowed indoors in California, all the smokers in Newport Beach would hang out at Woody’s Wharf. I saw several drunken boat pilots careen up to the docks out back to tie up and wander inside. The air was thick with the promise of a Saturday night singles scene. Though I was too old to believe the promise, I could still scent it in the air.

My girlfriend, Mary, and I – two blondes – were out on the dance floor together, shaking our groove thing, when this dark haired man with stunning blue eyes glided up to us.

“Can I join you ladies?” he said while he bopped in time with the music.

Mary gave me a smile soaked around the edges with vodka and said, “Sure. Why not?”

I admired the cohones on this guy – he couldn’t dance, but he had style. When the song ended, Mary bopped off to the bathroom and he and I went back to sit down at the bar where we began whole getting to know you Dance of Singles. This was helped along by Mary who sidled up a while later and joined the conversation.

“Hey! Dance floor guy! I’m Mary, by the way.” She shook his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Steve? Uh-huh. What do you do? Oh, a Computer Guy! Uh-huh. Great! Jen works in computers! Where do you live? Oh, Newport Beach…close by…Great! How old are you? Forty-four? (She gave him a suspicious stare.) Have you ever been married? Really…did you have any kids? No? Well do you want to have kids?”

(I tried to slink off right about this time but Mary trains dogs for a living and she’s got a grip like a pit bull.)

“How do you feel about pets? Oh, you’re afraid of dogs? Well, cause she has a dog, but Hoshi’s a really nice dog. She really likes men – Hoshi, not Jen…well, I mean Jen likes men too. Anyway, you guys will do great! What kind of dog? Oh, Hoshi is an Akita.”

At the end of this conversation, she gave me a thumbs up (right in front of him) and zoomed off. I’m sure she went back to her husband Mike, who loves good gossip, to share the news that “Jen-Pooh was talking to Dance-Floor Guy who stood up to the Inquisition.”

I gave Steve a pained smile and we continued talking. I was thrilled when he asked if we could exchange information. He joined us when Woody’s closed and we all piled into a car and headed over to Villa Nova, a late-night place in Newport Beach. The six of us slid into a booth where I was squished between Steve on my left and Mike on my right.

After we ordered and everyone began talking, Steve leaned in toward me and said, “I’m extremely attracted to you. Are you attracted to me?” I swear, he practically sniffed at me. I blessed the dim lighting that hid my instantaneous blush and stammered a response. Meanwhile, I felt Mike pressing closer to catch every word being said and gave him a swift elbow to the ribs.

Is there anybody more annoying than nosy married friends when you’re single?

We drove Steve home – I was again sandwiched between him and Mike – and he directed us up to the gates of a glitzy Newport apartment complex. My heart sank. I’d been to several parties here and had seen nothing but pretentious men at every single gathering.

“Why do you live here?,” I blurted out, then moaned silently. Did I actually say that out loud?

Steve didn’t even pause. “My parents are getting older and I like to live close to them.”

“Ohhhhh!” Mary and our other girlfriend sighed in unison in the front seat.

Steve got out of the car and shut the door. I turned back from watching him walk away and found Mike staring at me like something he’d stepped in at the dog park. “Why do you live HERE? You had it in the bag, and you say ‘why do you live here?’” He threw up his hands. “He is never going to call you!”

Well, it took him almost a week, but he did call and we did arrange our first date. I opened my door to him and saw him go pale when he caught sight of my 90 pound Akita. When he walked through the door to meet my dog and I took his sweaty hand, I felt my heart wobble.

I started to give my usual spiel about how my dog is shy and if he just ignored her, she’d be his best friend in about 10 minutes. Then I gave him a quick hug and turned around to find Hoshi splayed out on her back with love-at-first-sight in her eye.

Steve kneeled down to pet her belly. Just like that, he breached The Zone.

Jenny Hansen (aka Jen Crooks) is a longtime OCC member who writes the Writer’s Word column for A Slice of Orange. By day, Jen manages the sales and marketing for a national training firm. After 12 years as a corporate software trainer, it’s nice for her to be able to sit down while she works. By night, she writes women’s fiction, chick lit and short stories.

By Leslie Kay Ashe

1. Don’t call it a date. I mean, if you’re “just friends,” then it’s not really a date, even though after nearly a year of this whole going-out-after-work-with-the-crew thing, you didn’t feel like inviting anyone else to come along this time, and even though you’re seated in a dark, secluded corner of an upscale restaurant. But that’s definitely NOT a date.
2. Choose the garlic-chicken-alfredo pizza. Because it’s not date, so who cares if you have garlic cheese breath.
3. Cross your legs in the middle of dinner and whack him with the heel of your shoe right in the shins, which causes him to spill his beer all over his food and his lap (and leaves him with a bruise that will last for more than two weeks).
4. When dinner ends, decide that you’ll both swing by the bar to see if anyone else is around. But since this isn’t a date or anything, decide to drive there in separate cars. (But since it’s snowing out, he suggests that just to be safe, you should follow him pretty closely.)
5. Pretend not to pay any attention to each other at the bar and instead laugh it up with your girlfriends while sneaking nonchalant glances out of the corner of your eye.
6. Make an unintentionally loud announcement that it’s getting late and you should really be heading home, but purposely avoid saying “good-bye” to him on the way out, and then pretend you’re not disappointed when he doesn’t follow.
7. Get a flat tire half-way home. Sit in your car for ten minutes with your cell phone in your lap wondering if it would be just too obvious to call him.
8. When he shows up to help and he admits that he doesn’t know how to change a tire, laugh and say, “That’s OK. I do.” And when he says, “Then why did you call me to help?” Just shrug and say, “Why not?”
9. Have him keep track of the lug nuts as you put on the spare and try not to notice how good he smells sitting so close to you. And when you turn to say something to him and suddenly he kisses you, say to yourself, “So, yeah, OK. Maybe not just friends.”
10. On the way home, finally admit to yourself that you’re madly in love and you’re going to marry this man.

Leslie Kay Ashe is the pen name of an unpublished Orange County author who would rather die than put something so personal in her own name.