Saturdate:

(photo by Jack Slomovitz)

Him:  I’m sorry I’m late.

Me:  Stop it, you look gorgeous.

Him:  Ha.  Thanks.  So what’s your deal?

Me:  What?

Him:  Yeah, so you make these pies or what?

Me:  Oh.   My site.  Yeah, I make a lot of pies.  I got good at them and it’s taken me a lot of places.

Him: So, what?  If I start dating you you’ll just be obsessed with pie the whole time?  You’ll just bake pie and feed it to me?  I get to eat all the pie?  Where is it?  Did you bring pie here?

Me:  We’re taking a walk in the park in the middle of the day.

Him:  I’m joking, stupid.  I thought you said you do comedy?

Me:  Um. I do.

Him:  So?

(pause)

Me:  You’re a buyer for Macy’s?

Him:  Yeah, I decide what does and does not go into Macy’s.  I have so much power.  Just kidding.

Me:  I bet you have a certain amount of power.

Him:  Not really.

Me: Oh.  Okay.  Admittedly I don’t understand it.  So…

(pause)

Him:  So what is it?  I’m confused.  You’re giving me all these different stories here.

Me:  What’s what?  Huh?

Him:  You bake pies?

Me:  Is this a real conversation?

Him:  No, yes.  But you said you write music and do comedy.  But which is it?  Who am I talking to right now?

Me: Me?  My name is Michael?

Him:  But what do you…  which Michael am I speaking with?  The comic or the baker or the guitar player?

Me:  I don’t…  All of them?  None?  How am I supposed to address that?

Him:  I want to hear your music.  Is that your guitar?

Me:  No, this is a baritone ukulele.  I just came from practice.

Him:  Ukuleles are smaller than that.  That’s almost a guitar. 

Me:  Okay then, it’s a small guitar.  But the guy who sold it to me said it was a ukulele.

Him:  I want to hear a song.  Do you have a recording?

Me:  Yeah, there’s recordings of us singing, but I could just sing something for you now.  Nobody’s around.

Him:  Oh God no.  No.  I’d like to hear a recording.  Alone.

Me:  Alone?

Him:  Well, if it’s terrible, what am I supposed to say?

(pause)

Me:  Lie.

Him:  Lie?

Me:  Yeah.  If I play you a song, and it’s awful, you lie and say it’s great.

Him:  Why would I do that?

Me:  Because, we live in something called a society.  It doesn’t work unless we lie to people about certain things.

Him:  I’d rather hear a recording.

(pause)

Me:  I’d rather you did too.

Him: Ew!  You just said you don’t want to play for me anymore.

Me:  That’s correct.  That’s what I just said.

Him:  Ew.  You’re supposed to convince me that you’re good.

Me:  I am?

Him:  Yeah.  You’re supposed to convince me that you’re worth listening to.

(long pause)

Me:  I don’t think I am going to do that.

Him:  What??

Me:  Look at it from my perspective:  I meet a guy online.  He thinks I’m cute.  He invites me to meet him for a walk in the park.  I say yes.   When I get on the date he seems annoyed at my choice of professions.  He even fringes on ridicule.  Then he cringes at the thought of listening to a song that he, himself, asked about.  Then he challenges me to convince him that I’m not terrible before I sing to him, because he’s so incredibly sensitive!  He couldn’t possibly be called upon to dredge up a compliment for my shitty, shitty song….

Him: Ew.  You make me sound bad.

Me:  It gets worse.  You then try to make me sell myself to you, and convince you I’m not terrible, before you will deign to hear me play.

Him:  That’s your job as a performer.

Me:  My job as a performer is to perform.  I have put the work in.  I have written and re-written and performed.  And performed.  And you know what?  After more than a decade here in New York, it’s finally my job.

Him:  I guess you’re sensitive about that?

Me:  I guess I am.  Are you sensitive about your job?

Him:  Not at all.

Me:  Really?  It was a shitty line you sported this spring.

Him:  NO IT WAS NOT.

Me:  No.  It wasn’t.  But you just proved my point.

Him:  Hey, buddy…  my taste is superb.  You don’t just get this job i have randomly…

Me: Right.  And you don’t just get the one I have either.  So next time…

Have some fucking respect.

Jerk.