A China Shop; or, Kafka for the 21st Century Man

Don’t be creepy, don't be weird. Don’t be creepy, don’t be weird. Don’t be creepy, don’t be weird. There she is sitting at the table. Honey-blonde hair. Green eyes. My type. Why did she have to be my type? It would be so much easier if I wasn’t so attracted to her. Like marginally attractive would be welcome. But she is drop dead… Don’t say it. Don’t think it. It’s just going to make you nervous. You’re going to think the same thoughts you always think: you’re not smart enough, not attractive enough, not good enough. Oh right, because you’re never good enough. Shut up, Dad.

“Hi,” I say and my voice cracks already. God, could I be any more of a jerk?

“Hi,” she replies and I can hear the uncertainty already.

Do I shake her hand? No, it’s not a business meeting. It’s a date… or it’s supposed to be. Do I hug her? No! I don’t freaking know her. Just sit the heck down, you stupid oaf. I sit at the table. Hey! I didn’t tug the table cloth right off and splash the water glasses in my lap and run away crying back to my video games and comics. I don’t know why I just thought that.

“So, you must be Jessica,” I say and choke down a gulp of water. My mouth is drier than a sun-baked rice cake in the Sahara. That’s a thing people say, right?

“Jessie,” she says. A nickname. Great, she’s fun. Probably parties. Fast pace. I’ll never keep up.

“I’m Jerome,” I reply. My name is so stupid, I’m so stupid. “So, I’m not really great with blind dates.”

“Oh God, me neither,” she replies. “I’m so relieved you said that. I mean, Nancy said I’ve got this really great guy you should meet. And I’ve been single for… a while. So, here I am.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ve been working with Nancy for - oh, let’s see - going on seventeen years now. Same department, same shenanigans.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, leaning in and I can see ever so slightly down her blouse. “Like what?”

“Oh just,” I say and fall into myself. I can’t think of anything. “Nothing.”

“Oh,” she says and pulls back. It happens every time. I’ve got nothing to say. No funny anecdotes. No stupid jokes. Nothing. Why am I so incomprehensibly, stiflingly, utterly bland? There has to be something I can say, something that makes me a person, something uniquely me but every time I engage in conversation, I freeze, lock up and draw blank after blank.

I feel two hot bulges on either side of my scalp.

“So, do you like tea?” I ask.

“Umm. Yeah, I do like tea. Not much of an English Breakfast girl but I really love the green teas. What about you?”

“Yeah, I also like green tea.” No I don’t and she knows it. “I’ve never been here before. Have you?”

“No, no,” she says and I can see the boredom set in. “Yeah, this was Nancy’s suggestion. She’s been trying to get me to come here for ages.”

“Yeah, me too.” No, she hasn’t. Are you just going to copy everything she says? Come on, man, be sauce. Sauve, I mean sauve. “So, um, is your hair real?” Okay buddy, that’s not it.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, are you, like, a natural blonde?” Why did I ask that? That is such a stupid question.

“No,” she says and I see I’ve offended her. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no,” I say, looking at the table cloth. “It’s just that blondes are only sixteen percent of the world population. So, you know, it’s, like, really rare.”

“Well, I’m sorry it’s not your lucky day,” she replied, her bottom lip peeling away from her teeth.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “I was just, I was just asking.” I try to play it off like it’s no big deal but I’ve already made it a big deal. How did this happen? What did I do? No matter what I say, I’m always offensive. Why can’t I just be nice to people? I am so sick of making people uncomfortable.

Something sharp pokes out of the two bulbs on my scalp. It burns as it breaks the skin.

“Okay, forget I said that. Do you like tea?”

“You already asked me that.” Her eyes become narrow slits. I’m huffing and puffing through a put upon smile. Come on, buddy. You can save this. Just a minor setback.

“Jeez, we haven’t even ordered yet,” I say and my eyes dart around the room for a server. I see one and raise my hand, snapping my fingers at her. “Waitress! Waitress,” I call across the room. Why did I call her a waitress? That’s so demeaning. I know better. And what is it with snapping my fingers? Is that supposed to make me look cool? Confident? Because all I’ve done is debase myself. I look over and Jessie has her face buried behind her hands. And I’ve embarrassed her.

The sharp protrusions on my scalp grow into two large horns that curl up to a point.

“Can I help you,” the server asks through gritted teeth. Her bottom lip peels away from her teeth just like Jessie’s did a few minutes ago. Hey, I’m two for two.

“Um, yes,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Two teas.” It’s the only thing on the menu. And of course, I had to hold two fingers up like a jerk.

“And what kind of tea would you like?” she asked, glancing at Jessie. I see the two of them make eye contact and the server’s eyes grow wide and serious as if to ask, “Do you want me to get you out of this?” Jessie just rolls her eyes and the server turns back to me. I guess I’m getting another shot… or, at the very least, another few minutes.

“The green one,” I say with supreme confidence.

“Okay,” she says, drawing out the vowels. “We have several green teas: Sencha, Gyokuro, Genmaicha, Hojicha, Dragonwell.” Her head keeps moving as if she’s still talking. I wait for more options but she just glares at me.

“Umm, the first one… I guess.”

“Sencha,” she says, clipping the consonants. “Good choice.”

The hair on my arms bristles and becomes coarse and brown. It grows until I can no longer see the skin. For some reason, I don’t find this at all strange.

We sit in silence for I’ve exhausted everything I had to say, which, of course, is not very much at all. A few moments later, the food arrives: a small plate of finger sandwiches, a plate of pastries and a pot of fine china filled with I-don’t-really-care-for-drinking tea. Like, at all.

My fore and middle fingers have fused together. My ring and pinky fingers follow suit. My thumbs have disappeared. I rub the two claws together. Strange but strangely satisfying.

“Here, I’ll pour,” I say and hook the pot handle with one of my newfound claws. The pot wobbles as I move it towards her, threatening to spill. Her eyes get wide and serious. I see the muscles in her jaw bulge. I pour the tea into the small china cup, leaving a small sipping margin, and place the pot back on the table. She blows out the tension through pursed lips.

“Thank you,” she says and blows the steam away and takes a sip. “Are you having any?” I look up and see that she’s eyeing my empty cup with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, of course,” I say and hook the pot in my cleft hoof again. I didn’t get as good a grip on it this time, though and the handle wobbles free of my grip before I get it anywhere near the little cup. The pot tips and pours hot tea all over the white table cloth.

“Okay,” she breathes, shaking her head, “I’ve got a thing so… I have to go. It was really nice meeting you.” No, it wasn’t. She rises to leave and I get up, as well.

“I understand,” I say, “but maybe I could call you sometime. I mean, you’re really pretty and I know I don’t come across well but I think we have a lot in common and we could be really great together. If you, y’know, give me a shot.” She did give you a shot, buddy. She gave you two shots. You blew it.

“I want you to listen to me, okay,” she says, her words are like knives of ice, “do yourself a favor and do not contact me. Ever. Okay?” She grabs her purse and hurries for the front door. I see through the window her get in her car and peel out of the parking lot, leaving skid marks on the pavement.

I see the server pass and try to ask for the check but now my vocal cords have changed and all they will emit is a bovine moo. As I retake my seat, my hooves strike the china pot, smashing it to pieces. In the teaspoon on the table, I catch my reflection and am not at all surprised to find a brown bull staring back.