One Date Diva - Woeful in Iowa

After my college graduation, I turned down an offer I shouldn’t have been able to refuse. Full of youthful bravado, I thought if I was offered that job, then I should be able to land another job easily. Boy, was I wrong. It took me over a year to get something. I ended up taking an unpaid post-college internship just to work. I didn’t know where Guam was; but I was willing to work there!

Finally, I got an offer from an NPR affiliate in Iowa. When I envisioned a glamourous career in broadcasting, I didn’t see Iowa. But arrogance had turned into anxiety, and I felt lucky, privileged, to be working at all … and it didn’t matter where.

This turned out to be the loneliest year of my life. No friends. No acquaintances. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Of course, I did have three memorable dates.

Basketball Bozo

Before heading out on my new Iowan adventure, I went out to Velma’s, a popular nightclub, to celebrate. I met a nice tall glass of chocolate milk, and we exchanged numbers.

To my surprise, he called. He said he played basketball for the Golden State Warriors. A big basketball fan at the time, I asked if he should be in camp somewhere honing his skills because the Warriors were sorry (Steph Curry had to be in grade school at the time). He said there was time for camp later.

We stayed connected after I moved, and he kept threatening to come out and visit. I didn’t believe he would. However, I did a little investigation. I called the Warriors, introduced myself as a news producer and said we were getting ready for a new basketball show. I needed their full roster, including players on injured reserve. They faxed it over. Guess whose name wasn’t on it? I called back and asked about him specifically, they didn’t even know who I was talking about.

Before I could blow him off, he called and said he was making the 9-hour drive to see me.

He showed up in an old beat-up car, something you wouldn’t imagine a professional basketball player driving. He said he was testing it out because he’d bought it for his sister. If I’d been his sister, I would have been teed off that my baller brother bought me a beat-up, used jalopy. But I digress, back to the story.

We went out to dinner and then returned to my place. I gave him a blanket and a pillow and told him to sleep for the sofa and then locked my bedroom door.

The next day was Sunday and I asked if there was anything, he wanted to tell me.

He said no.

With a big dramatic flair, I slapped the Golden State roster on the table. I asked him to find his name. I added, in soap opera fashion, that a phone call to the front office revealed that they had no idea who he was!

He stammered. He stuttered. He managed to have some tears well up in his eyes. No matter. He was cold busted! He confessed. He just wanted to impress me. He didn’t think I’d fall for someone who worked at the post office.

I told him I couldn’t fall for a liar.

The tears didn’t work. I sent him back home with his basketball dreams completely air balled.

Black Jeffrey Dahmer

The job working for a National Public Radio affiliate was great. But after work? Every evening, every weekend, I was by myself. One of my coworkers suggested I needed a personal ad. This was the early 90’s before Internet dating.

We wrote an ad and posted it. Men would leave a voicemail with their number, and I could call them back. Two guys piqued my interested.

The first guy seemed nice and smart. He worked in a factory nearby. We set up a dinner date and he picked me up at my apartment. Now, I don’t believe clothes make the man, but I do believe that clothes should fit the man. I opened the door and saw a tall and burly man wearing an old winter coat that seemed two sizes too small. We drove off in his sturdy old hatchback. Think seventies era Pinto (and remember, this was the mid-90s)

After about the tenth time of hearing how beautiful I was, I was completely creeped out. By the time he brought me home, I was done. No kiss. No hug. No handshake. Nada.

The next day I talked about it with my friend Thomas who proceeded to read me the riot act. I shouldn’t have let a stranger pick me up at home, he ranted. Now knew where I lived! I told Thomas that the guy seemed harmless. After all, he was a Pinto-driving, no fashion sense having, nerd. For goodness’ sake, he worked at a factory! Without skipping a beat, Thomas pointed out that Jeffrey Dahmer seemed harmless, and he was a factory worker too.

Point Taken.

Private Dick

I still wasn’t ready to give up on my little personal ad. Guy #2 sounded sexy and mysterious. I gave him a call. It wasn’t a good time for him, and he said he’d call me back. The call came in about 2:00 AM. He had just left work, only he couldn’t disclose exactly what he did. I told him what I did and that late-night calls weren’t the way to go.

He called at a more reasonable hour but was still reluctant to give me details about his employment. He asked me to a Super Bowl party: dinner and the game. I agreed to drive about 45 mins down to meet him.

On Superbowl Sunday, I picked him up at local gas station. I figured since he didn’t know me, he didn’t want me to know where he lived (Black Jeffrey Dahmer in reverse). He directed me to the party. With every turn, the neighborhood got worse.

Finally, we pulled up to what looked like a dilapidated oversize detached garage. At this point, he told me what he did for a living. He was a private investigator and many of his clients and informants came to this ‘place.’

We get in and dinner is served! On the menu is shaky card table with a crock pot of greasy chili, a box of opened Saltines crackers and an aluminum tray of sweaty cheese. I figured I would try my luck at the bar.

I asked for a beer. The bartender gave me a heavy sigh, angrily tossed a draft beer at me and I could have sworn she rolled her eyes. The Private Dick noticed this exchange.

“She knows you are from Waterloo,” he explained. “She doesn’t like Waterloo bitches.”

If I’m going to represent a city, it should be the right one, “Well,” I said. “Let her know I’m a Cleveland bitch.”

I stayed at the bar for a while nursing my beer and wondering if the glass was clean. My date headed to the back of the saloon.

“Baby, come back here!” He yelled.

We locked eyes and he motioned for me to join him. I needed that motion because I wasn’t exactly sure who Baby was.

I left my beer in the sketchy glass behind and went to the back. He was playing cards at a table with a suspicious looking cast of characters. I sat behind him. The game was starting.

As I was trying to watch the game, some guy came in and angrily exclaimed to the motley crew.

“God damn po-po had me down on my f**in’ knees! I told them; you got the wrong f**kin’ nigga! You lookin’ fo my brotha!”

At this point, I could imagine the shootout. I’d end up dead. Thank goodness I had my ID on me. My father would spend the rest of his life wondering what the hell I was doing in a place like this.

I waited until half time then excused myself. I had a long drive back and an early morning. The Private Dick gave me a nod. I guess chivalry was dead in these parts. I didn’t even get a walk to my car. I walked alone in the dark and, in the days before GPS, made my way out of this rough neighborhood and back onto the highway.

Of course, there was no contact after this.