The Life and Times of Totally Tyler

I had insomnia all week and when I couldn’t sleep, I called Red and we talked until the daylight hours. Red and I got along famously on the phone. After talking to him for several hours for several nights, I thought I was getting to know him very well. We had a lot in common and there was definitely what I call “phone chemistry.” But there were clues to a craziness that I ignored. Like the fact that he refused to use his real name and insisted on being called upon by a color: Red. Not crimson or brick red, just Red. Also, he had three jobs and lived in a doublewide trailer in Kennesaw.

With his mother.

Did I mention they had no running hot water?

For our first date, we decided on dinner and a movie. Going to the movies is a horrible first date idea, but Red really wanted to see the comic-book film Electra, which had just been released. I grew out of my fascination with comic books and superheroes in the fifth grade, when, after only eighteen issues, DC Comics discontinued the comic book based on the popular eighty’s television show V. Don’t get me wrong–I loved me some Wonder Woman–hell, I wanted to be Wonder Woman, but as an adult, I can’t seem to maintain interest in caped crusaders, super powers, and other nerdy favorites. The Batman movie? I fell asleep. Spiderman? I fell asleep in that one, too. My friends know if they want to make me yawn, all they have to do is talk about Green Lantern or Pokémon. I hoped that Red would not want to follow the comic-book movie with dinner at a restaurant where he could color on his placemat.

DOUBLE YELLOW LINES

We agreed to meet at Outwrite, a neighborhood gay bookstore and coffee shop on what is arguably the gayest intersection in Atlanta. I arrived early so that I could relax and appear settled by the time he got there. He called to let me know he was running late and after several more I’m-still-running-late and I’m-almost-there calls later, he finally showed up. By that point, I had been sitting in Outwrite for nearly three hours and consumed quite a bit of hot chocolate. I was not in a good mood.

Red walked into Outwrite carrying a disastrously big bouquet of gaudy flowers. He placed the heavy bouquet in my arms and kissed me on the cheek. I looked like I’d won a damn beauty pageant. As I fumbled with the florescent flowers, I caught a glimpse of Red’s outfit and gasped.

Red’s oversized, ripped jeans were splattered with giant bleach spots and tucked into his brown, suede boots, which were adorned with fringe. Mid-leg, his jeans flared out, resembling a Nazi soldier’s uniform. He wore two different studded belts and instead of threading them through his belt loops, they lazily hung off his jutting hips. Despite the chilly day, he was dripping with sweat because he had layered three different colored t-shirts of varying sizes. The triad of colors peeked out at the bottoms, sleeves and collars. As if that wasn’t enough, he also wore a petite denim waist jacket that featured metallic-rainbow piping. And to seal the deal, he wore a gold lamé flat jack cap.

Yes, gold lamé.

I was angered by his tardiness, but I was mostly embarrassed by his appearance. I didn’t want to go anywhere with him. Anywhere. He already knew I’d made dinner reservations and it would’ve been obvious if I backed out or suggested eating somewhere in the dark where there would be no other humans.

I didn’t want Red to think he embarrassed me, and I was tired of my friends accusing me of being materialistic and superficial. Considering the great phone conversations that Red and I had had all week, I swallowed my pride and decided to see the date through.

We went to Agave in Cabbagetown; a decently priced restaurant that serves really good southwestern food that turns your poop green. The host seated us smack-dab in the middle of the crowded restaurant. The calm, masculine Red I knew on the phone was gone. He was now loud, outlandish, and very feminine. I ordered a moderately priced entrée and Red ordered a ten-dollar appetizer sampler and the most expensive entree available. I quickly ordered a lemon drop martini.

The conversation was not all that bad. Red was very knowledgeable about art and food. As I began to get drunk, I relaxed a bit. Or maybe I was just blinded by the glare from his gold lamé hat. Our exchange covered gay life in Atlanta, his love of Beanie Babies, and our favorite television shows (Sex and the City is one of Red’s favorite shows because Carrie serves as his fashion inspiration.) We also discussed his family. He explained that his overweight sister is a nudist. Apparently explaining wasn’t enough because he pulled out his day planner, whipped out photographs of his topless sister, and shared them with us.

And by “us,” I mean the waitress, the bartender, and the incredibly uncomfortable looking elderly couple seated next to us. Each photo elicited gasps and featured his sister participating in social activities, yielding two sagging breasts with large silver-dollar-pancake-sized areolae. There was his sister sitting at a picnic table, her droopy boobs resting on the slotted tabletop as she tore into a chicken leg. There was his sister, mid jump, slamming a volleyball with her fist, boobs going every which way. All I could say was, “Another martini, please!”

I did a double take when the bill came. Between Red ordering the most expensive items on the menu and me ordering martini after martini, it proved to be quite a costly dinner. I’d not had a date that expensive since senior prom with my high school sweetheart, Bettina. Incidentally, she’d worn gold lamé, too.

After dinner, my mind was racing. Should I just call it a night? Should I just tell him I’m not interested and part ways? It wasn’t too late to meet my friends at Heretic. But then, Red excitedly talked about going to the upscale Phipps Plaza to catch the late show of Electra. Drunk or not, there was no way I going to be seen in Phipps Plaza, walking past the Gucci boutique with someone who looked like he’d hired Carrot Top to be his fashion stylist. Suddenly, I had a stroke of brilliance: the Starlight drive-in movie theater! Sure, it was freezing cold, but I didn’t care. At the drive-in, I could fulfill my obligation to see this date through, and no one would see us.

We watched Electra at the drive-in while sitting in Red’s cold mini-van with a dashboard full of dirty Beanie Babies.  Occasionally, during the movie, I would catch Red looking at me. “What?” I asked, annoyed.

“You’re just so cute,” he said. Several times, he tried to stick his finger in my ear and I swatted at his boney finger. As soon as the credits began rolling, I was ready to go home.

BACK IN BLACK

Red had an early dance class to teach the next morning. Earlier in the week, during one of those fantastic late-night phone conversations that we’d had, I had assured him that he could crash on my sofa after our date to avoid the long drive to his doublewide trailer in Kennesaw. I would have preferred for him to go home, but I pride myself on keeping my word. So, to my apartment we went.

Because I felt more at ease on my own turf, once we were seated on my sofa, I chose to be open and honest with Red about our date. “Can you tell that the chemistry we had on the phone is gone?” I asked.

“No, it’s still here,” he insisted. He had no clue.

“No, it’s not,” I continued. “And don’t ask me to explain it. All I know is that it’s gone and I don’t think we’re compatible when it comes to dating.”

He was silent for a minute and then he looked at me and asked, “At what point in the date did you realize that this would not work for you?” Ouch. He was asking for specifics. I had been perfectly honest with him thus far, so why stop now? I knew from prior experience that no matter how ugly it can be, and how clichéd it is, the truth really does set you free.

“Honestly, Red, I knew this wouldn’t work the minute you walked into Outwrite.” There, I had said it. The truth had been spoken. But then Red wanted even more details.

“Is it what I’m wearing?” He was certainly not mincing words. I wanted to run out of my own apartment, but I figured I should finish what I’d started.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “While I appreciate your willingness to experiment with fashion, I prefer dating someone who dresses more conservatively and less flamboyantly.”

Immediately, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I was off the hook and I didn’t have to feel guilty. I’m sure he was a little hurt, but he would’ve been even more hurt if I had led him on or just simply disappeared.

Although I had dashed his hopes and hurt his feelings, I hope that as Red sashays down life’s runway, battling all the lies and half-truths that his young, fragile heart will encounter, he can look back and realize I was respectful–to both him and me–and above all, I was honest.

After supplying him with blankets and pillows, I said goodnight and retired to my own bed. Even though I was disappointed that the date did not lead me to Mr. Right, I felt it was actually a success because I had learned something about myself.

And that night, for the first time in a very long time, I had no trouble falling asleep.