I met a guy at our office Christmas party. Well, after our office party. My office had been drinking since 4 and had long-since spilled into a bar to continue the merriment. I was still riding high after getting an encore for my heart wrenching rendition of “Dreidel Bells,” which had helped me secure a very important prize. So clearly I didn’t think too much of the guy with the ginormous Adams Apple who was chatting me up at the bar trying to get my number— I was still basking in my dreidel glow.
I didn’t even remember giving “Adam” my number. But he called. And called again. And eventually my co-workers convinced me it was worth meeting up, despite the goiter on his neck. I asked him where he’d like to meet for happy hour. He suggested Rock Bottom. I said, “perfect.” (I have a thing for irresistible foreshadowing.)
I ordered a beer. He ordered nachos. We talked about things. Like how he was a hockey player, but how in reality that meant that he played in middle school. I asked him if he liked to travel. He said not really, but he’d been to the East Coast once. He’d driven with a cousin out to Cape Cod and stayed in NY along the way. “Nicaragua Falls is amazing,” he said.
“Um.. do you mean Niagara Falls?” I asked.
But he had moved on. He was telling me about Cape Cod and how disappointing it was. “Ohio is so flat, I can see my left turn 3 miles in advance,” he said stuffing his face with nachos. “But in Cape Cod, there’s so many trees, I kept getting lost.”
“Yeah,” I said picking at plastic cheese. “Cape Cod really sucks like that. If they were smart, they’d just cut them down. Then you could see Cape Cod from Cleveland.”
“Exactly,” he said.
Next.
