Saturday, February 11, 2017

How to Lose a Creepy Caller

It was 11 pm and I got off at 2-- cocktail waitress hours. I worked at the Palomino Club in North Hollywood.  This night I was chatting with a guest at the back bar.  I never should have given my number to—what’s his name. Guess I was feeling weak. Tommy had just dumped me and through my cocktail haze, I thought eh, he’s good looking enough.  I said ‘sure, I’ll go out with you.” It was never a good idea to make a move so soon after a devastating blow to the heart.  But move I did. It was a week night so he left before closing.

 He called. After talking a bit I felt there was something decidedly creepy about him.  I politely declined the offer.  The next week he called again. “No thanks.  I do not want to go out with you.”  I thought that was the end of it, but he called again.  He was getting on my nerves.  “Do not call again.  I don’t want to go out with you. I don’t like you.”  Surely that was the end of it.

Nope. I will be damned if he didn’t call again. This time I was pissed.  “Leave me alone.  Do not call here again.  I don't like you. You annoy me. I do not want to go anywhere with you.”  End of story.

 Two days later he called.  I did not have enough sense to be afraid. It was 1976, a year before Paramount released Looking for Mr. Goodbar. What did I know?  Nobody was afraid of stalkers. There were no government statutes. 

Obviously, I was never going to get rid of this guy without hiring a strong man or filing some kind of civil suit.  If I didn’t say yes, he wasn’t going away. Alright. I said “let’s go out next Saturday.  I have two tickets to a show. You buy dinner.” He agreed.

Saturday arrived and we headed to downtown Los Angeles. I suffered through dinner at some inexpensive forgettable place. At the theater, I settled into my seat. I enjoyed 2 hours and 45 minutes of glorious singing punctuated by two intermissions— one 30 minutes and the other 20 minutes. When I would glance at him during his 3 and half hours of captivity, he looked horribly uncomfortable. I could tell he was not only bored out of his mind but he was also experiencing digestive discomfort. It was a smashing.  Obviously, he had no idea what was going on. It was all in Italian. In the age before scrolling screens, there were no translations nor subtitles.  Not only did every main character die but I am sure the wall to wall vibrato wasn't really to his taste. 
He took me home and I bid him farewell never to hear from him again. Guess he was not thrilled by Tosca. Perfect -death by opera!




© February 11, 2017

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