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“Ouch. Did he have on expensive shoes with no socks?”
“Worse.”
“How bad?”
“White socks with Vans, but they were crew socks and he had them pulled up.”
“Oh my God,” I laughed. “Does he not know where they sell no-show socks? Does he have that weird tan line on his leg where he pulls up his socks?”
“I’ll never know. Considering the tall white socks were the least of my problems.”
“Oh, Ryan, what a disappointment,” I said wryly.” “You have no idea. He picked the restaurant without asking what I liked, and then said I should meet him, so he didn’t have to drive across town to pick me up.”
“Oh boy.”
“Exactly. And here we are, meeting at what I assumed was a burger joint, and I see him looking like that and he’s playing foosball. Like glaring a death glare at the guy he’s playing against like it’s life or death and not a dumb bar game. He was so into this game that he swore and kicked the table when he lost.”
“He is not doing well.”
“I go up to him, and kind of pivot so he can see the sundress and the cute sandals, and he said, ‘hey you’re here.’”
“Not, ‘hey you’re gorgeous and I’m unworthy and I’m sorry I acted like an ass about picking you up and then had a cursing tantrum when I lost unironically at a barroom table game?’” I suggested.
“Definitely not. The guy sees me, looks me up and down, gives me the nod like ‘you’re acceptable’ but no compliment. Then without even saying hi or glad I came or offering me a drink or something, he goes, ‘This floor isn’t level. It gives player two an unfair advantage because gravity is making the ball roll toward my goal the whole time. So, it’s impossible to have a fair game. Management needs to know so they can move the table or shim the legs on this end so it’s a level playing field.’”
“Wow. Is he twelve? Did you legit go out with a twelve-year-old sore loser? Maybe there’s a nice pop-up book you could read him about his big feelings when he doesn’t always win. You deserve better than Foosball Felix,” I said.
“I really do,” she agreed.
“Tell me you just turned around and walked out at that point?”
She shakes her head. “I know I should’ve walked out on him, but I kept hoping it would get better. I’m telling myself maybe he’s just nervous about the date and acting a little weird. Anyway, the hostess comes and takes us to a table.”
“Oh man, you really went on with it didn’t you?”
“Oh, I did. I shaved for this, remember? I follow the hostess to a table, we sit down, and while I’m looking at the menu, making small talk about if he’s been here before, what’s good, I look at him and he is turned all the way around in his seat. Looking at the foosball table. He points and goes, ‘You can really see it from here, how the line of the top of the table isn’t even straight, it’s clearly at a slight but visible diagonal because it's’ tilted.’”
“He’s still on about the table?” asked.
“He was, believe it or not.”
“So, what happened next? Did you ask if he needed to move his chair to get a front row seat for the next foosball game so he can tell the next loser it’s not his fault?”
“No, I said, ‘let’s place our orders and then we’ll go try the table. You can show me what the problem is, since you obviously can’t move past it.’”
“Please, please say he was too scared to play against you and just shut up about it!”
“Oh no he was wild with desire to prove that the table was rigged, slanted or otherwise completely unfair. So, I said, ‘okay, you play the end with the advantage so I can see what you had to deal with,’ like I’m letting him walk me through where he was when he got mugged or something. He is just electrified by this. His popped collar is quivering as he bobs his head, displaying how if he uses the little yellow men his ball will go more easily into my goal and I’m doomed to lose no matter if I was the world champion at foosball.”
“Is there a championship for that?” I said dubiously.
“Anything’s possible.”
“So, you played foosball. And he’s quivering with excitement because he’s only attracted to gaming tables apparently. What next?” I asked.
“I won.”
“Of course, you did. His karma defeated him. Good won out over evil. Champagne for everyone!” I quipped. “Did he crumple to the floor and curl up in a fetal position and cry?”
