Over and over the voices in my head battled. Devil: “He’s too weird. End it.” Angel: “It’s not that bad. He’s nice.” And over and over the Angel won out. But when he drove up my driveway, his slight frame perched atop a new baby blue scooter, the Devil put the Angel in a headlock and screamed in my ear, “Noooooooooooooooo!”
I met Mr. Scooter at a house party. He was tan and lean with dusty blonde hair, wearing surfer shorts and a t-shirt that was just a little too tight. The Devil usually won’t allow me to date guys who are shorter and thinner than me. (He’s sizist, we’re working on it.) But the Angel thought he was adorable and when he asked me to go bat watching with him, she swooned and said yes.
He lived in my neighborhood, so the next night just before sunset, he walked to pick me up and we took the long walk together to the bridge where he said the bats lived. As we walked, I began to catch whiffs of a foul ammonia odor. It got stronger and stronger as we neared the bridge. It smelled like a cat had peed on my upper lip.
Mr. Scooter didn’t seem to notice and I didn’t want to be impolite, so I allowed him to lead me onto the bridge, right above the source of the disgusting rancid ammonia stench. As Mr. Scooter began a soliloquy on how nature finds a way, even in urban areas, I started to gag. I turned and pretended to look for bats, hoping that my convulsions would not be visible from behind. When I got a hold of myself, I turned back and tried to converse with him, but the smell was overpowering. Every time I opened my mouth, my tongue thrusted, my throat opened and my stomach seized.
Angel: “Just hang on. It could be romantic when the bats fly out. He’s so sweet to want to share this with you.”
Devil: “He brought you—on your first date—to a steaming pile of poo. You’ve been on nauseating dates before, but this is taking it to a whole new level. Leave immediately.”
The sun had set and not a bat in sight. The smell was permeating my senses and the gagging was becoming uncontrollable. I finally asked, “Do you think we could wait a little farther away? The smell is getting really strong.”
“I guess it is kinda strong. I think the bats should have flown by now. I’ll walk you home.” When we got back to my house, he gave me a side hug and left. I stripped to the skin and jumped in the shower, thinking he must have been put off by my disgust and I’d probably never hear from him again.
Angel: “Too bad. He was a nice guy.”
Devil: “Good riddance, poo boy.”
Much to my surprise, he called the next day and asked me over for dinner at his house. “Bat stew?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. “No,” he chuckled, “Spaghetti.” “Sounds good, I can be there in half an hour.”
It wasn’t spaghetti, it was bottled spaghetti sauce poured over nearly raw spaghetti squash scrapped out of the hull to resemble spaghetti.
Angel: “It’s a good thing! He obviously cares about health.”
Devil: “Date 1 involved gagging. Date 2 is headed in that direction.”
We sat down to eat and he clasped his hands and bowed his head to pray. Caught off guard, I did the same. He thanked the Lord for the food and requested that it be used for the nourishment of our bodies. After the prayer, as I took my first bite of spaghetti squash, he asked me if I go to church. I tried to chew the strangely crunchy, tasteless mass in my mouth quickly and swallowed so I could respond, but he continued, “because I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.” I was caught off guard again.“Oh.” I stammered, “I don’t know much about that religion.” “It’s mainly Christian.” He explained.
Angel: “Well…mainly Christian is better than all Satanist.”
Devil: “Mainly Christian, part door-to-door salesman, 100% weird.”
But again the Angel won out.
Over the next two weeks I saw him a few more times, much to the Devil’s chagrin. During our time together, Mr. Scooter shared that he did not currently have a job or a car. He said wasn’t yet sure who he wanted to be when he grew up. (Which wasn’t said in a tongue-in-cheek way but in a way that suggested he still considered himself a child.) He also confided that he’d been married at 18 and divorced at 19, a decision which caused him to be “disfellowshipped” from his church. “They would consider this adultery,” he said motioning to me.
Each new revelation caused a battle in my head.
Devil: “He’s just too immature. He doesn’t have a job or a car. He’s got religion issues. End it.”
Angel: “It’s not that bad. Maybe this isn’t a deal-breaker.”
And time and again I let the Angel convince me that since he was a nice person, I should give him a chance.
Then one Friday night he called very excited. “I want to come over. I just got something I’ve been wanting for a long time. I want to show you.”
He had mentioned that he really wanted a golden retriever. So, I was thinking puppy. When he tootled up my driveway, atop a shiny new baby blue kick scooter, the Devil put the Angel in a headlock and screamed in my ear, “Nooooooooooooooooo!”
“I’m so glad you stopped by.” I said, “I need to talk to you. I just don’t think this is going to work out.”