Dates should never include men wooing me over with their singing. Especially when they can't sing.
Dinner was forgettable, his name, negligible. I remember driving him home and suddenly he was messing with my iPod.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
It went through my head: "Oh what a queen", though it was on my iPod, so I was just as guilty.
"Well, I remember you said you liked to sing. I like to sing as well. Can I sing for you?"
"Oh, ok, that's cool..." Slightly incredulous since it was rare someone offered me a concert in my own car. (I won't even delve into how creepy it was that he asked to sing for me.)
Suddenly "All By Myself" begins playing. You know how it begins, right? With that soft, straight-forward piano note striking repeatedly on each beat. Then Celine slowly breaks out with the breathy vocals, the hushed, almost sexual approach. But this man? How did he sing it? Well, if Celine were a lamb, this fag was a linebacker. He began screaming in what seemed like an attempt to hit every note with a single breathe. He had the enunciation of a toddler, the tone of a deaf man and he was swinging his hands as if he were Taylor Hicks after a long night of blow. For days afterward I had the imprints of my steering wheel burned into my palms. Tears almost formed, all in the utter horror that was coming for the grand climax--the part where Celine belts out that impressive high note and holds it out in beautiful efficiency.
He took a deep breathe, held his trembling hands to his heart...and went for it.
Think of bunnies in a blender. Imagine, if you will, what a squealing hog sounds like when shoved face-first into a pile of mud. Now, throw in the sound of puppies being pulled limb-by-limb with a chorus of children watching in deplorable terror. The synergy of wailing children, drowning hogs, tortured puppies and twisted bunny cries would be far more preferable to the cacophony of this auditory torture. Screaming would be an understatement. Wailing would be a compliment. Ear-piercing crying in prolonged ululation may be the closest description words can muster. I think I was shaking when it was over.
And, at the end of this indefinite version of hell, he turned to me and asked, "So, how was that?"
True to form, I said exactly what came to mind. "I can't seem to remember, is your house this exit or the next?"
For some unknown reason, he never called again.