Oh, uh, I uhm, er, I, uh,
I guess I don't need those.
— The Yellow Framed
Steve was one of my most memorable first dates. First, and only.
Memorable? Yeah, that's definitely the right word for Steve.
He was gonna take me out for an evening of pizza and pinball, which might have been fun, but I'll never know, because other things happened. Most of them to him.
We were on our way to Needza Pizza when he pulled off the road.
"What's up, Steve. We're stopping here? At a warehouse?"
"I gotta do a thing," he said. Only take a bit. Wanna wait or come with?"
I looked out the car window again, at the building we were parked in front of. It wasn't a warehouse. It was an abandoned warehouse, and that extra word matters.
"Yeah, I think I'm good right here, in the car."
"Cool. Back in a sec."
As he got out of the car, he reached behind the passenger seat to grab a large paper bag that looked heavier than it had any reason to be.
"Oh, God," I thought. "I'm an idiot. Steve's a drug dealer. And he's not dealing pot."
As he walked toward the abandoned warehouse, it seemed obvious this was going to end badly.
I watched as Steve opened the door.
A few arms emerged from inside for just long enough to yank his skinny ass in, like a cartoon character being yanked off stage by a giant cane.
YOINK!
The door slammed shut.
"Whelp. I guess Steve's getting jumped."
Then nothing.
More nothing.
Then the door opened again.
Five guys came out.
Steve wasn't one of them.
They started running straight toward me. Oh shit!
I rolled down the window and screamed, "I GOT A GUN."
They stopped.
They ran the other way.
They piled into a pale brown van parked across the street and peeled out as they drove away, which meant it was time for me to go into that warehouse and figure out what to do with what was left of Steve.
Sure enough, he was a crumpled up mess, lying on a concrete floor covered in dirt and crushed glass. He was bleeding pretty bad.
"Can't... Breathe..."
I said, "Yeah, well. Air is for guys that actually do take their dates out for pizza."
"Can't... Breave... Got... Jacked..."
"No shit, bro. Let's count the number of ways you blew it. You set up a drug deal at an abandoned warehouse. At night. You didn't scope the place first. You didn't bring backup. And you made matters worse by making me bear witness to your epic mother fucking disaster."
"...cah't ... bweave..."
"And whose fault is that."
"...hewp..."
"It's hospital time, bro. Can you get up?"
"Don't... know..."
"God, I suck at dating."
"...thorry..."
"Thuck you, Thteve."
I drove Steve to the emergency room and filled out the forms because his right hand was definitely, and perhaps unmendably, messed up. His right arm, too. And his left leg. Probably a lung, too.
"What's your address?"
"Thithfeen oh theven Thrankwin Terrethe..."
"Oh, fer fuck sake. Just give me your driver's license."
His jaw was swelling up pretty bad. He must have taken one right to the choppers.
By this point, I'd had enough.
"Look, man, you're gonna be here a while, and I never got any pizza. 'I hope you're hungry,' you said. Remember? Watching you bleed out really works up an appetite. So, I'm taking your car to get food. If you're lucky, I'll bring you back something you can ingest through a straw. Buh bye."
What the hell was I thinking, going on a date with a guy my age that drives a Jag? Of course he's a drug dealer. And an idiot. His car should have a vanity plate that says "ROB MEH."
He ruined my night.
He bled on my sweater, so he probably ruined that too.
But he had money.
And better still, I knew where he lived and I had his keys. I wasn't going there without gloves though. I don't know how much of that TV detective show stuff is real, but there's an easy way to not find out.
First stop? Walgreens. I picked up some rubber gloves, a pair of slippers, obnoxiously-yellow-rimmed reading glasses, and a box of condoms.
Why condoms? So I could act like an idiot in front of the cashier.
"Oh, uh, I uhm, er, I, uh, I guess I don't need those."
If you're gonna do something suspicious, do something innocently ridiculous as a distraction. Just in case.
If the cashier remembered anything about our interaction, she'd remember a chick in an inside-out sweater who was too shy to buy condoms. And if I ran into anybody at Steve's place, all they'd remember is fuzzy slippers and stupid yellow glasses, which would be a whole bunch of what the fuck.
Also, the slippers meant there'd be no chance of shoe prints.
Leave no trace.