“How do you spell that? Is it with a ‘Dw ‘or a ‘Du’?” I asked him, as he dialed my cell number and held me captive, making sure I typed his name into my phone. “It’s ‘Dw’,” he said. “Everyone always wants to spell it with a ‘Du’.”
Dwayne is 6’4″, African-American, about 38 years old, muscular, but a little overweight. I’d first met him several years ago at my former gym. He’d come around to chat while I was working out, and be obvious checking out my ass each time I turned around. Still, he seemed harmless enough and it was easy to decline his occasional invitations to meet for drinks or dinner.
Flash forward four years: I moved back near my old neighborhood and renewed my membership at that same gym. Late one afternoon, he caught me getting out of my car when I was preoccupied, and suggested a lunch date. I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough to decline, so I agreed.
He asked what I did for a living, and I told him. He then went into a sales pitch about a line of hair care products he reps, that I might be interested in buying. He also owns a medical marijuana dispensary. I figured he’d try to get me stoned and then attempt to sell me a large quantity of shampoo. Regardless, I knew there was no backing out of our lunch date since I would see him at the gym and he would hold me to my word.
The next day, Dwayne sent me a text and we went back and forth a few times before finally deciding to meet for lunch at Boho, right next to the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood. I arrived on time, but didn’t see Dwayne in the crowded restaurant, so I sat down at a table and waited. Ten minutes later, I texted him. “Are you here and I don’t see you?” No response. I waited for another five minutes. Nothing.
I left the restaurant and walked two blocks back to my car. As I was pulling away from the curb, my phone bleeped with a text message from Dwayne. It was twenty minutes after our meeting time. “I’ll be there in two minutes,” it said.
If a guy’s late on the first date, he’s always going to be late. Had I been interested in Dwayne, I may have been tempted to turn back… or not. I returned his text, “I didn’t hear from you so I left,” and continued to my next appointment.
My phone rang. As soon as I said hello, Dwayne launched into his defense, “I’m at the gym and I was talking to this woman about my screenplay and she was really into the story and wanted to read my script, but it was in my car and she was asking me a bunch of questions so I didn’t want to be rude, and as soon as I gave it to her, I got into my car and I’m driving to Boho right now.
Only in L.A. would an excuse involving a screenplay be plausible. However, Dwayne clearly had no qualms about being rude to me. “Come back,” he pleaded. “I’m only two minutes away,” he said again. In L.A. “two minutes” means fifteen minutes if the traffic’s not too bad.”
But Dwayne is nothing if not persistent. I haven’t see him at the gym, but he keeps calling and leaving messages. As a matter of fact, as I write this, my phone is ringing and it’s Dwayne…
