#30 A TEST OF ENDURANCE: DAY TWO WITH PATRICK BATEMAN
#30 A TEST OF ENDURANCE: DAY TWO WITH PATRICK BATEMAN
That time he had me borrow his SUV and I went to a vegan cafe to wait
I wrote this to myself at the time…which I’m guessing I wrote on my laptop whilst there waiting for PB to finish whatever he was doing, which in our long (bonus material) exchange I basically came on different days than he’d mapped out because of my then terrible timing skills. So, to be fair to him in whatever capacity, he had planned that we would spend time together on different days and I’m guessing whatever he had going on on this day was a semi-non-negotiable thing he had to do. Or maybe he just didn’t want to spend, like, a fifteen-hour day with me. Back then, I was always late for everything, always setting off and doing things much later than planned. Things never went to plan and I was always a bit of a disaster (thankfully, in my 30s and beyond I’m no longer like this past version of myself).
If you want to read the previous two posts, check them out: why I tried to be into him (he fit my checklist) and our first date (featuring a finger in the bum).
I’m fairly new to driving again. I hadn’t really driven much in the last six months, so I was a little worried when Patrick suggested I borrow his SUV whilst he went into film school to work on the final touches of his film. He felt it would be easier if he rode his bike to school and then I’d drive to a café and he’d meet me there when he was finished and we’d drive to lunch.
His alarm went off fairly early in the morning. I’m not a morning person, so I most likely resented this fact at the time, but I also wanted to make a good impression, so I got out of bed after wiping stuff from the corners of my eyes (this drives me crazy) and went to brush my teeth (morning breath is no good, especially mine) and floss – although, this isn’t usually part of my every day routine.
No idea if I borrowed his floss or brought my own?
I didn’t look terrible and my hair wasn’t knotted at the back and bunched up, which is a good sign. I want the people I date to think I look pretty in the morning. It’s one of the many illusions I like to keep up – like shaving my legs almost every day and mostly wearing heels and never wearing t-shirts outside of the gym.
I like to think this can be achieved by the fact that I wear only eye makeup and blusher (plus, the occasional dab of lipstick or swipe of the semi-permanent, 18-hour stuff) and no foundation, so unless I’m wearing hooker-black-eye shadow on my eyes there’s not a night-and-day difference – or, at least, this is what I go for because we’ve all seen those beautiful “dolled up” people who look lovely “dolled up” but as soon as they are not there’s that complete train-wreck-of-a-realisation when you see them without their poundage of makeup that they aren’t all that attractive and you might get the urge to ask what-the-fuck-happened-to-your-face, maybe under your breath a little, because you thought it was much better. Okay. So this tangent sounds mean-spirited, but with makeup less is more, right?
I was a dick. And also my past pics look horrendous because I never wore foundation, but to be fair, I still rarely wear it. We just never got on all that well and I like to rub my face too often. But was I just jealous of the people who can flawlessly apply makeup? Probably. I still am. I’ve always been very basic with how I apply makeup and wish I was as talented as many women I see (including my wedding makeup artist, Eve, and American friend, Sydney, who I don’t even know if she reads this Substack).
Alright, backtracking, I got out of bed. I was wearing a white nightdress, slightly see-through. Nightdresses may be old fashioned and I have no idea what other girls wear to bed with men. Maybe nothing? Maybe cutesie PJs? Maybe a t-shirt borrowed from the guy? I’ve done that one before. Borrowed stuff. But he didn’t offer and I wasn’t about to ask.
I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, but he was doing that pillow-over-the-eyes move. I decided I’d make him cereal because I didn’t want to fuck up his eggs. That seemed like formula for a bad day, so I set out the bowl of cereal, the milk beside it, and a tall glass of Florida’s Natural, most pulp and made him a cup of English tea. He wasn’t a fan. I ended up drinking his. I didn’t eat breakfast because I can’t stomach food first thing in the morning.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
9.21 am: Elaine: Feel like idiot but is there a trick to turning the key in your car?
9.23 am: Patrick: To get in or start the engine?
9.25 am: Elaine: Start the engine. It will not turn.
Simultaneously, I spoke on the phone with my mother and she told me just to “jiggle the wheel.” I felt like an idiot; it’s going to seem as if I’m clueless and cannot drive, I thought. I can’t even turn on his car, c’mon!
9.26 am: Patrick: Jiggle the steering wheel.
I spent my time at this café called All Saints, a café that Patrick recommended; he frequented it, apparently, which is strange because of his obvious dislike for “hippies.” The décor in the place was certainly interesting if not, at first glance, aesthetically pleasing. It sort of resembled a collection of junk with some parquet flooring, exposed ceiling tiles, truck stop bathrooms, run-down sofas, and a platform area that served as an internet café of sorts. The chairs in this internet café were clearly designed in the 1970s in mustard-brown, heavy pile fabrics and largely uncomfortable at most angles. The tables were chipboard with metal legs in the centre. The menu looked mostly vegan, which I’m not immediately against since my father and sister are vegan and many vegan dishes are – quite frankly – bloody delicious, but I was hungry and looking for something sort of substantial until lunch with Patrick.
I can’t remember what he said now where he was against hippies but I wrote that and vaguely remember him saying something on one of his rants to be oh-so-different than everyone else.
I asked for some recommendations from the bohemian girl behind the counter. I selected the hummus and veggies. I didn’t think I could stomach a meatless wrap. I asked what sort of teas they had – if they had English Breakfast tea (pretty much the only tea I consume besides a Chai tea latte). They did.
I browsed the menu: Soy milk. Soy milk. Soy milk.
“I guess you don’t have skimmed milk?” I sounded sceptical and, perhaps, a little too harsh and disappointed as if I was judging their dairy and meat free food.
“Oh, we do.”
Bingo.
“May I have some skimmed milk in my tea, please?”
I think the total came to $8 something, which is really too much for veggies, hummus, and tea, but whatever. You have to buy stuff when you sit at a place for an indeterminable amount of time. And my time there would be indeterminable.
I browsed the internet for some time and answered emails, not that I had many. My roommate had sent me an email about how she’d gone to lunch with a friend and she’d brought along an old bear for her friend’s daughter and placed it in a seat of its own, which had surprised the server, and it reminded her of the time we’d watched Brideshead Revisited (lovely film) in which one of the main characters breakfasts with his bear and his friends. I laughed out loud in the café. Literally.
I also read the Brideshead book so no idea why I only mentioned the film here.
Before I picked up my copy of The Remains of the Day to finish reading it, I chatted with a couple of people. I’d gone to the bathroom and I was wearing some black ankle boots and a pretty girl with clear skin had complimented my shoes and I thanked her.
“I meant to tell you that I like your skirt.”
I had indeed meant to tell her, but didn’t know how to bring it up. She was slim with a nice figure, and had a denim button-up top on which she’d tied at the front 90s-style to show her midriff and as a makeshift skirt she’d tied this sort of silky orange kerchief-like sarong around her waist, something that looked delightful on her, but wouldn’t on me. Still I admire creative fashion choices even if I wouldn’t make them. I learned she’d just been accepted to FSU and moved from south Florida. Another girl between us was quietly studying for a test, so, even though we were having a nice conversation, we ended it to be polite. Orange skirt girl said goodbye to me when she left thirty or more minutes later.
12.18 pm: Patrick: How’s it going? This is ending up taking a little longer than I thought. The professor has been in the room with me for the last hour.
12.37 pm: Elaine: I’m just at the café. Reading. How much longer do you think?
12.41 pm: Patrick: 20 mins. I HAVE to be done in 20 mins, anyway.
12.44 pm: Elaine: Oh? Is that the deadline? Buena suerte!
He speaks fluent Spanish, as I have said, and I had to Google this phrase. I thought it would sound cool. Why do I try so hard?
1:01 pm: Patrick: Done. On my way.
I felt very hungry. Hummus can only fill a girl for so long.
He told me he got hard thinking about me the night before – how I was biting him or something – whilst his professor was watching and he had to make a hand-tent. I am not sure why he admitted this as obviously wasn't a ploy for more sex. We had lunch at Olive Garden where he was impatient with the waitress which I didn’t like.
Next up, day three where I left his place and met up with a friend to go to a gallery and obsessively thought about PB and texted him…
Don’t forget to check out the other twenty-nine posts I’ve written, including the one on why I’m writing this newsletter/blog in the first place.
Have you ever sat around waiting for a date?