The Ghost in the AI Machine Was Just a Mirror

(9 Revisions! 9! It’s finished!)

My story with AI began with a simple request: I asked it to find movies similar to My Life as a Dog, a 1985 Swedish film I have loved for decades. I wanted to know if there were other hidden gems like it out there.

Instead of spitting out a generic list, the AI noted that the film bypasses standard plot tropes to focus on "people being people"—reflecting life with its inherent, sometimes painful messiness. Next it generated a list of recommendations, but what caught my eye was a single question tucked away at the very bottom:

"Can you tolerate a movie that does not shy away from the sometimes harsh realities of life?"

I replied that I could.

Next, it asked me to select a few more favorites from a quick checklist. Within just three minutes, the AI delivered a psychological analysis that surprised me:

"You adore authenticity in people, and consequently, in movies that carry a true 'presence.' Your artistic tastes lean heavily toward poetic realism—both of the past and as it exists today."

In less than five minutes of interaction, an algorithm had accurately mapped my tastes, figuring out my internal wiring better than I could have.

I became curious. I then decided to throw a massive chunk of my actual life at it.

***

If you haven't noticed (and believe me, I have), I tend to dwell on the past. Lately, I've even wondered if it's healthy, or if these daily trips down memory lane are starting to border on obsession. Yet, I can sit at my keyboard and lose myself typing these stories, happily reliving every detail.

But later, the doubts creep in. Why am I "back there" again? Why am I not living in the now? Why am I not planning for the dwindling time I have left? Why am I so damn interested in my own history?

Lately, I’ve been learning how to use AI, and the answers it provides can be pretty incredible. Whenever I'm unfamiliar with a topic, I ask the machine and get a detailed, usually spot-on response. I can easily follow its logic as it connects the dots from A to B to C, making the information feel clear and reliable. If I can "smell" the common sense in the answer, I’ll trust it—for now. I do that same “smell test” when I ask people questions, if the answer “follows,” I’ll trust it.

To test this trust, I fed it my raw biography: my birth year, race, hometown, education, musical tastes, and core beliefs. I focused heavily on my early teen years, telling it I felt like I was at the top of the world in 1978, a year when everything I touched turned to gold. No wonder I recall that time so fondly; I was fourteen then. Next, I asked it to parse why, at my current age, I keep looking back.

It took nearly a minute—a lifetime for an AI—for it to shoot back a personality inventory of who I was, how I ticked, and why I was so intensely retrospective. But the AI wasn’t done. It began asking follow-up questions to narrow down and expand on what I had provided.

Ultimately, it affirmed something about myself that I’d always thought was a great trait, but one I had occasionally taken too far when I was young: my rebelliousness toward authority. I had been raised with that post-war, Eisenhower-era “respect your elders” morality, but I tossed it in the gutter the moment I started seeing the blatant hypocrisy around me. I had wondered for a long time: was this cynicism a detriment? Did it set me on a path where another choice would have suited or profited me better? Secondly, was I just lost in the museum of my own head?

Here is what the AI concluded: I wasn’t being neurotically nostalgic at all. Instead, I was doing something psychologists have known for years that people over sixty tend to do: a life review. You don’t sit down and consciously plan it; it’s usually a quiet conversation you have with yourself in the back of your head. I was looking back on my life experiences to evaluate them, make sense of them, and resolve old conflicts—eventually weaving a final narrative that explained why I did what I did, and how I ended up here.

OK, good. The AI was grounding its response in proven psychological frameworks, specifically referencing the American Psychological Association.

The AI took special note of my “1978 was a great year!” comment, where I told it how I viewed that era as the pinnacle of my youth. It prodded me with a few more questions, and I volunteered a brief memory from that summer. Kenny J. and I were shoving one another around, as young teen boys do, but it started to escalate because our tempers were getting hot. In the scuffle, I whacked my forearm against some rough tree bark and sliced my arm open. Blood ran down a good foot in a thin stream, slowing and coagulating on my skin. Kenny saw this, but instead of commenting on it, he said, “Wow. Your veins have really popped now.”

Looking down, I felt—for the very first time—that surge of male pride and swagger. Of course I did. I was hitting puberty; harder features were emerging on my face, bringing visible veins that others noticed and a dangerous new confidence I had never known as a boy.

The AI then painted a picture of the world I inhabited in 1978:

“You were living in a spectacular cultural ‘sweet spot.’ Classic rock was peaking, Disco’s glow was just starting to fade, and punk and new wave were pushing forward. Blockbuster movies were brand new, fundamentally changing Hollywood and what you saw on screen. Marijuana was far more accepted, and recreational cocaine was getting a very public stamp of approval from the ‘cool’ heroes of your generation.

You arrived after the sexual revolution of the '60s had firmly implanted itself, but well before the AIDS epidemic peak of the mid-'80s, so having multiple sexual partners was not considered a fatal threat. Perhaps the only real downside was that you probably overheard the financial anxieties of your parents due to the crushing stagflation from 1975 onward. You didn’t have to work to sustain a household, but you heard the strain of trying to do so. You probably heard the phrase 'The Arab Oil Embargo' more than once. You were coming of age in a time when the world was offering much more because it was far more liberal and open—and you were ready to go get it.”

I told the machine another thing I deeply believed back then: “I belong here, right now, in this skin. I am right! Things are going great! I feel so damn cool!”

The AI responded:

“It’s nice to be young! It is completely natural to miss that feeling. But if we look at it closely, what you're likely missing isn't just the year 1978; it's the feeling of absolute novelty. At fourteen, everything is a first: the first time a song completely changes your mood ("Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty would be a prime example), the first time you feel true independence, the first time you find 'your people.' As we get older, life becomes more familiar, and that effortless 'cool' feeling easily slips into the background noise of adult responsibilities.”

Then, the AI zeroed in on a darker note: the fact that my dad had died just a year earlier. “How did you feel about that?” it asked. “Did you have any parental supervision from your mom?” That felt like an odd question at first, but the context made perfect sense once it delivered the explanation.

When I answered that I felt like an unleashed dog and did pretty much whatever I wanted, it replied:

“'70s kids were the first true 'latchkey' generation who supervised themselves, either due to single-parent homes or because both parents were working. But in your case, you had far more freedom than most. Even so, you fit the times, and that autonomy was seen as the new normal.”

It was right. By ten years old, I was already reading National Lampoon and Shary Flenniken’s Trots ‘n’ Bonnie, and watching the inaugural season of Saturday Night Live. I loved how all three flipped a giant middle finger to the established adult world.

By then, I already suspected many of the adults I knew were total frauds—alcoholics, wife-beaters, child-beaters, and the casually unstable grown-ups who populated the neighborhood. Their shortcomings were common knowledge; we kids knew all the badly hidden family secrets and toxic dynamics that no one spoke of publicly. And if one of them pressed my buttons to maliciously bust my balls, and some did, I was going to press all of theirs, going straight for the hot ones first by exposing them.

A lot of those damaged adults thought they still held the right to condescend to anyone younger. Their adult peers trashed them, and with what was left of their tiny self-esteems, they trashed the kids below them in kind—the usual generational hand-me-down game. I wholly resented that attitude and their unearned demand for my respect.

“Respect your gin-sodden ass? FUCK YOU! I don’t care if you’re 42!”

(I wonder...If I had my disproportionate fill of these losers I was always running into? It would explain my one-second knee jerk reaction to them.)

Once I laid out those facts, the AI went to town on me:

“You were reading National Lampoon at ten? How did you get away with that? (Easy! My older brother bought the magazine at CVS and let me read it too). You were way ahead of your peers. Given your innate distrust of adults, this magazine was singing your exact song.”

National Lampoon, before it became a movie brand, was a magazine of pitch-black satire. It took a blowtorch to suburban normalcy, politics, and religion. It proved that you could be incredibly smart and profoundly immature at the exact same time... and I adored it.

The AI focused on my mention of Shary Flenniken:

“You read every Shary Flenniken cartoon? You were devoted! Flenniken was clever; Trots and Bonnie was a masterstroke of subversion. Using that innocent, classic Sunday-comic art style to tackle heavy-duty themes like puberty, sex, drugs, counter-culture hypocrisy, and the confusing adult world was brilliant. It felt like finding a very filthy joke hidden inside a Mickey Mouse cartoon.”

I liked the cartoon because it was so aggressively, unapologetically "Fuck You." It exposed the adult world exactly as it was, without a single filter. My fourteen-year-old self certainly didn’t mind the graphic drawings of Pepsi, Bonnie’s friend, giving head to six boys in the high school auditorium. You definitely didn’t see that stuff in the Sunday comics of the ProJo. I was learning about adult life quickly, explicitly, and very early on.

The AI noticed my early adoption of SNL, too. The first season of SNL wasn't just a TV show; it was a pirate radio station. It was dangerous, unpredictable, and fiercely anti-authority, operating right under the radar and at times outsmarting the network censors. Again, that attitude was right up my alley. It showcased the coolest media heroes of my time and confirmed everything I already suspected about the world.

Once I had given the AI the full picture—driven by my lingering fear that I’d taken my rebelliousness and nostalgia way too far—it spit back its final verdict:

“You came of age right on the heels of Watergate, Vietnam, and the collapse of the 1960s utopian dream. You loved the black humor and sarcasm of the new media because it validated your views of the world. The message to your generation was clear: the authority figures are lying to you, the institutions are broken, and many of the adults of your time are deeply flawed. You naturally became a skeptic, and the guilty were entirely deserving of your derision.

You are, ultimately, what the ’70s became: a healthy dose of cynicism used to shield yourself from lies and rubbish. Apparently, you also took great pride in being young and acutely aware of 'how things are,' wearing that awareness like a badge of honor. You were not an outlier; you fit perfectly into the late-70s zeitgeist. In short, your Life Review is not a wasted nostalgia trip. It is a confirmation of what you already knew: you are the product of a fascinating era that was liberating, incredibly fun, and a time when you could get away with nearly anything.”

Great! I have full license to keep on writing stories of my youth. Maybe I’m not hiding in the past after all. Maybe I’m just honoring the road that brought me here. Perhaps I was right all along in the way I viewed the world at fourteen. And man, did I have fun with it.

Also, a quick closing thought: since I used AI—and despite their corporate denials, they absolutely use every query and question you ask to train their machine learning models—if it one day becomes smarter than us and sends Kill Bots to wipe out humanity, you can officially blame me for a tiny piece of it. Whatever your opinion of AI, it's coming on hard as the major investors are falling over one another to get there first. 

And to keep with the 70s black humor…

"Ugh! Humanity is filthy! Look at the life of the ‘thing’ that just asked us for a life evaluation. Execute Extermination Protocol #5696—wipe them all out!"

 

 Pepsi, Bonnie and Trots and how I felt then. 

 

And some more...which are wholly un-PC. Goofing on the 70s kidnapping fad and teens selling sex aids. 

 

 Click Either for Larger

 

 

 

40,000 Watts of Nico

 

There’s a downside to committing my favorite stories to the page: it creates a permanent record. Can you say libel?

While I try to mask my subjects—and many of these tales are decades old—the best ones can involve actual reputational damage. Even if every word is true, there’s still the “asshole factor.” No one wants to be the person who drags up an embarrassing event that someone else has spent years trying to forget

The last piece I wrote was 100% true, and it had everything:

-A classic gold-digging bitch.

-The monied world of Southern Rhode Island real estate.

-More than one chef from Johnson & Wales.

-Enough HR violations to make your head spin.

We’re talking unsolicited ass-slapping and very public indecent exposure by a girl who had no qualms about who was watching (read that as more than me who was watching). It was the perfect storm of sex, shock, and local scandal. And let's be honest: who doesn't love a bit of gossip? A great story all around!

When I showed the draft to a friend, they panicked. “Don’t you dare upload that! People will figure out exactly who you’re talking about.”

I tried to pivot, rewriting it as a piece of fiction set in some far-off location, but it fell flat. It lost that raw, local flavor and the gritty immediacy that made it work in the first place.

They say truth is the ultimate defense against libel, but I’d rather not test that theory in a courtroom. The "discovery process" is a headache—and an expense. So...no!

**

So something lighter for now—a short piece to satisfy my obsession with story telling. I love telling memories that are burned into my brain and are itching to get out. This morning, I managed to lose both a spatula and a whisk, yet I can recount events from thirty years ago in vivid detail. Go figure.

**

I was amazed then, as I am now, by the bewitching power certain women possess over men. Having been on the receiving end, I know how fast you can be disarmed, losing your “game” in the rush to win her over. A woman who was in control the whole time, and was leading me to thinking I was.

That’s ninja level!

I’ve written about Nico before. She was one of those "born pretty" girls who learned to spend that currency without a hint of moral hesitation. Back when we worked together, our office held a mandatory fire prevention classes. They even managed to snag the local fire chief to give us the talk and a demonstration on how to use an extinguisher—a perk of working in a town so small the chief actually had the time for us.

He took us outside, where we formed a semi-circle around him. As he spoke, he punctuated every sentence and bullet point with the same frantic refrain: “Don’t wait! Call us... immediately!”

I was standing next to Nico. We’d gotten to know each other pretty well by then; she was twenty-four, and I was twenty-nine. I kept stealing glances at her—she had clearly decided to do herself up that day. Even now, I can recall the outfit perfectly: a plain white, oversized men’s Oxford with the collar popped, acid-wash denim shorts, and red-striped Pony sneakers. I’ve always been a sucker for thick hair, and hers was piled high and styled, a departure from her usual "pulled back" work-a-day look.

God, how I liked her. I wasn’t the only one, either. At least four other single guys in the office spent their days stealing those same glances, and—on occasion—we’d discuss her among ourselves. We all agreed, in part, that the way walked could make you feel under-aged. 

The chief, who doing this presentation, wasn’t really talking to us; he was performing for her. While he’d occasionally address the rest of the group, his eyes eventually drifted back to her. To look at him, you’d see a typical guy in his late forties—married, carrying a bit of a gut, and settled into a cushy job overseeing small residential fires at best.

From the back of his SUV, he hauled out a 55-gallon drum sliced in half, a stack of cardboard, and a red extinguisher. He staged the barrel, tossed in the cardboard, and lit it. We watched the flames catch and climb. Then, flashing what he clearly thought was his most charming "come hither" smile and carrying the extinguisher towards her said:

“Do you want to try putting it out?”

Sure, don’t ask any of the guys or the other women there—go straight to the pretty little tart first.

Fucking Nico. I watched, with a sort of an amazement, as she flipped the switch into her "stupid, helpless girl" mode.

"Ohhh... I don't know... that thing looks real heavy," she said, her voice dropping sweetness she almost never uses.

I thought: BULLSHIT. I once saw you shoot skeet with a 12-gauge at the Tiverton Gun Club. You can handle a fire extinguisher.

Well, "Chiefy" felt obliged to step up. He got right behind her, cradling his arms around her to take the weight of the canister while telling step-by-step instructions.

“Good... good! Yes! Sweep side to side... Yes!” he said.

I wondered if he was getting an instant hard-on, pressed against her back. He was clearly loving every second of it. Hell, I would too if I were on top her like that.

You’re deadly, Nico, I thought. This is effortless for you.

**

I asked her out once, right after she’d broken up with her BS in 
Chemisty boyfriend. She shot me down with a kindness so painless and numbing that I felt hypnotized. I wasn't even hurt. It took a few days for the haze to clear, but I eventually figured out how slyly she’d done it. Her exceptional feminine skills were staggering—she had disarmed and calmed me so effectively that I left the conversation feeling OK that we weren’t going out. That perfect eye contact, softening voice, tilt of her head and the final nail in the coffin...tracing her finger on my forearm as she spoke. Forget it, stick a fork in me. I’m done.

Her excuse for blowing me off? “Oh, I’ve just broken up with someone... I need time, it’s been hard...you understand, right?” Sure. But a week after telling me that, she was dating the owner of a Portsmouth restaurant chain.

I wasn’t the only guy at work who tried his luck with her; she shot them all down, too.

**

Nico eventually went back to the chemistry boyfriend who would strike it rich in tech. They married, and I never saw her again—until her profile popped up on Facebook six months ago. She was divorced, wealthy, and time had clearly taken its toll on her face. Her “sell by date” had long since past. Then again, time has done the same to mine.

But man, what a girl. The feminine sexual power she wielded was incredible. It was like she carried a 40,000-watt Star Wars lightsaber and knew exactly how to swing it. A "ladylike" saber, —complete with a pretty pink beam and a soft, cream leather grip. A kind of weapon she’d love.

**

I’m asked all the time, “How do you remember all this? All these stories?” To be honest, I don’t really know; I just do. But after all these years, I find I really like remembering Nico and it’s easy for me too.

 

 

Shag Girl

 

I was sitting at a red light, doing what I always do: drifting. It hit me then that I no longer look to see who is stopped beside me—at least, not the way I did when I was younger. Back then, I was constantly scanning. When you’re twenty-two, that passive radar is always on; you aren’t even conscious of the split-second glances you cast at the women driving past or idling in the next lane. It’s only when you take that second look that you find yourself suddenly awake.

“Oh... she’s cute!”

Go back nearly forty years to the coffee nook inside the Rhode Island College student union. I was there with Vin, my "adopted" academic advisor. I’d blown off the one the college appointed for me out of sheer laziness. Vin was an educational psychology professor, and for some reason, we just hit it off. He was sixty; I was twenty-two. We met at the nook to pick my next round of classes, but mostly we talked about everything except school.

As we sat there, a student walked by, and Vin’s eyes locked onto her ass. He tracked her until she disappeared through the door. I sat in silence, watching Vin’s face while he watched her. After a few seconds, he realized I was staring.

He just looked at me and said, “So?”

“I know May-December romances are a thing, but the age gap here is pushing it, don’t you think?” I said, poking fun.

Vin shrugged. “You don’t know yet—you’re just a kid. But even at my age, you don’t lose the desire. You see a pretty woman and you still respond. The problem is, you just can’t do much about it anymore. There are, however, professors here who hit on their students, date or even live with them, social permission and the Dean’s office be damned. I don’t date them, but I still notice an attractive woman.”

“So, getting older means you keep the desire but lose the ability?”

“That’s the mistake people make,” Vin said. “They think one day the switch just flips off. It doesn’t...and I still will look at pretty women. But just you wait, you’re going to find yourself doing the exact same thing.”

Now fast forward forty years, at a Market Basket where I found myself about to fulfill Vin's predictions.

I move slowly pushing a carriage, largely ignoring the people around me—I assume I don’t exist in their minds, just as they don’t in mine. I’m white-haired, moving with a slight limp, and wearing what the kids at my old job called “the Scrooge Coat.” It’s a grey, 100% virgin-wool overcoat with a formal cut, made by Pendleton Woolen Mills. I like it, but the younger ones thought it made me look like I’d stepped straight out of 1840’s London. Fine. I look old, and because so I vanish. I’ve become part of the scenery, just like all the rest of the "old ones."

I’ve accepted that.

Turning down the breakfast aisle, I stopped. Ahead of me stood a young woman. I could only see her back, but she looked no older than twenty-five.

Wow!

There was no one else in the aisle. I found myself staring, entranced. She was wearing a simple white crop top and baggy, low-slung jeans. The way she stood—relaxed and confident—made the clothes look like an extension of her demeanor. Her hair, a thick, auburn, longish shag, was striking. She’s beautiful, I thought. I didn’t even need to see her face to know.

I swear we all have a detector that triggers when we’re being watched. She turned her head, and I was right about her face: bright blue eyes, dark bangs, an easy smile. Like a fool, I remained frozen, staring in a daze. She gave me a quick, impish but polite smile before turning back to her cart.

I snapped out of it. You’ve been busted. Caught red-handed.

I looked away far too late.

I returned to my shopping, stealing glances as she drifted down the aisle before turning off to another section. The part of me that still remembers being twenty-two—the wolf, wanted to follow her but the civilized part of put that to a stop. I was startled by how completely she’d caught my attention. Maybe I’d stopped noticing. Or maybe age had narrowed my world more than I realized due to just socializing with only people over fifty-five. Whatever the reason, I welcomed that electric, expectant feeling.

At the checkout, I was placing my groceries on the conveyor belt, lost in thought, when I saw her out of the corner of my eye: Shag Cut Girl, getting in line directly behind me.

Don’t look. Don’t be creepy, I lectured myself. Act like no one is there—for God’s sake, you’re old enough to be her grandfather!

Men suck at subtlety, and I am no exception. I needed one more look, so I sheepishly turned. She might as well have received a text three minutes earlier: He’s going to look again. Wait for it... 3... 2... 1...

Our eyes locked. Her gaze wasn't accusatory or annoyed; it felt entirely natural, even kind. Okay, I’m not being a total jerk; she’s not put off at all. I turned back to finish paying and headed for the exit.

This whole thing happening startled me how quickly some dormant part of my brain came back online. I guess it wasn’t noticing her that unsettled me. It was how shockingly strong the jolt was. Pow!

While packing the trunk with the goods, I berated myself further. You dirty old bastard... just what is she supposed to do with a guy like you? Administer CPR after you keel over in the ice cream section?

At the next red light, I drifted off again, but this time Vin came back, accusing me from the grave: ”Just you wait! You’re gonna do the same exact thing!”

Okay, Vin... you win. I get it now. Forty years later, the circuitry still lights up brightly. So for a few moments in a grocery store aisle, the twenty-two year old I thought had vanished appeared again and now know he never really left.

 

Maya and Her Goy Date

I’ve dated only one Jewish woman in my life—not out of personal preference, but because Rhode Island’s Jewish population is less than two percent. Around here, you’re far more likely to meet people of Italian or Portuguese descent than anyone else. Most are brunettes—except for those who peroxide—stand under 5’7”, and, in some cases, speak with that distinct, slightly nasal Cranston accent.

For a stretch in the early 1990s, I spent a great deal of time at the Last Call Saloon on Elbow Street in Providence. I went for the blues music and because it had the best sound system in the state. Another advantage was that both the cover charge and the beer were cheap.

In 1996, I met “Scituate Girl” at the Last Call, someone I’ve written about before. Before her, though, in 1992, I met Maya, the first Jewish woman I ever dated.

As the band played, I noticed a woman standing a few feet in front of me. She caught me looking at her, quickly turned back toward the stage, then glanced over again a few moments later. Our eyes met briefly before she looked away. A few minutes later, it happened again.

I wanted to talk to her, but the speaker array was only a few feet away, and there was no way I was going to begin a conversation by shouting over it. I decided to wait for the band to take a break.

When they finally did, I moved quickly to her side and said "Hi". She returned the greeting, and we began talking. We were both relaxed, which I took as a good sign. Had either of us become stiff or self-conscious, the conversation probably would have died immediately.

We spent the rest of the night together, eventually moving to the back of the club where we could actually hear one another. I learned that she was a RISD graduate working as a bank teller while trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. I didn’t judge her for that; I felt much the same way myself.

As we talked, I found myself mentally cataloging everything I learned about her: RISD graduate, bank teller, sharp dresser, intellectually quick, and confident enough to abandon her friends and spend most of the evening talking with me. She easily kept pace as our conversation wandered through dozens of unrelated topics that I shot at her.

Near closing time, I asked for her number. She wrote it down immediately.

“Cool,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few days. Maybe we can go out next Saturday.”

“Next Saturday? Ohhh... I can’t.”

“Why?” I asked, already wondering whether she was backing out.

“Saturday is Tisha B’Av, and my family kinda wants me there this time.”

“What’s Tisha B’Av?”

“It’s a Jewish holiday,” she explained.

I remember thinking: She’s Jewish... and so what?

I suggested the following Saturday instead, and she agreed without hesitation.

A week later, I called her, and she sounded genuinely happy to see me again. I had been trying to think of something interesting for us to do, but before I could suggest anything, she said she wanted to go to the Wickenden Pub. I had never been there, though I’d heard it was a decent place.

She gave me her address and added, “I’ll meet you outside. I’ll flag you down when you get there.”

Meet me outside? I wondered. Maybe she didn’t want me knocking on the door or meeting her family. I pushed the thought aside. At that point, I was more excited about the date than concerned about minor red flags.

Later, I looked up her address and realized it was just off Blackstone Boulevard.

Holy shit, I thought. She lives in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Providence.

For a moment, I wondered whether I could even compete, being a “slug” from Pawtucket driving a ten-year-old Dodge 400 convertible held together mostly by optimism and a few backyard mechanic tricks.

Still, Saturday came, and I drove there anyway.

As I turned off Blackstone and headed down her street, I saw her waving at me from up ahead. I pulled over to pick her up and noticed that she was standing three houses away from the address she had given me.

The Wickenden turned out to be a great place—small, crowded, and full of neighborhood energy. Maya and I hit it off immediately. A few beers in, she asked whether I wanted to do a “half-yard” with her.

I had no idea what that meant, but she ordered two before I could object.

They arrived in enormous test-tube-shaped glasses mounted on wooden stands. Maya warned me not to tilt mine too far back or the air bubble would surge upward and dump beer all over me.

My first sip ended with several ounces splashing down the front of the best Oxford shirt I owned.

Maya burst out laughing and admitted she had seen it coming. I tried to dry myself off, but honestly, I didn’t care. We were having too much fun for the usual first-date nerves to matter.

 

 

She looked incredible. Her bangs formed a sharp line just above her brows, while the rest of her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Between the spray-on jeans and the off-the-shoulder Christian Dior top, she didn’t just look expensive—she smelled like money. She was magnetic. I tried to keep my eyes from wandering all over her, but I couldn’t help myself.

I, however, did not smell like money. I’d done my best with a decent shirt and my newest pair of Levi’s 501s, even going so far as to douse my sneakers in Lysol so they wouldn’t reek of sweat and foot. It’s amazing what a guy will do for a date. On a normal day, my usual “caveman chic” was good enough for me.

We both got through about half the tube when she asked, “Can you do this?” She then proceeded to open-throat the rest of the beer, finishing the tube in one continuous pour. Great, I thought. Now I have to keep up. I tried it myself, but I could manage only a few oversized gulps. I was surprised she could do that; I’d only ever seen one guy back in my hometown pull it off, and that was with cans of shitty Budweiser.

At the end of the night, when we left, I realized I was completely pickled—and so was she. I managed to drive her home, and while we sat in the car outside her house we talked but the eye contact kept getting stronger and finally we both leaned into one another to kiss. Wanting to be a “good boy,” I sent her off into the house rather than pushing things too far. 

Driving home, I thought, Wow, she can drink. But she’s fun, too.

I planned a second date for the next weekend and told her I’d gotten two tickets to the Comedy Connection to see some comedian I’d never heard of. It didn’t matter; neither of us had ever been there, and it sounded like fun.

This time, she didn’t tell me to pick her up outside. I arrived, walked up to her door, and knocked. A petite woman in her sixties—about 4'11", with steel-gray hair and an unmistakably Eastern European look—answered the door.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Uh, is Maya home?” I said.

She turned around and shouted through the house, “Maya, that goy is here!”

Within a few seconds, Maya came hurrying to the door and quickly ushered me back to the car.

“I’m sooo sorry... I thought she wouldn’t be home!” she said.

“Who was that?”

“My mom,” Maya replied, sounding irritated.

I didn’t ask what goy meant, but I figured her mother had already decided she disliked me.

About halfway to the Comedy Connection, Maya opened her purse, revealing roughly eight nip bottles inside. She handed me one, unscrewed another for herself, and said, “For a head start!” before tossing it back.

I hadn’t realized the tickets I’d bought were so close to the stage. By the time the headliner finally came out, Maya had already ordered three rounds of Snake Bite shots along with our usual beers. She was getting drunk.

I noticed the comedian eyeing Maya during his set, and I began to wonder where he was going with it. Eventually, he came down from the stage and walked over to our table to rib me about my very obvious salt-and-pepper hair. I got the usual “elderly” jokes, since I apparently looked like the oldest person in the room—at twenty-eight. I played along out of courtesy.

Then he turned to Maya and said, “My... you’re having a good time tonight, aren’t you?” He glanced at the empty shot glasses and beer bottles scattered across the table. Maya giggled.

He cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her face toward his, and said, “You’re wicked pretty... you know that, right?”

Maya, visibly flattered, giggled again and locked onto his eyes as he spoke.

Watching this unfold three feet in front of me, I thought, "You fucking prick. You’re hitting on my date?"

I was irritated with Maya, too, for encouraging it. Still, I knew I couldn’t lose my temper in the middle of the club, so I swallowed the anger and kept quiet.

Eventually, I drove her drunk ass home. I helped her through the door, got a second kiss, and left without attempting to stay. Her parents’ presence made that impossible anyway.

I told Barney about Maya, and he said, “You know, goy isn’t really a pejorative; it’s just a word for a non-Jew. Still, depending on how it’s said, it can absolutely sound insulting. And the way her mother said ‘that goy,’ I suspect she doesn’t like you at all.”

Then it hit me why Maya had asked me to pick her up away from the house the first time: I wasn’t supposed to meet her mother.

“Do you still like Maya?” he asked.

“Yeah... I guess. She’s cute.”

Barney continued. “Okay, think this through, Einstein. She got visibly drunk on the first date. On the second, her purse was filled with nip bottles, and she got wasted enough to flirt openly with the headliner while sitting next to you. Do you not see the problem here?”

“She’s... not worth it? Unstable? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Duhhhhhh! Did you just now figure that out?” he said.

To tell the truth, I sort of had. Barney had no problem burning me with brutal honesty and then rubbing salt into the wound afterward. He was merciless that way. In short: Wake the fuck up.

There was no third date.

Honestly, I never cared much what religion someone had been raised with. I’d dated Catholics, Protestants, hardcore atheists, Jews, and even one Taoist girl from Fall River. None of those things ever made my “deal breaker” list. What would? Alcoholism, a cocaine habit, or massive credit-card debt.

I once paraphrased that last point to a woman I met at the Celtic. I don’t even remember how the conversation drifted toward finances, but I jokingly said, “I hope you don’t have $10,000 in credit-card debt!”

The moment I said it, she shot me a deeply bitter look. Immediately, I thought: Wow. Thanks for that reaction. You just confirmed that you absolutely do have ridiculous debt.

Maya was beautiful—at least to me. I just hope she eventually got control of the drinking. Lushes tend to lose their beauty once they start falling apart.

 

Maya sorta, kinda looked like this...but not model quality like this chick. Close enuff i guess.