Putt Putt

Want to hear some really crazy shit? I think I’ve discovered the secret to life. Really. Truly. Bear with me a little here…

Waiting. What comes to mind? If you live in Chicago like me, or any other large metropolitan area, traffic maybe? That madness that changes us into fire-breathing, cursing demons from hell. Maybe it’s that excruciatingly long 2 hour difference between you and a platter of popcorn shrimp at the end of a very long Friday, when you haven’t eaten all day, and everyone at work was riding your ass and you’re knocking back Hurricanes every 10 minutes in the Red Lobster bar, non-flashing sonofabitch food pager under the ashtray beside you not moving a damn bit. That’s a rough one. Whatever comes to mind, I’ll assume waiting is never a pleasant experience.

Sure we have to take into account our varied temperaments. Some are more patient than others. More tolerant. But it’s our contemporary Western society that is to blame for much of our aversion to waiting. Our fathers and mothers deemed it so. And we will do the same for our children. We want shit the way we want it. We want shit in multiple quantities. And we want shit now. The core problem could be boiled down to the simple fact that we want shit, but I will save that tirade for another essay. For now, lets confine this talk to the fine art of waiting. An invaluable, yet rarely practiced, practice.

There was a girl. (As there always is). Let’s call her Samantha. Not to protect her identity, but because I actually cannot remember her real name. Is that bad? Let me finish the story before you judge me.

She, Samantha, was a friend of a friend who knew I was currently hurting. Some random pain, probably attributed to the recent absence of yet another woman. Samantha and I were formally introduced at a dinner party, and I must say, she seemed like a very warm, very attractive candidate for a first date. So we planned one. Samantha and I. Miniature golf. There was an old Putt-Putt golf course in the woods beyond my house. They were only open during select hours for summer, spring, and for special tournaments. But the rest of the year, they never took the time or energy to shutter the place. No locks. No gates. No nothing. People would take their putters and balls and play free most days. Primarily fall, since most weren’t insane enough to wipe the greens clear of snow, but it was October when I met Samantha, so…

I wrapped up a picnic basket full of gourmet goodies. A bottle of good wine. A couple of hoodies and blankets. My only putter and some balls. I packed my car and drove to her spot – with the directions she had written on the back of my hand at the dinner party. I pulled up in the Pinto and made a dead stop. Her place. The street number – 1000. She was the only house in the cul de sac, and a very interesting (read Adams Family) house it was indeed. I got real spooked, real fast. She had seemed normal enough at the party. I just wasn’t looking for another rendezvous with a woman who desired me to eat her flesh and drink her blood. This was purely about hitting some balls and making quick friends. But the duck pate wouldn’t hold up much longer and we were losing daylight, so I had no time to fear. I got out of the car and headed to the gargoyle studded doorway.

Now, the part that happened next has happened a thousand times. I pound the heavy door. Samantha sticks her pretty head out and asks me for a few minutes. No problem, right? I’m used to this. I should have been thanking my lucky stars it was her instead of Lurch, right? Well…I did…and…I was…until a few minutes turned into 15 Then 15 turned into half an hour. Meanwhile, I was still on this gothic, rotting porch with nothing to do but look stupid.

More waiting. I hit the door a couple more times. No response. I decided to go and check on the food. Once I got there, I decided to hang out in the car. Maybe listen to some tunes, at least. Help things go down easier. She didn’t really expect me to remain on the porch all this time, did she?

The Fall was playing on the radio – how appropriate – daylight was forever lost, and I was over 1 hour into my wait. Could she have forgotten? Impossible. She came out and spoke to me. Told me to wait. The thought to knock again crossed my mind, but if she hadn’t come out by this point, did I really want her to now? I gave her 15 more minutes.

Our date was over before it started. I knew this now. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Maybe she would be out…soon…or…I know, I know. I was a pretty ignorant ass. But you know what I was doing? I was growing. Learning. And I didn’t even know it.

The pate had started to smell pretty iffy, but I was into everything else. Spread it all out on the dashboard and dined on purple grapes, club crackers, smoked cheese and Pinot Noir. After a couple more hours, WTRX was into 2 hour blocks of uninterrupted New Wave. The contents of my belly were sloshing around, I was playing air keyboard, and all thoughts of Samantha were far, far away. (If you didn’t count the fact that I was still sitting in front of her house)

It was cool out, but not too cool. After a while I put on one of the hoodies, grabbed a blanket, and rolled down all the Pinto’s windows. Sat on the hood with a yellow legal pad I had stuffed under the passenger seat, and just wrote. A solid, non-coherent rant. My thoughts flooded the page. It was great. I didn’t need another person in my life right now. I just needed to be alone. And wait. Not even for Samantha so much. Just wait. In general. I sat out there – Adam Ant blaring – until the sun rose right over the top of 1000 Epicurious Court. Samantha never came out that door. Far as I noticed. Maybe she snuck out the back, trying to avoid me, but that was okay. I had learned a huge lesson about myself.

I could have tried to knock on her door one more time that morning, but I failed to see the point. On the way back to my place, I stopped off at the Putt Putt. My evening’s cumulative reward couldn’t have been more satisfying. And I didn’t want to spoil what had grown to be a perfect date. In the early morning light, on those worn out greens, I stood there and realized…I love myself. Then I hit me some balls.