50worstdates

When I moved away from Riverside, I had to find a new mall. When I know I'll be spending some time in a new place, I like to walk around to get the feel of it, so I know where everything is, where the car parks are in relation to the stores, and so on. If that sounds strange, it's nowhere near the weirdest thing about me.

So I was looking around my second choice mall, walking the perimeter, checking out all the stores, when I heard a girl calling me over. She was cute, with long brown hair, and dressed all in black: a short skirt and a shirt open perhaps one button more than her parents would be happy with, and a little gold badge that just said: Brittany. My hormones calmed down after I glanced behind her and saw one of those little cart islands whence Verizon inflict their terrible goods and services on passers-by.

"I'm fine for phones, Brittany. Which is a shame, because I'd really like to talk to you some more."

She looked confused, but rallied almost instantly.

"I get off in about an hour! If you like. We can."

I wasn't expecting that, but my hormones did the talking for me. I told her I had a few things to do and I'd come back for her. When I came back, I almost didn't recognize her; she was dressed much more conservatively in a polo neck and sensible jeans. As we walked to an Applebee's across the lot from the main mall, she explained that she only dressed "slutty" to attract business from low-functioning males. She didn't use the phrase "low-functioning males", but that's what she meant. Moreover, she clearly didn't think I was one of those, for reasons unclear to me even now.

As soon as we ordered, I tried to talk to her about anything at all because she was really quiet. I found this odd given how forward she was before. It turns out that the forward attitude and the hot outfit are a two-for-one deal. She didn't really say much. She had no hobbies to speak of, and the only friends she had were the people she met every Sunday at her church. I asked if she wanted something to drink in the hopes of loosening her up a bit, but she said she didn't drink. In fact, her entire life revolved around this church of hers and her jobs. She had another job as a hostess at a bar downtown, which I've never been to because I don't want to buy drugs or arrange a murder, and for which I can only assume she has an even more misleading personality.

"If you don't mind me asking, how exactly do you reconcile your conservative Christian beliefs with your chosen jobs?"

"Jesus often hung around with prostitutes and sinners."

"Well, yes, but I think he was a bit more mission-oriented."

"So am I!"

"What?"

"Well, if I can save even one of those poor people, I think it would fantastic!"

"What about me?"

She pulled some magazines out of her little bag. I cast my mind back to earlier. Only now could I recall that there was some sort of Latter Day Saints office behind the Verizon next to Hollister.

"You said you wanted to know more..."

I may be the first person in history to solicit a Jehovah's Witness.

After my last shameful attempt at speed-dating, I was effectively informed that I probably shouldn't return. However, there seems to be no communication between speed-dating events, because an almost identical event in Claremont just let me walk right in without any sort of background check.

I saw a total of eleven girls, and this time I decided to use some of the advice I was given in the wake of the last speedboat of awful. I am using those notes now to reconstruct my night as a series of snippets of conversations - speed posting, if you will.


Girl #1: Danielle

"I like your hair."

"Thanks!"

"It looks like you spent hours on it."

"What?"

"It looks great. You must have been at that all day."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying nice things about your hair."

"But you're ... what's that other stuff..."

"Oh, I was told that girls spend a lot of time fixing themselves up and they like guys to notice."

"No, no. I think you've managed to get that all wrong..."


Girl #2: LaShonda

"I like your skin colour."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's very dark. It's nice."

"Oh dear. You're one of those."

"One of what!"

"One of those white guys who just wants some jungle action."

"I never said that!"

"It's called exotiphilia. You know, you guys are just... You're worse than those guys with yellow fever. Do you have any idea what it's like to be judged for your skin colour rather than (she points to her head) what's in HERE?

"I might..."


Girl #3: Janet

"What sort of things do you like?"

"Guess."

"Ice cream? Cake?"

"..."

"No! Oh god, no. I didn't mean because, you know! I just meant everyone likes ice cream, right? And what sort of degenerate caveman doesn't like cake? I wasn't saying anything about your weight; I promise."

"I know I'm not model skinny. I just don't need it thrown in my face."

"I wasn't throwing cake in your face!"


Girl #4: Olivia

"So, what do you do?"

"I work in a department store."

"Well that tells me nothing. Come on, we only have five minutes; what do you do in the department store?"

"I'm at the perfume counter."

"You like working at the perfume counter?"

"Yeah, I do."

"You'll know more about this than me, but that whole perfume thing is bullshit, isn't it? I mean the whole thing is total bullshit, isn't it?"

"No..."


Girl #5: Mia

"What's that short for?"

"Nothing; just Mia."

"Well, what do your family call you?"

"Mia."

"OK. But your friends probably have some sort of nickname for you, right?"

"No. They all call me Mia."

"Well, Mia, I think you've successfully surrounded yourself with the least imaginative people in America."


Girl #6: Brittany

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"I don't know. Shooting lasers at space aliens in some last-ditch defence of our home planet. You?"

"I'd like to be managing the accounts department."

"..."

"What?"

"I'm trying to work out some way to get both of our projections into the one thing."

"I wouldn't bother."

"Fair enough."


Girl #7: Marie

"If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be and why?"

"What?"

"If you were a fruit-"

"No, I heard. What sort of question is that?"

"It's just an icebreaker. I ask all the guys something to get us talking."

"You want to talk about fruit? I don't care about fruit. Tell me something about you! Tell me something real."

"Um... I guess I'd be a plum, because they're mysterious and interesting."


Girl #8: Lisa

"I like your skin tone. It's very light."

"Safe, you mean."

"What?"

"Some white people find it easier to deal with African-Americans when they are lighter skinned."

"No! I mean, it's not that, it's just that girl [pointing at LaShonda (above)] over there said-"

"She's very dark. Are you sure you could hear her over the sound of your racism?"

"I'm not racist! I'm just - I like your skin colour."

"My father's much darker-skinned than me, so-"

"I'm not having a go at your Dad! I just-"

"You just like pale-skinned black people because they're non-threatening."

"No!"


Girl #9: Tahel

"I like guys with a sense of humour."

"At last! Something I'm good at. Well, are you sensitive about anything?"

"No, no. I laugh at anything, really."

"Paedophiles?"

"Well, no. There's nothing funny about that is there?"

"Rape?"

"No..."

"All you're leaving me with is the stuff about Jews."

"I'm Jewish..."


Girl #10: Yesenia

[I'll spare you the details of the actual conversation]

"You know, you're a real asshole."

"I thought girls liked assholes!"

"Yeah, but you're the wrong kind of asshole."


Girl #11: Camille

"So what would you like to talk about?"

"I don't know. Hit me with your best pick-up line."

"I don't really..."

"Oh go on! Just make one up."

"Em .. hey baby..."

"Yeah?"

"Is your dad a fireman? Because my ass is on fire!"

"What the hell was that?"

"I honestly have no idea where that came from."

I met Ann Marie at a coffee place in Claremont while waiting for another girl who never showed up. I suppose that means this means you're getting two Worst Dates for the price of one, you lucky people.

Ann Marie worked behind the counter, scribbling obscene suggestions she thought no one would notice on plastic cups when customers told her their names. She was very pale, dressed all in black, wore black lipstick and never smiled. I liked that she was sarcastic and made no effort at all to connect with any of her customers. In short, her demeanor directly contradicted the promise of the plastic tag attached to her apron.

She eventually noticed nothing was happening at my table. She wandered over, just staring at me. I didn't know what to say. She raised her eyebrows and nodded to the counter.

"Oh no, I'm fine thanks. I'm good with this."

"No, we're closing now. It's 10. You have to go."

"Oh, are you closing early tonight?"

"I guess?"

"I was planning on watching a movie, but it looks like I might be on my own. You want to come with me?"

She answered immediately but with no visible enthusiasm.

"Sure, I guess."

We went to a movie. She didn't like it. As it was pretty late, we ended up in a Denny's to talk and get some ice cream. She didn't like that either. In fact, our first real conversation indicated she didn't like much of anything. She had no hobbies, no friends, and seemed allergic to the idea of starting a conversation. She left the table without explanation at least three times to go outside to smoke. The last time I waved at her through the glass and she returned a barely noticeable nod.

I don't think I've ever meet anyone like Ann Marie before. What I had interpreted as sarcastic wit and a hint of rebellion was pathological boredom and apathy. She never used the word "yes" - just "I guess"; she was that negative. It was impossible to talk about anything; everything was always useless and rubbish. She was, it seems, addicted to complaining, and might suffer serious withdrawal symptoms should that facility be denied her. Health, annoying workmates, stupid ex-boyfriends: everything's always going horribly wrong and the universe hates her. My only attempt to relate to her (a complaint about telemarketers) was whisked away rapidly by her own story of dealing with telemarketers which was so much worse than mine that I almost felt bad that I brought it up, but for the very real possibility that she was just making stuff up. This is the most meaningful exchange we had:

"Sometimes I just want to die, or disappear."

"Even right now?"

"What difference would it make?"

"I think it would make for a very awkward first date!"

"I guess."

I met Martyna years ago at an internet seminar; we were both amazed at how little we learned. We exchanged details, and knew each other for a long time before we decided to go on a proper date. There was serious disaster potential because she was much older than me, but we got along well. The second date, conversely, was full of drama.

Over some bread-sticks and balsamic vinegar, she told me that she had not been with a man for a long time, but I didn't care; I wasn't exactly rolling in ladies. Before our food arrived, she made it clear she wanted to go back to my place. I don't know if it was due to her age, but she was refreshingly direct. We left early, and she more or less jumped on me as soon as we got back to my apartment.

After about ten minutes on the couch, she yelped like a dog you've accidentally stepped on. She pulled away sharply and - there's no nice way to put this - there was blood everywhere. It wasn't like those times when you think you're in the menstrual clear and you miscalculate by a day or two. This was more like a valve had opened. She looked down at the growing pool of red and screamed. I wasn't too impressed myself, but I managed to keep it together. I grabbed her by the shoulders and got her to calm down a bit, even though the blood was still pumping onto my couch. I half-carried her quickly into the bath and threw some towels on her. I told her I was going to call an ambulance, but she insisted that I call her sister, Hazel, instead. I think she felt ashamed about being in my apartment, but she trusted her sister.

I must have explained myself badly, because when Hazel arrived, she had some tampons. This was not a tampon problem. This was closer to a Louisiana oil-well problem. Eventually her sister convinced her we needed to go to an emergency room. We all rushed to the hospital in my car, very much like a scene from Reservoir Dogs. The delicate nature of the situation was explained to the urgent care staff, and she was shuttled into the examination room, while myself and her sister waited outside. Hazel was around the same age as Martyna, but unlike Martyna, she looked and acted her age. From our conversation in the waiting room, I gathered that this was not the first time she had to rescue Martyna from an awkward dating situation, although this was the first one involving blood.

We didn't get to see her until much later that night, after some emergency surgery. There was a large laceration in her lady-parts which severed two arteries and she was given a blood transfusion. She said it was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to her, especially when the doctors started asking her very personal questions while they were deciding how to proceed. She also indicated that this represented the end of our relationship.

I wasn't sure about her medical coverage, and I wanted to say something nice, but judging from the expression on their faces, it seems to have had the opposite effect: "You have enough to worry about, so I'll pay for cleaning the carpets. And my car. And the towels. And the couch."

Last weekend, I decided to join a local photography club, who were having a membership drive. After the official meeting, the guy in charge thought it might be nice if we went to a bar to get to know one another, and despite the horrific potential, it was actually going well. I didn't intend to stay long, but I ended up staying all night. I met a few cool new people, including Kayla. I was only talking to her for a few minutes, but she was pretty and I liked her.

Later on, through the standard bar noise, I noticed Kayla, next to the jukebox, getting hassle from some guy. She kept looking over at me, through the crowd. The man started pushing her into the jukebox. Cue White Knight mode. I charged over and looked straight at her.

"Hey, there you are! We've been looking for you!"

The man seemed unfazed. Alcohol was involved.

"Fuck off," he explained.

"OK," I said to him, grabbing her by the arm, "we're fucking off now."

I brought her back to our table. He didn't follow us, which is nice because I can't handle myself in a fight. Not at all.

"That was pretty smooth," she said.

"We got lucky."

When the bar kicked us out, some of us decided to get some Mexican take-out before going back to my place. While I was collecting my order from the tiny kiosk, there was some commotion behind me. I turned around, and one of my friends pointed across the parking lot, where Kayla was talking to some large Mexicans. It looked like a heated conversation, and she was looking over, the very same way she was at the bar. Again, I went over and grabbed her, but we weren't so lucky this time. They were in the mood for a fight. There was some unnecessary pushing and shoving before we eventually made it out. I was not pleased.

"What the hell are you saying to these guys that makes them so upset?"

"I don't know. We were just talking. Never mind that - you were great!"

"Yeah, well I nearly got my head kicked in."

At my apartment, my friend waited until Kayla went to the restroom (with two other girls, of course) before pulling me onto the balcony. He was drunk enough to think he was whispering when he was actually shouting. He said that he didn't want to say anything because he wasn't sure, but his cousin works with "that girl who just went to the restroom" - this cousin told him that she has a weird thing about being rescued from dangerous situations. Normally I wouldn't listen to his drunken bullshit, but it made sense. He said Kayla will purposely put herself in harm's way if there's a guy around whom she likes. Apparently, it gets her hot. Now, I have nothing against playing bedroom games, but this girl put me in real life harm, without even consulting me! That's not cool. This is not what I'm looking for in a woman. I was trying to be nice, to do the decent thing, and now I was stuck with this lunatic!

She came back from the restroom and I was desperately thinking of an escape plan, all the while resenting her efforts to drag me into her stupid hero sex fantasy bullshit. At one point, one of the guys overfilled her glass and the wine spilled onto her dress. This was my opportunity. I rushed over and started patting at her dress.

"Don't worry," I exclaimed, "I'll rescue you from the wine!"

Then I took the glass from her and threw it on the ground and smashed it into pieces with my foot. Everyone turned to look, some with shocked expressions. I was laying it on a bit thick, but sometimes you have to when you're dealing with lunatics.

"Stupid wine! Just leave her alone!"

"What are you doing?" she asked, in shock. The plan was working perfectly.

"I'm rescuing you. That's what you like isn't it?"

A short, loud conversation later, she charged out of the apartment in a huff, saving me the bother of having to kick her out. As she was going down the stairs to the parking lot, I managed to shout out: "Oh make sure you don't get into any fights, Kayla!"

"Oh, wait, that's Kayla?" said my friend, who staggered up behind me. "That's not her! Sorry, I was talking about the other one."

I was helping a friend of mine work on his online dating profile (basically being very creative with limited information), when I found someone very interesting in his initial search results. Naomi is nothing like his type, so I don't know why her profile came up, but I used his account to get her contact details and emailed her. Naomi was an event co-ordinator for a government institution, and her emails were extremely efficient and attractively laid-out. She was older than my target market, but she was dark, with exotic good looks, and had a directness I found appealing. I don't like playing games with girls, so I'm always interested when I find one who knows what she wants.

After a short game of email pong and a phone call, I agreed to go out with her: she wanted to meet as soon as possible. We met at a little Mexican place in Riverside. I could tell it was good because we were the only two white people there, and the only two who didn't speak Spanish. She brought a folder with her, and a pen. Before we even ordered, she produced from the folder a printed copy of her profile, wanting me to analyze it, line by line, suggesting improvements, asking me what "guys like you" would respond best to.

I suggested we change the conversation, but she seemed determined. As well as the profile analysis, she suggested we talk through things such as eating habits since she’s a vegetarian and I'm not. She then explained, in rather clipped tones, that "when" we started dating, I would have to change my eating habits to align with hers. I stared mournfully at my newly arrived ground beef tacos. For the first twenty minutes, I had no opportunity whatsoever to say anything about myself, or share anything with her. In the middle of the welcome break brought by eating my food, she moved around to my side of the table, pushing me into the wall. I don't like people crowding me when I'm trying to eat. Or ever. I was forced to mention something to that effect, but she didn't return to her own side, she just moved further away. She finished her vegetarian burrito in record time, which meant that for the remainder of the meal, I got to listen to all sorts of gibberish about her investments, her feminist convictions, her plans to buy her own house instead of renting, and so on. There was a strong suggestion of irritation at everyone else not being as smart as she is.

About an hour into the date, I explained that I really did not see this going anywhere. She asked me to reconsider and I said no. She jumped up suddenly, raised her hand and slapped me. I then calmly asked for my check, while Naomi shouted that I was supposed to pay for her meal too. As I moved quickly to the register to pay for my food, her vocabulary took an unpleasant turn. She started shouting that I was "just like all the others" and a "typical 909 asshole" and I wasn't "good enough" for her, and so on. She didn't seem to have any of those problems ten minutes ago, but whatever.

"Holy hell," I said, "are you like this with all the men in your life?"

"Oh," she said, suddenly stopping her rant and pulling out her cell phone, "that reminds me. I have to tell my husband I'll be late."

by special guest contributor hayjulay

I met Tim around three or four years ago on Myspace. Although he seemed all cool, mysterious and mature at the time, after a few months of talking through AIM and a few phone calls, nothing really happened. Before we got the chance to actually spend time together in the real world, we sort of just went our separate ways. During that time we would still talk a little, mostly though Myspace messages.

Eventually we started communicating again outside of Myspace, and we decided we should see each other and go out for a dinner and a movie. A day and a time was arranged and he came to pick me up.

Everything was hunky dory during the car ride to the restaurant. The conversation wasn't great but it wasn't terrible either. I noticed he kept checking his phone. Finally (maybe sick of my increasingly obvious stares at the phone), he said "My ex lives around here, if she knew I was so close to her she'd kill me." Red Flag #1. Not five minutes after this:

"Oh man, she's crying."

"Who?"

"My ex, she's freaking out."

"About what?"

"I don't know. She just does this sometimes. I have to call her."

"Okay..." Red Flag #2.

So, he called her and tried to calm her down from whatever she was freaking out about. During this phone call he told her that he was only ten minutes away from her, and that he was with me. He then said that after the movie he would stop by to see her so that he could give her a "hug" and some money to visit him that weekend. Red Flag #3.

He hung up and we drove some more. Tim then declared that he had to "piss", and drove around looking for a place to stop. When that didn't work out he called up his ex again and asked if we could stop by her place RIGHT NOW, so he could use her bathroom.

We drove into her complex (or whatever the nice term for trailer park is) and he parked. It was 8 p.m. in the middle of a Michigan October and pitch black outside. I was left in his car, by myself, in an unfamiliar place while he was inside giving his ex a "hug", doing toilet things and giving her money so she can could see him that weekend. It was all very awkward and strange; there were more Red Flags here than at a communist bullfight.

Tim came back in the car after five or six minutes.

"Sorry, this must be really weird."

"Yeah, it really is."

When we finally got to dinner, I thought the worse of the date was over. In any case, maybe I had judged him a bit harshly. We all have bad days. All I had to do was nod and smile my way through a meal, a movie and a car ride home. Easy. Yeah? No. After Tim finishes his meal he says:

"I'm full, I can't eat anymore." He looks over at me, looks at the meal I wasn't done with yet, looks me up and down and continues with a smarmy grin, "I bet you're not done with yours yet."

Oh, I was done - on more than one level.

Sometimes a girl is very aware of how pretty she is. She knows that the balance of power in any relationship with any straight man will be on her side. While bitchy girls are honest about their manipulative and moody nature, these girls can effect favourable outcomes and make it look like your idea! I can't stand them. They're the only type of girl that can make me hate all women, albeit briefly. Lauren is one of those girls.

I met her through a friend of mine, who had been hitting on her pretty heavily for two years. He used to drive her around and look after her when she was drunk, and so on. He wasn't too impressed when I managed to score a date after talking to her for ten minutes. He was annoyed, but whatever. It's not my fault.

We went on an average date - it was just dinner, and I could tell that we weren't clicking. For one thing, she expected me to act a certain way around her, and I refuse to play any of those games. Hence, lots of unnecessary, entirely non-sexual tension. I have no time for Relationships Take A Lot Of Work. To hell with that! I already have a job; I don't need another one when I get home, thanks. I want a relationship to be easy-going and tension-free. Either she likes me or she doesn't. I have no interest in working to gain her approval, and I have no interest in constantly having to prove myself to anyone.

I emailed her the following morning and told her it wasn't going to work out. I wasn't particularly rude, but I didn't want to get into a game of email pong either. I told her that I had a nice time (which was more or less a lie) but that I wasn't feeling any chemistry. I didn't feel sorry for her at all: she's absolutely gorgeous, so it's not like she'll have trouble finding another guy.

Apparently she didn't see it that way, and took the news pretty badly. I'd like to think it was because I'm an amazing guy, but in reality I strongly suspect that she's entirely unaccustomed to hearing the word "No." She sent me some remarkably passive-aggressive emails, accusing me of "using" her, even though all we did was have dinner - we didn't even kiss. She also asked me more than once if there was "someone else", whatever that's about.

The next time I went to my friend's house, there was an unnecessary conversation, which opened after I kicked his ass at some shooty XBox game.

"Lauren told me what you did to her."

"What I did? I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah. Exactly."

"What?"

"Are you crazy? She's gorgeous!"

"I know! And I'm as shallow as you, really I am, but there was absolutely nothing going on there."

"You fucking fruit loop! I'll never get a girl like that. You know what this is like?"

"Fruit loop? What?"

"It's like recording one of those things where they throw food around for St. Patrick's Day or something, and making starving children in Africa watch it. That's you."

"Why are they in Africa? Who throws food around on St. Patrick's Day?"

"I think they do that in New Orleans. It doesn't matter! What matters is that it's insulting to men everywhere, what you did."

"I didn't do anything! Jesus."

"Well she never shuts up about you. I guess it's true when they say that nice girls go for assholes."

"I wouldn't exactly call her nice."

"Oh for... you're doing it again! She's lovely! You had her. You could have had her. And you just threw her away! She's really upset you know. I had to talk to her for hours that night just to calm her down."

"You didn't have to."

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know - man the fuck up?"

Courtney was on of Tori's best friends, although I never understood why. She had none of Tori's vacant perkiness. She was smart and funny and a very good artist, and the only reason I didn't go after her is she seemed to be heavily involved with a guy who played drums in a band. This information prompted the joke "What do you call a guy who hangs around with a bunch of musicians?" She laughed, but I could tell she didn't find it funny.

I was suprised, therefore, when she called to ask me out.

"What about the little drummer boy?"

"Oh, we broke up a while ago."

This was all I needed to know: game on. In a refreshing change of pace, she decided to arrange everything. She told me it would be laid-back and fun, but I should dress nicely anyway. I don't have much in the way of "nice", so I just wore my black suit. I only bought it for family funerals and Hallowe'en parties (I'm a priest!), but whatever.

When I picked her up, she was already pretty wasted.

"Are you OK?"

"Of course I'm OK! I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You've been drinking."

"Yeah, well. I thought I'd get it over with early, you know?"

"I understand," I lied.

We made it to her chosen venue, which was a small hotel. There were already a lot of people there, very well-dressed and walking in little groups into the foyer. Some people were in the bar, and other people were moving into the landscaped garden at the back of the hotel. Courtney made straight for the bar, leaned across and grabbed the barman by the arm.

"Two vodkas," she said. I looked at her in a manner which I hoped was quizzical. She turned back to the barman: "Oh yeah - and whatever he's having."

I decided to leave her alone and mingle. I got talking to a guy at the bar. From our brief conversation I learned that he was The Drummer, and that he was getting married today. To a girl he was engaged to for three years. I warned him that I had to declare an interest - that I was here as Courtney's plus-one. I pointed to her from across the room, and unfortunately made eye contact. She staggered over, with fury in her eyes.

"Ah, Court," he said quietly to me, winking conspiratorially, as we watched her make her unstable way through the crowd, "you'll have fun with her."

"What?"

"Well, she's great in bed, but she's not the sort of girl you'd get married to, you know what I mean?"

By the time she made it over to us, I had decided that he was an asshole, and I was firmly on her side. However, I didn't notice the broken glass in her right hand which she was now waving threateningly in his face.

"You're an asshole," she screamed at him. It was hard to disagree with her assessment, but for her sake, I thought I might switch to damage limitation mode. It didn't work. She made it past me and swung at him, very nearly making contact. Some of the wedding guests held her. She went completely nuts, flailing around wildly and screaming. I just stood beside the scrum with the groom, who was looking at her grinning.

"Look at the effect I have on women," he said. I wanted to punch him in the face, despite how embarrassing Courtney's behaviour was. The police were called. Their prompt arrival did not calm her down. Not at all. The two of us looked on as she was led outside, and manhandled into the back of a police car, shouting about love and money.

"You can stay if you like," he said, breaking the silence after the police left. "You seem cool."

"No thanks," I said, turning to leave. "I should be going."

I stopped at the door, Columbo-style, and shouted back to him.

"Hey," I said, "what do you call someone who hangs around with a bunch of musicians?"