Dylan Gilbert

Dylan Gilbert’s stories have appeared in Slow Trains, Potomac Review, Sleet Magazine, and Kansas City Voices, among others, and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Meet Dylan: https://dylansstories.weebly.com/

Nice to Meet You, Dave

David McConkey clutched a bottle of Klonopin in his fist, which was jammed into his jacket pocket. He tried to take a breath to calm himself, but it seemed to lodge in his windpipe. He tried again, forcing the breath into his lungs, attempting to push the tightness in his shoulders and neck down to his belly. Keep it down or he would bolt.

He reached for the door handle of the Black Cat Cafe, a hip coffeehouse that served organic tea, homemade muffins, and veggie scrambles. His chest tight, he swung the door open a little too hard, causing a young mother with a toddler to glare at him. He gave an apologetic grin, then scanned the room—only one free table, which was pushed too close to an elderly couple sitting at the next table over. He thought to turn back or pop a pill. He could cup the bottle in his palm, twist the top off, sneak a Klonopin to his mouth, and swallow it with a glob of saliva. He had done it dozens of times in public.

“Can you close that door?” said the woman with the toddler.

“Sorry. Heh, yeah, sorry.” He closed it, beelined for the empty table, and wedged himself between it and the little two-top where the old couple sat. “Whoa, hey,” said the old guy as Dave squeezed past, “that’s a puffy jacket.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“You hush, Fred. Let’s scoot over and give him a little room,” the lady said, apparently to the whole coffeehouse.

“Scoot over where?” asked Fred.

“It’s fine, really,” Dave said, feeling prickly on the back of his neck. He wrestled his jacket off in the crowded space, hung it neatly on the chair, and pulled out his phone. 11:48. There was time. He clicked on OKCupid and studied her profile again. Auburn hair and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks. A broad smile with crinkles at the eyes, which were goodnatured but mischievous. While rereading her profile, he reviewed his talking points: pet dog, middle school teacher, wildly diverse taste in music: Eminem, Patsy Kline, Bach.

He scrolled through their old messages; at first, they had chatted about where they lived and what they did for work and fun, but then it got real—her life-changing experience in the Peace Corps, both of their interest in Transcendentalism. Then she hinted they should meet. They always do. He didn’t respond for three days. But then one night, overwhelmed by loneliness, as he planned yet another solo vacation to the Gulf Coast of Florida, he messaged her and suggested meeting for coffee. This time, unlike most of the others, he was determined to go through with it.

He had discovered that if he messaged women who lived far away, the meeting could be postponed for weeks, even months. This was the case with Veronica from Delaware, a woman he had “met” last year on Match.com. They had begun to text so much that he had to take the app off his phone because he was getting distracted at work. But at five sharp, he would rush home to get her messages. He loved being in the intimacy of his living room, her pics on his 32-inch monitor. But then she had told him she was coming to New York for business. They could finally meet in person. She had called him on the morning of her flight and kept asking, “Aren’t you excited?”

“Sure,” he said, and he was—of course he wanted to meet her. But he felt the tightness in his throat strangling his voice. He dug a pill out of the bottle in his pocket and swallowed it dry as they made plans…that he never showed up for.

“Dave?”

He flinched, his recollection pushed out of his mind, and looked up. His date stood in front of him: wind-blown hair, a tentative smile, creases in her eyes, deeper than the picture, but lovely creases. She wore a green down jacket with a leaf stuck to the right shoulder.

“Hi, Charlotte?”

“Great to meet you,” she said. She bent over the little table to hug him. He froze a moment, then shot forward, with a bit too much force, his chest thumping into hers. Realizing his error, he jerked back, grinning timidly.

“Whoa, all these puffy jackets,” said Fred at the next table.

“Hush, Fred!” said the old lady.

Dave felt tight in his throat, spiky heat on the back of his neck. But Charlotte seemed not to have noticed the old guy’s comment. She smiled brightly, looking at him with such warmth that he willed himself to stay calm and in control. “So, you found the place okay?” he asked. A set first line he knew to use from terrifying pauses he had experienced in the past.

“Of course,” she said. “I only live right up the street.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. You come here to meet your niece to help her with her homework sometimes after school.”

“Good memory, Dave.”

“So,” he said, frantically searching for talking points, his mind racing, the blurbs of conversation and clinking silverware pressing in on his thought process. Dog, he remembered and blurted it out: “Dog!”

“What?”

“Dog, how’s your dog?”

“Oh, Bilbo’s awesome. I was going to bring him, but I thought it was too cold to make him wait outside.”

“Oh, I wish you had,” said Dave. He liked dogs and loved the idea of a distraction.

“Another time,” she said.

He felt a prick of warmth in her words, “Another time,” and the tension in his neck melted just a hint.

“Thank you,” he said, much too earnestly, he realized.

“No biggie,” she said, giving him a crinkly-eyed smile.

For a moment, they both gazed at each other, but neither spoke. No Goddamn pauses, Dave thought.

What are my talking points? Dread crept up his spine like a line of ants.

“So, I’m going to grab something,” Charlotte said, starting to stand.

Mortified that he had forgotten, Dave jumped up, bumping the table. “No!”

“Whoa,” said Fred, the neighbor. Charlotte looked surprised.

“Sorry, I should have gotten you something. What can I get you?”

“It’s okay. I got it.”

“No, come on, I’ll take care of it.”

She eyed him curiously. “Okay. Cappuccino. Decaf.”

“Got it,” he said and squeezed through the two tables.

After ordering, Dave grabbed a napkin and wiped it across his wet forehead. He felt relieved to be at the counter with a task and began going over his talking points again. He felt a tap on his shoulder, turned, and saw Charlotte. His breath caught in his throat. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said in an overly calm voice as if she were a nurse on a pysch ward. She walked off and Dave tugged at the neck of his shirt as if that could help him get a full breath. He was blowing it…again, his jitters making her uncomfortable. He was appalled with himself.

Dave brought the cappuccino back to the table and waited for Charlotte to return. Fred, the old man at the next table, was looking at him, a gleam in his eye. “Can I ask you something?” His wife lowered her paper. “Is this a blind date?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Oh Fred, for God sakes!”

Dave’s heart pounded in his neck. He pulled the bottle of Klonopin out of his pocket and began maneuvering the child-proof lid off under the table.

“I have an interest in this stuff,” Fred continued.

“I find it fascinating. You see, I’m an anthropology professor. The mating habits of our species are undergoing a revolutionary change. Did you meet through an online dating site?”

“Fred, leave the man alone.”

“Match.com? Tinder? Was it Tinder?” asked Fred.

“No, we’re friends from work,” Dave lied.

“You happy, nosy?” the wife said. “It’s not a Tinder date,” she exclaimed, her voice reverberating throughout the café. Dave was sure he saw the lady with the toddler and the bus boy look at him. His finger was in the bottle now, pulling out a pill, which was stuck to the side of the bottle and not budging. He yanked at it with his sweaty finger, knocking the bottle to the floor, a half dozen blue pills scattering across the tiles.

He lurched to the floor, banging his hip into Fred’s chair, snatching up the pills.

Fred, at near orgasmic excitement, whispered, “Is that Viagra?” which he pronounced Vee-agra.

“Leave the man alone, Fred! It’s not Viagra!” she blurted. Every set of eyes in the café zoomed in on

Dave. The bus boy sniggered, as did two teenage girls who were ordering at the counter. The woman with the toddler shook her head in disgust.

Dave snatched the pills off the floor, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out the door and into the cold air. He hurried to his car, his face and hair drenched in sweat, his breath sharp and quick. He wrestled the keys from his jeans and pushed the unlock button, so he thought, but instead the trunk popped open. “God damn it!” he snarled. He moved to the back of the sedan and slammed the trunk shut.

“Hey, what the hell?” he heard. He looked back and saw Charlotte.

He whipped around and approached her in front of the cafe. “I am so sorry.”

“What is this? I come out of the bathroom and see you heading out the door with your jacket? You just walk out on someone?”

“No, no, that’s not—”

“It would kill you to spend 20 minutes drinking a coffee with me?”

“No, of course not. It’s just those people made me uncomfortable.”

“What people?”

“Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Yeah, that old guy sitting next to us. And his wife. Them.”

“You know them? You bring people with you on a date? What, you thought I might try to kidnap you?”

“No, they were just some random people who kept making ridiculous comments.” She stared at him, her nose crinkled, maybe more confused now than mad. He looked down, bit his lip, clutched the car keys in his sweaty hand. “Look, I like you. I’m sorry. I just got a little overwhelmed.”

She sighed. “It doesn’t feel like you like me. You just ran away when I went to the bathroom.”

“I know. It’s pathetic. I just really suck at this dating thing.”

“Well, we all suck at it. That’s why we’re on OKCupid. You still don’t just walk out on someone.”

The old couple came out. The lady turned up the road but Fred approached them. “You forgot something, my friend,” he said. Fred took Dave’s hand in his own, pressed a pill into his palm, then closed Dave’s fingers around it. “Have a beautiful day!’ he said, with a devilish grin.

“What is that?” Charlotte asked once Fred had made his way to his wife.

“I really hate that guy.”

“What did he give you?”

“Just something I dropped…some medicine.”

“Okay, this is weird. It was nice to meet you, I guess.”

“Wait, Charlotte, I’m really sorry.” She gave him a sad smile. “Could I just explain?”

She studied him. “What’s in your hand?”

He opened it. The little blue pill was stuck to his sweaty palm.

“Is that…?”

“No! It’s not that. It’s just a mild sedative. They used to make them yellow but now blue. I tried to take one while you were in the bathroom—I just get a little nervous on dates—and they spilled and those two were like, “Oh, it’s vee-agra, it’s vee-agra.”

Her mouth opened as if she would laugh, but she remained silent.

“And they were really freaking loud! The bus boy was snickering and everyone heard.”

She giggled, snorted. “Dave, that’s horrible.”

“I know. It was a perfect shit storm.” Her laughter kind of felt like a second chance. He liked this woman and wanted to know her. He scrunched his face and forced out words: “Look, you think maybe we could go for a walk? That place was too crowded anyway.”

“You know, you did just run out on me. And some random man just handed you a pill. Kind of sketchy, Dave.”

“I know it’s lame. The nerves just sneak up on me—but they go away.” And just putting it out there relaxed his shoulders a bit.

“On the other hand, you do seem like a decent guy. Like, I don’t think you’re a creeper...”

“Nooo, I’m not.”

“…or a player. Not even. I mean, how could you be?”

“Obviously.”

“I mean players are usually smooth, have all the lines.”

“Well, I did have some talking point…But I kind of forgot them. And then that God-damn Fred guy…”

She laughed, and he did too, and the moment gave him more confidence.

“Let’s just go for a walk,” he said, taking a few steps toward her.

“Okay,” she nodded. “A short walk.”

“Great!” he said, starting toward the river. “Come on.”

She walked beside him, the sidewalk a bit steep, the dark Hudson River in view. “Hey, after a few blocks, I might be able to string a few coherent sentences together.”

“Well, you do have your talking points. Are they on flashcards?”

“No, but great idea. I’ll have to remember that for next time we see each other.”

“How do you know there will be a next time?

“Sorry, I’m saying if…”

They continued toward the river, Dave getting looser, the playful banter coming more freely. He felt giddy over the direction the catastrophic date had turned, the Titanic missing the iceberg.

The wind became crueler as they got close to the river and at one point when a gust struck, she grabbed his upper arm, and he felt a little high.