Tales From The Dark Side: Roey Thorpe's Prison-ish Potluck & Other Dating Disasters

Friday, 05 February 2010 10:55 | Written by Byron

DATE NIGHT: Last night I laughed my ass off at the Bagdad Theater. That's because a fundraiser for the Planned Parenthood Advocates of Oregon featured "Stories from The Dark Side of Dating." And, I have tell I was super impressed by the line-up of people who I consider my friends (on Facebook and off) who lined up to tell their tales of dating woe. Standouts included Courtenay Hameister's painful and suprisingly poignant "hot tub" party experience, Mark Wiener's life-affirming "moment," Jeff Cogen's date from Jewish-retirement hell, and Aaron Mesh's "first" date that involved girls against boys dodgeball. But none stood out like PPAO's Executive Director Roey Thorpe's (pictured above with one of the evening's co-host's Karol Collymore) pie/prison date. Thorpe has allowed me to share the story. It is amazing! Make sure to click on the READ MORE button right below the first paragraph of Roey's story.

Blind Date Story, by Roey Thorpe

The date got set up while I was playing in a poker game in the back of an old warehouse a couple of years ago. It was a blind date, arranged by two other players, both women, a couple, whose last names I still don't know. Both last names and women are rare in the world of underground poker games, so at the time it just seemed perfectly fine, but that might be because I had been single for 2 years—2 years!—and was long overdue for something good to happen in the romance department.

I might have been feeling just the wee-est bit lonely. So much so that I had turned down an invitation to a friend’s 60th birthday party, an extravagant affair on the Oregon Coast that was sure to have been memorable, to go on this date. I told myself that I wasn’t compromising my high standards, just, to use a poker terms, opening up my game by playing a wider range of hands.

Which is how I found myself on a Saturday night looking for parking next to a single-wide trailer in Gresham. In retrospect, maybe this should have given me pause, but I grew up in a series of trailers about the size of the one I was in front of, so for me it’s not such a stretch, really. It has been awhile since I’ve been to one, and I remember why I was so eager to move away.

I pick up the pie I brought--and now, I actually do pause, because while the rest of you might have stayed away based on any of several things I’ve just mentioned, for me the real deal breaker ought to have been that the fix-up was happening at a potluck. I hate the lesbian potluck tradition, but I ignored that too and had brought with me the most gorgeous peach pie, still warm, with a crumbly topping covering fresh peaches that were just bursting with juicy flavor, which seemed like a perfect representation of my current succulent state of being.

I arrive on the doorstep, as cute as I can make myself, holding the pie, and knock on the front door. I'm ready to meet this mystery woman, and in spite of some trepidation, I'm pretty excited. The door opens, my poker buddies pull me inside, the pie gets whisked away, and a

clipboard is shoved into my hands. "You need to sign in."

What?

I look down and the top sheet reads "Multnomah County Department of Corrections." I get it, it’s a funny icebreaker. Okay, I'm good at this! "Do I have to use my real name?" I'm already doing a mental riffle of appropriate jailhouse identities. My host gets serious. "Of course! You have to fill it out accurately and completely!"

I'm confused but I fill it out, and feeling somewhat naked without my pie, which was some weird combo of security blanket and dowry, I scan my surroundings. The furniture is all overstuffed. Even the carpet looks puffy. Collectible figurines cover every surface. I focus on

figuring out which one of the ten or twelve people is my date, but everyone seems to be in a couple. And then I spot her, heading my way. She's tall and slim, she's got short gray hair, but what she doesn't have is... teeth. Front teeth. On either the top or the bottom. No teeth.

I smile, not to show off or anything. We talk for a few minutes, but the conversation goes nowhere, maybe because all I can think is "Oh my god, no teeth." And right about then there's a loud awful sound, like a gigantic amplified fax machine, and everyone stops talking. For some

reason, they are staring at my date. Then, she spins around without a word and runs into a corner of the living room, where she falls to her knees in front of a large black plastic box with lots of cords coming out of it. In most living rooms, this would be the stereo system, but

apparently not here. She leans forward and recites a series of words and numbers into the box, and as she does this the leg of her jeans slides up and I see that there is a black plastic transmitter strapped to her ankle and now I get it: My date is under house arrest.

My first thoughts are not the questions that everyone asks when I tell them this story. I’m not trying to figure out what her crime was, or why it was my poker buddies’ trailer she was confined to, or whether she had teeth at the beginning of this phase of her life. I’m thinking: Why did someone think she was the right person for me? Is there something about me that reads "perfect for the domestically incarcerated?”

Back to the scene in front of me, she's on her knees, everyone's wa tching as she begins to respond to a series of voice prompts that seem to be some sort of breathalyzer test. The only one I remember is Ohio--O--HI—O… O—HI—O… because I'm from Ohio and wow, finally,

something in common.

It seems like she's down on the floor forever saying the words and waiting for the prompts, and I'm trying to use my best poker face and not look anyone in the eye and at the same time scan the room for the pie amidst all the plastic containers of three bean salad. I’ve got to get out of here and I want to find that pie and take it with me. I can't see it and need a moment alone so I back slowly into the hall and sidestep into a dark narrow bathroom, where I try to take some deep calming breaths but a plug-in air freshener makes that impossible so I just try to concentrate on what to do with the hand I’ve been dealt.

Suddenly, with a rush of hope, I remember the birthday party at the coast that I turned down and that my friends are there, and so I call them and whisper “It’s Roey. Are you at the party? I could come right now—is there time?” My friend says, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, it’s too late.

But it’s just beautiful, we’re right on the beach eating lobster and drinking champagne, and listen, there’s a live string quartet” and then he holds the phone out and I can hear both the music and the ocean.

At this point, all that’s left is to try to figure out a strategy to get the pie and get out. After considerable thought, I decide the best plan is just to walk out the door. I mean, it’s not like she can follow me, right? And when I weigh the rudeness of not thanking my hosts with the rudeness of their failing to mention that the blind date was under arrest, I feel okay.

And so I just go up to her and say, "Okay then, it's been great meeting you, bye now," and when she says "Wait--will I see you again?" I give her my biggest smile and say "No, but I wish you the very best of luck" and hit the road.

And the pie? In the end, I couldn't find it. And so I save myself and sacrifice my pie, because every gambler needs to know when to walk away and when to run.

Tags: