One vague night, clouded with
vodka and cranberry juice, I was out and about with some friends consuming stiff
drinks and being my typical loud self. A friend of mine eagerly introduced me to “Dr. Steve” and immediately left us alone, indicating this was some sort of unbeknownst set-up.
Not above making conversation, we get to talking. Dr. Steve was a nice guy… from what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was giving him my phone
number.
The next morning I woke up to a
relatively pleasant text saying, “Hey. It’s Dr. Steve. Hope you made it home
safe. I was thinking maybe the drive-in tonight? You mentioned you wanted to
go.” Apparently Intoxicated Carrie loves the drive-in. I figured since I liked
him when I was drinking, he should be a decent enough guy. Plus, The Bourne Ultimatum was playing and who
doesn’t want to see beefy Matt Damon in a tight cotton v-neck? So, I agreed.
Later that night Dr. Steve picks me up in a newer Jeep Cherokee. Thank God it’s not a Chevy Nova. He’s not as good looking
as I remembered but that doesn’t mean much taking into consideration a great
personality.
We roll up to the drive-in and Dr. Steve hands
the teenage kid at the ticket window a $10 bill. The kid looks like he’s high and an uber nerd to boot. We’re talking braces, mouth open,
heavy breathing, the works. In a voice eerily resembling Spicoli from Fast
Times at Ridgemont High the kid says, “Uhhh, dude? It’s actually $6 a person.”
An arrogant laugh bubbles from Dr. Steve, “No. Actually it’s only $5 a person.”
Without hesitation, Spicoli fires back, “I know, it’s gnarly dude. But they
just raised the prices. Sorry, bro.” Dr. Steve was not having it. “I saw in the
paper this morning it said $5 a person and you’re going to honor that price.” Similar conversation ensues for another five minutes, or what seems like an eternity for myself and the three cars behind us, who have begun to honk.
At this point, I’m starting to
feel sorry for Spicoli. I’ve worked in customer service before and I know the
ticket increase isn’t his fault so I start to get frustrated with Dr.
Steve. I reach in my purse, pull out $2, reach over Dr. Steve and hand Spicoli
the cash. “Thanks man,” Spicoli says to me with a single nod. I look at Dr.
Steve expecting some kind of redemption but he grabs our tickets and drives off
without a, “thank you.” It’s fair to say I am now thoroughly
annoyed.
As if nothing happened, Dr. Steve
continued our get-to-know-you session. “What, exactly, kind of doctor are you?”
I finally ask.
“I’m a chiropractor.”
“A chiropractor? Do you have to
do to medical school for that?”
“No.”
“So you’re not really a doctor?”
“Yeah I am. Well, kind of. See…”
This is the point where I start
tuning him out. You may think I’m stuck up for getting irritated that he wasn’t
a doctor but I felt duped. The incident with Spicoli coupled with being trapped
in the car for the next two hours with Dr. Douche made me want to vomit. I
couldn’t tell you what the conversation consisted of for the rest of the night
because my mind was reeling. I think there were a lot of "Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie" coming from my end. I couldn’t even concentrate on the gloriousness that
is Matt Damon, which made me even more pissed.
The ride home was a blur. I don’t
remember much except for when he dropped me off. I didn’t even flatter the guy
with a courteous, “Thanks for the lovely evening,” since I paid for a third of
my movie ticket. As I gathered up my jacket, purse and unlatched the seatbelt
that felt, at this point, like a death trap, Dr. Steve had the audacity to lean
over and try to kiss me. “Whoa there! I don’t think so pal,” is what I recall
saying. I may have just laughed hysterically. Regardless, I grabbed my things
and shot out of the Jeep.
I may not have been as big of a
bitch as I portrayed because a few days later I got a call from Dr. Steve
asking if I wanted to meet him for another date. I never called back. Last I
heard Dr. Steve was still trolling around San Luis looking for a girlfriend.
Dr. Douche, maybe you’re single because you’re a rude cheap ass. Clean up your act. But that’s
just my two cents… Or rather, my $2.
