My Encounter With Mothball Man

Hey hun, 

Well, grab yourself a coffee or a tall glass of vodka because I have a story for you! So, a few weeks ago, Denise, my bingo hall friend, started begging me to go with her  to the town dance at the church. 

Now, your ol’ Grams used to throw it down at the dances. But about 10 years ago Chad Masterson got so sozzled that he trapped himself in the Sunday school classroom and the firehouse had to break him out. Ever since then, those toads have been watering down the booze, so it’s no fun!

But Denise, bless her, is getting back into the dating scene and this event is the geriatric who’s who of anyone this side of the grave. So, we got all dolled up and hit the town at 5:30 PM. We danced the early evening away (with the help of my purse whisky), and Denise found her Prince Charming. 

Well, she found a retired French teacher who whispered sweet little verb conjugations in her ear as they whirled around on the dance floor. I’ll admit that it ended up being quite a pleasant night! We even stopped at a diner afterward and giggled over milkshakes like a couple of schoolgirls. Then I went home, made some tea, and cracked open a new murder mystery book. 

And I thought that was that! But no! About a week later Denise called me and said that she needed me to go on a double date with French and his buddy. 

At first I said no. I’m too old for that shit! But she said she really wanted to spend time with French but this friend of his was a real hanger-on. My sympathies got the better of me and so I agreed. I should have known that it was going to be a disaster. 

First of all, the date was at Buffet King. Now, I’m not one to turn my nose up at a buffet, but there’s hardly anything romantic about a sneeze guard. Second, as I shuffled into the booth next to my date, across from the lovebirds, I could see why Denise was looking for someone to scrape him off onto. 

The man was like a vulture looming overhead, consuming the conversation without adding anything of significance. When I arrived, he had already laid out a plate each of potatoes, boiled hotdogs, and mint jelly, and methodically made his way through each while gazing at whoever was speaking at the moment. 

Despite all attempts at prompting conversation with him, he only nodded, grunted, or stared wordlessly. And I haven’t even told you the worst part: the man smelled so strongly of moth balls that over the course of an hour, our corner of the restaurant completely emptied out even though it was the dinner rush. 

I needed to get out of there, so I just stood up, shouted, “I left my windows open!” and booked it out of there. I’m sure Denise wasn’t happy about that, but I hope she and French and Mothball Man are all happy together. Anyway, I’ll smooth it over at the next bingo night. 

In the meantime, I’ll happily take the company of a cat who’s actively plotting my death. 

Well, I hope your dating pool is slightly less horrible. 

Much love,

Grams