Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [55]
We met at the Starbucks on Astor Place and Third Avenue. I’d answered his personal ad the week before, and we’d had a couple of long conversations on the phone. My first novel was just a week away from being published, and I had decided that it was time for me to date. It had been over a year since I’d dated anybody; I’d never dated anybody as a published author. And since being a published author is all that I ever wanted in life, I felt that I had never actually had a date as the real me. It was the old me that slept with one-third of the men in Manhattan. It was also the old me that drunkenly confessed to my last boyfriend that his famous best friend was the most sexually attractive man I’d ever seen in my life.
When Dennis showed up he was on time and in shorts. At this point, I didn’t know that he was so mentally healthy; I only knew that he was extremely sexy and punctual.
I already had a double espresso, so he introduced himself and said, “I’m just going to run inside and grab a coffee.” He threw me this smile that told me his first impression wasn’t one of repulsion. His teeth were so white I was certain they were all capped. But this, like silicone calf implants, was also just fine with me. I am what’s known as an “early adopter.” This means I had a laptop computer in 1984, when they were rare and the size of briefcases. I also had a cell phone that was larger than a loaf of bread. So new technologies have never frightened me away, even if these technologies are implanted into the body with the intention of making what’s natural look better.
When Dennis returned, he set his tall coffee on the table, then sat down, knocking his leg against the table and causing his coffee to slosh out. “Fuck,” he said, shoving the chair back. “Oh shit. Great. What a first impression.” He looked at me with a genuinely disappointed and helpless expression on his face. I could tell he felt lousy and clumsy, and I was completely charmed. He frowned, and this made me see that his gray goatee is really a muzzle and he looks exactly like a schnauzer.
I love schnauzers.
Rarely do very handsome men allow their faces to run around without a leash. I am not very handsome, but I am above-average handsome, which means I have spent only one-sixteenth of my life in front of a mirror practicing facial expressions, as opposed to the maybe one-fourth that a very handsome guy might have. Yet I can tell you that if I had accidentally spilled coffee on a first date, I would have immediately made facial expression number 69b: Spilled Coffee on First Date face.
And that was my first clue that Dennis was of superior mental health. He had no reason to try and mask his awkwardness with a stoic face, no need to pretend to be blasé.
My stomach was in knots because I was trying to act casual.
Dennis wiped off the table with a couple of napkins and sat down. There was a flirty, smiling back-and-forth thing that went on. I learned that he was half Italian and half Austrian, which to me translates into half sexy and half insane.
When he told me of his hatred for nuns, caused by years of mean-spirited and Gothic Catholic schooling, his voice increased to a shout. He went from looking friendly and smart to furious and unstable. I thought it was hysterical that he was still so enraged about Catholic school, thirty years later. I laughed and said, “You are a ranting crazy person. You’re not as normal as you appear.”
He smiled, then began to chuckle at himself. He blushed very slightly but enough for me to know I was right, that in some way he was crazy and we both knew it. Here he told me he was in therapy. He backed into this declaration carefully, like steering around a little