We walked back to my door on his way home and he gave me another sound byte: “I give this date an 8.” “An 8?” I mean I don’t want someone to say a 6 or a 10, so I guess it’s the best choice, but as far as I’m calculating, an 8 is an 80%, or a B-. I would have gone with 8.2 or something similar. Ok, I would have gone with 8 too. This is beside the point, who rates their dates… ok, out loud?
“Yeah, you’re cuter than I remembered, I liked dinner, and we’re going to go out again, but a 10 would have been having sex in the bathroom.” ‘Did he just say that?’ ran through my mind, but I pulled it together.
“Oh, well I like to leave room for improvement.” Later that week the Bookie asked me to go for a run in the park… in the middle of the day, apparently forgetting that people work in the big tall buildings that are everywhere. I obviously couldn’t but agreed to have a weekend dinner with him with one objective in mind.
The Bookie again, a true gentleman minus his occasional ‘thinking out loud’ problem, picked me up and took me to a great restaurant. I was impressed and kind of got a kick out of the Bookie and his mysterious day job. Slowly we started on the topic again and the cat flew out of the bag and onto the hibachi table. He bets. Legally, questionably, for others, etc. He goes to Vegas. Hence the Bookie.
I thought he was joking, kind of like when I tell people that I manage the flow of people watching in Central Park, by the way if this job exists, please tell me where I can send my resume’, I think I could help.
It was kind of cool, kind of weird. I mean, “Hey Dad, would you like to meet my boyfriend; he’s tall, handsome, is fun, sweet to me and has questionable ethics.” But now I had a crush on the Bookie. Wine helps.
He was leaving for a “trip” the following week, so he asked to see me quickly for a quick dinner before he left. I was actually excited after our mini-date to see him when he got back. Didn’t happen, never heard from him again. I guess what happens in Vegas does stay in Vegas.
