He didn’t even smile when the hard-boiled egg dropped out of his injera and almost rolled out the front door
A cutie named Josh phoned and wanted to connect. We were set up through the son of a family I helped arrange services for. His pal, Ben’s mother had just passed, so Ben came to the funeral home several times to firm up the details. We were able to talk and joke, and ultimately lament about dating in the Bay Area. He thought Josh was the man for me. I thought that was a pretty cool way to meet.
Our phone conversation was a long one. Josh had question after question, and I happily answered everything he wanted to know. His final question was one I didn’t hear too often. He wanted to know if I could help him with a creative way to disperse his ashes. He said he was serious and wanted to get something down in writing. We perused some options.
I share for as little as $1000, a Georgia firm will mix his ashes with concrete and cast him into an artificial reef to create habitat for endangered ocean species. The Marvel Comics editor who helped create Captain America wanted his ashes mixed with ink and printed into a comic book after his death. His wife followed his wishes, and his remains were printed into a special edition poster of ‘Squadron Supreme’ in 1996. And the Frisbee creator asked his family members to cast his ashes into a series of limited edition discs.
When I walked through the door of Gojo Ethiopian Restaurant I felt beautiful. You know what I mean, Sandra? It was one of those spring evenings when your hair falls just right and you sort of glide on air.
Josh, the humor writer, greeted me with a warm hug and commented that I was “tons more pretty” than Ben had led on. I blushed appropriately and gave him a much-practiced, yet-subtle flip of my right-falling hair. He motioned for me to pull up some wicker across from him and settle in.
Drinks were ordered, and we were washed and ready to eat with our hands. I spied his copy of The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand, on the ledge by our table. He looked sheepishly at me after surveying our first course, and confessed that he’d read about this restaurant online but had never eaten here. Rock on! I was always happy to have an opportunity to shine, and when a small first course arrived, I started my instruction.
“Pinch your index finger and thumb together, like you’re picking something up. Now move your hand so that your fingers and thumb are shaped around the food, and use this Ethiopian bread as a makeshift utensil. Place your thumb behind the food, lean your head forward, and put it in your mouth like this.”
He did better than average. I joked that it didn’t quite work with soup; he didn’t get it. I tore into my plate of doro wot, one of the most popular Ethiopian dishes. I love the tender chicken, hard-boiled egg and the soft, spongy bread. I told him that bread was called “injera,” just in case he ever wanted to throw that out and impress some future date he might bring to Gojo. He didn’t smile or laugh at that, either.
I ordered my second beer and smiled happily at my surroundings. I was on a date with a cute guy, and sitting in a restaurant a mere half mile down West San Carlos Street where I used to live in a fabulous corner loft with the former fiancé. I was away from him and his dysfunctional theater, sipping a smooth Kidus Giorgis bira. And I was okay and happy in my life, but I did wish my date would humor me a little bit more.
I studied Josh while he finished up his phone call. He looked virile and handsome in his loose-fitting caftan. He was the kind of guy that my friends would emphatically pronounce “hot” when they met him. Sure, hot, but just not funny.
He seemed to appreciate me and my knowledge of non-fork etiquette, and he clearly was having a fine time, but there wasn’t a connection on my end. What was bugging me was I couldn’t get a smile from him.
“Damit!” I yelled into the phone after Mary answered post-date.
“Josh could have been a serious candidate for the coveted second go-round. Why did he have to be so polite and unentertained by me? Or was it just my brand of humor? After all, everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else.”
She wanted to know what I said.
“I was cracking a few harmless jokes just to see if I could make him comfortable, but I really think it was just his humorless personality. We were eating with our hands, for God’s sake, by his choice. He didn’t laugh once. In fact, he didn’t even smile when the hard-boiled egg dropped out of his injera and almost rolled out the front door.”