He looked like Sylvester Stallone’s retarded brother, not that I know if Sly even has a retarded brother (although the jury’s still out on Frank so who knows)…lest I regress. What I meant to say is he looked like he could be Sylvester Stallone’s retarded brother, of course not meaning to insult anyone with that statement, of course it now being too late anyway.
Truthfully, he was quite handsome and definitely resembled Stallone. Who is he you ask? He is Salvador, or Sal for short. I couldn’t tell you his last name. I don’t think I ever even knew it.
It was a regular night out with friends and like any other night out with friends, by 2 or 3 a.m. we were starving so we went to Denny’s for Grand Slams and french fries with brown gravy. I knew immediately that the guys at the table across the place from us were not local. For starters, I didn’t know any of them. That was almost a dead giveaway. Couple that with the fact that none of us knew any of them, and we had the makings for mystery and intrigue. Ha ha. They were kind of cute, loud, rowdy and having a great time without being obnoxious. I was instantly drawn to the group.
I don’t remember how Amy and I ended up at their table. It’s possible we sent them a round of water (on us of course). Ends up they were from the Bronx but came up to the suburbs for a popular club. After hanging out for a little while Frankie left with Amy’s phone number and Sal left with my phone number. A most productive night indeed.
The next day I got the first call. We talked for an hour or so. He was actually pretty charming. Adorable, funny, smart and had a professional job. He was in collections. We made plans to double date with Amy and Frankie.
I called Amy after hanging up and she asked me if I knew what they did for a living. I didn’t remember what he said but knew it had to do with money. I said, “Yeah, he’s an accountant.” She laughed until she couldn’t laugh any more. Then she told me. Shocking (not really). We decided not to tell our parents about this because they’d just about die…two (nice?) Jewish girls from the New York suburbs dating men in (eghad…..) the mob! We laughed about it and decided if they really were, they wouldn’t have told us so.
Date night came upon us quickly. We decided to meet them in the Denny’s parking lot and we’d all go to the movies together. “Just in case” we brought protection with us. We each brought a knife. I don’t think I could ever use a knife on anyone even if I had to. Needless, off we went to meet our dates, with two steak knives hidden under the front seats of the car.
Right on time, our knights in shining armor (ok, in black leather), looked quite hot waiting for us. Since I had the larger car, we decided I’d drive down the street to the theater. Upon getting into the car, the first thing Sal asked was “why do you have steak knives under the seats?” Amy being quick said she was wondering where they went and launched into an entire fable about a picnic basket, etc. They didn’t buy it and laughed at us, asking if they were for protection. We laughed it off and swore on the picnic basket story.
I do not remember the movie we saw. What I do remember is Amy and Frankie went to get soda and popcorn and Sal and I got the seats. The movie started and when Amy and Frankie entered the packed, darkened theater, Frankie yelled out, “Hey Sally…where are ya Sally?” to which Sal stood, waving his arms like a windmill, yelling “Frankie, ova here Frankie.” I sunk down in my seat hoping to not be recognized.
My date was a perfect gentleman during the movie and didn’t yell out at the screen or anything. I figured by the time the film was over, no one would remember the yelling anymore.
We decided to head back to Denny’s for a snack. Once seated, the waitress came to take our order and she inconspicuously told Sal that the guys they had the fight with last week came back every night looking for them. Amy and I looked at each other. We asked about the fight, which had not come up in any of the conversations during the week or during the evening. They explained and then Sal said he was going to the car to get his jacket. I guess he forgot he had his jacket on.
When he came back his jacket was off and over his arm. He handed it to me and asked me to put it on the seat next to me. It was rolled up and I accidentally fumbled it. In grabbing it before it could fall I felt a gun in the pocket. I looked at him and asked if he had a gun in his pocket. He wouldn’t say yes or no but did say “butter knives will do no good.”
Luckily, nothing happened and after eating, we said goodnight. I actually enjoyed the date a lot more than I expected I would.
He and I talked a few nights during the following week and after thinking about it for a long time, I decided to go out with him again. I do not remember where we went. I do remember that I invited him back to my place after the date. I lived home with my parents at the time, so I trusted myself and my hormones that nothing big could happen. I had told my parents there was a possibility that I would be bringing him back after and chilled a bottle of wine.
I started to like him a lot. This came to a fairly quick end when we started to fool around a little bit. I know it wasn’t the wine because he hardly drank it. Ok, the big turn off was when he thought he was being sexy and domineering and trying to nibble on my breasts through my sweater (ha ha), he had nothing but a mouth full of sweater. Maybe he had a wool fetish or something because he sucked it until I finally told him he was sucking my sweater only and I didn’t feel a thing. He was embarrassed to say the least. I don’t know why this made me feel superior. Must have been the bitch in me.
I used to be a really quirky thing (used to be?)…and I always found something I didn’t like about my dates. For instance, during dinner with one, for some reason I put my hand on his knee and it was really boney. It grossed me out. The fact that he brought me flowers on the first date had already killed any chances of a second date, but I thought maybe I could get my mind around this. I was wrong. Anyway, it was rare anyone got a third date. Sal was definitely not getting a third date. His totally cool Sly Stallone/mobster persona was gone…swallowed by a mouthful of sweater.
At the end of the night I told him I had a great night and wished him a safe ride home. Later in the week when he called I told him my ex boyfriend and I were going to try again. I didn’t have an ex boyfriend. He didn’t need to know this. He only needed to know the difference between wool and tit.
Yet another tale from the story of my life. I am sorry if I offend anyone with this tale. I’m really not such a bitch (yes I am). Sorry, really. LOL.