My Literary Blind Date (Note: David Bergen Was Involved)

Last night I went on a blind date. It's not the sort of thing I'm into, but a friend knew a friend who knew a woman who read books. And was single--or almost single. Or just about to end a relationship. Or just getting out of the hospital after giving birth.

"What kind of books?" I asked.

I met her at a restaurant on the Danforth. Crossing the Bloor St. Viaduct is always fun. I look at the fence--the mesh screen they've put up to keep people from jumping into the Don Valley. There was a guy there last night looking over the edge. He had on old army fatigues and a really faded Scorpions t-shirt.

"Hey," I said.

He looked at me. "Goddamn fence."

"You're not thinking of..."

"That's what I came for, man."

"Then get up there. Come on."

"It's not worth it. Maybe I'll just hang around Adelaide and John. It's Friday."

"It's Thursday," I said.

"Well, maybe I'll get a haircut."

The date went well. She was tall, with black hair, green eyes, and a slight limp.

"How'd you get that?" I asked.

"Dunking."

She ordered a couple bottles of wine; I had a glass of water. "Ron tells me you're an English student," she said.

"I am."

"Who's your favourite writer?"

"David Bergen."

"Really? I've never heard of him."

"He's big between Jarvis and Yonge--from Bloor to a little south of College."

"Oh. What's he written?"

"Uh, he's tried to do a few things."

"So do you do any writing?"

"Me? No, I can't stand writers. God, I hate writers."

"And what do your parents do?"

"They write."

There'll be no second date. But it was nice to get away from the thesis for a night. It was nice to get some of that fresh downtown air. (We went for a long walk after dinner. I walked her home; she invited me to go jogging.) And, when my clothes come back from the drycleaners, I'll always have the receipt to remember it by.