Secrets of a Shoe Addict (22 page)

As she drove to the restaurant, Sandra wondered if it was a bad idea to keep meeting blind dates for dinner when she was so self-conscious about her weight. Maybe it would be better to wait a few months, until she’d slimmed down some, and
then
set about the task of presenting herself to the small world of available men in D.C.

At the moment, the very fact of meeting in a restaurant put her in the position of feeling defensive and embarrassed.

The auricular therapy bar in her ear—an acupuncture needle that was supposed to stay in and keep her from overeating—wasn’t doing
a lick of good, and the problem with the homeopathic appetite-suppressant tablets, apart from the fact that they didn’t do squat, was that they sort of tasted good.

Dieting was making her nuts, but it wasn’t making her thin.

But if she
was
going to date, what were the alternative meeting places? A bowling alley? The carousel at Glen Echo Park? The mini-mart at Tenley Circle, in front of the processed cheese food or the motor oil?

Restaurants just made sense. They were neutral, public, and everywhere.

Besides, if a guy was going to judge her that way, she was better off without him, right? Which meant she was, indeed, better off without the scores and scores of boys and men who—all her life—had overlooked her because of her appearance.

The ones who didn’t dismiss her because of her appearance wanted to be her buddy.

It was getting old. It was getting really, really old.

And Sandra wasn’t getting any younger herself.

So she went to Sephora at Montgomery Mall before the date, hoping to get some miracle cream or eyeliner or
something
that would make her miraculously beautiful. Or at least reasonably attractive, since she didn’t seem to be making at least that modest goal.

“Are you finding everything all right?” an impossibly thin black-clad girl of about nineteen asked her when she was wandering the Stila aisle, marveling at the names and descriptions of the products.

“Actually,” she said, “I haven’t really found anything yet. I’m looking for . . . something great. Something that maybe won one of those
Allure
awards. Is there a product here that’s a real desert island keeper?”

By this time another employee had walked up on the conversation and seemed as interested in the challenge as the first.

“What about Bad Gal Lash?” Number two (whose name tag identified her as Belinda) said to number one (whose name tag labeled her Estelle).

“I don’t need more mascara,” Sandra said. “I’ve got my Maybelline Great Lash, and no one can tell me there’s something better. No, what I’m wondering about is some miracle concealer or foundation or something.”

“Have you tried Smashbox Photo Finish?” Estelle asked. “It’s just a primer for foundation or blush, but it fills in fine lines and large pores.” She narrowed her eyes and looked more closely at Sandra’s skin. “You should try it.”

Physical scrutiny was, of course, Sandra’s kryptonite. “Do you have any samples?”

These seemed to be the magic words for Estelle. She said, “Go to one of the seats in the back. I’ll be right there,” and set out looking for every miracle product in the place to sell to this poor sucker.

And this poor sucker was so ready for a makeover that she was willing to be late for her date on the promise that she might make a positive impact upon meeting him.

An hour later, she had to admit, she
did
feel . . . well, if not
stunning
at least attractive. Estelle and Belinda had gone to work on her, lining this, highlighting that, until Sandra barely recognized herself in the little hand mirror they provided.

She liked it that way.

Of course, she left the store with more than two hundred dollars’ worth of new products, which she might or might not be able to use effectively at home. If she kept spending like this, she was going to
have to go back to being a phone sex operator herself, just to supplement her income.

She drove up Wisconsin Avenue, looking for the address her date had given her for “a cool little pizza joint in Bethesda.” She liked a guy who wasn’t afraid to suggest pizza for a first date instead of something ostentatious and pretentious, so she was able to work up some optimism for New2This, aka Zach Roisin. Additionally, he had no interest in puppetry, stage magic, or any other performance art. Sandra had felt him out on that first thing. Subtly, she hoped.

Either that, or he was thinking of her as “the puppet hater.”

Which, come to think of it, might not be a bad user name for her on
Match.com
. Then she wouldn’t
have
to ask the puppet questions, it would just be obvious for puppeteers to stay away.

She couldn’t believe she was thinking about this.

Lorna Rafferty, her friend and business partner and the original shoe addict, called when she was sitting at a stoplight.

After a few minutes’ chat about a boutique chain in California that was going to carry the Carfagni fall line, Lorna asked where Sandra was on her way to.

Sandra told her about the online dating and her reluctance to give it another try after the Puppetmaster, but told her she was heading for a pizza place now. “If they can afford a lease in Bethesda, the food’s probably decent at least,” she said.

“True,” Lorna agreed. “What’s the name of it?”

“Actually, believe it or not, he didn’t say. Or if he did, I don’t remember. But I have the address, and it’s an Italian place, so I should be good.”

“Do you want me to call you in half an hour or so to give you an out if the date sucks?” Lorna asked.

Sandra thought about it for a second before saying, “No, with my luck, he’d hear what you say and know I was faking. Or that I’d set up the call in advance. Either way, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Okay, but I’m on call if you need me. I’m just sitting here overlooking San Francisco Bay, drinking a mojito.”

“Show-off!”

“You could have come with me. I’m hitting New Mexico and Arizona in a couple of weeks. Come then.”

It sounded tempting. If Sandra didn’t hate flying so much. “Maybe.”

Lorna laughed. “I know what that
maybe
means. Come on, it’ll be fun. Get the acupuncturist to put a fear-of-flying bar thingy in your ear.”

Sandra wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that her friend knew her so well. “I’ll think about it.” She pulled up to a light. “I’m in the neighborhood now, so I’d better start paying attention. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck! And, listen, in all seriousness, give the guy a chance. They can’t
all
be freaks.”

“God, I hope not.” She hung up the phone and looked at the clock on her dashboard. She was ten minutes early. That should give her enough time to park. As luck would have it, she found a space right outside a camera shop on the same block, so she pulled in, did one last check of her makeup, and got out of the car.

She walked along the block, looking for the restaurant. There was a strip mall, anchored by a Chuck E. Cheese on one end and a TCBY on the other, but none of the shopfronts had addresses. It seemed she really should have gotten the name of the place after all. What had she been
thinking
?

She walked the length of the mall once; then, when nothing
jumped out at her as being remotely Italian, she walked it again. Yogurt, office supplies, a frame shop, CVS, a toy store, Chuck E. Cheese. No Italian restaurant.

She was flummoxed.

“Sandra?”

Hearing her name, she turned around to find a short—well, her height—guy with wispy blond hair and a mouth full of braces. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem, but he was so thin, she guessed he probably had to shop in the boys’ department, so she felt huge next to him.

“Y . . . es?”

“Zach Roisin.” He held out his hand.

“Oh. Nice to meet you, too, Zach.” She shook his hand.

“It’s
Zach
, actually,” he corrected, pronouncing it
Sock
.

“Okay. Sock.”

“Zach.”

She was already tired of this. “Zsock,” she tried again, and was relieved that his face softened with apparent approval.

Their hands fell apart, and Zach said, “So?”

“So . . .” What? “I’m sorry if I’m late.”
Was
she late? “But I didn’t write down the name of the restaurant. Actually, it’s a good thing you happened along, because I don’t know what I would have done. Am I on the wrong block?”

“Nope.” He made a grand gesture toward the Chuck E. Cheese.

She nodded, waiting for him to elaborate. Then it hit her. “That? Chuck E. Cheese? That’s the
little pizza joint
?”

“You got it!” He looked thrilled with himself. “Usually when I tell people I want to meet here, they think they’re not interested, so I’ve begun just calling it a pizza place. Because they do have the most fantastic pizza in the world.”

Wait a minute, what happened to “New2this”? He’d actually met so many people here that he had a system for lying in order to
lure
them here? “I’ve never had it,” she said honestly.

“Get ready.” He ushered her toward the door. “Oh, by the way, did you bring change?”

“Change? Money? No. I have credit cards. Why?”

“For the games. But most of them take tokens, so you can get those with your credit cards. Don’t worry.”

Oh, yeah.
That
would alleviate the worry.

He opened the door and she was immediately struck by the amount of noise. Kids screamed, laughed, and cried over loud music. There appeared to be an animatronic rat spotlighted on a stage, dancing and singing, though no one seemed to be paying much attention.

“Isn’t it great?” Zach asked enthusiastically.

“It’s—” What was the word? “—big.” But there
was
, undeniably, a festive air about the place. It was different—that was for sure. And, let’s face it, she wasn’t particularly in the mood for another quiet, awkward, blind date dinner.

Besides, it was nice that Zach was willing to share his inner child with her on a first date. He was just going to let it all hang out, right up front. That made sense. She appreciated that.

“Get some tokens,” he said eagerly. “We’ll play foosball.” He jingled his pockets, which were evidently full of tokens already. “I’ll save the table. Meet me there.”

“Wait, shouldn’t we just use the tokens you have?”

“These are
my
tokens,” he said, then gave a quick smile. “And they’re worth collecting, Sandy, because pretty soon this place is going to switch to rechargeable cards, like Butch and Blaster’s did, and these are going to be worth something.”

“Who are Butch and Blaster?”

He frowned for a moment. “You’ve never been to Butch and Blaster’s? The restaurant arcade where the fun has just begun?”

No. But she could tell from the slogan that she didn’t want to go. “Oh,” she said, as if she’d just misheard. “Butch and Blaster’s! The . . . the
place
.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Hurry up and get the tokens before someone else gets our table.”

“Okay.” She watched him go for a moment. She was willing to be open-minded about his choice of venues, but it
did
seem a little weird that he had a bunch of tokens that he wasn’t willing to share. That he would, in fact, rather stand guard over a table while she fumbled with the token machine, just so he could keep his tokens to himself.

Sandra’s phone rang while she was struggling to get the token machine to accept her card. She expected it to be Lorna, but it was Tiffany.

“I need another word for
cock
,” she said without preamble.

“I’m sorry?” The coins rattled into the dispenser, and Sandra gathered them, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just a change machine. What were you saying?”

“I’m sick of all those
Penthouse Letters
sort of euphemisms for body parts,” Tiffany said. “There’s got to be something . . . more artistic.”

“Well, you can work around them.”

“How?”

“You know, say things like ‘You’re getting me hot’ and ‘I’m so wet’ and—” She stopped. Good God, she was in a Chuck E. Cheese. She couldn’t say that kind of thing here! “You get the idea.”

“It’s really very complicated work.”

“You can do it.”

The lights went down and a voice blasted from speakers that must have been hidden every three feet in the walls, “Liiive from our fabulous showroom. Here he is, the
master of fun
, Chuck E. Cheese!”

“Sandra?” Tiffany asked.

Sandra’s face burned. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where
are
you?”

“I’m on a date.”

“But
where
? I could have sworn I heard—”

She was interrupted by an invisible band winding up with a very loud variation on “When the Saints Come Marching In.”

Tiffany gasped. “When Chuck E.’s band comes marching in! Oh, honey, are you on a date at Chuck E. Cheese?”

Sandra’s humiliation settled on her shoulders like a heavy wet shawl. “Do
not
tell
anyone
.”

“I will try my hardest not to.” Tiffany was laughing. “But I want to hear all about it later.”

Sandra rolled her eyes and hung up the phone. She did
not
need Tiffany putting a weird spin on her date with a guy who was just—she reminded herself of what was becoming her new mantra—fun-loving enough to reveal his inner child on a first date.

Unfortunately, it turned out Zach’s inner child was a competitive brat in need of some serious discipline. The fact that Sandra was not good at this sort of game only made things worse, and it turned out that Zach didn’t have a lot of patience for people who couldn’t keep up with him on the foosball table.

When the stage show started up again, and strobe lights began flashing, things only got worse.

“Just
hit
the ball back toward my goal!” Zach shouted. She preferred to think he was trying to be heard over the din of noise than that he might actually be
ticked off
that she didn’t have any points.