WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT, PART 5: “Not Another Stupid Blind Date!”


Wow, what fun I’ve had with these prompts. This one’s no different. Read on and enjoy!


So, here I am, in my drawers and undershirt, leaning back in my recliner with crushed beer cans takin’ over my snack table. But no snacks.

Where’s a wife when you need one, Herschel, I ask myself. Right about now, I’d be like, “Hey, hon, we got any more pretzels?”and she’d be all, “Sure, babe. If we’re out, I’ll run get more. Anything for the king of my heart.”

Yeah, right, I sit there a-thinkin’, as I belt out a thunderous belch. Who am I kiddin’? Five times divorced, in my late sixties, a bald spot in the back of my head, despite the “enhanced” color in front, thanks to “Just For Men”. Well, as I’m waiting for the queso I scraped out of a jar to heat up in the microwave, I duck into the bathroom and am “seein’ a man about a horse” when I hear the doorbell.

Aw, who in Sam Hill is that knocking on my door at nine o’clock at night? Well, after hitchin’ up my drawers below my growing pot belly, I hurry as fast as an ol’ fart with arthritis in his hip can hurry to get to the door.

“Sam Mann? You old geezer, I thought you died!”

New hair plugs in place and draped across his forehead, Sam-the-Mann strides through my door like he owns the place and we fist each other in the shoulders.

“I been thinkin’ the same ‘bout you, old pal. Been a long time. A long, long time. What the hell have you been up to since our glory days?”

“Man, you’re asking me to remember back to forty-some years ago. I don’t even remember havin’ lunch. How ‘bout you?”

“Just got married again, dude,” he says, his new mustache curves upwards.

“You old son-of-a-gun. How many does this one make?”

He holds up three fingers. “Numero tres. Y numero ultimo. Say, man, that’s why I’m here. She’s got a sister you oughta meet.”

“A woman? For me? Naw. No way,” I say, holding up my palms to fend off Sam and his hair-brained ideas. “Been there. Done that. Got the divorce papers to show for it.”

“I hear ya, buddy, but this one’s special. Me ‘n Suzy Jo, we’d double with ya, but with our livin’ in Lubbock?” He shakes his head. “That there’s a fur piece from Arlington. But no reason you two can’t get together. Whaddya say. Grab coffee, maybe a burger, the first time. See if you hit it off?”

I mess myself up by pausing, giving Sam the notion I’m even thinkin’ ‘bout it.

“No strings. You go your way; she goes hers. Unless, of course…”.

He winks lewdly.

“C’mon, man. Dating? At my age? Can’t we just be – y’know – ‘buddies’?” I give him the wink-wink back.

“No strings?”

He nods. “No strings absolutely.”

Two days later, I walk into Starbuck’s lookin’ for any reason to turn tail walk out, again. I scope out the other customers, but I don’t see the kind of woman Sam and I used to go for in UT.

“Welcome to Starbuck’s, sir,” chirps a creamy-skinned girl my granddaughter’s age. Her badge says, “Hi, I’m Amber!”

“Naw, I was looking for someone. Don’t see her here.”

Don’t know why, but outta the corner of my eye, a redhead waves at me. “Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

She’s petite, fit, and really good-looking in a chiseled sort of way. Her blue eyes and shapely lips have the perfect touch of color.

“What did you expect?” she asks, her face dead-pan, as she sips Chai tea. Beside the tea is a plastic cup of fresh fruit chunks and a bottled water.

Not one of my usual women. I look away and snort, remembering all my other blind dates. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably a blonde, busty, single-digit IQ MILF.”

“MILF?” she asks, arching a tweezed eyebrow. “That’s a new acronym. Please translate.”

Embarrassed, I turn my head so she won’t see me blush. “Uh, you don’t really wanna know.”

She holds me with her gaze. “Then why did you say it?”

“Never mind. ‘My bad’.” As I utter the last two words, I remind myself of my sixteen-year-old grandson, Lance.

As she nibbles on a pineapple chunk, she pins me, a helpless butterfly, with her shrewd gaze. “You don’t do this very often, do you, Mr. Lloyd?”

“It’s Floyd, actually. And, no, I don’t.”

“Sorry, Floyd-actually.”

“Meaning no disrespect, ma’am. You seem like a decent lady, but ya gotta know somethin’ ‘bout me. I suck at this blind-date crap.”

She smirked and covered her mouth. “So do I. When Sam told me about you, I almost didn’t show up.” 

Well, now we’re even, I’m thinkin’, as I look over this little bird-like woman and her sharp, downturned nose. Shit, it even looks like a beak! 

“So, how do you know Sam?” I ask, as I knock back a slug of espresso.

She curls her perfect lips. “He’s my ex. I can’t believe he set me up with you.”

“No kidding? No, I don’t believe he did, either. All my exes? Shit, they’re long gone. Good riddance to all of ‘em except, maybe, the mother of my sons.”

“Why are they all your exes?”

I’m speechless. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Why did all those women divorce you?”

I make a sound that somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “I can’t believe you’ve got the nerve to ask me that on our first meeting.”

“All right, I could ask you the same. What went wrong between you and Sam?”

I back away, waiting for an explosion. There, lady. Let’s turn the tables.

Her eyes sparkle. “Touche!” she says, as she sets down her Chai and dabs her mouth. “Sam and I were never on the same intellectual plane. Rather hard to converse with someone so unenlightened.”

“Unenlightened? That’s a kind word, I suppose. Unenlightened about what?”

She shrugs, gazing out the window at a young couple taking PDA to a whole new level: arms and hands slithering up and down each other’s bodies, tongues flicking. She shudders and looks away.

“Oh, philosophy. Politics. The Classics. The last book Sam read was Hank, the Cowdog.

She titters. “Can you imagine such?”

I look back at her, straight-faced. “As a matter of fact, I’m about to finish the last book in the Hank series. Good reading.”

She assesses me with that gaze of hers and allows me a teensy-weensy, lipstick-y smile. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

“Hey, ma’am, we’ve talked the whole time and all I’ve called you is ma’am. You do have a name, don’t you?”

She smiles a rather jerky, mechanical smile. “It’s Lucille B-b-b.—.” Without warning, the woman’s head and face twitch and then freeze.

Oh, God. She’s had a stroke, I’m thinkin’ when my phone goes off. It’s Sam.

“Hey, Hersch, how’s it goin’ with your dream girl?”

“Not so good, Sam, I think she might’ve had a stroke. Her face won’t move.”

I hear a gasp and an “Aw, mannn!” on the other end. And here I am thinkin’ the worst.

“She runs on batteries, man. Plug her back in.”

“Sam, you been drinkin’?”

  1. “No way, dude. There’s somethin’ I forgot to tell ya about Lucille. She’s a robot.”



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s