I’m currently doing the last bit of editing for The Wake Up Call, my upcoming novel about a middle age man’s chaotic quest for love (for himself and for others). The novel is set in New York, Miami and Mexico and is hopefully an entertaining 75 000 word read. Below you have the first part of it, I hope you like it.

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Can you believe it? Because I sure can’t. I am on a blind date with Gwen Parks. It’s really more of a mute date than a blind date, at least for me. I couldn’t find a more boring person at the senior chess club than Gwen. She is close to killing me off and we have been sitting at Le Something for 32 minutes. Yes, I have counted them.

Gwen is doing all the talking but she’s not really saying anything. Maybe she is nervous or maybe she is ignorant, because she just goes on and on, seemingly without a single thought towards whether I might be interested in what she’s saying or not. She is also on a namedropping mission, talking about people that I don’t know, have never heard about, and have no interest in ever knowing and she’s talking about them like they were mutual friends of ours. All I’m doing is saying “yes”, “aha”, and “oh” in approximately the right places while trying not to fall asleep.

I’m also trying to get drunk, having a more interesting date with this 120-dollar bottle of French Merlot wine that we (mostly I) are drinking. We have nearly finished the bottle and I can’t remember Gwen having made a refill. But how would she as she is talking all the time. When the food gets here I hope she at least stops her blabbering for a bit, at least while chewing. I am starving both for food and some more interesting company.

She is looking good though, a classy broad, this Gwen. She’s eloquent, well mannered and dresses elegantly. Her short crème dress is flattering her slightly stocky but nice legs and she has a gingerbread man tan, probably sprayed-upon. The only turnoff except from her constant talking is her mouth, which is smeared in red lipstick. This makes her and most other women look like clowns. I know people have strange turn-ons these days, but making out with Bozo was never one of mine.

I remind myself not to thank my friend Mike who set me up on this date with his bodacious blonde colleague. He says it’s about time I find myself a good, reliable, and intelligent woman, which makes him sound like my mother, or at least what my mother would have sounded if she were like most mothers (and alive). Apparently he thinks that Gwen has those qualities, although he should know that finding a permanent partner is lot more complex than presenting a list of suitable personality specs. I know this from experience, having had many relations but few relationships. Something that irks Mike, I guess he’s just unhappy that I’m better looking than him.

Mike is absolutely right though that my record with women is more based on quantity than quality, at least when you look at the intelligence and maturity level on some of the girls I meet, but I guess I’m like pretty much everybody else in the world, I fall for the wrong kind. Good thing that I realize my mistakes and end them before they get too messy, too many people are involved and kids are produced, right? I wish Mike himself would have had the balls to do that, to end things that are bad, because it would have prevented him from hooking up and locking up with plain-looking and open-legged Joanne Horton (whom I usually refer to as Ho-Anne Whore-ton). So I always think twice before listening to Mike’s advice.

There are many reasons I don’t like Joanne, but to summarize it all in one word it would suffice to say she’s a bitch. This was clear to me from the first time I met her. I remember it like yesterday. It was at a work lunch a few days before a party at my place some three years ago that Mike casually announced he would be bringing someone. Someone. Being Mike’s best friend I should already have known he’d met someone, but I was digging deep at work at that time and I didn’t have a lot of time to keep up with friends. I guess this sort of thing happens when you’re chased by the desire to succeed.

I was instantly suspicious. Mike had been single for something like two years by then, which was strange by his standards – he simply can’t handle single life. Average looking people like Mike are not good on their own; they don’t get confidence boosts from frequently hooking up with women like more physically blessed people like myself – it’s a confidence thing. So when he announced he’d met someone I had a premonition that desperation could have struck him badly, while at the same time I hoped he would bring a nice, friendly down-to-earth girl. Not that I usually end up with those girls myself of course.

Enter Joanne who looked uncomfortable from the second she put her foot in my penthouse. She clung to Mike the whole evening like he was her lifeboat in a sea of unknown evil and she didn’t stick to him in a nice, we-are-freshly-in-love kind of way, but more like she wanted to make sure he didn’t pay attention to anybody else but her. She whispered in his ear, tugged at him like a spoiled child and hardly said a word to anyone else.

They left early of course.

This was an omen for things to come. I guess I could have understood what Mike saw in her more if she was jaw-droppingly beautiful – but Joanne isn’t. She looks ten years older than her age, which I think is 32 because her skin is as lifeless as a lifelong smoker’s and her voice is a witch’s croak probably stemming from the pack of cigarettes a day she’s smoking. She always dresses in black and the only curve on her body is her crooked ego.

As if this isn’t enough, I strongly suspect she’s cheating. Not at Scrabble, but on my best friend. I am 99 percent sure about this after hearing from Mike about text messages with flirty writing to other guys and frequent partying ending with her coming home in the wee hours of the morning, two things that spell disaster for any relationship (I know this as I have been on the other side of it – no, I am not proud). Her appetite for the nightlife makes him worry to death about her, which she doesn’t deserve, as I have said to Mike countless times.

And what does Mike do? He defends her of course! He’s so brainwashed by her controlling claws that he doesn’t see what kind of she-monster she really is. He’s miserable and deep down I think he knows it. But why would he take my relationship advice? To him I’m “Jack the dipper” a nickname that might have been flattering if I was still in college, but I’m not. I’m 35.

“How about you?” says Gwen and wakes me up from my thinking about Mike and his love troubles. I have no idea what she’s talking about, as I haven’t really been listening.

“About me?” I repeat.

“Yes, are you investing in anything?”

Okay, the stock market again. The stock market and her fantastic father; two of Gwen’s favorite things to talk about and coincidentally the two most boring topics of all time. I don’t really give a flying fuck about her father or the stock market. It’s very un-American of me, but money bores me – probably because I have lots of it.

“Well, not really, I put them in the bank and fuhgeddabout them.”
“Well I thought since Mike’s really into these things, you might be as well. Anyway, my father thinks that the market will…”

I fade out again. I look at her lips moving. They’re nice and full and would looks so much better if they could remain closed. I drift to work. How is the soup campaign going? How do you make soup sexy? Or tasty? Soup is soup. Did I reply to that e-mail? I could sneak out my trusted Blackberry – but I’m not drunk enough yet to be that rude. I need to remember that this is Mike’s colleague and try my best to control myself. But of course I wouldn’t mind sleeping with her and there’s a good chance of that if I just play my cards remotely right. There usually is.

Work thoughts are constantly looming these days. Well, always have. But they’re not as nice as they used to be, not as interesting as only few years back when things were looking brighter than a sunburned blonde’s bleached smile and I was on the cover of business magazines as one of the shining stars in the advertising world. Now I feel like the captain on a sinking ship, running back and forth among the rats on deck while trying to dodge enemy cannonballs. Okay, it’s maybe not that bad yet, but if we lose another big account I’m going to have a friggin’ heart attack.

Shouldn’t have put Ted in charge. He’s too much of a scatterbrain. A dreamer. And he’s old too. I wonder why we hired him. Maybe it’s time to let him go? God knows we could use some cost cutting. I should book a meeting with Nicholas, but next week is packed. Or is it? Whoa, my brain is in my Outlook, need to dig it out, need to focus on what Gwen’s saying. Naw, that’s no good, I look at her breasts instead. Good size. I wonder if they are hanging or perky, it’s hard to tell from here. She’s using some kind of push-up bra, which gives me an ample view of cleavage. I love cleavage. But there is bad cleavage and good cleavage. Too much of a gap and it’s bad cleavage. Gwen has good cleavage. But I need to keep eye contact – eyes, breasts, eyes, breasts. Can she tell? Does she mind? She has a cute smile, but her face is maybe a little wide and roundish, which reminds me of some animal. Not a chipmunk, but maybe a teenage mutant ninja turtle, if that counts for an animal. Donatello, Rafael? What were those other Ninja turtles? Splinter? No, that was the rat.

As a saving grace, here comes the food. But sadly in small, artistically and pretentiously challenged portions. I agree that food should look good, but that doesn’t mean you have to build towers with it. I get so tired of these fancy overpriced places sometimes, but you can’t impress a girl with a big mac and a milkshake, believe me I’ve tried. Tonight I just wanted a plate of pasta, two bottles of red wine and a decent chance of getting laid, not this hollow conversational torture and cuisine le microscopice. But Gwen is apparently in love with everything French – the food, the people, the language and the wine and that’s why she’s enjoying this place where waiters have thick accents, hairy arms and their large bony noses high in the air like they just suffered a severe case of cocaine nosebleed. It feels like we’re in Paris and I don’t like Paris. Been there twice and never got across the language gap and the rudeness. But Gwen even placed the order in French – something that got the waiter all sparkly-eyed and likely even more in love with himself and his own country. Arrogance was never attractive.

I order another bottle of red to dull my growing irritation.

“Amazing right?” Gwen says piercing me with her green eyes. “Don’t you just love the way they serve the food here? Each plate is a piece of art.”

She takes a bite of her white fish, chews it diligently, utters a lengthy “mmmmmm” and looks at me big-eyed like she is waiting for me to agree.

“That was just what I was (really wasn’t) thinking, Gwen. Excellent choice.” I raise my glass and as we toast I lock my eyes with hers. I give her the “Jack wants you look”, which has lured women into my arms since 1984 or something like that. I should have a sign or some kind of stamp made up signaling that I’m tested and quality assured.

We clink our glasses and the way she eyes me I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear when it comes to post-dinner sexercise. I just need to stay on the right side of shitfaced.

I take a bite of food, because I refuse to call something I put in my mouth art, and I’m immediately disappointed by the meat – ordered medium-rare, but quite dry and not very tender. But I wolf it down anyway as I am now so hungry Ronald McDonald’s left rubber foot would have been a treat.

I eat rapidly trying to focus on something else than Gwen’s voice and acknowledge that the sliver of potato purée placed on the top of the food tower is quite good which must be the reason we got so little of it. Then I wash everything down with my fifth or possibly sixth (who’s counting anyway?) glass of red and smile at Gwen. I smile at her because she’s not talking right now and that makes me happy. Although while she’s eating I’ve noticed she has a very annoying way of wiping her teeth with her tongue. It’s quite un-lady like.

Gwen is also a slow eater. I think she spends more time investigating the food (besides talking of course) than actually putting it in her mouth. It’s another checked box on the annoyance sheet but I am going to bear with it, if only for the chance of nighttime release. I have a lot of stress built up and need to get it out of me. I need to lose myself a bit in someone. It’s an escape, I know, but it works – at least temporarily.

I have a bit of a monster inside of me. I might as well tell you right away. It doesn’t come out very often and deep down I don’t think I’m a bad person, but sometimes when I drink the monster rears its ugly head and I turn into a royal asshole. I’m not violent – I was never violent, but when I’m drunk or stressed I can say the worst things without much provocation. Lately it’s been happening more often and I guess it’s all the negative energy from work that’s getting to me. We all got some bad stuff to carry, but my own personal shit creek has been brimming over way too easily and I need to get my act together.

I’m feeling it might happen tonight as well. I have never been this aware about it before, but along with the intoxication I’m getting increasingly annoyed with Gwen, her constant talk and her uptight ways. I know I really shouldn’t be drinking, but I saw no other way to escape the deadly grasp of boredomia conversationalis.

I take another healthy sip of my wine, finish the glass then refill and feel waves of tiredness and irritation crashing on my internal shore. I’m not in the mood for dinner anymore, not in the mood for wasting my time nodding to Gwen and her stories about her friends and their careers and I know if I will sit here any longer I will probably fall asleep. I need to do something dramatic.

We’re having dessert and Gwen’s describing her Crème Brule like it has just given her an orgasm when the thought occurs to me that Gwen’s a 60-year-old woman stuck in a 29 year-old body. I laugh out loud. I’m dating grannies now, Mike should be proud.

“What’s so funny?” Gwen gives me a puzzled look.

I compose myself, down my XO brandy and look her straight in the eye.

“You know, Gwen, I got to be honest with you. I’m bored out of my pants. I can’t stay in this place any longer. So we have two options. I pay the bill and we go to my place and fuck or I pay the bill and go home to sleep alone. Either way, I leave now.”

Gwen’s eyes expand and her mouth drops slightly.

“What?” she says. “Are you serious?”

“Yup,” I say, and look around for the nearest waiter.