Being Single: The Ballad of Frank

By Kevin Gibson
May 20, 2008

I have a friend who is, shall we say, a tad frustrated with the concept of “dating.”

We can all understand his plight on some level; of this I feel certain.

This particular friend, who shall remain nameless lest he bludgeon me to death with a spiked horse femur (note to Kirk: I've got your back), recently met a young lady who showed interest in him, and even pursued him to some degree. He went along with it however reluctantly and went out with her a couple times, was surprised to find that he enjoyed her company, and decided he would be interested in getting to know her further.

At which point, predictably, she declared that she wanted to be “just friends.” And she joined the Peace Corps.

Now, while there is nothing at all wrong with having more friends (especially peace-loving ones), there’s also nothing wrong with good old-fashioned heavy petting either. His response to her was that he was comfortable with whatever she wanted to do, but that he didn’t want to shroud the new friendship in labels or categories, and that he felt they should just act naturally and let it be what it is.

At which point she pretty much stopped contacting him altogether (at least for a while).

Frustrating, indeed. Hats off to my friend for not climbing the nearest bell tower and opening fire on the unsuspecting passersby.

I have a much funnier story to tell, however, one which comes from a completely different angle and which carries a completely different kind of lesson. (Once I figure out what that lesson is, I’ll share it too. If you figure it out first, please e-mail me.)

Anyway, this same friend and I meet about weekly for lunch at some nearby fast-food  establishment. At one particular restaurant, there is a (presumably) female employee who frequently takes our orders and who is, in the words of Austin Powers, “a bit mannish.” Nice enough, mind you, but less than attractive, clearly not terribly bright, and when she speaks it sounds like Tom Waits trying to imitate Darth Vader’s “I am your father” speech from “The Empire Strikes Back.” I’m not kidding.

We nicknamed her “Frank.”

Well, one day when it took a bit too long for our food to be prepared, I walked up to the counter to claim my tray of unwholesomeness, and Frank said, “Sorry it took so long.”

Instinctively, I said the one line that, in my warped mind, fits almost every occasion. I said, “That’s what she said.” I say this all the time – it is just instinct. Seriously, ask my friends; it means nothing.

But Frank did a double-take, laughed, and said, “No you didn’t.”

I smiled, calmly walked back to the table, sat down, considered the situation grimly and told my friend, “I think I just flirted with Frank.”

“What???” he exclaimed.

I assured him it was unintentional, but that it appeared she took it as flirting. Why? Who knows. But it may be safe to assume Frank doesn’t encounter much flirtation and thus is reaching across the presumed boundaries just a tad.

Ah well, no harm done; the whole thing will go by the wayside. Right? Wrong. The next week, I walked up to the soda fountain to get a refill of Pepsi, and Frank said, “Those aren’t free anymore. You owe me a dollar. Ha ha ha!” I was speechless.

I walked back to the table with my drink and my friend said, “Did Frank just flirt with you?”

Yes.

Now, there is a long-running joke that my manly essence, my raw animal sexuality, has created a monster called Gibby Fever that, once it infects a female of the species, cannot be exorcised through any means. Like I said, it’s a joke. A bad one. But it’s funny to me and my friends because it is so far-fetched and ridiculous. (And it is; just ask either one of my ex-wives, who seemed to have little trouble curing themselves of the phantom affliction.)

Anyway, my friend quickly deduced that Frank had contracted Gibby Fever by accident, by a simple air-borne comment, and that decisive measures had to be taken. As no cure is yet known (well, except for actually dating me, but I wouldn’t want to go that far to cure Frank), we tried to figure out a way to attack the problem.

We do have a friend at Indiana University who is a genetics researcher, so we considered that option. “Call Rose!” my friend said. “Call her and tell her to get to work on an antidote! Maybe even something that can be mass produced -- this is serious!”

I didn’t want my friend Rose to lose her grant money, so I didn’t call her with the request. I decided that if I just played things cool, surely Frank’s immune system would win out and the dreaded Gibby Fever would be defeated.

Nope. Went back a week later, and Frank was in full flirtation mode, making breezy, baritone small talk about the weather as she took my order. My friend, who was in line ahead of me and whose name is still Kirk, guffawed openly and without shame as he poured his drink. Remind me to bludgeon him with a spiked horse femur, the little bastard.

Later, my friend (Kirk), amused beyond belief, wondered aloud if Frank has since been cyber-stalking me or if she had been lying awake nights suffering from midnight Gibby Sweats.

OK, enough already!

Needless to say, we’ve been going to Arby's a lot lately.

But my point here is that the whole social interaction dynamic in our society is just a mess. Everyone is speaking a different language, everyone has different expectations, and as you probably read in a recent Brain Fart, everyone is burdened with expectations from a culture that has long outlived its usefulness to us. It’s a miracle any two people ever get together, although desperation can at times work wonders.

My deduction is that dating is probably just a waste of time. Go fishing instead. It’s easier to throw back the ones you don’t want if you’re fishing, and the bait is a helluva lot cheaper. And with fishing, unlike with dating, you can always tell if your bobber goes all the way under. (Don't ask me what that means. By the way, his name is Kirk.)

E-mail me. But wear gloves, because you never know what you might catch.