Blind Dates and Beaches

An anonymous “Super Gay” commentator on yesterday’s entry insists you have to be “Mega Gay” to watch the movie Beaches all the way through. He’s only seen the first fifteen minutes, apparently. He’s “Super Gay,” but not “Mega Gay.”

He is also wrong. I have, in fact, seen Beaches, and I remain decidedly heterosexual.

How was this accomplished?

I saw Beaches in the winter of ‘89 in a cabin in Coalville, Utah. It was in the course of the most uncomfortable evening of my entire life – and that dreadful movie was the best part of it.

Some background is necessary.

I returned home from the Scotland Edinburgh Mission of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in September of 1989. Actually, to say I returned “home” is slightly misleading, since I came back to Salt Lake City when “home,” in my mind, was Southern California. My parents had moved to Utah right after I graduated from high school. I stayed in LA and attended USC for my freshman year. I did spend the summer up in Utah before I left for Scotland in ’87, but to call it “home” would still be a little strong.

But whether I thought of it as home, it’s where I spent the next year, since I had enrolled in the University of Utah as an English major. Why? Because my mission had taught me that all actors were going to hell, so I should try to find a new, more spiritually acceptable profession, like dentistry.

Anyway, my triumphant return from missionary life was marred by a bizarre spectacle: The girl I was dating before my mission flew up from LA to meet me at the SLC airport - and dump me. (By the way, that’s probably the best thing that ever happened to me, but it’s a story for another day.)

So, here I was, a stranger in a strange land, having spent two years out in the mission field, where you can get in trouble if you give a girl an extended handshake. Now I was supposed to create a social life in a place where I had no history, no friends, and no confidence. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, and that, along with two years of enhanced abstinence, made me a disaster around the ladies. I couldn’t open my mouth around a pretty girl and string together a coherent sentence. Even the ugly ones were giving me trouble.

So my mother, in a well-intentioned but ultimately doomed effort, called a friend of hers to persuade her U of U son to invite me along on some sort of social outing. The son was a very nice guy, and he dutifully complied with my mother’s meddling. He called me up and told me that he and some of his friends were taking dates up to their family cabin in Coalville, and they’d even lined up some sacrificial lambette to be my blind date, and would I be interested in coming?

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

This group of friends had known each other since kindergarten. I was definitely the odd man out. They came and picked me up, introduced me to my date – who, as I remember, was actually quite pretty – and we drove for an hour, in which everyone talked amongst themselves in a relaxed and friendly manner. You know, the way normal people talk.

I just sat there.

I said nothing. I was terrified. I felt unbelievably awkward. I used the time to sweat a lot. I think I was literally shaking for most of the night. Once in awhile, my date or some other noble soul would ask me a token question and try to engage me in a conversation, but I always answered with a terse, one-or-two-word response. "Yeah." "Uh-huh." "Dunno."

I wanted to die.

So we got to the cabin and everyone kibitzed for a while, and I stood around by the punch bowl and drank about six gallons of unspiked Hi-C. I think I went to the bathroom about twelve times. Then they started a movie, which, of course, the girls picked:

Beaches.

It was a welcome relief, because no one was looking at me, feeling sorry for me, or expecting me to talk. Everyone else took the opportunity to snuggle up and smooch a little. I stared grimly at the screen, determined not even to glance at the face of the date who surely now wished I would drop dead and make the evening more interesting.

Part of the reason the movie didn’t affect my sexual orientation was that I wasn’t really watching it. Sure, I was staring at it, unblinking, like a zombie, but my mind was racing. What do I say when the movie ends? What’s she thinking? What’s everyone else thinking? When will I get home? Will I ever get home? Am I going to wet myself? Should I go to the bathroom again?

Yikes.

I can’t remember the names of any of the people involved in this self-inflicted fiasco. I just remember thinking that I’d probably never make any new friends, that my life would never make any sense, and that if I was ever going to have a girl kiss me again, I’d probably have to pay her to do it.

You know how people complain about their blind dates from hell? Ever wonder who these blind dates from hell actually are? In the winter of 1989, it was me. I’m sure that pretty lambette will tell stories to her grandchildren about the Freaky Blind Date Guy Who Never Said a Word.

Life has gotten much better since that night, but, as you can see, my Beaches aversion runs far deeper than the average straight dude.