Here’s how it is:
I will be 37 years old on my next birthday. As one or two of you may know, I spend a lot of time at the public library. Who wouldn’t? Free internet access, free power for the laptop, tons of research materials, coffee shop in the lobby: it’s got everything a starving freelance writer needs. Except when I’m beating the rushes for clients, I’m there at least four days a week.
being there every day, I frequently have occasion to interact with a certain librarian in the Humanities Department, whom I shall call Elly for the duration of this story. Elly looks to be in her mid-thirties and is quite comely and amusing; I always look forward to having to approach her for help. Long ago I took note that she wore no wedding ring, and overhearing her recently bemoan the horrible date she’d had the previous weekend, I decided to try to get her phone number if the opportunity presented itself.
Earlier this week I happened to be in the lobby coffee shop when Elly took her break. There really wouldn’t be a better chance any time soon, I thought, so I stepped up beside her in line and started a conversation about the political season. This went reasonably, if not spectacularly, well, until we got to the counter. On duty there, you see, was Beth. Beth is clearly a reader – I’ve never seen her without a book. And we’re talking real books – this summer I saw her work her way through everything Thackery, Melville, & the Brontë sisters ever wrote, for instance. We talk about books from time to time, and I’ve recommended a few she might like. She’s also quite pretty, but, very obviously, a teenager.
Anywhistle, Beth and Elly seem to be friends, or at least acquaintances. They chatted when we made our orders, and Beth inserted herself into the conversation a few times when Elly & I sat down to caffeinate ourselves. At one point, when it was just the three of us in the café and I was about to ask Elly if I might call her sometimes, Beth called out that I was very transparent. “Skaldie, you don’t give a damn about what Elly thinks about the election,” she said. “You’re just trying to get into her pants. Or maybe my pants. Possibly both our pants. Anyway, you’re trying to unzip somebody’s pants.”
Elly broke into laughter. Said giggle-fit lasted for at least fifteen seconds. And I didn’t get her number.
I was a little vexed with Beth, as you might imagine, but I decided there was nothing in it for me in confronting her. But I didn’t conceal my pique as well as I might have, as the next day Beth, making me an espresso, said I wasn’t nearly as chatty as normal. “What’s bugging you, dude?” she asked.
Fighting not to roll my eyes, I said, “Oh, nothing, except for people who stick their noses into other people’s business.”
“You mean that thing yesterday? I was just trying to help you, dude. You weren’t ever going to get her number with your tired line. You’re too clever by half.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you should just be direct,” she said. “Let me show you how it’s done. Ask me for my number.”
“Huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “For Cthulu’s sake, Skald”–and yes, she did say “Cthulu”-- “are you feverish? I’m trying to tutor you. Ask me for my phone number.”
“Okay,” I said, “what’s your phone number, Beth?”
She handed me my coffee, ripped the receipt off the cash register, and scribbled something on the back. “See? Wasn’t that easy? And the worst thing that can happen now is that I’ve given you the digits for the rejection hotline. Now, do I need to teach you how to use the telephone too?”.
I blinked. “No, I think I know how to do that.”
“Well, we’ll find out later soon, I guess. Now get out of my way, Skaldie, you’re holding up the line.”
So I left, not certain whether Beth really wanted me to ask her out or was simply screwing with my head for her own amusement. But since nothing ventured = nothing gained, I called her the next day and, to my shock, got her actual voice, not the Rejection Hotline. She seemed happy that I’d called, made fun of my choice in shoes for a few minutes, and finally said that, though she was leaving town for her sister’s wedding this weekend and thus had no time to spare, she expected a call from me by Monday, and if she did not receive one would feel obliged to put vinegar in my coffee.
So Monday approacheth. I’m a trifle torn as to what to do. One the one hand, Beth is smart and bitchy and cute, all good things. But she’s nineteen years old. (Unsure of her exact age, I asked when I called, and she said she was the square root of 361.) I could very easily be her father – for Aslan’s sake, she was born only three years before my son. I spend a great deal of time mocking men who chase women that much younger than they; what on Earth do they talk about? How does the guy keep up? Don’t all his friends point & laugh?
(Okay, his male friends don’t point & laugh. But I don’t have any male friends, so that gets me nothing.)
So what shall I do, Dopers? Get over myself and make the call, or resign myself to days of mocking and possible vinegared coffee?
Anyway, it’s possible that she doesn’t actually like you in that way (no offense) but is just going to give you more advice about Elly.
