Our email exchange was relatively spectacular. By this, I
mean that the man proved capable of two-way written correspondence. Also, he claimed to look like Ernest Borgnine.
I googled Borgnine to find the goofy McHale’s Navy guy amid a highly impressive actor's resume and numerous Oscars; five
marriages—including a 32-day union to Ethel Merman; and his trademark gaping space between the two front teeth.
I considered my suitor's photos. “I see it. That’s a good thing,” I wrote. “Borgnine has character. Or he had character. No offense to the dead, but one’s character flattens once they flat-line.”
I considered my suitor's photos. “I see it. That’s a good thing,” I wrote. “Borgnine has character. Or he had character. No offense to the dead, but one’s character flattens once they flat-line.”
He didn’t respond. Could he be lacking in a sense of humor? I wondered. I'd find out when we met at Mom’s Restaurant in Chico for a brunch date...
“I’m going to take
an on-line psychology class,” Boring said, as the waitress placed our
meals on the table. “And I’m going to learn Spanish once I get my truck fixed. So I can
drive to Butte College cuz I’d rather use it than my little VW. Funny, I had to
get the neighbor to give it a jump-start yesterday morning when I ran out of dog
food and the truck needed an oil change so I didn’t want to drive it until I
took care of that. That thing is really old. It’s like a 82, over 240,000 miles
on it. I got it when I…”
I flashed a polite grin, poured syrup on my
French toast, and watched his lips move up and down, up and down, robotically. Borgnine died at age 95 in 2012. The similarity hit me over the head; they're equally interesting, in the aftermath of Borgnine's death.
Boring did pay for my meal, held the door open for me, and
was gentlemanly. But this didn’t negate my desire to extend my arm out, sweep our plates off the table and onto the floor, then launch atop the table and belt out "Everything's coming up roses!" to shake things up.
I had to at least say something. As Boring reached for his coffee, I chimed in. "I studied psychology as an undergrad. It was all Freud, Freud, Freud. Things like the Oedipus complex and anal stage."
I had to at least say something. As Boring reached for his coffee, I chimed in. "I studied psychology as an undergrad. It was all Freud, Freud, Freud. Things like the Oedipus complex and anal stage."
"Well after I learn psychology, we'll shrink each other," Boring declared.
I countered cheerily, "No
thanks. I’m short enough."
"No I mean…" He
began to explain.
"Yeah," I interrupted. Nope. No sense of humor. "I know. I was kidding."
Boring then shifted
the conversation to talk about...I don’t know. I wasn't listening.
The date ended badly: Boring wanted to see me again. I kinda froze up and replied
with a “sure, yeah, me too.” I called a few days later to tell him, with
apologies, that I wasn’t interested. He felt bad. So did I,
though not nearly as bad as I felt listening to a droner with the personality of an expired Ernest Borgnine; compelled to explain that I had used a conversational tactic called humor. He should try it. All droners should.
Post script: Ernest
Borgnine, you had as much character as talent, a nice long run, and a month-long marriage to Merman. May you rest in peace!
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