Peter's Little Peter

Date Night

There aren't very many cool places nearby, so Audrey asks if I'm down to drive for a bit.

"It's your car," I say. "So I guess it's your call."

"That's right," she says with a smile. "It is my car."

I get into the passenger seat of Audrey's Honda Civic and buckle up. For a while, we just listen to music without talking. From the frantic, blaring horns, I know we're listening to some kind of jazz, which is a strange contrast to the wide-open sprawl of the Texas landscape. I can't be sure, but as we pass one pick-up truck after another on the highway, I get the feeling that we're the only ones on the road who aren't listening to country music. I moved here from New York, but Audrey is a local. Still, it occurs to me that neither of us really fits in.

"Where are we headed?" I ask.

"He speaks," Audrey teases. Then with a smile she adds, "It's OK, I like the brooding, thoughtful types." 

I'm not sure brooding is a part of my game, or if I have any game to speak of, but I like hearing that Audrey likes my type, even if I doubt I can live up to her expectations. 

"I was just listening to this music," I say. "You must've gone pretty deep on Spotify to find it."

"Well, the music is a clue to our destination."

"We're going to a jazz club?" I ask. "I didn't think there was such a thing around here."

"There are lots of hidden, little gems in Texas," she says. "You just have to look beyond all the big macho cowboy bullshit."

There are those words again: big and little. Why does everything always come down to size?

"But no," Audrey continues, "We're not going to a jazz club, because this isn't the 1950s, and we're not beat poets, man."

I'm not sure what a beat poet is, or if they're any different from a regular poet, or why Audrey just called me man. But right there in that moment, I decide two things. First, Audrey is smarter than me. Second, I think that's sexy. I know I can't fool her into thinking I know what she's talking about, so instead I ask the obvious question, "What's a beat poet?"

"Jack Kerouac. Allen Ginsberg."

"I've heard their names, but..."

"Sheesh," Audrey says. "Not very sophisticated for a New York boy. Tell me, what would you do for fun back in New York?"

"Fun?"

The truth is, I'd be at a friend's house playing video games, or watching yet another Star Wars movie for the billionth time. Or reading a Star Wars novel - one from the canon, of course. Pretty much whatever I'd be doing would be classified as geeking-out with my fellow Star Wars geeks. Which is a shame, I realize talking to Audrey, because we were surrounded by one of the great cultural cities in the world, and all we did was retreat into a fantasy set a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

"Like if you were on a date," Audrey says. "What would you do on a date, Peter?"

"With a girl?"

Jeez, that was a stupid question, and if I wasn't sitting down I'd kick myself. 

"Or a guy," Audrey says. "It's cool if you're bisexual."

"I'm not bisexual. I'm just trying to focus on being sexual."

Suddenly, Audrey roars with laughter. 

"You didn't date much?" she asks.

Much? How about never? OK, maybe never is too strong. For a while, I dated a girl named Jodi from my cosplay group. She was one of two girls who dressed as Princess Leia, but only Jodi had long enough hair to curl it up into those things that look like danishes. Sadly, our romance didn't last long. We made out during The Force Awakens, but by the time Rogue One hit theaters she had left me for some Sith Lord named Derek.