Bad Dates
The party technically started at 8, but Becca stood around anxiously waiting for nearly an hour before the doorbell first rang.
She looked at Amy, and poured her second shot of tequila.
“Here’s to whatever happens next!” Becca said, rolling her eyes back.
It was the third time they hosted a costume party this year. Becca found the trend kind of embarrassing, but she was so easily persuaded by her roommate’s negotiation skills that she surrendered to the rollercoaster ride called matchmaking.
Amy had no trouble finding men or women. She had a sort of gravitational pull that couldn’t be avoided — the type of friend who would make an excellent wingwoman if only everyone else weren’t so drawn to her.
The issue wasn’t one of volume. Amy was somehow able to bring over entirely new groups of friends every other weekend. Becca had no idea where she had even found these people, let alone developed enough chemistry so quickly to get them to actually commit and show up to a party the next weekend.
“Okay, get the door! Rule number one: leave them waiting just long enough but not any longer,” Amy said.
Rose Gold Digger was the first to arrive, but Becca didn’t know that immediately.
“Hey, whats up, I’m Arnav!” He walked through the door and immediately towards Amy, who remained at the counter pouring another round of shots, this time with three glasses.
He was decked out with jewelry, including a giant dollar-sign necklace, presumably-fake bangles, and thick-rimmed pink sunglasses that provided minimal sun protection and maximal vibes.
Becca felt an immediate knot in her stomach. She was getting strong Flavor Flav energy as she eyed him while he walked towards the kitchen counter. Making her way halfway down his torso, her eyes landed on the gardening toolbelt wrapped around his waste.
“Arnavvvvvv, welcome! Oh my god, I have literally no idea who or what you are.” Amy was dashing around the kitchen like a small robin, using too many paper towels to lap up little pools of lime juice that caked the marble counter.
Amy had given the tip to “be more of a conversation starter.” Becca had no context on this guy, but her confidence was the highest it’d be all night, so she gave it a try.
“Okay, so I’m getting…Garden Party? Or maybe like…I don’t know, like Money Laundry?” She knew these were stupid guesses. They didn’t even follow the theme this round: Bad Dates.
Each costume party required a portmanteau outfit. Attendees had to fabricate their costume based on two or more words that fit seamlessly together, which meant that nobody’s costume was ever obvious.
“It’s an added benefit!” Amy exclaimed when she came up with the idea. That way, you always have a conversation-starter when you go up to someone to make the first move.”
Clearly it hadn’t helped Becca much on this first go-round.
“Oh damn, is it not obvious? I’m a Rose Gold Digger!”
“Oh my god, that’s so good!” Becca said, gathering the hair from one shoulder to the other and spinning her ring around to straighten it up. Despite having no strong attraction to him, she wondered if she had made a good first impression.
Rose Gold Digger — whose actual name Becca had already forgotten — turned his attention to Amy, who had led the three back towards the living room coffee table.
“Okay so Delta Delta Del-…” he said, just as the doorbell rang again. Becca immediately stirred, excited to have an excuse to exit since she already know Amy’s costume.
“Commmming!” She felt a little lightheaded as she stood up from the ottoman, and Becca noticed that her body temperature had elevated, presumably from the tequila shot.
The first thing she noticed were the mittens, a strange choice given the 80 degree weather, but nonetheless a commitment that Becca could respect.
“Is this Amy’s place?”
“Hey, welcome, I’m Becca. Come on in.”
“I’m once again asking, is this Amy’s place?”
“Uhh, yeah, I’m Becca. This is the costume party. You’re in the right place.”
He walked inside and she noticed a weird combination of high-waisted suspenders and balding head, flanked on both sides with white hair. Then there was the stack of books in his arm: Kant, Rousseau, Marx.
As if she were an usher there to guide the audience to the real show, Becca pointed towards the couch where Rose Gold Digger and Frat Girl Interrupted were rolling the salami and cheese onto the finest of San Francisco’s sourdough crackers.
Becca followed, and then introduced the stranger to the group with full confidence. “Guys, I don’t know his actual name, but I’m pretty sure that is Nerdy Sanders.”
“Bro that’s so funny,” Gold Rose blurted. “How did you even think of that?!”
Becca had a sinking feeling that the night would live up to its Bad Date theme. She’d play second fiddle to Amy (again), meet nobody of interest, and go to bed wishing she hadn’t had so much damn alcohol.
Another knock at the door.