Marcus Epstein stood in front of his bathroom mirror brushing his unruly dark hair straight back. He made a face and forced a fine-tooth comb through the maze of curls. Ringlets of hair still popped up like maniacal jack-in-the-boxes. Adding water to the brush made matters worse. It took globs of Vaseline to finally do the trick. He slicked his hair back, convincing himself this made him look Italian — tough, strong and solid.
His parents regaled him with stories about great Jews in history, from Albert Einstein to Neil Sedaka, but Marcus knew that although Sedaka sang about his "calendar girl," the real Miss April dated Frankie Avalon.
He rummaged through the top drawer of his desk, under the piles of school papers, and found a solitary Marlboro. He had no intention of lighting it; he wanted to see how it looked dangling from his lips. He tried scissoring it with two fingers, but feared that looked effeminate. Cupping it with his full hand worked better. He had seen Tony Capprizio hold a cigarette that way.
Pushing up the sleeve of his T-shirt, he bent his arm at the elbow. But even Marcus couldn't delude himself into believing that the slight bump on his skinny arm resembled a muscle. His Adam's apple protruded more than his bicep. The football players at his school had thick necks that rested confidently on their shoulders. His neck was more like a pole extending from his spine with his head balanced on top like a crazy Halloween decoration.
He turned sideways to offer an Elvis sneer.
How'd he ever get talked into a blind date? His cousin, Lenny, two years older and on the basketball team, assured him he'd like her. "She needs a date. I kind of feel sorry for her, you know? She's a good kid."
"I don't do blind dates." He tried sounding cool.
"I know," Lenny said. "I know you don't need blind dates. But, look. She's Linda's friend. I promised I'd do this favor for her."
To be honest, Marcus was a little excited by the prospect. It's not that he dated that much. He went out a few times with Judy Perlman, but she dumped him for that Tony guy. Italian, of course. Still, Marcus couldn't seem too eager about being setup. He had a reputation.
He began relenting when Lenny showed him her picture. Long, dark hair that hung over one shoulder, a nice smile She looked good.
Too good.
Girls had it easy: If they looked this good, they didn't need to get fixed up.
"What's wrong with her?" He remembered asking Lenny. "There's gotta be something wrong with her."
"Nothing's wrong with her," Lenny had assured him. "I swear. On my mother's life."
Marcus remembered seeing something weird in the way Lenny looked at him. He didn't know what it was at the time, but staring at the way his ears stuck out from his head like pink earmuffs, he knew. His lips were too red, his nose too long.
He was the blind date. He was the one Lenny felt sorry for.
Despite the Vaseline, his hair was starting to curl.
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, Notre Dame Magazine, The Pedestal, Pindeldyboz, Eclectica Magazine, flashquake, Flash Me Magazine and Apple Valley Review, among others. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.