I had never been on a vacation alone before, but I was fed up with waiting for a “partner in crime” to start living my life. Apparently, sometime in the last decade, having a “partner in crime” became the new fad. I blame it on on-line dating where everyone gets to essentially plagiarize each other’s profiles not thinking about or even realizing how cliché that sounds or how ridiculous they sound, regurgitating someone else’s wants, desires, needs and personality. What do they think? They are the only profile stealing mastermind among the millions who willingly spend more time “chatting” with people via an electronic device than they do making a human connection. Although, that would make sense. If you never speak with anyone in person on any level other than “what do you like to do for fun”, you’d never know how many millions of people are looking for a “partner in crime”. What does that mean anyway? Bonnie and Clyde didn’t actually have a great happy ever after outcome. Is that what people want? To blissfully commit homicide as long as it is with a partner? I don’t know about them, but death by gunshot wound is not my idea of a fun date. Even on a Tuesday night. Unless of course my date is so boring because he has never had a conversation with a woman in person and is only charming and witty when he has unlimited time to think about his reply.
Don’t get me wrong, I have obviously partaken in this crazy swipe-style dating approach. I’ve met my share of men both figuratively and literally. While I prefer the latter, I often wonder why I succumb to meeting men who I know would never be a good “partner in crime”. There has been once or twice that my decision to cease all communication was based purely on the fact that I would be dating a criminal. For example, Craig who I met at a bar with my cousin…boy was he H-O-T. He looked like Bradley Cooper with a million-dollar smile.
After dating for a short period of time, he invited me back to his place. To my utter disbelief he had not one, but two queen-size beds in his living room, along with a couch, television, small dining table, an old ugly armoire-looking thing which housed his clothes and a few guitars hung on the wall. At least he didn’t live with his parents. My first inclination was to ask him if what looked like a two-bedroom house with a garage was actually a studio cottage of some sorts. Thankfully, after a few drinks my thought to mouth filter is the first to go. After my second glass of wine, as expected, I blurted out, “so, what the fuck is going on here?” I was even more surprised by his response than I was by his living room filled with what was obviously ALL of the furnishings of his two-bedroom house. He looked puzzled when he asked me, “going on where?” “How do I say this nicely? You have two queen size beds and a makeshift closet in your living room. “Oh, my son comes and stays here with me sometimes so the second bed is his.” “Are you fucking kidding me? The second bed is what you thought needed an explanation? Not, the fact that what appears to be all of your furniture is in your living room?”
Something fishy was going on here and I was going to get to the bottom of this. I’m the type of person that insists on asking questions and getting enough evidence to run out of the house, instead of just accepting the obvious and running out of the house. So, I pleasantly smiled and waited for a perfectly reasonable explanation. Craig decided that he was going to throw perfectly reasonable explanations out the window. “I grow weed in the bedrooms.” I have zero experience with the art of growing anything. I can kill a cactus. This includes recreational drugs. I had no idea what this weed-growing hobby entailed or why he couldn’t have furniture in the bedrooms where he had a pot of weed. No pun intended. I quickly informed him that I don’t do drugs and would appreciate it if he didn’t do them while I was in his house. He assured me that he wouldn’t because he only smokes weed to “inspect the quality”. I’m now two glasses of wine in and my heads spinning and not because I am a light weight. All I know is that I’ve got to stop drinking so I can have a detailed recollection of the events because God knows my cousin will be given a play-by-play of tonight’s events. Partially because of the insanity, but mostly because she convinced me to go out with him. I was technically on a dating hiatus and lived way too far away to waste my time with him.
“Why can’t you have a bed in the same room as the weed?” The minute the words left my mouth, I regretted asking the question. I didn’t know why this man thought he could trust me with all this criminal activity. He barely knew me. He couldn’t be that dumb, or could he? He took my hand, walked me over to the room farthest from the living room and opened the bedroom door. There was not one, not ten, but the entire room was filled with pots of weed. The windows were covered with foil, and the room was lit up. But for the blacked-out windows, it could be seen from the space station. He then walked me over to bedroom number two and it was identical to the first. If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes, I would not have believed it. I had heard of people growing pot in their house, but I never thought I would end up in one of these houses. How could his neighbors not know? Why didn’t anyone turn him in? Unfortunately, the answers to my questions were quickly answered.
While Craig was proudly showing me his horticultural skills there was a knock on the screen door. Craig didn’t even bother closing the door. He excused himself, went to the door and actually made a drug dealing transaction right in front of me. He was the neighborhood weed supplier. How the fuck did I end up here with this man? I knew I had to leave and I knew I had to play cool. After all, I didn’t want him to hurt me or even worse kill me if I gave him the impression I was going to go to the cops. I had to come up with a plan, and I had to do so quickly. The plan I devised was to pretend my cousin text me and I had to go pick her up because she was too drunk to drive. He would totally believe me, he knew she was a lightweight and couldn’t drive after one drink. We returned to the couch and he thought it was a great idea to play his guitar for me. I just wanted to run out of the house, but I played cool. I listened to him play his guitar and was slowly reaching for my phone to commence implementation of my escape plan. Craig got up put the guitar down and excused himself to the bathroom. Crap! I would have to wait a few more minutes…unless…fuck this shit! As soon as he closed the bathroom door, I grabbed my purse and my shoes and ran out the door barefoot. I threw everything into my car and peeled out.
