Anonymous A started this discussion 7 years ago#79,884
In 1977, I read an article in the the local newspaper about a man who came to town and opened up a health food store, but, it was different, he commented, from regular health food stores. The store was a place of spiritual refuge and peace. I was intrigued by what he said in the interview and drove to the store. Plus, he was handsome in a tall, dark manner that I appreciated.
I ordered carrot juice from him. I watched as he cleaned the carrots and juiced them up. Good carrots. The juice from them was nice and sweet. I complimented him on the juice. He asked me out.
He arranged that I would drive to his house, but we would eat dinner in the house behind his house. A family lived there and we would eat with them. In our brief conversation, he knew I had a son, seven years old, and asked him to come along. An interesting idea for a first date.
We drove over and met him at his house. It was huge. He gave us a tour. Probably five or six bedrooms. Most likely built in the 1920s or 30s. Brick. Two and a half stories. He lived alone.
There was a caretaker’s cottage behind the big house, also brick. A family of four lived there, parents with a young son and younger daughter. The son was about a year older than my son and the daughter, a couple years younger. We sat at the farmhouse table where the food was laid out family-style. There was plenty of food. We were told to serve ourselves and dig in.
My son asked if there would be a prayer first.
The couple's son laughed and mocked my son by repeating the question in a whiny voice. My son looked at me, his eyebrows raised. He was used to my father beginning all our meals with a prayer, thanking God for the food, praising the hands that prepared it.
The other boy asked my son if he was a Christian. Yes, said my son. Both the son and daughter laughed at my boy. I looked at my date for some guidance, but he was digging into the food. I looked to the parents. They stared at me with smug smiles.
Someone asked if we went to church. My son and I said we did. More laughter. My son said we loved Jesus, which drew more howls of laughter from the children. I could also see their parents tittering.
My son and I were all alone in this.
So I asked if they went to church anywhere. They said they were non-religious Jews. (I have nothing against Jews and I'm a little bit Jewish, DNA-wise, myself.) They said they hated religion and despised Christians.
I was pretty sure I had told my date I went to church. I had been intrigued by his “spiritual” comments in the newspaper. Was this a set up to “get at” or harass some Christians? I didn't mind debating with someone, but to pick on and bully my son? Inexcusable.
The other boy said something else and with those sharp, harsh words, my son jumped up from the table and ran outside. I ran after him. As I held my weeping son, my date came up to us. He said the family was sorry for upsetting us and had a nice cake for dessert. They really wanted “make it up to us.”
I sort of had to drag my son inside, but I had whispered to him that as Christians, we needed to show forgiveness.
Well. . .no one said they were sorry when we walked back inside. Dessert had moved to their living room, which consisted of about three couches and a few chairs. Nothing else. The husband and wife each stretched on their own couch, while their children stretched out on the floor.
An odd posture for eating cake. But perfect for what came next.
The first one was long, thin, and reedy. I didn't know what it was. Where it came from. Then two burst out together in loud unison. The children's were like a small youthful Greek chorus to their parents.
They were releasing gas. They stretched out their bodies to release the meal’s gaseous flatus. Expelling wind.
They were full on farting.
I know in some cultures, releasing gas is accepted in the company of strangers. Not in most—or all—American communities. And never in a Southern household. Accidents happened, and you meekly say, “Excuse me,” but you never forcefully fart at someone. And while eating cake?
Ugh.
I could hear my son begin to giggle. I whispered to him that if we laugh or giggle, they'll scream at us more. I was so proud of the two of us sitting there so stoically, never letting our lips curl up one tiny bit. But we didn't touch the fume-flavored cake.
As soon as the family finished their cake, they asked us to join them in kite flying, as there was still some light in the sky.
'Thank you so much for the lovely meal and the cake, but by the time we drive home, it will be my son's bedtime.” My son echoed me by saying he was really tired. We jumped up and dashed to our car.
My date walked with us. He said he'd call me soon. Wonderful, I said.
My son and I could do nothing but laughed hysterically all the way home. All the gaseous air blew away the hurt feelings from earlier. We couldn't hold on to any anger with all that foul air. My son couldn't wait to tell my parents, with whom we lived, about the farters we ate a meal with.
That guy called me when I got home. Sorry, can't chat now; got to put my son to bed. He called every day though. And I continued to put him off, made excuses not to talk.
A the time, I worked at a car rental “booth” at the Asheville airport. The booth looked out onto the entire lobby of about 200 seats in various positions.
One quiet Saturday at work, I looked out over the nearly empty lobby. I had been working in the back and felt an uneasy presence. I walked back and sat down. Several times I did this, get up and walk to the front and scan the lobby. The fourth time, I spotted him, seated in a three-quarter pose away from me, but staring squarely at me. When he saw that I spied him, he jumped up and ran up to the booth. There was a white box in his hands, tied with a large bright ribbon.
“This is for you. Merry Christmas.”
He walked off out of sight.
Inside the box was a sweater set with a matching scarf, gloves, and cap. Not very expensive as the material was cheap. No note.
What was this about? We were weeks away from Thanksgiving. How long had he been sitting there? Were there other times he'd been out there watching me? Was he stalking me?
I never heard from him again, and 41 years later, still don't know what that date was about. It certainly wasn’t a refuge with spirits and peace.
But it was the rudest meal I had ever experienced.
Out of the sweater set, I still have the cap. Don't ever wear it. It's just a funny reminder