Dates

Bad dates killed the monkey in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but bad dates were killing Z drip by drip, woman by woman. Martinis splashed in his face, heel toes to the crotch, brick-like purses to the head. Everyone’s a Marion or Willie, with him saying the wrong words, looking at the wrong things. Once he was at Bistro de Belloq and, while he was in the restroom, the maitre d’ absconded with his date, even taking his seat at the table, drinking his whiskey. He could use a trusty sidekick like Sallah to squeeze him out of jams. But he was alone. Once he told a woman, over Turkish coffee and good dates, I would brave a pit of vipers and rotting corpses with you, and she walked away, no explanation. Perhaps if he’d had a bullwhip, he could’ve yanked her back for a word, lectured her on the archaeology of Z. He wasn’t the type—rather, he’d more likely have a belt to match his shoes, roll of string for tying packages. Life and time, though, ticked away. There was no Holy Grail to cling to youth. Every date was a test of blind faith, of choosing wisely. Every toast was to eternal life, hoping to fend off creeping dust.