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From Dori Almann, Public Relations Manager:

I love Letters from Tripod. I read them as soon as I get the Insider. Getting the skinny on my colleagues — finding out about the people I see everyday — is cool.

Sometimes I find stuff out about people who don't even work here — grandmothers and boyfriends, for instance. Not too long ago I read about the dating adventures of somebody's mom.

That last letter got me thinking about one of my dating adventures. The memory never causes a wistful smile to play upon my lips. Nor has it ever made my eyes soften and glisten with unshed tears. And I certainly don't sigh at thoughts of that night, wishing I could recapture the moment.

Far from it. Far far from it. This letter is the honest, unvarnished narration of a "dinner interruptus" I had with a man I'll call John Doe. Honor bright, this story is true — I could never make up the bizarre story I'm about to tell.

I met John Doe over nine years ago. Back then, meetings occurred through ads found on paper, not monitors. I met John Doe via an ad I placed in a lonely heart's magazine. I still find the publication in pizza parlors and the entrance-ways of grocery stores, stacked in metal racks that hold small glossy magazines listing real estate for sale.

John Doe's ad said the right things, so I called him up. Our first short meeting went well, so we agreed to see each other again. That meeting (still short, but longer than the first) also went well. We saw each other again and again over the course of about two months. We went hiking, canoeing, had a picnic — did the usual boy 'n' girl dating stuff. John Doe was nice enough, had a sense of humor, and liked my dog, Otto. While I wasn't smitten by the guy, his company was pleasant enough. Eventually I agreed to have dinner with him one Saturday night.

Otto and I went over to his house for dinner. I remember bringing corn bread because I thought it would complement the chili he was making.

Having just moved to the area from out of state, John Doe was sharing an apartment. The apartment was in a gracious Victorian house on a quiet tree-lined street. John Doe put on some Mozart in. During a tour of the place, I remember Otto's toenails clicking on the refinished wood floors of the beautifully decorated apartment, filled with antiques and artwork I liked. It was a lovely home. He told me his roommate, a French teacher at the local high school, collected antiques. When the tour was over, we drifted into the kitchen and started cooking dinner.

The kitchen table and benches were set in an alcove from which neither the door nor the stove could be seen. John Doe started cooking, Otto settled himself under the table, and I noshed on nachos. It was pleasant — the nachos, the Mozart, the spicy smells of chili, the chatting, and Otto snoring under the table.

As I munched, I heard the front door of the apartment open and close. His roommate was home. I heard sounds of someone walking around. Then the talking began. Well, muttering initially. Not very loud at first, but the muttering got louder and louder. Finally it turned into yelling. In French. John Doe paid no attention. I could tell this because he didn't cease his chatting and the sounds of cooking clatter — lids of pots rattling, the wooden spoon clanking as the chili was stirred — continued.

Just as I was about to say something (what I can't remember) or do something (ditto), to my horror and shock, I heard sounds I recognized as scuffling in the doorway. Two people were pushing each other back and forth. Since there were only three of us in the apartment and I knew where I was, it could only be John Doe and his roommate. I slid to the end of the bench, getting ready to lean out and look over my shoulder to see the ruckus. Good thing I didn't get the chance to, because a pot and its lid went sailing though the air. As soon as it hit the cupboard wall with a crash and fell to the floor, I knew what the pot had held — chili was dripping down the wall and puddling on the floor. It was everywhere — on the wall, the floor, and the ceiling.

I know I looked like a cartoon character right then, because I could feel my jaw drop and my eyes bug out of my head. I sat there, riveted in astonishment, utterly flabbergasted. Otto, to his credit, rallied more quickly than yours truly. He got up from under the table and casually strolled over to the chili. It smelled good enough to eat. Which is just what he started to do. John Doe's roommate disappeared. John Doe walked over with a roll of paper towels and started cleaning up the remains of the day.

I suddenly returned to this world. I got up from the table, hissing "Otto, let's GO! Otto!! OTTO!!! LET'S GO!!" Obediently, Otto pulled himself away from the unexpected feast and trotted after me as I ran down the hall to the door. When John Doe realized I was leaving, he too started trotting after me.

"No chili tonight. So, how about going to dinner at a nice place I know around the corner? There're lots of good restaurants in town."

By this time I was out of the apartment, down the stairs, though the front door, and was flat out running down the street. Otto was running after me, and John Doe was running after us. We cruised down the street to my car, I jammed the key into the lock, wrenched open the door, and jumped in. Otto and I drove away, tires squealing. And I never squeal my tires.

A few days later I came home from work to find the message light on my answering machine blinking.

"Hi! It's John Doe. The great chili war is over. Call me and we can get together."

I couldn't hit the erase button fast enough.

— Dori (1/22/99)

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