Like a grown-up version of musical chairs, speed dating was all the rage during the post-9/11 urge to merge. The terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center left some couples clinging to each other as if their very survival depended on it. Other relationships snapped under the pressure. Young singles who were previously perfectly happy on their own suddenly felt compelled to pair off.

As with everything in those frightening months, time was of the essence. Activities that separated the wheat from the chaff were in high demand. We wanted to spend quality time with our loved ones, write our wills, donate to patriotic causes, and contemplate the meaning of life. All of this while being slightly suspicious of everyone around us.

Speed dating was just what the doctor ordered: a single location for multiple, time-limited dates in one evening without the bother of having to offer or receive awkward rejections.

Several months after the traumatic break-up of my almost three-year relationship, my friend Karen asked me to accompany her to a speed dating event. While I knew that we were both feeling the urge to merge ourselves, I was stunned that she’d consider such a thing. Of course I told her no way, but she reminded me that I hadn’t had a single date since my break-up. I honestly don’t know what possessed me, but I agreed.

The plan was that we would meet in the restaurant’s bar where the event was being held. That way, we could walk into the special event room together. The bar was filled with couples holding hands while they waited for their tables. The tables were filled with couples who ate from each other’s plates and finished each other’s sentences. The acoustics created by the high ceiling in the cavernous space made for a carnival-like experience. I waited and waited. Finally, my phone rang. I started for the exit as soon as I saw Karen’s number on the caller ID. Of course she wasn’t coming. Stuck at work. Of course I wasn’t staying.

Then she reminded me that I had already paid for the event so I may as well attend. I should “be open to possibilities.” She wanted a full report later, and she offered that perhaps the evening would make a funny story one day.

Um, yeah right…

I walked through the dining room filled with happy couples toward the event room. Dead woman walking. Perhaps I should have paused for my last meal. The Pasta Bolognese smelled amazing.

For some reason, I feared I would be the lone geek in a room full of poised and accomplished young professionals. I envisioned well-dressed lawyers and doctors sipping sophisticated cocktails and partaking in witty conversations about their stock portfolios, foreign policy, or literature. With quivering knees, I entered the room to find men segregated on one side and women on the other. Good Lord, it was eighth grade with pink girlie drinks for the women and beer for the men!

The men were clumped into small groups pretending to be in deep conversation, while sneaking quick glances to size up each woman as she entered.

The women seemed oblivious to the men. They were all gathered around one woman at the bar who was rather loud and who sucked down drinks in single gulps. The woman was statuesque, a redhead, and the sister of a friend I’d dated briefly. She turned to welcome the newcomer into the tribe and immediately recognized me. She proceeded to introduce me as her brother’s ex-girlfriend, which was definitely not how I would have described myself. Looks of pity followed from the peanut gallery.

Hey, I went out with him for a few months in the course of a ten-year friendship. And we’re all single here. Why else would we put ourselves through this torture? Keep your pity to your damn selves! I thought.

The organizer, Patrick, was obviously a cheerleader back in high school. He rang an obnoxious bell and called everyone to the middle of the room. Women were in a semicircle to his right, and the men mirrored us on his left. A peppy spiel about being open to everyone, balanced with warnings about inappropriate behavior, ensued. He provided extensive directions about the proper way to fill out the scorecard. He didn’t actually call it a scorecard, but we all knew what it was.

There were several tables with numbers on them. Each woman was directed to pick one and have a seat. The men were told to approach a table one at a time for our seven minute “dates.” We were not allowed to talk before Patrick rang the begin-date bell nor were we allowed to speak after he rang the end-date bell. At the close of each date, the men were required to switch tables. They were not allowed to return to a table they’d already visited.

The first gent to approach me looked very much like Bill Gates. Not rich, just incredibly and stereotypically nerdy. Now New Orleans is not known for its beautiful people, but you generally think of people this geeky living near Silicon Valley, MIT, or Microsoft headquarters. I took a deep breath and prepared to be “open to possibilities.” He’d moved to, as he called it, The Big Easy (cringe) from the Midwest. I wasn’t surprised. I was being open. Nothing inherently evil about the Midwest. I have friends from the Midwest.

I asked him what his favorite things were about living in New Orleans. His answer: the food. Great, we had something in common. I could work with that for the next five minutes. I asked about his favorite restaurants. Chili’s and Applebee’s. Um, dude, you could have stayed in the cornfields and eaten at chain restaurants. Good grief.

Okay, next subject. I asked what he thought about Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, and our general party culture. He proudly informed me that after living in New Orleans for five years, he thought that this year would be the one when he “would go to the Bourbon Street to see the Fat Tuesday.”

For the uninitiated, the syntax of this sentence was utterly bizarre. It’s akin to someone in New York going to “the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue to view the celebration associated with the annual advancement of the Gregorian calendar.”


In retrospect, Bachelor Number Two turned out to be the most promising of the lot. He had lived in New York making a living as a writer but had returned to New Orleans to run the family plumbing business after his brother suddenly died.

I’m sorry, did you say plumbing? As in pipes and poop? Okay, I had a big ick reaction but rallied on. After all, this guy was creative and responsible. What were the odds? I was opening to the possibilities more by the moment. We talked about his writing, which was heavily influenced by Charles Bukowski. Uh oh.

Now, here I must digress. Many people have types. Some men like women with blond hair. Some women like men who are really tall. My type was incredibly specific. For years, I dated men who played chess, juggled, ran cross-country in high school, and yes, were Bukowski acolytes. What can I say? Apparently, I liked them smart, agile, and highly dysfunctional. It wasn’t like I looked for them. I attracted them. It was an odd gift.

I never found out whether the plumber fit my other unconscious criteria. Once Bukowski was out of the bag, I was done. After all, I was there to break patterns, not repeat them. I somewhat sadly said goodbye when the bell rang.


Bachelor Number Three’s appearance immediately set me back in my chair. He was wearing false eyelashes. Seriously. Not, I have a dermatological condition and have lost my eyelashes so I wear these so I don’t look weird false eyelashes, but Mary Tyler Moore from the Dick Van Dyke Show false eyelashes. It was stunning.

Somehow, I got over my mute shock and started a conversation. As it turned out, we were both Jewish and originally from New Orleans. I knew we did not belong to the same congregation because I’d surely have remembered this guy and his lashes. I asked him if he was affiliated. Yes, he did belong to a congregation, but he wasn’t too crazy about it. I asked if he’d attended services there all his life, and he said no. Apparently, his parents paid for his membership. They’d belonged to a number of congregations over the years because his mother tended to fight with people. Uh, how many Jewish stereotypes can you fit into a seven-minute date?

Ding! Thank G-d.

Now, I feel really guilty about describing Bachelor Number Four. He was very nice and seemed like a heck of a lot of fun. But he was remarkably short, maybe five feet tall in shoes, and a rodeo clown. Yes, you read that right. A rodeo clown. I was born in New Orleans, and I had no idea that there was enough rodeo work in the area to make it a full-time job. And maybe I’m being snobby here, but it seemed to me the speed dating people used a mighty liberal definition of the term “professional.”

I tried to maintain a conversation, but my mind drifted to the image of the little fellow emerging from a tiny car with 20 of his friends. Or maybe only circus clowns do that. Anyway, I feared I was going to hell for thinking these thoughts, but the night was so surreal. I felt like I was dating on acid: distortions of space and size, warping time, ringing bells.


When Bachelor Number Five approached my table, I exhaled. He appeared perfectly normal, handsome even. He was dressed neatly but informally. He did hold his head at an unusual angle, but I thought he was just being flirtatious. I had no idea what the next seven minutes held.

As soon as he sat down, we agreed that it seemed like we’d met before. We didn’t live in the same neighborhood or hang out in the same places. Was it work? I told him what I did. He told me that he had his own business related to the casino industry. Definitely not work.

Okay, was he Jewish? New Orleans has a small enough Jewish community that sometimes you just know people because you’re Jewish. He responded by asking me if I was Jewish, and I said yes. He said he was not, but that I’d have known that if I had looked in his wallet. No money. Dude, I’d just told you I was Jewish and your reply was an anti-Semitic comment?

By then, I was kind of checking out, so he filled in the conversation with talk of his work. Apparently, the name of his business, 1-ey*d Jack, had special meaning but not for the reason people assumed. He said that he’d had the recent experience of presenting his business card to a “n***** woman” who worked in a casino on the Mississippi Coast. After she saw the name of his business, she indicated that she knew why it was named 1-ey*d Jack—by pointing to his crotch. At this moment in the story, he gestured to his groin. Dear Lord, was this some sort of Neo-Nazi screw with the racially-sensitive Jewish feminist Candid Camera?

No, he was getting to his point. It seemed his business was actually named 1-ey*d Jack because, although his name was not Jack, he had only one eye. The other eye was glass. He tapped it with his fingernail to prove it. I nearly vomited on the table.


Throughout these seven-minute increments of hell, my friend’s sister was having a jolly good time. She whooped it up with one and all. I kept thinking she was so much better than I was at embracing the moment and being open to possibilities. Yeah, she is generally a much more go-with-the-flow kind of person than I am, but there were also the cocktails. I wished I’d followed her lead on that.

After 1-ey*d Jack, I was done, so the final bachelor was a dream. He spent the entire seven minutes on his cell phone. Oh, he’d occasionally glance in my direction and nod, but other than that, nada. I didn’t even get his name. As I stared off into space, the rodeo clown winked at me from across the room.

Now, I have to admit, there were a few other fellows there who were decidedly less remarkable than those I’ve described. At the time, they seemed only slightly less wrong. Maybe, between the nerd, the plumber, the eyelashes, the clown, and the penis, I missed a gem. I guess I’ll never know.

But Karen was right. It did make a damn good story.

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Alison Aucoin is descended from people who spent their weekends dressing up in costumes and taking silly photos of one another to send to relatives who were serving in the Pacific during WWII. She makes her living as a freelance grant writer but is much happier squeezing playdough with her two year-old Ethiopian daughter, creating photography/audio projects, crafting manifestos on her blog (http://endebetehyemhoneyelem.blogspot.com) and making costumes with her trusty glue gun. She is one of only about a half dozen Cajun Jews in existence.

18 responses to “Post-Apocalyptic Dating for the Young Professional”

  1. Ronlyn Domingue says:

    HYSTERICAL! MUST. CATCH. BREATH. This essay might need a disclaimer that one shouldn’t eat or drink while reading! Your attention to detail is what makes it all so vivid. And scary. But mostly funny. Great work!

  2. Ducky says:

    Was right there with you the whole time. Too funny.

  3. I’ve invited people I’ve met online via MySpace and Facebook and etc. out for a drink, but never have I sped-date. Now I sorta want to, because this was just so full of win. Or fail. I can’t decide which, to be candid, but that’s half the fun!

  4. Matt says:

    I once gave thought to trying a speed-dating event, just for laughs. I dismissed the notion at the time, but I may now have to revisit it.

    ‘He said that he’d had the recent experience of presenting his business card to a “n***** woman” who worked in a casino on the Mississippi Coast.’ Ah, casual southern racism. When I first moved to New Orleans I was shocked how prevalent it still is down there. I once heard a tenured Tulane professor refer to black people as “those negros.” Floored me.

  5. Amanda says:

    Ohhh so good! You are brave! The closest I have to a speed-dating story of my own is the night a girlfriend called me on her way home from a blind date set up by her aunt. The guy had spent the evening reading his watch and finally announced that he had to dash, “because my speed dating starts in fifteen minutes!” Like shorthand for, “Sorry, honey, this isn’t working out and right now there are thirty lucky ladies waiting three blocks away for their chance at my heart!”

    I tried Internet dating with much the same results–like hitting yourself in the head, it’s so good when you stop. I got the short dude whom I suppose didn’t realise yeah, he can say he’s 5’9″ on his profile but when I show up in heels and really do stand 5’6″ before I put ’em on, and he’s up to my eyebrows in our bare feet, well, I’m going to detect his fib. The guy who told nonstop college drinking tales through brunch (and was in his late 40s). The guy who toasted our date “to new beginnings”, and then really did yawm and drop his arm around my shoulders…and so on.

    Sadly, there was no glass-eye-tapping, clowning, or racism during my dates, because dang, all that sounds super-fun! Cripes. Dating. Hmmm.

  6. kristen says:

    Haha. Awesome story!

    “Maybe, between the nerd, the plumber, the eyelashes, the clown, and the penis, I missed a gem. I guess I’ll never know.”

    Looking forward to more.

  7. Megan DiLullo says:

    Dating is one of the cruelest slapstick sketches ever. But it makes for hilarious stories. I’ve always secretly wanted to date a rodeo clown, just to say I had.

    I think you should go back so I can live vicariously through you.

  8. HA! Awesome. And at least you got a fantastic story about it.

    I agree with Megan. You should make this a weekly column.

  9. Zara Potts says:

    I so want to try speed dating now!! Such great material!
    Too funny!

  10. Let’s hear it for the perfectly-placed adjective: “He rang an obnoxious bell…”

    Bill Gates was a bit of a cheeky groover back in the day: http://wilsonfu.files.wordpress.com/2007/09/bill-gates-mugshot-photo.jpg – you could do worse!

    It’s weird, but I don’t think I’ve ever been on a bad date, let alone six in one night.

  11. Alison Aucoin says:

    Thanks for the comments guys, but sorry, weekly column’s not in the offing. That was a long time ago. Life’s now populated by feverish toddler, cranky old dog, and demonic toilet. Dang, maybe I should have overlooked the Bukowski connection & gone out with plumber after all…

    • Greg Olear says:

      Yes, yes, the plumber! Plumbers make oodles of dough, and are always in short supply. (There’s a joke about laying pipe, too, but I’m not going to make it…)

  12. Gloria says:

    Every time I have a delusion about dating randoms, I troll craigslist. That usually takes care of my dimentia for a few minutes.

  13. Marni Grossman says:

    When watching reality TV, you find yourself wondering where all these wacky people came from. Surely no one in real life is actually like that, you think. And then you read this. Turns out they all hail from New Orleans.

  14. Jeremy Resnick says:

    Really enjoyed this, Alison. So much weirdness in so small a space! I choked on my coffee at the false eyelashes. And good work avoiding repeating your mistakes with bachelor number 2.

  15. Greg Olear says:

    It sounds like, to cop Delmore Schwartz’s line, a ferryboat of the damned on the way across the Styx. The only place you could have found worse candidates was jury duty.

    And I hope you got your friend back for bailing on you like that!

    I love the guy who talks about “the Fat Tuesday.” And Applebee’s! In NOLA! If he were dead, Emeril would be spinning in his grave…

  16. Joe Daly says:

    Spectacular. How about the 7 minute Anti-Semite? Whoa, Nelly…

    A friend and I tried this maybe a year and a half ago. Same deal- seven minutes per encounter. Unfortunately, they grouped ages by ten years, beginning at 18. So 18-27 had their little room, then there were the 28-37 people heading off into their room. I think I was either 39 or 40. Anyway, I ended up in the 38+ crew. So I was younger than the other guys by an average of 15 years. It was horrifying. The only fun I had was listening to the guy in front of me tell the same story to each girl he met, while getting progressively more hammered with each date.

    Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I would like to underscore the “nothing gained” part.

    Thanks for the great read!

  17. Alison Aucoin says:

    The drunk ones have the right idea!

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