“I shall resign the presidency.” The grim visage of a desperate and defeated Richard Nixon staring into the TV cameras and uttering those words—for him a form of immolation—was painful to watch. His words and image haunted me for days during that strange week of early August, 49 years ago.
As if watching Nixon’s political demise wasn’t excruciating enough, my friend Big Jim had insisted on fixing me up with a blind date on the Friday following Nixon’s Thursday disaster. Per Jim, the woman was a beautiful, lithe, swarthy 21-year-old sylph, who wore her long black hair in beaded cornrows. She worked with Big Jim as an apprentice lighting director for a musical production company. She mysteriously called herself “DDB,” which should have tipped me off that I may be treading on unseemly ground.
DDB lived in Alameda, so I managed to finagle a reservation for a table for two at my favorite restaurant, The Acapulco, then operated with wild success by the Quintero family. I chose the Acapulco because “DDB” reminded me of Mamma Rose Quintero’s stellar bean dip, a magnificent blend of frijoles and chili verde, topped with sharp Cotija cheese.
The waiter had just placed my order of bean dip and warm chips on the table, with a Negra Modelo beer for me and a Margarita for the soon to arrive DDB. She showed up right on time and was directed to my table by the host. Big Jim was right. She was stunningly beautiful. I stood, reached for her hand, and gave her a single red rose. She looked at me grimly and barked, “Where do I pee?”
Her rude greeting startled me, and I committed a nearly fatal faux pas when I jokingly replied, “See that drain hole behind the bar?”
Her face furrowed with anger. She silently threw the rose at me and marched back to the host, who directed her to the restroom.
The host approached me. “What happened?” he asked. “How did you piss her off so fast?”
I laughed and said, “She came in pissed—literally—and I joked with her. But now, in the words of Mr. Nixon, ‘I shall resign this date’ and get an order to go for me and my mom.”
He laughed and asked, “The usual, two La Pinitas and two chicken tostadas a la carte?”
‘You got it,” I answered. As I waited for the order, I relaxed and sipped my Negra Modelo, figuring that DDB would avoid me by leaving via the side exit. To my dismay, I saw her marching toward me, glaring menacingly. To my surprise, she sat at the table and smiled, and fondled the now-distressed rose.
She grinned and said, “I passed out for a while, and have dealt with my anger. I should have remembered that Big Jim said that you could be an a**hole, so it’s partially my fault for being here.”
Concerned about her passing out, I asked, “Are you feeling OK? Passing out is serious!”
She giggled and replied, “Passing out is my yoga technique, where I leave the material state of consciousness and its stress, and let myself bathe in my awareness, which is eternal bliss. When I awaken, whatever was stressing me out has disappeared.”
“Good deal!” I barked. “Let’s get this date underway. Try the bean dip. It’s the best around.”
She grabbed a tortilla chip, scooped up some dip, and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes opened wide as she yelled, “My gawd! This is effing delicious!”
Her loud, lewd exclamation drew some withering stares from a family a few tables away.
“DDB, there’s kids in here, so maybe put a lid on the profanity,” I admonished.
She ignored me and kept shoveling the bean dip.
“I should warn you, beans make me fart,” she said, “so don’t get all huffy when it happens.”
“How romantic,” I answered. And then I wandered into dangerous territory, asking, “So what does DDB stand for?”
She glared at me, then said, “It has multiple meanings, but for you it means “Debbie, Dave, and Bunny.”
Ignoring my blank stare, she reached into her purse and produced a big blue envelope, stuffed with Kodak photographs. She beamed as she said, “These are pictures of the love of my life, Dave, my bunny. Any relationship with me has to include Dave. So, how are you with rabbits?
I was stunned by yet another bizarre question, and that she would give her rabbit such an unimaginative, mundane name, but I didn’t comment on that. I just answered her question. “I’m OK with rabbits,” I said. “I like Bugs Bunny. ‘What’s up, doc? Shoulda toined left at Albuquerque.’ And I love the Easter Bunny, Playboy bunnies, and even that weird bunny rabbit on Captain Kangaroo.’”
She had fanned a bunch of photos of an enormous white rabbit across the table and was cooing over them in baby talk.
“Dere my widdle Davey, him a big bunny! Him wuv him’s mommy!”
I used baby talk at home with my cat, so I decided to join in the fun. I grabbed one of the photos, looked it over, and started in.
“Him a boofer bunny! Him a big fuzzy wuzzy doofer woofer.” I yelled.
Delighted, DDB responded, “No, him not a boofer, him mommy’s little goofer bunny wunny snuggle hunny.”
I bellowed my retort: “Yes, him is a boofer bunny! And him say, ‘my mommy a pretty mommy!’”
We didn’t notice the server standing beside the table with my order. I looked at her. She smiled, handed me the bags and the check, then silently walked away.
DDB took a break from admiring Dave and asked, “Why did you get food to go? Did you think I was going to stand you up? Did you think my little temper tantrum was the end of our date?” She glared at me malevolently, then barked, “I need to pass out again.” She shut her eyes, and her head lolled back against the leather booth seat, her beaded braids covering her face.
The waiter stopped to look and asked, “Is she OK? Should I call for help?”
Flush with embarrassment, I replied “No, she’s practicing some sort of yoga. She’ll snap out of it soon.”
Right on cue, DDB’S head jerked, and she woke up smiling.
“I’ve got the solution!” She happily exclaimed. “Let’s take the food to go to my apartment and you can meet Dave.”
“Swell,” I answered, as Richard Nixon’s image appeared, saying, “I shall resign this date.”
Before we got into my truck, she grabbed my hand, snuggled close to me and said, “You’re funny, and I really like you. Kiss me!”
I happily responded and gave her a passionate kiss that made her tremble. As was her wont, she ruined the moment, asking, “Did my partial fall out?”
I assured her that her teeth were fine, but Richard Nixon was back, saying, “I shall resign this date.”
When we arrived at her apartment door, she inserted the key, then leaned into me, pleading “Kiss me again.”
I complied with another long, passionate smooch. She went limp, then let a huge fart. Then she started giggling. I laughed as well. “I warned you about me and beans!” she chirped.
Richard Nixon started hovering again.
She was still giggling as she opened the door, and warned, “Excuse the fleas.”
“Pardon me?” I was shocked. With great trepidation I asked, “Did you just say, ‘Excuse the fleas?’”
She looked at me malevolently again, then growled, “Yes, Dave has a flea problem, so you might find a few on you, but you’ll get used to it.”
I grabbed my bags of food and said, “DDB, I shall resign this date!” Then I hustled to my truck to the tune of DDB bellowing, “You a**hole! It’s just a few fleas!”
I sought refuge at my mom’s place, where we shared the Acapulco delights, and mom spent the evening exclaiming, “She said what? She did what? Oh my gawd, what a debacle!”
Richard Nixon hovered again, but he appeared to be smiling.
Gil Michaels dreams of Mama Rose Quintero’s bean dip at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels
