February 13, 2008: It’s Valentine’s Day, Charlie Brown Donutbuzz

Her name was Emily and she called her cat Scalia. In my third year of law school, she moved into the end apartment two doors down from mine in uptown New Orleans.

Emily was not stunningly attractive, but she had red hair and a pleasant personality. Now personality, as they say in Pulp Fiction, goes a long way, but her red hair cinched it for me, and somehow or another, I developed a little crush on her.

The problem I always had with getting dates, of course, was getting dates. I always had a real tough time mustering my nerve to ask a chick for one. When I saw Emily outside her apartment, I would say “Hello” to her or ask “How are you doing?” but I never could get a good conversation going with her, and I’d wind up going into my apartment and spending the next hour or so wondering what I should have said instead of what I did say.

When Emily was taking out her trash, she mentioned she recycled. That’s when I thought to myself, “Hey, I bet if I start recycling stuff I can have something to talk with Emily about, and maybe I can get up enough nerve to ask her for a date.” In retrospect, this is exactly the kind of logic that resulted in my pulling a “C” in torts, but sometimes the mind doesn’t make sense. But I started saving all my newspapers that I planned on taking to the nearest recycling center. I had no idea where one was, but, again, Emily would let me know when I got the courage to ask her for a date later.

I had mentioned my little crush on Emily to my best friend, Steve. Steve did not have any difficulty asking for or getting dates. He suggested I ask Emily if she wanted to get together one day to study. By this time, I had probably saved up several weeks of newspapers for recycling, and as my recycling strategy was not proving successful, the “study date” sounded like a simple plan.

Emily and I took the same secured transactions class. She sat in front of me, and after class ended, I decided to ask her out:

“Hey, Emily,” I hemmed, “what do you think about getting together and studying for the test?”

“Yeah,” she said, “That sounds good.”

“What time do you want me to meet at your apartment?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is 7:00 o’clock tomorrow ok?”

“Yeah,” she said.

Sweet, I thought. The hardest part was done.

The next night, a few minutes before 7:00 p.m., I walked the fifty or so feet down the porch to Emily’s apartment. It was still light outside, and I rang the doorbell.

There was no answer.

I waited about half a minute, then I rang the doorbell again.

There was still no answer.

Now I was starting to get a little worried because:

1) I distinctly remembered making that study date when I was awake;

2) I heard the doorbell ring both times I pushed it; and

3) When I turned around to look at the street, Emily’s car was visibly parked where it always was when she was home.

I rang the doorbell a third time, and after a minute of standing in front of Emily’s door, I walked the fifty feet or so down the porch back to my apartment.

After I closed my door, I stood still in my living room. The sun was now setting. Then I heard someone’s apartment door close.

I looked out my window.

Emily walked off the porch. She opened her car door, started her automobile, and drove away.

I could not believe it.

Did I just see that?

Did that just happen?

Did she really. . . I mean. . . did she. . . pretend not to be home. . . then leave home. . . ?!?

Un-frickin-buh-leave-uh-bull.

I would not have imagined it if I had not had seen it happen. But it did happen.

The next day, my next door neighbor, Tom, saw me taking my trash out to the curb. Like Emily, Tom was into recycling.

“Hey, man,” he said somewhat angrily, “What are you doing throwing away all those newspapers!!”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I said, “if I told you.”