The Great Date Night Fiasco

Jun 25, 2013 | The Writing Life

Daughter: “I got it.”

Wife: “Let it ring.”

Son: “No, dad. Please, don’t.”

We were eating dinner at the kitchen table-targets of opportunity. At the time, we were averaging three to four telemarketing calls per night.

My family knows I’m a sucker for a good sales pitch. It’s been a running joke ever since I watched an infomercial, agreed to four easy payments of $29.99, and purchased a Ron Popeil Pasta Maker. Free shipping put me over the top, and for a few months, we were stuffing our faces with homemade bucatini, cavatelli, and other types of noodles. Lily Tomlin

I’m especially vulnerable to phone solicitations. I don’t hang up in disgust, probably because I spent sixteen years as a stockbroker and didn’t like it when people hung up on me.

I listen. Sometimes, I give telemarketers feedback on their technique. “You’re reading from a script. Call me back when you can put some emotion into it.” My family knows I engage, which is why my daughter was scrambling around the table, trying to grab the phone first.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver.

Dead air.

“Hello,” I repeated.

Mary rolled her eyes. She built her career in marketing and realized, from my response, a telemarketer was about to come on the line. Our daughter shook her head and returned to her seat. Our son scooped more chocolate ice cream.

The caller was confident, focused yet playful. She made ordering easy. I held my hand over the receiver, looked at Mary, and said, “Date nights!” And with that, I bought tickets to four, off-Broadway shows.

“I promise,” the caller said, closing the deal, “you’ll get the best seats in the house.”

The first show was The Greatest Story Ever Told. Our tickets arrived in the mail a few days later. They came with a brochure, which billed the play as, “Laugh-out-loud funny. A new take on the Old Testament.”

The performance was on December 26. And as luck would have it, my mother was in town, spending Christmas with us.

“Why don’t you take your mom?” Mary suggested. “She’ll love it.”

Mary was right. My mom is deeply religious. The Greatest Story Ever Told was perfect, just perfect.

So the two of us headed into New York City. My mom reminded me of Aunt Bee on the Andy Griffith show. She was excited, out of her comfort zone in the Big Apple, and above all-really good-hearted.

Aunt BeeBefore the show, we ate dinner in Greenwich Village. At one point, in what now feels like a prescient moment, my mom asked, “How in the world did they ever turn the Old Testament into a comedy?”

“No clue. What are you thinking about for dessert?”

The theater was packed. And as the telemarketer promised, our seats were great. Front and center. Five rows back.

In the first scene, a woman played the role of God. She ran around the stage in a white tank top and khakis. She wore an oversized headset with a huge mike extending from a boom.

As she created the world-the seas, the earth, the beasts and crawly things-she repeated the word, “Go,” with each new addition. She made creation feel like we were on a movie set.

Cool, I thought to myself.

I looked at my mom. White hair. Crystal blue eyes. She smiled at me, clearly enjoying the show. It was a “go” for us. Big time. The evening took a wrong turn, however, when The Greatest Story Ever Told moved into the Garden of Eden.

It wasn’t Adam and Eve. It was Adam and Steve.

Which would have been fine. We’re both liberal, even my mom who is a member of the greatest generation. But Adam and Steve were romping around the stage butt naked except for jock straps, more interested in sex than apples. It wasn’t exactly the viewing experience I had in mind.

The audience was roaring. I checked my mom from the corner of my eyes. She stared straight ahead, her blue eyes bolted to the stage, her concentration so fierce that it felt like she was wearing horse blinders.

All I could do was sink lower and lower in my seat. On stage, the sexual ardor was heating up. Just as the jockstraps were about to drop, the theater went dark, saving me from the stupendous mortification of watching a live sex show with Aunt Bee-who in this case was my mother.

Sitting there in the dark, I offered silent thanks. Premature as it turned out.

The lights came back on. Adam and Steve were smoking cigarettes, wearing nothing but smiles. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the show moved to Noah’s Ark. And lots of animals. And you really don’t want to know what happened.

Of course, we were dying to get out of there. I wanted to stand up in the middle of the performance and shout, “Mother and son. Go.”

But to the left and to the right, our row was packed. My mom and I may have been sitting in “the best seats in the house” but we felt trapped, surrounded. It would have been rude to walk out and disrupt others in the audience.

Fortunately, there was an intermission. It didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, we exited the building. For the first time in my life, I decided the air of New York City smelled sweet. My mom and I had a good laugh, and now this story is part of our family folklore.

But it doesn’t end there. Mary was annoyed, because off Broadway or not, theatre tickets are expensive. We had no idea what was waiting for us on our three date nights going forward.

She called the production company and demanded our money back. They were gracious about it. They refunded our money and even comped us two tickets to the next show.

Which we soon learned was entitled, “Shopping and F-cking.”

I’m not sure what to make of all this. It’s been several years since the incident took place. I can tell you that I’m still on probation. I no longer answer the phone at our home under any circumstances. And the telemarketers have yet to find me on my cell phone, which is a good thing I think.

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