"Have you done this before?" asked Lara, the tall, dimpled hostess running the DateSwitch party.
"I've gone to a few events, but not the ones organized by this company," I replied.
"Well, they all kinda work the same way anyway," she said.
She seemed relieved that I wasn't a virgin (a speed dating virgin, that is), perhaps because she wouldn't have to explain the protocols to me.
I was glad to find that the organizers had closed off the cocktail lounge in the slightly gritty part of town where they were holding the event. No one was admitted but us, the roughly two dozens singles who'd signed up for the event. That meant we wouldn't be subjected to the curious onlookers' gawking, nor would we be distracted by the chatter of the boisterous Friday night crowd.
"You're starting at station 7," said Lara, "then you move on to 8, 9, 10, until you've met all the women."
I looked over the low table marked 7, vacant for the moment. In all likelihood, my date had arrived but was calming her nerves with a gin and tonic at the bar.
Also at the bar was Em, my single friend, a jazz singer and a fellow writer. Her previous adventures in speed dating left her a bit gun shy, but when she found out I'd signed up for an event, she decided to give it another try. Her kimono-print summer dress proved to be a magical number. She was flanked by a couple of captivated men, singing their overtures to her before their official five minutes began.
"Gather around everyone," the hostess summoned us.
She asked us to take a red pen to our date list enclosed in a ringed binder.
"Ladies, George is a no show, so cross him out. Eric is not here, but instead, we have the very charming Alan, joining us all the way from Europe ... Gentlemen, Sarah is not here, so cross her out and write down Liza there. Missy is missing, so cross her out too. Her place now belongs to Khati. Sandy is a no show, so when you get to her, you get a break ..."
I was tempted to circle "yes" on the women who were absent as a joke, but I was so confused by the last-minute substitutes I aborted the plan.
In the very first speed dating event I attended, an elegant silver bell marked the beginning and the end of each round. In the next, a whistle served that purpose. Here, the timekeeping device turned out to be a little brass bugle.
"Your first date begins when you hear this," said Lara.
She squeezed the bugle, producing the kind of airy E-flat note one might hear at midnight on Near Year's Eve. Of course, without anyone belching out the first few bars of Auld Lang Syne, and without the champaign-drenched cheers to reinforce it, the blast didn't inspire any spontaneous kiss under the mistletoe.
The first round began in earnest when the bugle exploded again. Off we went to our battle stations, each holding a folder containing a date roster.
"There's a blank sheet in there for you to to take notes after each date," Lara helpfully pointed out.
The binder also featured a "Frequently Asked Questions" page and a sheet of tips on how to resuscitate a dying conversation. ("Ask your date about his/her favorite movie/book. Tell her something interesting about your job/your hometown. Talk about an exotic place you've been to ...)
My body temperature rose when I stepped into station 7.
"Keira?" I uttered in disbelief.
"Yes," replied my date. "Have we met before?"
"I saw your band," I blurted out.
Nearly three months ago, in a music lounge in the northern edge of Golden Gate Park, I stumbled on a bluegrass band. On the stage stood a girl guitarist in a cotton tank top and a pair of hip-hugging jeans. She had a baby face, rounded out with tight, brown ringlets. I didn't remember what she sang. I only recalled she moved like wind-tossed prairie flowers when she was strumming her guitar.
"Isn't she something?" observed someone standing next to me.
"I think I'm going to have a crush on her," I said.
"You and me both, buddy," he replied.
She was dancing on the edge of the stage, surrounded by her fans shouting out her name: Keira! Keira! I was at the back of the room, sipping a nondescript pineapple cocktail in an invisible corner. She seemed so faraway, beyond my reach.
Little did I know, a few months later, she'd be sitting opposite me as one of my blind dates.
"I, I saw you play once, at the Rockit Room, I think," I said, fumbling for the right words like a nervous schoolboy before a cheerleader. "You were incredible!"
"Oh, that was a long time ago," she said.
"Yes," I said. "You played a mandolin too."
"Banjo," she corrected me.
Before the obnoxious bugle call broke us up, I managed to learn that she was a legal secretary when she wasn't striking bluegrass chords, that she too had brought along a friend to the event.
The hostess blew the horn once more, urging the men to move on to their next dates.
Over the course of the evening, I took my turns before a dimpled, blue-eyed nurse who liked to hike and take long walks in Muir Woods; a therapist who liked indoor rock climbing; another legal secretary (apparently Keira's coworker); and a brown-eyed girl who was contemplating a trip to The Museum of Modern Art for the latest Frida Kahlo exhibit.
At one point, my rotation put me in station 14, occupied by my friend Em.
"How's it going?" she asked.
"It's so strange," I told her. "I just had a date with someone I had a crush on."
"Wow!" she said.
I looked over her shoulder to survey my next port of call, station 15. I was a bit confused to find a man sitting there.
"This is a break station," he hastily shouted in response to my quizzical look. "I'm just taking a rest."
Since Em and I didn't need our alloted five minutes to get to know each other, I offered to get her empty wine glass refilled. As I headed for the bar, the organizer quickly intercepted me.
"Where are you going?" she asked. (What she was really asking was, "Why are you abandoning your date before the time's up?")
She let me through after I'd satisfactorily convinced her that my so-called date happened to be my friend.
As I made my way through the remaining stations, amidst the hushed whispers and giggles, I could distinctly hear the bluegrass music I'd heard three months ago. My feet were light, barely touching the cement floor, as if I were treading on a field of silky peonies. Once more, I was dancing to the tune of hope, to the ballad of possibilities.
More bugle calls. More blind dates.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!
(The ballad came to a quick end 48 hours later, when I received an email from DateSwitch. Keira didn't pick me, so she wasn't among my matches. But I have since found her band's home page. So if I ever want to see her again, I could just go to her next show and admire her from afar, as one of the many men whose heartstrings she's pulled without knowing.)
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