The Truffaut Test

It had been a lovely evening, doomed from the start.

We met, as is my wont, online. Gaybay.com, I think.
If that isn't a site, it should be. We'll bid on each other.
The ones that don't sell get bumped to the end of the line and
have to lower their reserve price. He was from Chicago. I've lived in Chicago! It must be fate.
(Add that to the list which includes: I'm human, you're human;
we're both single and rapidly approaching middle-age -
we should get together! OMG!)

So we set a dinner date for Saturday night. What the hell.
My social calendar was open. It always is. Dinner sounded good.
And he looked cute in his thumbnail photo. They always do.

The great thing about inviting someone over is that is
inspires me to clean as I would ordinarily not do for myself.
The tub got scoured. I washed off the gunk that accumulates
on the Sonic Care toothbrush. I was thorough. I even bought
new aromatherapy soap for the seashell soapdish.
(I elaborate: it's rectangular ceramic.)

I've had a lot of quality solitary time over the
Christmas holiday and had been re-watching "The 400 Blows"
with and without commentary. So I was really in no mood to
be sociable. I kept looking around for a movie camera to stare
into, freeze framing my romantic ambiguity. It worked so well
for Leaud. Alas we were alone in the Chinese restaurant.
I had recommended it - it's right up the street, affordable,
doesn't suck. I do know a couple of people who have been ill
after eating there, however. So it was chancy. Oh, he's a great
guy. A good potential friend. It was just one of those things
that one day I may finally realize: we all look vastly different
in real life from our online photos. And the harsh overhead
lighting didn't help his case. I took sex off the menu and hoped
he wouldn't ask for dessert.

I'd bought a bottle of Merlot as promised. That part of the
evening I was looking forward to. I even held out hope that a slight
buzz might make us both more sexually appealing. But no.
He was too friendly. Too nice. (I hearken back to another blind
date where I had been accused of being "too nice." I should have
slapped him and had my way... "Too nice? I'll show you too nice! How's that rug burn feel?")

The real problem, the wine told me, was the movie. My date
eyeballed - touched! - the Antoine Doinel boxed set of DVDs.
Impeccable conversationalist, I asked if he was familiar with
Truffaut. Not so much. I'm no film snob, but... come on.
The real awakening for me had been the second viewing accompanied
by reminiscences from Truffaut's childhood friend and co-conspirator,
Robert Lachenay. Watching the familiar story unfold with additional
insight from this remarkable man humbled me as it brought back
memories of a dear friend, long lost to time and geography and
circumstance. I miss him. Had we lived in Paris during the
occupation, we may very well have developed into New Wave
filmmakers. In our own way, I suppose we have. And I'm glad I've
hung onto his letters all these years. I may be called upon one day
to supply biographical material on a DVD commentary.

I wish Truffaut had left his hero on the beach staring into
the camera, his future uncertain. But now I have four more
movies to watch.