Page 9 of The App Trap
“Um…” I made the universal gesture for ‘you’ve shown me the wrong thing, you absolute bell pepper.’
“Shit,”
He fumbled with the phone, rectifying his mistake.
“Here. It’ll get you out of any date that’s going pear-shaped. You program it to ring at a certain time and it actually looks like a friend… or indeed, a brother is calling you. It then fakes an emergency. All you have to do is repeat exactly what it says.”
“Whoa. People think of everything,” I whispered under my breath, staggered.
“You have to in these brutal times. Now listen. The problem is that it’s an American app, so be careful that you don’t end up saying things like ‘What? You’ve fallen on thesidewalk? I’ll just jump on the subway and come home.’ Just have your wits about you. It takes a bit of getting used to. In fact, you might wanna listen to all the pre-recorded emergencies on the subway on the way to your date.”
“Don’t you mean tube?” I said.
“Yes. That was a test. You passed. Well done, my son,” replied Finn.
“Brother,” I corrected.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
A notification popped up on Finn’s phone.
“Hang on. I’ve seen this app before. Isn’t that…?”
“Guydar, yes,” finished Finn.
I sat with Finn for a wee while as he showed me the ins and outs of the app. Browsing through the profiles—which were all coming up based on distance—I had to admit that the talent was pretty impressive on this thing. I didn’t see Gavin from the phone shop, though—probably for the best.
“Sweet lord above. Isn’t that Old Man Samuels from two doors down? He’s married, isn’t he?” I said, astonished.
“That’s a double yes, mate.”
“Wow. I wonder if him and Dad ever…?”
“No chance. Dad could have done way better than that. Anyway, good luck,” chirped Finn, giving me a light, playful slap on the cheek and cupping it like a Mafioso. He’d clearly been playing way too muchGrand Theft Autotoday.
I stood, dusted myself off for no reason, then with a slam of the door, I released myself into the wild. First bloodwas about to be drawn. Not literally, of course. Hopefully not anyway.
I met Rob in the most ludicrously named pub that I could find––The Leg of Mutton and Cauliflower, in Croydon. The real reason that I chose that pub was because it was far enough away from everyone I knew, but not too far away to be too inconvenient for me to get to. It had nothing to do with the fact that the pub was in Rob’s neighbourhood, so if things got frisky, I could be invited back to his. Nothing to do with that whatsoever.
Despite me officially being early, in my eyes I was still late. Although I hadn’t had one for a while, I remembered that dates were stressful. I’ve always liked to settle in before a date arrives so that I can get my head together. Unfortunately, I had been in such a rush to get here that my heat-absorbing cotton shirt had started clinging to my now sweating upper body like a cheap shower curtain.
I paced up and down the car park of the Leg of Mutton, fanning my shirt in a futile attempt to cool myself down. Fortunately, I had the foresight to buy a travel-size deodorant can, which helped a tiny bit. I scratched around in my pocket for a last-minute chewing gum to combat any last-minute bad breath that may have been caused by my exceptionally dry mouth and the handful of garlic and herb olives I scoffed down just before I came out, but could only find a stray pellet that had been kicking around in there for God knows how long. Oh well, when in Croydon.
After a couple of chews, predictably the taste of the gum faded and I strolled into the pub as if casually meeting a friend, being careful not to look around appearing as if I was looking for someone that I’d have difficulty recognising. This was so I didn't arouse suspicion amongst the clientele that I was here on afirst date.
My main reason for arriving early was so that I could buy the drinks without having to make that tricky decision of whether to get a bit of painfully formulaic small talk going at the bar, or divert my attention to the bar staff whilst gawking awkwardly at my potential love interest. Also, the barman wouldn’t get to listen in on that excruciating but juicy first bit of initial awkward contact.
I was still stressed out, though. Combined with the shower-curtain shirt, the ‘not knowing what he was really going to look like’, and the ‘not knowing whether he was going to be socially compatible’ thoughts, I was almost in meltdown mode. The level of stress this all caused was sucking every ounce of joy out of this experience.
To add to my anxiety, everybody in the pub suddenly seemed to look like a potential ‘Rob’, like some kind of duff version ofBeing John Malkovich.
I ordered a ludicrously named craft pale ale for myself. As wary as I was of hipsters, I did have an open admiration for their native drinks. Plus, as much as I was loathed to acknowledge it, I did sort of like their look.
Like clockwork, the barman expectantly asked me if I wanted anything else in that, ‘Oh, by the way, I know you're waiting for a date’, kind of way.
“Appletiser,” I said.
The barman sniffed the air around me theatrically, then chuckled to himself and turned around with his tongue wedged against his cheek like some kind of reality TV star with an outdated man-bun. He knew what was going on here.
