Some people should never be dated

She was attractive. Into marketing and advertising like me. And in a relationship. But I asked anyway, as well, you never know. She politely declined, and said, ’see you’ and walked away. I saw her around campus several more times over the year, but we never became friends.

Months later, I got an intern position at a small advertising/marketing company in Los Angeles, and became slave labor to the owners. It was a fun time, and at some point, we got extremely busy, so they put an ad in the paper. They refined the candidates, and invited several to interview. You’ll never guess who walked through the door.

It was her. She didn’t remember me at all, must have been drunk at the party where we met. Anyway, after the interviews were over, the owners called me in and asked who I felt was the best choice. They seemed to be leaning towards one candidate that was probably the best choice, but I threw my vote towards her. So she got the job.

After a couple months of working together, I finally asked her out, as I knew she had recently broken up with her boyfriend. We had carpooled together on that Friday so we could go directly from work to our date. Work ended, and we decided to take a short cut through Compton to get to the freeway. If you know anything about Compton, South Los Angeles, you know it has some pretty rough neighborhoods.

We came to a stop at a major intersection, the only car at the newly turned red light. Suddenly I hear the loud, dreaded screeching sound of a car skidding behind us. I looked in the side view mirror, and I saw a large, jacked-up pickup truck careening out of control towards us. I looked over at my date, pushed her back into her seat and said ‘hang on!’ I crouched down in my seat, laid my head back into the headrest, and SLAM. The truck hit us with so much force that it threw us out into the middle of the busy intersection. The next thing I remember is looking at my date from the back seat. Our seats had fully reclined on impact. I looked up and not only were we in the middle of the road, but we were still moving. I said, ’step on the brake!’ which she promptly stepped on the gas, hurtling us towards a gas station. I jerked the emergency brake up, turned off the ignition just as we banged into the curb and came to a halt. I looked up and, imagine that, the truck sped off. Hit and run. He didn’t have a license plate.

So my first official date with this person ended up going to the emergency room in an ambulance, then looking at each other laying in our hospital beds with neck braces. There was no love that night, just whiplash.

A couple weeks later we decided to try it again and go out on another date. This time I picked her up at her house, and we did the normal dinner, movie thing. I asked her back to my apartment and she accepted. I was living in downtown LA, in the heart of the financial district, and during the day it was very business like. During the night however, the scene changed and it’s just right out of the movies, cop cars everywhere, helicopters, shootouts, you name it. We had some great views from our apartment so I invited her back to watch the spectacle with my other roommates and their dates. It had become a ritual.

As we arrived at our apartment, there were several cop cars outside, but that was nothing new. We got in the elevator, arrived at our floor, and upon the doors opening, I could hear police radios coming from down the hall. We walked towards my apartment, turned the last corner and there, five police officers were standing at the door, talking with my other roommates.

“What happened” I questioned? “Seems somebody broke into our apartment and stole a lot of stuff.” Well crap I thought, no love again, as my freshly cleaned, pimped up pad was now one big jumbled mess, crawling with cops and fingerprint dust everywhere. I just turned around and took her immediately home, as since things usually happen in three’s for me, I just didn’t want to find out what the third one was.

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